tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85468271444152846852024-03-12T21:56:46.107-07:00zombies and creamI like brains of all kinds--thinking ones, dead ones, tasty ones. My novel, Brains: A Zombie Memoir, is coming out May 25. It's a literary zombie novel--not a contradiction in terms. Zombies and Cream is about writing and fishing and teaching.Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-47802991908134447942017-02-15T07:45:00.003-08:002017-02-15T07:45:40.006-08:00Does anyone blog anymore? Does anyone read blogs anymore? I searched through Zombies and Cream looking for a post on <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poets/detail/robin-becker" target="_blank">the other Robin Becker</a> for an essay I'm writing about our name. And I felt inspired to pick it back up!<div>
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Lots of stuff has happened since 2013, the last time I blogged: I got divorced, took a job as a professor at Minnesota State University, and moved to Mankato, Minnesota.</div>
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My second novel MINDKILLER has morphed into LILITH, a Southern Gothic ghost story, and still isn't published. But it's closer!</div>
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What's new with you? </div>
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Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-72069357075349678042012-07-26T07:59:00.001-07:002012-07-26T08:00:51.054-07:00Summer Reading RodeoThumbnail reviews of books I've read so far this summer. I may be forgetting some. It's been a hot few months.<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Night-Circus-Erin-Morgenstern/dp/0307744434/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top" target="_blank">The Night Circus</a>, by<a href="http://erinmorgenstern.com/" target="_blank"> Erin Morgenstern</a>. I was captivated by this at first. Charmed, you could say. The Night Circus is adorable, whimsical, fanciful, fun. Three-quarters of the way through I wanted something a bit more than whimsy, but still enjoyed the book overall--except for the ending. I don't mean the epilogue, but the last sentence which (and this is not a spoiler) circles back to the first sentence. As a teen, I read a book that ended in the same way and back then I was like WHOA. Now, not so much. Still recommended for its incredible imagination and confidence, however.<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1931968977/?tag=googhydr-20&hvadid=7640264847&hvpos=1t1&hvexid=&hvnetw=g&hvrand=4533586781362727819&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=e&ref=pd_sl_1m13xx2xdm_e" target="_blank">American Busboy</a>, by <a href="http://matthewguenette.com/" target="_blank">Matthew Guenette</a>. This is a collection of mostly narrative poems about working in a clam shack over the summer as a, you guessed it, busboy. A smart and funny book. Sample: "The moon/& a busboy, the beach/& a waitress, and later/maybe karaoke." Ah, youth. There are a few non-narrative gems sprinkled throughout (like freshly ground pepper!). I lol'd. Recommended.
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Damned-Chuck-Palahniuk/dp/0385533020/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1343310447&sr=1-1&keywords=damned" target="_blank">Damned</a>, by Chuck Palahniuk. I'm a huge Chuck fan. I've even taught him in American Lit survey classes (both Fight Club and Survivor) because he's gonna stick. That's why I was disappointed in this one. It was reminiscent of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bizarro_fiction" target="_blank">bizarro fiction</a> which, while interesting, isn't quite the level of sophistication I expect from one of the sharpest critics of American culture. If you want true bizarro, check out the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ass-Goblins-Auschwitz-Cameron-Pierce/dp/1933929936/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1343310373&sr=1-1&keywords=ass+goblins+of+auschwitz" target="_blank">Ass Goblins of Auschwitz</a>.<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Choiring-Trees-Donald-Harington/dp/1612181236/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1343309144&sr=8-1&keywords=choiring+of+the+trees" target="_blank">The Choiring of the Trees</a>, by <a href="http://www.donaldharington.com/home.html" target="_blank">Donald Harington</a>. Another book in the continuing saga of Stay More, Ark, this one doesn't have as much magical realism (and magic) as the others, but there's a compelling love story at its core. I lost steam at some point, but pushed on through and was rewarded at the end. If you're interested in Harington--America's "<a href="http://www.statesman.com/life/books/an-appreciation-of-the-ozarks-donald-harington-2184828.html?printArticle=y" target="_blank">undiscovered continen</a>t"-- check out <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Architecture-Arkansas-Ozarks-Donald-Harington/dp/1612181228/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1343313138&sr=8-2&keywords=architecture+of+the+arkansas+ozarks" target="_blank">The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks</a> first. This one is definitely for the already converted.
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<a href="http://www.mainstreetrag.com/LKnight.html" target="_blank">Three Cubic Feet</a>, by <a href="http://www.laniaknight.com/" target="_blank">Lania Knight</a>. Full disclosure: I read this because it was sent to the <a href="http://toadsuckreview.org/" target="_blank">Toad Suck Review</a> as an ARC (my wonderful husband edits the journal) and it was sitting on the coffee table. Guess what? I liked it! A YA novella narrated by Theo, a young gay man falling in love and figuring sex and everything else out. Knight has made such a believable teen--Theo can be self-centered and stupid and he turns away from those trying to help him, but you love him and root for him regardless because that's what a sensitive teen is like. Lord knows I was worse. Drama galore, well-rounded characters, beautiful sentences to boot.<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sharp-Objects-Novel-Gillian-Flynn/dp/0307341550/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1343312067&sr=1-1&keywords=sharp+objects" target="_blank">Sharp Objects</a>, by Gillian Flynn. LOVED IT! Enough good stuff has been said about this book and author and I second everything. A suspenseful, compelling, gross-at-times, heart-wrenching, page-turner. The ending felt a bit rushed, but who cares? I'm still basking in the afterglow of having just finished it. Can't wait to read the other two. New favorite author--why did it take me so long?<br />
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Currently on my nightstand; The <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Witches-Eastwick-John-Updike/dp/0449912108/ref=sr_1_1_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1343313941&sr=1-1&keywords=witches+of+eastwick" target="_blank">Witches of Eastwick</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Babel-17-Empire-Star-Samuel-Delany/dp/0375706690/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1343314013&sr=1-1&keywords=babel-17" target="_blank">Babel-17</a>, and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Vanishers-Novel-Heidi-Julavits/dp/0385523815/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1343314081&sr=1-1&keywords=vanishers" target="_blank">The Vanishers</a>.<br />
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Anyone have recommendations?Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-12195344593539192872012-07-24T06:58:00.001-07:002012-07-24T06:58:35.505-07:00Why Death Can Be BeautifulToday is my mom's birthday. She would have been 82, but she died back in February.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">What I can't stop thinking about is how life-affirming her death was. The mechanics of it. Its intense physicality. </span><br />
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Let me explain: My mom had a massive stroke, bleeding on the brain, and lost consciousness immediately. She never regained it. They put her on a respirator, but she wasn't really there. Her mind, I mean. It was somewhere else.<br />
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They waited for her children and grandchildren to gather around her hospital bed and then "pulled the plug." We held hands, prayers were said, tears spilled, and then...nothing. She stayed alive, kept on breathing. For 12 hours, her heart raced at 150 bpm, aerobic levels, trying desperately to pump oxygen into her blood. Her temperature shot up to 104. Her breaths came in long and short wheezy gasps, reminding me of a fish out of water.<br />
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Her body wanted to live, was pulling out all of the stops to live. There was no longer a person lying there thinking and feeling, but an animal thing, clinging to existence as purely as a worm struggling against the hook.<br />
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The body has its own agenda, independent of the mind: a blind reaching toward life. <span style="background-color: white;">In that way, her death was beautiful, an inspiration, a reminder of the striving at the core of existence. </span><br />
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I miss my mom. Even her death taught me something.<br />
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<br />Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-89382950799875731452012-02-05T13:44:00.000-08:002012-02-05T13:59:06.519-08:00Why, yes, I do have a super bowl!Here it is! Made by the talented <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warren_MacKenzie">Warren Mackenzie</a>. <div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMUIEvsV_9T6MLyVqkZZxTlZS0XiF9dsDJvDET9-4uQo2v5zyfVAB51WCC7tkxmKm4p1k9RwpMw5V8cSUzGuGfKduQ5sIz44jE7wPs-CJuS-q3sqKidmt0QqlGHMhw5uWh8cp320rZvVP/s1600/superbowl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMUIEvsV_9T6MLyVqkZZxTlZS0XiF9dsDJvDET9-4uQo2v5zyfVAB51WCC7tkxmKm4p1k9RwpMw5V8cSUzGuGfKduQ5sIz44jE7wPs-CJuS-q3sqKidmt0QqlGHMhw5uWh8cp320rZvVP/s320/superbowl.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705773826987415730" /></a><br />Oh, I do amuse myself. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-36526367670333634512012-01-09T05:59:00.001-08:002012-01-09T06:31:41.008-08:00What's Bootsy Doin?Oh, Trusted First Reader, how I love thee.<br /><br />I've finished the third draft of MINDKILLER, which means it's in good enough shape to give to Trusted Reader for a critique. This makes me nervous, and I have to restrain myself from hovering over him and repeatedly asking: What's going on in the book now? How do you like it? Are you buying it?<br /><br />The good news: He claims to be so caught up in the story at times that he forgets to critique.<br /><br />The bad news: He has some solid suggestions. But that isn't bad news. Not really. It's what I want to make it better.<br /><br />While he works on that, I've begun reading for my next book, a take on the exorcist/demon possession narrative. I can't say any more than that without jinxing it, but I have a confession to make: I'm afraid of the devil.<br /><br />The first book I (re)read was The Exorcist. It wasn't nearly as scary as it was when I was a teenager what with all the adverbs Blatty overuses. What's freaking me out is the non-fiction. <div><br /></div><div>Even though I don't believe in the supernatural, I can't help worrying that the more I find out about demons, the more demons will vex me! So far, though, I seem to be un-afflicted. No moving furniture, no vomiting, no writhing. Everything carries on as usual. But man, if you believe some of those books, America is crawling with demons! We're all at risk. </div><div><br /></div><div>In other completely unrelated news, I've started a<a href="http://fish-wife.tumblr.com/"> fish blog</a> over at tumblr. If you love fish and fishing, come visit. And if you have any fish stories or photos, please submit to me. NOW! (Sorry, that's the devil talking.)<br /></div>Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-39812854921340353612012-01-02T06:56:00.000-08:002012-01-02T07:00:20.441-08:00Twelve minutes of fun<iframe width="459" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ln4r7_mAGx8?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /><br /><br />If you've got 12 minutes--and who doesn't?--watch and listen to The Ultimate! It's about a roller coaster that kills people in a dystopian future.Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-51553703683359283002011-11-02T04:54:00.000-07:002011-11-02T05:23:56.856-07:00Students On Facebook: What are they thinking?I'm officially one of the world's worst bloggers, since I haven't posted since the summer. Yes, I suck.<br /><br />But now I'm compelled to share what I see as a bit of an ethical dilemma. Maybe it's an ethical dilemma. I'm not sure. Maybe you can tell me.<br /><br />I teach at a university. I don't friend students on FB, but if they friend me, I accept. This semester quite a few students friended me at the beginning of the year. Now, my university has a strict attendance policy which I adhere to. A certain number of absences and I can drop students for non-attendance--even if they were legitimately sick. There are no official excuses except for university-related events.<br /><br />A few students exceeded their allotment (which is generous--six days for a MWF class) and I dropped them. They claimed a variety of illnesses, but because they friended me, I could see they were well enough to hang out, post pics, and go to dinner with friends.<br /><br />I didn't mention to the students that I could see their activities, because, duh, they friended me. But I wanted to say something like: You were well enough to go to the park on Thursday and pose with the sun in your eyes and a fall flower in your hand, so why not class?<br /><br />And this is where FB gets tricky. It's an intersection of their private lives and their role as students (or employees or daughters or spouses). I would feel like a jerk if I brought it up, as if I'd been stalking them or crossed a privacy line. But we all know FB isn't private and I don't have to stalk them to see their posts. They just show up on my wall. That's kinda the point.<br /><br />Would I have been more inclined to cut them some slack if I hadn't seen their activities? I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. Would you?<br /><br />The best advice for students is quite simple: Don't friend your profs until after the class is over.Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-53119227471332220942011-08-14T07:09:00.000-07:002011-08-14T08:00:23.732-07:00CrybabyLast week I gave myself permission to cry for the children I'll never have.
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<br />Let me explain a bit: Obviously I didn't reproduce. It wasn't a <a href="http://www.populationconnection.org/site/PageServer?pagename=about_us">Zero Population Growth</a> decision, even though I sometimes say it was because that's an easy answer, one that curious friends and relatives can understand. Instead, it was more of a non-decision. Mostly, I just never wanted to, never felt the kind of overwhelming longing my friends talk about. In fact, I always thought children and babies were boring. My mom recently told me that I announced when I was in grade school that I was never going to be a mommy, a confession I don't remember making. <span style="font-style: italic;">
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<br /></span>So why the tears? I was on a long car trip, staring out the window at the corn fields of Iowa, and I thought about what it would be like to have kids, and if I'd love the little buggers a lot, and if I'd love my husband even more than I do now because of what we created together. And I can't deny it: I got all choked up. I tried to repress the tears, because it's too late now and I'm tough. But then I thought: Why hold back? Why not mourn a little? What's the harm? It doesn't mean I made a mistake. It's like thinking about any path you might have taken in life but didn't: <span style="font-style: italic;">What if I'd never broken up with Billy? What if I didn't move? Would my life be better? More fulfilling? </span>
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<br />Of course, once I gave myself permission, the tears didn't spill. The moment passed, I turned from the window, fiddled with the radio and thought about lunch.
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<br />But who knows? Now that I can, maybe one day I'll have that cry. For now, I'd like to say good-bye to my never-conceived offspring, a fond farewell to the phantom fruit of my loins.
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<br />And that reminds me of this hilarious song!
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<br />Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-59031174284614501502011-07-25T17:23:00.000-07:002011-07-25T17:52:53.990-07:00Something Annoying about the SouthI opened up Tom Franklin's <span style="font-style: italic;">Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter </span>just now. I've been looking forward to reading it. I enjoyed <span style="font-style: italic;">Poachers</span>, his short story collection, and I'd heard this book was better.<br /><br />But I was stopped cold before I even began, reminded of Something Annoying about the South, by Franklin's epigraph, which was this:<br /><br />M-I, crooked letter, crooked letter, I, crooked letter, crooked letter, I, humpback, humpback I.<br /> --How <span style="font-weight: bold;">southern</span> children are taught to spell Mississippi. (emphasis mine)<br /><br />I grew up in northeast New Jersey, Bergen County to be exact, and my father taught me that ditty (except it was hunchback, not humpback). And he was born in a house just a few blocks from the house I grew up in and his parents were German. So no southern influence there.<br /><br />It's like the woman I met at a party when I first moved down here who said, "That just gets me so riled up." What she was riled up about I don't remember, but I do remember that she looked at me and said, "You probably don't even know what 'riled up' means, being from up north." She followed this with a pitying look, sorry that I didn't come from such a rich oral tradition.<br /><br />That got me riled up! We speak the same language, north and south, share an American culture. The south isn't some rarefied bastion of unique and folksy phrases that don't exist "up north." I can understand you. We have the same vocabulary. It's the same shit, just with different vowel sounds.<br /><br />Get over yourselves already and have a glass of sweet tea. Bless your hearts.<br /><br />PS Still looking forward to the novel.Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-26075181124856121422011-07-16T06:46:00.000-07:002011-07-16T07:35:22.560-07:00Monroeville Mall, Heck Yes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQvDywNby2sO4jkDqeIitgxAEyl9PPZkdNBllAQTORZ9iEbNXTDplFjbEB07pnqPNhE0lZGEHJC2jRJaU16LcmDs3YANdXtFB6iduaYeSoJUCvUumHaMnz0mtqookcO4X2APwMtHdr5GF5/s1600/monroevilemall.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQvDywNby2sO4jkDqeIitgxAEyl9PPZkdNBllAQTORZ9iEbNXTDplFjbEB07pnqPNhE0lZGEHJC2jRJaU16LcmDs3YANdXtFB6iduaYeSoJUCvUumHaMnz0mtqookcO4X2APwMtHdr5GF5/s320/monroevilemall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629947271895627618" border="0" /></a><br />Monroeville Mall, PA, the historic location of Romero's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PpuNE1cX03c">Dawn of the Dead</a>. Not the 2004 remake with fast zombies, but the 1978 original in all its incredibly gory, non-CGI splatter.<br /><br />I finally got there. I was in Monroeville last weekend for a wedding and there was no question: I had to visit the mall.<br /><br />And you know what? It looks like every other mall. At first I was disappointed but then I realized that was precisely the film's brilliance. It should look like any mall! Because when the apocalypse happens, it's gonna be everywhere--in our back yards, schools, houses--and in our malls. There are already a lot of zombies at Hot Topic anyway--why not add a few flesh-eating ones?<br /><br />I had heard there's a special store with zombie memorabilia at the Monroeville Mall. Unfortunately it wasn't clear from the directory where it was--there was no Zombie Nook listed--and we didn't have time to walk the whole mall in search of it. I believe I will regret that decision more than my decision not to have children.<br /><br />I did find one zombie though, riding the escalator which, in my imagination, is the same exact escalator as in the film.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinODSsPJ9Qw4hMbgmUMyU3w4sBLsojjrx6nhptPFRy8I6tdTldqorQJgk1MmlU9Dnj8NJg-XC-aKzsjelfoRAbq4ZIM65RSUn5MoLYa636DeTw5IVx4dSul1bMdOkN3cZ3Qg9c53yC69Yh/s1600/zombieatmonroevillemall.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinODSsPJ9Qw4hMbgmUMyU3w4sBLsojjrx6nhptPFRy8I6tdTldqorQJgk1MmlU9Dnj8NJg-XC-aKzsjelfoRAbq4ZIM65RSUn5MoLYa636DeTw5IVx4dSul1bMdOkN3cZ3Qg9c53yC69Yh/s320/zombieatmonroevillemall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629949995222664994" border="0" /></a><br />Oh wait, that's not a zombie. That's me!<br /><br /><br />PS If you want way more pics than these and actual comparisons with the film, check out this guy's <a href="http://blackholereviews.blogspot.com/2008/07/on-location-dawn-of-dead-1978-picture.html">blog post.</a>Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-75350102397435494382011-06-26T06:12:00.000-07:002011-06-26T06:31:01.921-07:00Potato Chips: Crispy Windows to the SoulYes, this post is about potato chips, but also so much more. Let's say it's about potato chips as metaphor. How potato chips reveal who you are--economically, spiritually, politically.<br /><br />Sounds ridiculous when I type it, but I went to college in the early 90s. Semiotics and deconstruction were all the rage. I wasn't taught to enjoy a good book. I was taught to rip it apart for underlying sexism, racism, and imperialism!<br /><br />But I had a personal revelation at Krogers. Yesterday I bought potato chips. I feel compelled to assert here that I don't usually buy potato chips. We have guests coming, a family with a kid, and I thought they would enjoy potato chips. The fact that I felt compelled to clarify that I'm not the kind of person who regularly buys chips reveals something itself.<br /><br />So anyway, I put the fancy Cape Cod cracked black pepper and sea salt chips in my basket. Because that's what hipster-foodies-"smart folks" who are against the corporate system eat, right? I mean, if they must eat chips.<br /><br />And then I realized--I don't like them. They're too thick. Darn it, I like Lays' Sour Cream and Onion Potato Chips! They are an undemanding chip. Their dust is delicious. They are thin and crispy. And I will not feel guilty for my tastes any longer.<br /><br />Bring on the corporate chips! Embrace who you are! Next thing you know, I'll be eating Kraft Mac-N-Cheese.<br /><br />Who's with me?Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-2016002876006762082011-06-13T09:02:00.000-07:002011-06-13T09:10:34.345-07:00First-draft TerrorJust finished the first draft of Mindkiller. And now I'm terrified. Going to wait a few days before I tackle first revision--let it sit for a bit--and I already know there's a lot to do and what to do, so that's good. No worries...yet.<br /><br />What scares me is what am I going to do for the next few days!? Since school let out a month ago, I've been writing 4-6 hours a day, depending on if I decide to swim or fish in the afternoon. That's a lot of time to fill.<br /><br />I'm thinking of making a bean-art portrait. Or gluing things together in a shitty assemblage. Or going to a lot of matinees. Or finally reading 2666 (after I finish Freedom). Or revising a short story I wrote a year ago.<br /><br />Or I don't know what. Any suggestions?Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-24125718892214884432011-06-01T11:25:00.000-07:002011-06-01T12:19:47.850-07:00Freedom is like a book without many metaphors.In the past few weeks, I've read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Swamplandia-Karen-Russell/dp/0307263991/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpi_1">Swamplandia!</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Illumination-Novel-Kevin-Brockmeier/dp/0375425314/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1306953039&sr=1-1">The Illumination</a>, and a new J<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Give-Me-Your-Heart-Suspense/dp/0547385463/ref=sr_1_11?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1306953080&sr=1-11">oyce Carol Oates short story collection whose name I've forgotten and I've already returned it to the library so I can't check</a>. Currently I'm halfway through Freedom, which I won't even link to.<br /><br />I've enjoyed all of them, but the one that has been freeing (ha! no pun intended) to me, as a writer, is Freedom.<br /><br />The book has a refreshing lack of similes and metaphors, an obsessive attention to characters' interior lives, and it occasionally tells not shows. What? Tells not shows? Yes, yes indeed. And it works, too.<br /><br />Both Swamplandia! and The Illumination are beautiful books with careful writing. Subject-wise, they're closer to what I typically read and what I aspire to write--stories that are magical, lyrical, and not rooted in psychological realism. In The Illumination, pain becomes manifest as an ethereal white light; Swamplandia! follows a family of alligator wrestlers who are too eccentric to be real, plus there are ghosts (who turn out to not be real, I think).<br /><br />Freedom is none of these things. It is old school Russian-style soap opera. And I love it.<br /><br />While Swamplandia! was a wonderfully imagined tale, at times the story was weighted down with its metaphorical language. I was too often aware that I was reading something that the author labored over. Karen Russell sure spent a lot of time thinking about words.<br /><br />And here's a confession: sometimes as I write, I am guilty of the same thing, spending way too much time thinking of the apt, poetic simile and not chugging forward with the story. And the story is king.<br /><br />But with Freedom, the writing style disappears, as if the novel just sprung forth (like in the beginning was the word and the word was...Franzen?), so that what the reader focuses on is the action (which is sometimes inaction). We become invested in the jealousy and struggles and desires of the extremely human characters.<br /><br />Now, I like words. Love them. I read my share of poetry. Heck, I even read and teach <a href="http://www.poetrypreviews.com/poets/language.html">L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets</a>. I understand and support the idea of playing with and manipulating language.<br /><br />Freedom is teaching me that sometimes language gets in the way. Sometimes a word is just a word, and a character can just cry, not cry tears that sparkle like sweaty diamonds left strewn across a table which is draped in a black tablecloth like a shroud thrown over the casket of someone you once loved.<br /><br />What's important is that the character cried, darn it. (Jesus wept.)Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-65759195175485815622011-05-30T10:28:00.000-07:002011-05-30T11:03:29.553-07:00New Age, New MexicoI'm not much of a believer, especially in the supernatural. Healing crystals, auras, astrology, vibrations of the universe, positive energy, bah humbug, I say.<br /><br />Which is why it was strange to find myself at a <a href="http://www.musicforjoyandhealing.com/soundhealing/">Cycle of Fifths Crystal Bowl</a> healing session. Or not so strange when you consider I'm in New Mexico visiting relatives--one of whom conducts Cycle of Fifths Crystal Bowl healing sessions--and I'm open to new experiences.<br /><br />We get to her studio, which is decked out in incense, scarves, pillows, books by Rumi, and some hammock thing that's supposedly for yoga but looks more like a marital aid. It smells good in there. There are three patients besides me.<br /><br />We lie on giant mattresses with little lavender pillows on our eyes. The bowls are on the floor, surrounding us, six or seven of them. The healer places pillows under our necks and knees and I am very comfortable. Then the crystal bowl music begins! The notes reverberate in my ears, echoing on each other, sometimes as loud as a guitar amp. The bowls are in perfect harmony, wonderfully tuned. I lie there and enjoy the concert, which lasts half an hour and is unusual, like nothing I've ever heard. It ends with chimes, a rainstick, and a Chinese gong.<br /><br />After is where the experience goes outside of my realm. One guy saw visions but of what he didn't say. A woman's third eye opened and it was red. Someone else saw their late mom as pure white light!<br /><br />Me? My lavender eye pillow made me sneeze, so I had to remove it. I think my third eye was crusted over with dried mucus. Or maybe I don't have one. The music was lovely though.Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-62773733702346860492011-04-05T16:44:00.000-07:002011-04-05T17:06:48.956-07:00Arkansas Literary Fest? Yes!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGvHrKOGOM04ITY0Y7VBSxuCbdO04WpHl2O7dgfIqnP48ovUxUo68Q9J43ZoqB2USov32cfWfQ-rFZYGlZpBaLHSkkP6TCO5YOKBcT-edLeRyUhAYHUNG1kBqM33HVccD6cRdviVNM1Sl_/s1600/arklitfestphoto_DOG_4.3.11.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGvHrKOGOM04ITY0Y7VBSxuCbdO04WpHl2O7dgfIqnP48ovUxUo68Q9J43ZoqB2USov32cfWfQ-rFZYGlZpBaLHSkkP6TCO5YOKBcT-edLeRyUhAYHUNG1kBqM33HVccD6cRdviVNM1Sl_/s320/arklitfestphoto_DOG_4.3.11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592250392562522818" border="0" /></a>This weekend is the <a href="http://www.arkansasliteraryfestival.org/">Arkansas Literary Fest</a>. When I saw this photo in the <a href="http://www.arkansasonline.com/news/2011/apr/03/wordsmiths-wingding-20110403/">newspaper</a>, I about milked my cow. And I don't even have a cow. Or drink milk. There's Kevin Brockmeier, David Sedaris, Charlaine Harris--and Mark and me! Meep!<br /><br />If you're in the Little Rock area, come on out and say hi. I'll be reading Saturday night at the Publish or Perish event--it's at <span class="eventTime">Big Whiskey's American Bar & Grill at 8. And then Sunday, I'm on a panel at 3 at </span><span class="eventTime">the Ottenheimer Theatre</span><span class="eventTime">, if I'm not too hungover. But wait, Mark's reading at the same time at the </span><span class="eventTime">Historic Arkansas Museum</span><span class="eventTime"></span><span class="eventTime">! What to do! You could clone yourself. That's a start. Or split yourself in two.<br /><br />Here's the<a href="http://www.arkansasliteraryfestival.org/"> full schedule </a>of panels. If you can't make it to see Mark or me, support the literary arts in central Arkansas by going to one of the other events or panels. It's just plain old good family fun.<br /></span>Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-63465603888345050062011-02-25T11:34:00.000-08:002011-02-25T12:05:34.202-08:00On Book Reviews and the Simpsons<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjqp_vskEqOs6FnNzFT_ZkwFvxEZIauWjisX1RiQKz82iVPB-UeiOtygnVpeDf7bGJwnvjtK-JlYPeC4waFUagyKmG9i8WpLatSCs10ZLv9S5VlLLLBqPiv8lcyB7Mlm8VGQxDsD7Yleh/s1600/simpsons_couch.gif"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjqp_vskEqOs6FnNzFT_ZkwFvxEZIauWjisX1RiQKz82iVPB-UeiOtygnVpeDf7bGJwnvjtK-JlYPeC4waFUagyKmG9i8WpLatSCs10ZLv9S5VlLLLBqPiv8lcyB7Mlm8VGQxDsD7Yleh/s200/simpsons_couch.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577715415462988514" border="0" /></a>As many of you know, my first novel came out last year. And that meant getting reviews, something I didn't think of when I was in the heights of ecstasy--before the book actually existed.<br /><br />Mostly the reviews were fine. Some wonderful ones saying I was a genius! Some lukewarm ones, and some that were downright mean, almost personal attacks, which I found bizarre. Luckily I have a thick skin, thanks to my family, who could get vicious and loud. I recall my mother throwing a phone at my sister once--and this was way before cell phones. Bless our Jersey hearts.<br /><br />Anyway, after the initial shock of the "bad" reviews wore off (and maybe a few whiskey cokes), I moved on. Mostly.<br /><br />But there's one thing that has stuck in my craw these past few months, one point that some reviewers made that I feel compelled to clarify.<br /><br />I love the Simpsons.<br /><br />To explain: At one point in<span style="font-style: italic;"> Brains</span>, Jack, my main zombie, is discussing "rednecks." He says, "The only Homer they knew was Simpson. Their idea of an art film was <span style="font-style: italic;">The Shawshank Redemption</span> and their wives collected Precious Moments figurines."<br /><br />Many reviewers took this to mean that I, Robin Becker, was taking a swipe at the Simpsons.<br /><br />I'm setting the record straight: Jack feels superior to that lovable yellow American family. In fact, Jack dislikes many things I hold near and dear. Jack even has opinions that I disagree with.<br /><br />Why is this? Easy. I am not Jack.<br /><br />Long live the Simpsons! Over twenty years and counting.Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-31473421908772237452011-02-22T16:01:00.000-08:002011-02-22T16:08:15.290-08:00Super-Cooled Quantam-Blog PoemsI came across this poem while perusing the inaugural issue of the Toad Suck Review (website in progress, otherwise I'd link). It's by Perrin Carrell. I love it and I'm hoping that whoever this poem is addressing will find it here on my blog. And that he'll love it too<br /><br />Blogosphere<br /><br />Someone I hate has a blog.<br />I used to love him so I follow<br />it. Sometimes I read it<br />and I hate him more. Sometimes<br />I read it and wish he were in<br />that chair again, skinny boy<br />drinking and smoking like a man<br />wallowing in one thing<br />or another. Sometimes I read it<br />and see how we are not so<br />different. We still love<br />the same things. We still love<br />the same people. The great tragedy<br />is that one of us will die<br />before the other, and the one<br />left alive will regret it. The greater<br />tragedy is that he would have loved<br />to have read this and never will because I<br />don't have a blog.Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-43140715522404903392011-02-11T10:08:00.000-08:002011-02-11T10:54:03.781-08:00Snow CreamThere's been a revolution in Egypt, but I don't have anything new and insightful to say about it. Except it's awesome. Power to the people!<br /><br />I do have something to say about <a href="http://www.cgl.uwaterloo.ca/%7Esmann/IceCream/Snow/">Snow Cream</a>, however.<br /><br />First off, Southerners freak out when it snows. A "blizzard" came in Wednesday morning and we got about six inches. Everything closed. In fact, it's Friday and the university where I teach is still closed. Seriously. It's gonna hit 45 degrees today and the roads are, by and large, clear, but I'm not complaining. Five-day weekend!<br /><br />But there's this delicacy called Snow Cream.<br /><br />Mark and I went for a walk yesterday and when we came home, our neighbor, Monroe, was gathering snow in a pitcher. We made small talk for a while and then I asked Monroe why he was gathering snow in a pitcher.<br /><br />"Snow Cream," he said, as if it were self-evident. "You never heard of it?"<br /><br />I'm from New Jersey and Mark's from Minnesota. Both places have a fair amount of snow, but neither one of us had ever heard of or made Snow Cream. I assumed it was a Southern treat like fried pickles until I looked it up on Wikipedia. They date it to 15th century England.<br /><br />Here's how you make it: Gather clean snow. Make sure it's been on the ground a few hours. Somehow that makes it purer. Put it in a big bowl and mix it up with a can of sweetened condensed milk and a teaspoon vanilla. Or you can use whole milk, sugar and vanilla. Stir it up real good and serve immediately.<br /><br />It's supposed to have the consistency of ice cream. Mine didn't. It was like cold sweet milk. It melted as soon as I stirred it. I followed Paula Deen's <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/paula-deen/snow-ice-cream-recipe/index.html">recipe</a> to the letter. Maybe I didn't add enough snow. I think you need a wheelbarrow of snow.<br /><br />And now most of the white stuff has melted and what's left is old and dirty. The Snow Cream's moment has passed.<br /><br />I wonder if they've ever heard of Snow Cream in Egypt?Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-88162268808389203812011-01-05T16:30:00.000-08:002011-01-05T17:50:28.457-08:00Of Pots and Men<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfjjZcI7_wal06MHduYaEYuoCHAfEHmmbojVhUJmKdO66fBb1NTHiYNG3yxNSrrIyqCYneFm0AjQclLM4_PcYnC46jreDOtvqGqCtijGL92RfMzu1Sex0neofEucYQMKULZOcCPzsM8Mp/s1600/warren.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfjjZcI7_wal06MHduYaEYuoCHAfEHmmbojVhUJmKdO66fBb1NTHiYNG3yxNSrrIyqCYneFm0AjQclLM4_PcYnC46jreDOtvqGqCtijGL92RfMzu1Sex0neofEucYQMKULZOcCPzsM8Mp/s320/warren.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558866882744100354" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://warrenmackenziepottery.com/">Warren Mackenzie</a> is my father-in-law. To most people, that means nothing. Just some dude. To those into crafts and pottery, however, Warren's the man.<br /><br />And when I say the man, I mean it. Warren's a<a href="http://www.thenevicaproject.com/Gallery%20Artist/Artist/gallery_artist_MacKenzie.htm"> living legend.</a> He has pots in the Smithsonian and the Met. He's big guns. Big pots.<br /><br />The first time I visited him and Nancy, my husband's mother, back in 1998, I was so nervous I had crying fits in the upstairs bedroom. Then I drank too much at the dinner party--the Mondales were there, fer chrissakes, Walter and Joan Mondale!--and spent the next morning sick in bed. Okay, more than the next morning. It was an embarrassing episode I'd just as soon forget.<br /><br />Point being, the whole scene was a little too heady for this working class gal from Jersey. Here were real-life artists, internationally recognized artists, whose home was filled with art. And I grew up thinking Hummels were the shit--and I'm not dissing on those adorable figurines. Just a point of contrast.<br /><br />Over the years, I've stopped crying and over-drinking. Because it's not about me (gasp!). It's about them. Also Warren and Nancy are such warm and open humans, it's hard to be nervous around them. And I've learned a lot from them--about being an artist, absolutely, but also a good human being.<br /><br />1. <span style="font-style: italic;">Work every day</span>. Warren is a star at this. He's in his pottery every day because he's a potter. That's what he does. About five years ago he was diagnosed with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silicosis">silicosis,</a> which is a lung disease caused by inhaling clay. It slowed him down at first. Not anymore. The dude is 86 and you can't even tell he has it.<br /><br />2. <span style="font-style: italic;">But it's okay to take time off if family's in town. </span>Work is important--no doubt. But people are too.<br /><br />3. <span style="font-style: italic;">A drink or two in the evening never hurt anyone</span>. My husband Mark and I visited over Christmas, so there were lots of parties. Did I mention Warren is 86? Did I mention he can drink me under the table? He even drank the curd-like, old and skanky Baileys. It was so thick it wasn't cream anymore. It was cheese. He and Mark also sat around one night and drank absinthe. One time I had a shot of that stuff and immediately got a headache.<br /><br />4. <span style="font-style: italic;">Dessert never hurt anyone either. </span>Especially chocolate ice cream.<br /><br />5. <span style="font-style: italic;">Sit down and eat your meals together. </span>Breakfast, lunch and dinner, if possible. Don't watch television or stand up at the sink. Put flowers on the table. Listen to your jaws pop.<br /><br />6. <span style="font-style: italic;">When you're having a dinner party, get everything ready hours in advance.</span> I learned this from Nancy. Do as much as you can--even set the table! It saves heartache. Also, no one really cares about the food. It's not a contest. They're there to be with you.<br /><br />7. <span style="font-style: italic;">Trust that you have greatness inside of you. </span>This is the big one. Warren is a utilitarian potter, meaning he makes a lot of pots, mostly for everyday use. Mark and I eat off his work daily. But with each firing Warren sets a few pieces aside for museums. The pots that sing. When asked how he creates those pots, he said he doesn't worry about it, because he doesn't set out to make a great pot, just one that's useful. He said to trust that there's something inside you, something simultaneously human and divine, that will come out in the work. When you find a pot that exhibits the ineffable, then you've made art. It's easy to pick the functional pots from the brilliant pots. The brilliant ones glow from within. And yes, I'll say it: Just like him.Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-91953161743686822892010-12-12T07:56:00.000-08:002010-12-12T08:14:29.065-08:00Why Writers Are NeuroticI'm working on a novel and lately the writing's been going good. Not even good, great. I know where the book's headed and the characters feel real. Every day when I sit down to write, the words come pretty quickly and easily too.<br /><br />And that worries me.<br /><br />I'm typically a slow writer, and when I first started this book over the summer, it was torture. Words barely came, plot shifted, characters were unformed. I was sure I was the worst writer ever and the book sucked.<br /><br />Now I'm paranoid that because I'm enjoying the book, because it's easy this week, then it can't be good! I'm not being critical enough and am just accepting what I'm doing without thought like a proud parent. I should be filled with self-doubt. I should be questioning and critiquing. I should be twisting my hair with my fingers in agony. This should be harder.<br /><br />Or should it? Does anyone else feel this way when the writing's easy? Please tell me I'm not alone.Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-72348784601845046732010-11-28T17:23:00.000-08:002010-11-29T05:57:04.629-08:00It's the small kindnesses you rememberI have a memory that keeps coming back to me. It's a small memory. No big drama or tears were involved. Even though it was 24 years ago, it persists. I thought of it just now while doing dishes and decided to set it down in writing.<br /><br />It was 1986 and I was 19, living in an apartment in West Philly, although I spent a lot of time hanging out in a squat occupied by a bunch of punks. One evening, a cute boy from the squat invited me to his friend's apartment. I don't remember the boy's name, only that he had a dark brown mohawk and was wearing a thin pink t-shirt over his bony torso.<br /><br />He and I had a great time walking to the apartment, laughing and flirting. At one point he gave me a piggy-back ride and I rested my head against the back of his neck, relishing the small intimacy.<br /><br />Once we reached our destination, however, I shut down. Two men lived in the apartment--they were in their thirties, which seemed impossibly old and sophisticated. But more than their age intimidated me: they were successful artists and their apartment was filled with paintings and record albums and instruments. One was a photography professor at Drexel; the other a musician.<br /><br />They were like no one I'd ever met. I'd only recently moved from my parents' home in New Jersey. My dad worked in a factory and my mom was a grocery store checker. No one we knew made art--why would they?<br /><br />The men gave us beer and we talked. Or they talked. I said nothing. I sat there silent as a ghost. I can't remember what they discussed, but I remember how I felt. Young, stupid, uneducated, unwashed, just some lame punk with dyed blonde hair hanging in one eye (both were lined with thick black eyeliner), too-tight jeans and Converse. As if that costume could make me smart. As if that costume could make me cool. I wasn't going to college. I wasn't making art. I worked at an ice cream parlor in University City for Chrissakes. I had nothing to say.<br /><br />At one point, after we'd been there an hour, mohawk guy turned to me. "You haven't said anything," he said. "You've just been sitting there and haven't said a single word."<br /><br />It was clear from his tone he was embarrassed by me. He'd thought I was cool enough to bring to his friends, but he'd found me out. I wasn't cool. I was awkward and working class.<br /><br />One of the men in the apartment looked at me. "She's just checking it out. Right?" he said, smiling. "Just checking out the scene."<br /><br />I looked down at my hands and smiled and nodded, happy to have a reason for my silence. And that was the end of it. Shortly after, we left.<br /><br />To this day, I am grateful to the man in the apartment. I never saw him again, never saw mohawk boy again either, but I remember clearly the compassion in the man's voice. He understood I was scared and confused and gave me a plausible excuse. I wasn't intimidated into muteness. I was simply getting the lay of the land. I wasn't some poseur in my band button-laden denim jacket. I was checking it out.<br /><br />It's weird that I remember this small incident, weirder still that it pops up when I least expect it. But when it does, I'm flooded with gratitude. And hope for humanity, corny and grandiose as it sounds for such a trifle. So thank you, whoever you are! Know that your small kindness, your empathy, has stayed with me and bolsters me still.Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-82047781253051786992010-11-16T16:33:00.000-08:002010-11-16T17:28:35.174-08:00Don't Delete That FB AccountLately there's been a lot of hating on Facebook. That movie. The money Zuckerberg donated to Newark schools. And then this latest email announcement, whatever that is. I saw someone call it Markxism in a recent post on, well, Facebook.<br /><br />A lot of people I follow on Twitter hate FB--not just recently either, not just part of the anti-Zuck zeitgeist, but for a while now, over a year. I've heard it called a waste of time, an invasion of privacy, and more importantly, an ineffective way to "market" yourself and your books. Someone even asked, on Twitter, if FB resulted in sales and concluded no. And then concluded it was time to delete their account.<br /><br />I completely disagree.<br /><br />Part of my opinion may be because I'm not good at tweeting, as chronicled in an earlier<a href="http://zombiesandcream.blogspot.com/2010/10/twitter-and-me.html"> post</a>. (Yes, I linked to myself, mirrors within mirrors.)<br /><br />But it's more than my lame tweeting. I love Facebook. First of all, my family's on it. I see photos of my sister in Miami, my mom in Virginia, my niece in upstate New York. I learn about their daily lives. I even like to hear what they're having for dinner. And I've lived all over the country, had a variety of jobs, and attended a bunch of schools. I made a lot of friends along the way, and they're all on FB. I "see" them regularly. And I'm thrilled to do it. The social networking side works for me.<br /><br />On the business side, on the purely commercial side, FB has resulted in publicity for Brains. First off, most of the readers of Brains contact me via Facebook. They "friend" me and send me FB messages about how they loved the book. And photos of them and the book. That's how I found out about this fabulous couple who dressed as my main characters for Halloween.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYZ24KBGc_47Ojt5Eu86JiB9lYRBPyMHqIbpeHWUfaIbGiD1EKFzuZL0AyZvU2q5qlqBWReUDpf8torAbkrHtJgms9jYbB5kRocCfmIR05mwyxMdQEi5DYvWDnVRqHygarKTONgxMFm-br/s1600/jack+and+eve.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYZ24KBGc_47Ojt5Eu86JiB9lYRBPyMHqIbpeHWUfaIbGiD1EKFzuZL0AyZvU2q5qlqBWReUDpf8torAbkrHtJgms9jYbB5kRocCfmIR05mwyxMdQEi5DYvWDnVRqHygarKTONgxMFm-br/s320/jack+and+eve.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540314373366695506" border="0" /></a> But old friends have resulted in surprising publicity too. A grad school friend who's now a marketer in SF contacted me about a cool project, a high school friend who writes for a paper wrote a profile, and a former student made the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aAzvsJ-JETg">Brains</a><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aAzvsJ-JETg"> trailer</a>. Recently I was on PBS and the producer communicated with me exclusively via FB (except for a phone call or two). My friends and family keep on reposting news about the book--signings, reviews, etc. I've gotten way more of those than retweets. Actually, it's a wonder they're not sick of me yet, but unlike the (mostly) anonymous followers on Twitter, they actually know me and so are a little more forgiving.<br /><br />Maybe FB works for me because I was perfectly happy to see pictures of my friends' beautiful babies on FB, to find out where they wound up living and who they married, to reconnect with them--simply for its own sake. I was active on FB before Brains came out. That they were able to help me out after its release is a little lagniappe. A bonus.<br /><br />So I say this to you writers who want to delete your FB accounts--reconsider! Especially if you keep up with old friends from your many different incarnations--fellow students, co-workers, bandmates, lovers, roommates, roommates' lovers. They might be able to help you out a bit with marketing--but even more important than that, they help you remember your life.Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-2193655687558087302010-10-31T17:58:00.000-07:002010-10-31T18:23:38.234-07:00The Future of the American FamilyI have seen the future and it's this adorable family.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-20mMvYjTXa5q7cRu7qBpYeI2SNiYWU-xl4LhP5FGPZVyETIysFhV8aLnYHkkRoYbDc64y6JJzNxTNP_0eLmwjd2q4lvDjWevmJyuM7Yzf4MKVjGqedKCbIIwBVzrM0zCF3GpYyoFG8tx/s1600/zombie+family.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-20mMvYjTXa5q7cRu7qBpYeI2SNiYWU-xl4LhP5FGPZVyETIysFhV8aLnYHkkRoYbDc64y6JJzNxTNP_0eLmwjd2q4lvDjWevmJyuM7Yzf4MKVjGqedKCbIIwBVzrM0zCF3GpYyoFG8tx/s320/zombie+family.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534381306814023154" border="0" /></a><br />Last night was Toad Suck's first annual zombie walk. It was a beautiful event. There was unity and peace. Everything I wrote about zombies in Brains is true. I thought I was making shit up, but I wasn't. The horde was calm, walking the streets in an orderly fashion. Admittedly we were slow and awkward, but the mood was gentle. I felt a kinship with my fellow zombies. I felt like I belonged.<br /><br />Here is but one example of the tolerance of zombies:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNIuVkE-aZQxm50VQTaEeOzji4PVllXdHqm7pjqDLhQEaEPEbnjjZ-YQbHRVlroTshJpy8Jj-HxXGhb0cv0EDRgR3Y430oVb65VQidDAFgUI_opoAE-m5QsIKIOGSkFBj9icE6nBm4idk/s1600/mark.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 217px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNIuVkE-aZQxm50VQTaEeOzji4PVllXdHqm7pjqDLhQEaEPEbnjjZ-YQbHRVlroTshJpy8Jj-HxXGhb0cv0EDRgR3Y430oVb65VQidDAFgUI_opoAE-m5QsIKIOGSkFBj9icE6nBm4idk/s320/mark.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534383091943642562" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.sptzr.net/index2.htm">Mark</a> went as a Sleestak. At first I thought he would be ostracized, made fun of, cast out for being alive. Not so. The zombies loved him. In fact, so much that those with the ability took his photo. And that's the kind of tolerance America needs.<br /><br />Zombies are dead. Long live zombies. I love my undead friends.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvmBL0nXORoI5YxK4apOr7Rixcp_VATrOft7OcJxPdiaZULD2KYjXfdR9IiRYkWMCqPl8e_JUpPCcRECxW8naAgmt6mZMiPyETo6RfQfJAsur5OfqpmILM3Xc2GtDxtP7ssee-FDCDSo3/s1600/me+with+foot.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvmBL0nXORoI5YxK4apOr7Rixcp_VATrOft7OcJxPdiaZULD2KYjXfdR9IiRYkWMCqPl8e_JUpPCcRECxW8naAgmt6mZMiPyETo6RfQfJAsur5OfqpmILM3Xc2GtDxtP7ssee-FDCDSo3/s320/me+with+foot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534384280567824610" border="0" /></a>Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-26776128477294150472010-10-23T06:55:00.000-07:002010-10-23T07:20:10.221-07:00A Good Week for Zombies<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGIq8ut3uvS08rebJ4qnKGnFp3Eqm54u-0fMQroXdUuush6S3KkN9eesZ6Pu1tUi3TOvDLN8zIks2bFhwpZA99gfB69MF28ea00zISNy55dLb4lg-ABDyWKFG6IvFQFlUANbN1ZFI95Bju/s1600/jen+and+me.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGIq8ut3uvS08rebJ4qnKGnFp3Eqm54u-0fMQroXdUuush6S3KkN9eesZ6Pu1tUi3TOvDLN8zIks2bFhwpZA99gfB69MF28ea00zISNy55dLb4lg-ABDyWKFG6IvFQFlUANbN1ZFI95Bju/s320/jen+and+me.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531240117522269874" border="0" /></a><br />It's been a great week for zombies.<br /><br />First, I watched <a href="http://www.ottothezombie.de/">Otto, Or Up With Dead People</a>, the radical <a href="http://www.brucelabruce.com/">Bruce LaBruce </a>post-modern arty gay zombie movie, which was a blast. It had a film within a film structure and the interior movie was a hilarious and pretentious film about the oppression of gay zombies--shot in black and white with lots of cliched art school touches. The larger movie was about Otto himself. The viewer never learns if Otto is really a zombie or just crazy and/or suffering from an existential dilemma. Dead inside and so acting dead on the outside. This movie is not for everyone--there are some graphic sex scenes complete with gore--but I liked it.<br /><br />Then I read from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Brains-Zombie-Memoir-Robin-Becker/dp/0061974056/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1274971321&sr=8-1">Brains</a> at the Faulkner County Library dressed as a zombie! And people came dressed as zombies, which was shocking, thrilling, and exciting. There was a zombie haiku contest. Winners received books and bloody severed fingers. There's a review of it <a href="http://jenmcpeek.blogspot.com/2010/10/i-am-zombie-coo-coo-cachoo.html?spref=tw">here</a>.<br /><br />Finally, I was interviewed by PBS at the end of the summer--and the episode will air October 27 at 6:30 and October 31 at 10:30 p.m. Just in time for Halloween!<br /><br />And oh yeah, Halloween is almost here! I'm thinking about going as a 1970s victim of Jason, inspired by Friday the 13th Part II which I watched a part of the other day and was delighted by. Happy Weekend!<br /><br /><object style="background-image: url("http://i1.ytimg.com/vi/4IEfwugOQ4A/hqdefault.jpg");" height="295" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4IEfwugOQ4A?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4IEfwugOQ4A?fs=1&hl=en_US" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="295" width="480"></embed></object>Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546827144415284685.post-35580195688933597342010-10-19T05:30:00.000-07:002010-10-19T05:46:41.515-07:00Faulkner County Library with ZombiesPic is of me right after the Zombie Apocalypse. Things were crazy and blurry during that time.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdYDTUu4AMd9Saclw1OY9LLdZHk6NX3PLumGJglrJtPtMI9MeOVlpAMGB_qF1UJlpubmJwPijIDW6sg0tYNLwIU41IMQmZycCZnfxIApbUmOC7PMbiV7sb6DgnXYyf8vRm7pjcDBWwDCoy/s1600/meblrry.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdYDTUu4AMd9Saclw1OY9LLdZHk6NX3PLumGJglrJtPtMI9MeOVlpAMGB_qF1UJlpubmJwPijIDW6sg0tYNLwIU41IMQmZycCZnfxIApbUmOC7PMbiV7sb6DgnXYyf8vRm7pjcDBWwDCoy/s320/meblrry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529737268050518946" border="0" /></a><br />I was secretly hoping that my last post would result in some free swag from <a href="http://www.fluevog.com/">Fluevog</a>. Sigh. No such luck. I still love them shoes, though.<br /><br />Anyway--this Thursday, Oct 21, at 7:00 I'm be reading from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Brains-Zombie-Memoir-Robin-Becker/dp/0061974056/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1274971321&sr=8-1">Brains</a> at the <a href="http://www.fcl.org/index.php">Faulkner County Library</a>. More importantly, I'll be dressed as a zombie. Be there or be eaten by a horde of zombies. Or by me. There will be a book giveaway--and Halloween candy too!<br /><br />If you come as a zombie, you get a free book. However, zombie attire is not required for entrance. Here's a<a href="http://blood.syncweekly.com/index.php/2010/10/16/zombies-in-conway-robin-becker-reads-brains/"> link to a fun article</a> about it. Nom. Nom. Nom.Robin Beckerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02813200098317819473noreply@blogger.com1