Bad luck and a spoilery HBP review

It's funny how life happens. One minute I'm anxiously emailing out resumes because things had gotten THAT bad at my job, then I'm sitting across from my manager, hearing him say 'this is your last day.' I'm still not sure why I was let go. Maybe it was the recession. Maybe I didn't perform my duties properly. Maybe, and I think this is likely, my mind reading skills were not up to par. I don't think many are aware of this, but a uterus does not automatically equal 'mind reader.' Just an FYI.

Point is, I am no longer employed. That stings a bit, but pride is a funny thing and though mine has been bent, it certainly isn't irrevocably damaged. One of the many things I learned in my near decade in college was how to grow a thick skin and I can tell you all, mine is Teflon. I promise you.

So, in an effort to forget that I have much searching and resume sending yet to do, I diverted myself by seeing the new Potter film on Tuesday night. Now, I fully admit to being a Potter nerd. I adore the series and think Rowling deserves a chair on the Literary Lovers court and that she warrants the creation of a new, genius only, Super Secret Hand Shake. There is no shame in admitting that, is there? Well, even if there were, I would feel none.

The film, 'Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince,' in case you've been living under a particularly soundproof rock, follows Harry and company in their sixth year at Hogwarts. Harry has come into possession of a Potions book that enables him to thrive in the class. The first possessor of said book was The Half Blood Prince.

Onto all things spoilery:









On the whole, I liked it. It wouldn’t rank as one of my personal favorite of all the Potter films, but it certainly is the funniest and the most visually appealing. As a die hard fan, I took issue with a few things. Namely:

1. Harry’s attraction to Ginny is discovered once he gets himself out of the Weasley’s pond and begins to, wow thank you wondrous puberty, gawk at Ginny like a mystical peeping Tom. This, I thought, marked the beginnings of the ‘we’re playing very little attention to the blossoming Harry/Ginny relationship’ dynamic in the film. In fact, I found this to be my least favorite bit in HBP. In Rowling’s version, we are allowed a very subtle view of Harry’s growing feelings for the younger Weasley. It builds over time until it combusts when Harry and Ron catch Ginny in mid snog fest with her boyfriend Dean Thomas. We get a very slight version of that, but Yates’ Harry seems more concerned with being complimentary and friendly with Slughorn than with the fact that his future wife is macking down on her boyfriend in a booth at The Three Boomsticks. Later, when the audience finally gets a little Potter/Weasley smooch, it’s Ginny who has taken the initiative when SHE hides his Potions books in the Room of Requirement. Very un-canon, that.

The relationship is hinted at being a little more of a mild flirtation to the point that when Harry is crying next to Dumbledore’s body, Ginny’s attempt at consoling him seems more to be brother/sisterly. The chemistry and whole of the character’s relationship in the book is exciting, thrilling and felt through Harry’s every mention or thought of Ginny. That is not, in my opinion, the case in the HBP film. The relationship was played down significantly. Ginny never mentions her break up with Dean and therefore creates a small eyebrow raise when she kisses Harry. This is, canonically, a passionate relationship. In the film, we get a vanilla version. No post Quidditch Cup common room kiss, no Ron giving Harry a ‘well if you must’ glance or Dean breaking a glass with his hand. And, no break up. At all. No, martyrish speech on Ginny’s part about Harry’s ‘stupid noble reasons.’ Fans, particularly Harry/Ginny fans, got cheated.

2. The White Tomb is completely missing. No funeral. Harry doesn’t tell the others in the hospital wing that Dumbledore has died. Bill Weasley wasn’t attack by Fenrir Greyback, (who doesn’t utter a sound in the whole film), because Bill has yet to appear on film, unless you count the very un-Bill version that was glanced at in PoA. No lamenting Fawkes, though there is a very brief glimpse of him at the end of the film. No mermaids and the whole of the wizarding community visiting the grounds for Dumbledore’s memorial.

3. No real Tonks and Lupin relationship. What is included is a contradictory version of canon events. Lupin and Tonks are present at the Burrow during Christmas holidays, but other than Tonks calling Lupin ‘sweetheart’ we get no indication that they are a couple. And? She has brown hair in this scene. Nit picky, I know, but canon Tonks went all dowdy and depressed with brown hair because she didn’t know where Lupin was. Here, she went dowdy but she’s with Lupin? Consistency, Yates. Look it up.

4. Nameless Aurors are at Hogwarts, but are easily taken over by Death Eaters following Dumbledore’s murder. No Lupin, Tonks or Bill post battle.

5. Harry does nothing when Dumbledore is killed. He makes a small attempt but then is forestalled by Snape who shushes him before he climbs the steps to murder Dumbledore. Harry is not under his cloak or encumbered by the Headmaster’s binding spell. What is most annoying about this is that Harry can be perceived as a coward in this scene. The Harry we know and love in the books, had he been spell-free, would have never stood there while his mentor is murdered simply because Snape instructed him to stay put.

6. Snape’s exit was brief and unimpassioned. Utterly. He does not get angry with Harry when he calls Snape a coward. Very unlike canon Snape. He simply says ‘I’m the Half Blood Prince, mkaythnxbye.’ Rickman is a far, far better actor than this and it’s sad that he was given very little with this script to stretch those very beefy acting muscles.

7. Sadly, I hate to say this, but I felt bored in parts of this film. My children even commented on this. “Is it almost over?” That’s not good. Yates seems to be vying for the title of King of Awkward Silences and with HBP, he earns the crown. So much could have been eliminated that would have furthered the film along, so many things could have been added (canon details, for example), that would have made this a better film. Unfortunately, none of these were and we get a sometimes boring version of Rowling’s great plot.

Things that I simply adored:

1. Two words: Tom Felton. Let me correct myself. Four words: Tom M F Felton. Here Felton got, at long last, the opportunity to prove he knows what he’s doing in this little acting game. It is quite obvious that he’s been at it since he was a child. Felton was able to garner sympathy for Draco, able to put the audience in to Draco’s position and create some semblance of compassion for a usually uncompassionate character.

2. Won Won. The Ron/Lavender pairing was done nearly to canon and both Grint and Jessie Cave played well off one another. Cave especially showed us an obsessive, (I-Want-To-Wear-Your-Skin kind of obsessive) ridiculous, love struck Lavender. I adored them together and think that the display of ridiculous between Ron and Lavender was perfection. Many, many laughs thanks to Grint and Cave.

3. Felix Felicis. Hands down my favorite scene in the film. Radcliffe aced this one and had me, and my little ones, giggling for days afterward.

4. The Cave scene. Absolutely brilliant. I was not disappointed; I even jumped when that gnarled, decayed hand jutted out of the lake to latch onto Harry’s leg. Gambon was Dumbledore while drinking the poisoned drink, crying and wailing as canon Dumbledore did, ‘Kill me!’ and yes even ‘It’s all my fault. My fault.’ Kudos for this one because it was as close to what I imagined the scene to be while I read HBP.

5. Riddle’s past incarnations. A casting agent somewhere, out there, must have earned a significant bonus for casting absolute perfect versions of Ralph Fiennes/Tom Riddle’s childhood selves. Both, the youngest being Fiennes actual nephew, are all things creepy, eerie, disturbing and true incarnations of the boy version of the Dark Lord. The Pensieve scenes, though we are only treated to two, were brilliantly acted.

On the whole, I did enjoy the film. I wouldn’t claim it as ‘the best ever,’ and I have to admit to hearing many, many people bashing it as I left the theatre. However, I am aware that not all plot points can be included. Warner Brothers bought the rights to Rowling’s work and that means they have carte blanche with the characters and plot. I know this. I just happen to think that less foreshadowing, less brooding and more detail could have been included.

I’m of the mindset that Yates and Kloves— whose penchant for Hermione love and lack of canon detail annoys me endlessly— will have quite a lot of explaining to do in the final two films. What is Kreacher’s importance? Who is RAB? What’s the big deal with the horcruxes? Who is Prongs and Padfoot? Why is Harry’s Patronus a stag? Why is Snape’s Patronus important? And many, many more important— necessary plot points— will have to be explained since they were omitted from the past films. I certainly wouldn’t want that job. The problem is that Kloves and Yates did this film assuming that everyone has read Potter. That, unfortunately, isn’t the case. And, I swear, if Matt Lewis is barred from showing the world what a badass Neville Longbottom becomes in the final book, I will boycott every Yates/Kloves/Warner Brothers films ever after.

I did enjoy HBP, loved the humor, felt my heart breaking at the tragic ending. I do, however, hope when we see films seven and eight, the director and screenwriter would have learned the importance of bringing their A game. After all, Potter fans expect nothing less. It’s what we got from Mrs. Rowling with every single book.

Why yes, I am an English nerd.

I was never going to be a math wiz. Figures and formulas weren’t my forte, I'm very right brain, I’ll admit. I was never going to develop a life-saving elixir, not one cure for cancer or diabetes or anything near to being that altruistic. I am an English nerd from way back. Books, stories, plots, even the dissection of a sentence is like food for me…like a brain filling, imagination building gourmet meal.

I love metaphors and similes and all those silly little English certainties that most avoid or muddle through during their freshman year. I crave them. I was the girl in college—that silly, somewhat nerdy girl—who took English classes as her electives, who opted out of Basket Weaving 101 for Arthurian Legends taught by Professor Wow-She-Speaks-In-Fifty-

Dollar-Words.

Yep, I was that girl.

But I won’t apologize for it. I’m not ashamed. Being an English nerd gives you a passport to another world, or worlds as the case may be. It’s not an exclusive club, this Literary Lovers Alliance, anyone can join. Just pick up a book, grab a journal, click onto a story site and you are a member. Perhaps not a life-long, super secret handshake member (I’m pretty sure you have access that particular membership only when you get your MA in English, or maybe that was just my university), but you're a member nonetheless. The only requirement is an imagination and the ability to laugh as you read, (while ignoring the stares you may get), become engrossed in every portion of a story, in every emotional high and low, in every well thought out, purposeful bit of dialogue.

Ultimately, you must have to ability to become absorbed.

When I was in graduate school, I took a class, ‘History of the Book,’ I think it was, where the professor shared what he knew about how society went from Monks with feathered pens and parchment, to the latest Gaiman novel. We started at point A and ended at Z, very simple, a bit dry at some points, but still interesting. The objective was, however, to examine how words, mere simple words, had changed the world. See? It all started with English nerds or perhaps I should say Word Nerds.

Words are powerful. They can consume us like the sea, defeat us, flay us like the sharpest sword. They can also save us, they can transport us, make us feel, make us cry, make us fight and scream and laugh and love. There is nothing more powerful, not one thing more magical. Don’t believe me?

Case in point: John Trudell. He’s a poet and one time spokesman for the American Indian Movement. He was a speaker. All he did was speak. His only weapon was his words and the truth he believed. And for his words, his family was murdered. He’d been warned, in the county jail, to shut up, to stop protesting. Weeks later, after he’d continued to speak? His wife, mother-in-law and children were all dead because of words. Only words.

Another example? Have you heard of Harvey Milk? No need to list all the things he did, all the words he spoke because there is a phenomenal film just released that can explain it far better than I can. The point is, he used words as a weapon and he died for it.

There are others, countless others—Martin Luther, Nelson Mandela, D.H. Lawrence, Vonnegut, Dr. Martin Luther King, and many others, some of who are the reason we can call ourselves American. Words, my friends, simple words can change the world. So, respect them. Love them. Honor them.

In the end, when we’re all ashes, when the apes or robots or aliens (insert your chosen post-apocalyptic villain here) have taken over and memory of humankind becomes a fading myth, it will be the words—ours or theirs— that will endure.

Favorite opening lines of the past few years

In grad school, the Lovely Writing Mentor advised us to open a story with something that would either shock the reader, hook the reader, intrigue the reader or just make them laugh. When you get right to it, sometimes that simple task is hard to manage. However, during the course of my novice, 'no-one-will-ever-read-this-but-my-writer's group' constructions of some really bad fiction, I've been able to manage it. For the most part. Some, I'm very proud of. Others, not so much, but generally they run along the "tonight she danced alone," and "helen thought the man looked far too smug for his own good" variety. Not saying they're great or even my favorite, but I'm just paranoid enough not to pull out my A game, as it were, onto the blogosphere.

Of course, I have my all time favorite openings: "124 was spiteful." Despite my COMPs exam almost eradicating my love for Beloved, I recognize that's a killer opening and a great American novel. But the following are some of my personal favorites that have come about over the past ten years though they are in no way a complete list...I'd be here all night if it were. Some aren't 'literary' whatever the hell that is supposed to mean, but they certainly have gotten my attention, are from amazing novels that I have loved and in many cases, these openings have made the narcissistic writer in me hugely jealous.

In no particular order whatsoever. Feel free to add your own favorites, Dear Anonymous Reader, whoever you may be!

"Shadow had done three years in prison." American Gods, Neil Gaiman

"Jude had a private collection." Heart Shaped Box, Joe Hill

"On the day Claire became a member of Glass House, someone stole her laundry." Glass Houses, Rachel Caine

"My name was Salmon, like the fish; first name Susie." The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold

"A man begins dying at the the moment of his birth." The Husband, Dean Koontz

"Mommy forgot to warn the new babysitter about the basement." The Summoning, Kelley Armstrong

"My mother used to tell me about the ocean." The Forest of Hands and Teeth, Carrie Ryan

Go forth and read these if you haven't had the honor quite yet.

“The question is not whether we will die, but how we will live.”

It happens and in every case, we are all shocked. No matter the situation, no matter if we are prepared for the inevitable, no matter if we knew it was coming, death always shocks us. It is always sudden, always enduring, but in both instances, there is the shock.



We lost my grandfather four years ago. 80 years old, a smoker all his life, and he died suffering, drowning in disease and infection. At the end, he didn't know us. At the end, after weeks of suffering, a blink, it seemed, from the initial diagnosis, weeks of my mother's frustration, sadness, and utter grief, he closed his eyes and then...just wasn't. There would be no more tall tales, no more laughter, no more of the same stories being told over and over. It divided our family. It overwhelmed my mother and left her the responsibility of being care giver and designated mother to her own. Life had begun 80 years before in a bright roaring thunder and ended in a an exhale and whimper. Death came to my grandfather but left its mark on all of us.



What did it teach us? Many things, it turned out. It taught us that he was the anchor steadying our very turbulent family. He was the core of the family unit. He was the most beloved of us all and with his death, that was torn a part, the anchor unequivocally dismantled. It taught me that smoking, obviously, is a very stupid thing to do. It's a time bomb ticking through your body, exploding with absolute precision.



But death, it should be understood, is always inevitable and should be anticipated.



We mourn for our loss. We feel the shock, the shattering well of sorrow not for the loss of a loved one,but for the absence constructed in our own lives. We are all selfish creatures, all focused on what a death will mean for us, whether it is intentional or not, it is our own self awareness that affects us. We cry, we moan, we shake our hand at God because this 'lost someone' will be missing from OUR lives...from OUR realities.



Rather than understanding, accepting that the loss is certain, that it is the departed that has been most affected, we reel against what death will mean for US and in the process, we ignore the lesson that we should learn: That tomorrow is as uncertain as the true agenda of a politician and that not one of us can predict when our turn will come.



So, what should we learn? What should be the final lesson? Today we are here and tomorrow is not meant to be a moment of reflection. Life happens quickly and death is a selfish creature, it wants us all, it wants us when we are unprepared and unwilling to bend to its will.



Live today. LIVE. It's all any of us can do. Do not mourn for the passing of a loved one, of a stranger, of an enemy. Do not reflect on their failings, their misgivings, their sins because, eventually, we all take the same path, we all end our journey at the same destination and the road we walked to get there was our own making, our own choices. Live while you can, while you are able. Tomorrow only exists on the "calendar of fools."




“Dream as if you'll live forever, live as if you'll die today.”

Why writers are cooler than rock stars

Who takes you 'there?' Who delivers you from the mundane, from the ordinary and frees you from your abrasive reality? Is it an actor? Is it a poem? Is it a musician? None of us can define definitively what makes us tick, the incessant part of ourselves that we pretend isn't there, doesn't encompass every molecule, every cell that makes us run, jump, scream or cry. But sometimes, we have a clue who we are, what makes us, if not tick, then function. For me, it isn't a song or a poem or watching some pretty someone meander around dialogue and project who they think a character ought to be, that delivers me.



I can be moved by music. I have cried at films. Truth is, I've tolerated Byron to a level of finding him, 'pretty damn good.' But none of these things take me there. You know the 'there' I'm talking about. You've visited, I'm sure, in those predictable constants: prepubescent dreams, thoughts and ideas and imaginary ponderings that are born from long, wondering, looking-at-nothing stares. You've drifted there on occasion, your eyes have become unfocused and blank, you've skipped across the universe, through the cloudy void when reality, that dull certain, has become too much to bear. It's the 'there' that is created when you want to escape, when too much responsibility, too many plans, too-consuming life lumbering has forced you away, has made you drift.



Where 'there' is, of course, differs from individual to individual. My personal favor is a large castle. No. A small cabin. Well, no, not really. Let's see, a lonely cottage on the tip of some nondescript, unassuming village in Scotland. See, mine changes so often that I can't keep track. the point is, the 'there' for me isn't always the same. The method of getting 'there,' however, is. I don't listen to music when I write. I don't need the inspiration of a chick flick, period drama or a 'let's remake, for the fiftieth time, a story that should never be touched' film. I don't need them, they aren't required. All I need is a good book. No, not just a good book, but a damn good book. the kind of book that leaves you gobsmacked. (I make no apologies for using that word...I love it and think it is used far too infrequently).



So, the book. It can't be just any book. I won't get to my little village reading about idealist lawyers, determined accountants, faultless doctors or some one's recount of tragedies and horrors visited upon the underdog, the young, the frail or depraved because, really, aren't all our lives depressing enough? Don't we all suffer through enough tremendous struggles, endless monotony already? Getting to my 'there' won't be accomplished by reading about suffering when my reality is, sometimes, punishment enough.



Give me the unbelievable. Give me magic. Give me surrealism. Give me vampires and wizards and gypsies and Gods, both with the little and big 'g's. Give me a monster, a zombie, oh please give me a zombie, and a good guy discovering his hidden, mysterious, magical parentage. Give me every Campbell cliche. Give me a town invested by psychotic, hungry vampires, give me a rabid dog trapping a woman and her child in a car. Give me a boy with a scar and his impossible responsibility. Give me a man searching for a fallen star.



Give. Me. Shadow Bloody Moon.



Give them all to me and I will jettison to my 'there.' I will be among the wizards, flying on broomsticks, akin to a dead woman, watching un-seeable Gods and Goddess fighting in the last good fight. I sing with drunken Highlanders concealing the whereabouts of an English Outlander. I dance at a wizard's ball and fly next to a not so innocuous bat.



You see, it isn't the fantasy that takes me to my 'there.' It isn't event eh descriptive setting planted next to all those beloved characters.



It is, simply put, the words. They are magic itself. And who can we thank for such intoxicating descriptors, such bespelling prose? I can give you a list. Trust me, I could utterly exhaust you with it. We must honor the sires of the surreal, the makers of illusion. We must thank the writer. They are carvers of the most precious sculptures. They are God Creators of universes we could not possibly fathom without their They are magic itself. And who can we thank for such intoxicating descriptors, such bespellinginstruction. They are professors of wit and wisdom and all things incredulous. What actor can transform you, deposit you in that way? What song has ever been sung that could twist your mind so that you find yourself in the Middle of the Earth, in the Neverwhere of impossibility? Cobain was a genius, but he was still, at his core, only a musician.



So to my list I say, 'Cheers. Thank you and please don't ever stop.'



Thank you Jo for making the impossible brilliant and real and beautiful and scary. Thank you, Uncle Stephen, for all the 'well damn' moments and every single instance I had to sit on my feet to stop the monsters beneath my bed from attacking. Thank you Neil for spinning my mind so that I could barely remember my name, for teaching me without speaking a syllable, for weaving a tapestry that I could feel through every page. Thank you Kim and Diana and Charlaine and Poppy for proving that, yep, chicks can do it, and most times, better than any man could ever imagine. Thank you to the countless infinite other, to every Pratchett, Baum, Adams, Lovecraft, Koontz, Hill, Barker, Poe and Matheson.



Thank you all for bringing me, without fail, to my 'there' and never, ever apologizing for the abduction.

Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live.

We can't stop the clocks from clicking or grab hold of the sun and push it back so that yesterday, and yesterday's mistakes, can be relived. It is not possible. But what I've learned over the years is that we needn't relive yesterday, we simply need to chalk up old mistakes as part of the greater scheme of living. Lessons learned and all.

Life is lived in moments and every one of those moments matter. No matter how they are carried out, they matter. Mistakes made, opportunities not taken, roads not traveled, all come together, join the positive and proud moments in our lives to formulate and coalesce into a life lived. The tragedy occurs when our individual lives lay stagnate and pointless, when, after years of ignoring our fate, bypassing the opportunities that come our way, we still do not learn to take a chance, to make an attempt.

"And in the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years." Mr. Lincoln was right and the point he was trying to make is that living is our responsibility. Its what we owe ourselves because the life we've been given is too fleeting, far too short to live in regret. Never regret. Learn from the sins of the past and anticipate the hope of the future. That is only in your hands. God gives us roads to travel, but doesn't push us forward. We have to do that.

All this came to me when I saw Susan Boyle take what could be one of her last chances. She isn't young, not particularly beautiful and the only shape she has is round, but you know what? She's done something not many would dare try. She stepped forward, she seized her moment and came out smiling. God bless her for it.

Check her out:




To try and fail is one thing, to not try at all, is simply pathetic.





From "Mr. Button"

For what it’s worth, it’s never too late, or in my case too early, to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit... start whenever you want... you can change or stay the same. There are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. I hope you see things that stop you. I hope you feel things that you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life that you’re proud of and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.