In which Magen punches things

Chicago Tribune columnist Ask Amy tells rape victim that she’s a victim of her own ”awful judgment.”

I first glanced at this on my friend’s list, when some people I know on my personal journaling site were petitioning for an email campaign against Ask Amy. I didn’t give it much thought at first, to be perfectly frank. Then I re-read the advice column again, and again, and I realized that sick feeling in my stomach was the slow trickle of rage.

Why is it never a question of the rapist’s poor judgment? Why is it that when a woman goes to a party and has a drink (or two, or three, whatever the case may be), she’s the only one making bad decisions? In going out and having a good time, with people she may be friends with or may have just met? Why is it whenever a woman goes into a room alone with a man, she’s the one acting foolishly? Even when she tells him “No,” and he says, “No, of course not, I would never”? Even if he promises and she trusts him, because he’s her friend or her co-worker or just a nice guy at a party and she’s having a good time?

Why is the woman always the fool when a man violates her? Because she was out after dark or had too much to drink, or was walking her dog or wore high heels, or was doing her laundry alone or went to a party, and should’ve known better? Why are women the only ones who should’ve known better? Why don’t rapists know better? Why isn’t anybody asking why rapists don’t know better? Because all men are rapists and just can’t help themselves at the sight of a woman, and it’s my job to be ever vigilant, ever aware, ever ready to fend them off? Because I’m a woman and rape just happens to me? And if I can’t protect myself against my rapist, because I’m drunk or I’m not strong or I’m alone or I’m drugged, it’s still my fault?

Am I the only one who sees a problem with that?

The mall-crawl generation

So Black Friday can come over here and take a seat. Why? Because I spent all day running my errands before work then went to the mall store to clean it up and close it down, and didn’t break a sweat. To my manager, who constantly called and harassed me at work last week about how busy and insane it was going to be yesterday, feel free to bugger off.

Take that, soul-crushing retail industry. You’re not crushing any spirits this weekend.

So uh. After a brief existential crisis last night, brought on by hormones and a little late-night self-reflection (blah blah trust issues, blah blah can’t love), I went to bed with a title and a few loose ideas about the restless undead and suits made of human flesh in mind. When I woke up this morning, I had a cast, a time and setting, an outline and a narrative structure laid out.

Basically? I write short stories in my sleep. People should be paying me for this stuff.

Letters from the editor

Things I need to start doing more often.

-Keeping things in perspective. I don’t have to constantly prove myself, especially not to myself. I’m a terrible critic. There’s no pleasing me. Trust me.

-Not getting ahead of myself. Sometimes it’s safe to slow down and, you know, breathe.

-Understanding my limitations. Large projects are not my friends. I write short stories. Stop listening to people who want me to write novels. They obviously don’t know me very well. (I’m looking at you, Diving Bell.)

-Sleeping.

Wouldn’t you like, wouldn’t you like to be my neighbor?

So my good friend and blogger in crime Melissa Dominic had the lovely idea of a re-introduction post for our friends, readers, and passers-by on the internet. The internet is a big place, so sometimes it’s nice to extended a little branch, as it were, to our neighbors. Just a few things about myself, that anyone might have been curious about but never got around to asking.

Please copy the topics below, erase my answers and put yours in their place, and then post it in your journal! Please elaborate on the questions that would benefit from elaboration. One-Word-Answers seldom help anyone out. (:

NAME.

My name is Magen. Magen Bailey to be precise, and it doesn’t get anymore fake-Irish than that.

So, as you can guess, my name is kind of common. That’s okay. The spelling makes it vaguely unique, in that I’ve only encountered a handful of people with the same spelling, and usually through national public data bases of some kind. And yes, you say it the way it’s spelled: MAY-GHEN. I only say this because everybody insists on calling me Meg, which is exactly what my mother was trying to avoid when she named me. So yeah.

Everybody else calls me Miss. Or Pumpkin. Or Princess. And Melissa started calling me Nutmeg for a laugh. You can call me whatever you want though. I respond quite well to Hey You, as well.

AGE.

Twenty-three. Yeah, I know. Too young to have actually accomplished anything, but too old to still be playing with dolls and yelling about authority harshing my mellow. You know what though? I’m going to do it anyway.

LOCATION.

Fort Worth, Texas. Cow Town. Murder Worth. Panther City. Uh. There’s a few others. No, Fort Worth is not the same thing as Dallas, despite what our airport tells you to the contrary when you get here. However, yes, I live in a major city. Yes, we have tall buildings downtown. Yes, alright, a mile from my house some asshole has a horse and a barn, but that’s not my fault. Fort Worth is sandwiched between the horse and tractor-trailer landscape of Burleson and the surrounding farmland, and the industrialized suburbia of the rest of D/FW. It can be a little confusing.

Head down the right end of Camp Bowie and it’s like walking around 1954. Go down to the Stock Yards and you’re ambushed by tacky cowboy mythology and tourist trap shops and restaurants, with weekend cowboys in period costumes herding cattle down the square. Then you have the progressive art community, and the music scene, and the little bars and clubs and tiny art spaces. Fort Worth is a city in transition, if nothing else.

OCCUPATION.

I write. In the last year I’ve sold eight short stories, published six, am about to be republished by another magazine, and am working on a short story that will hopefully be featured in an anthology in the next year. However, writing doesn’t pay the bills, so I work as a shop-girl in the meantime. Yes, it’s pathetic, but my job has decent benefits, and I have enough down-time to write between selling shoes. When I’m not writing or staring at four walls I go to school. I really don’t know why I’m in school right now, to be honest with you. The closer I get to finishing, the less I actually care about it. My degree is bullshit and it isn’t going to get me anywhere, especially not these days. And maybe, just maybe, I’m a little jaded regarding the education system in Texas.

However, I’ve slugged it out paying for this bastard on my own, and I’m not walking away now. I did it by myself and nobody can take it away from me. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it, oppressive ruling class.

PARTNER.

I’m single. Perpetually so, it seems. To be honest with you, I can’t imagine why people ever bother pairing up, if even a small percentage of the population feels anything like I do. I like companionship just fine, but I just have no patience for people. I have little to no sexual interest in other people, and the few times it flares up it’s immediately quashed by further inspection of the person of interest. I don’t do trust. I don’t do intimacy. I find most people are extremely disappointing up close, and I fail to see the point of spending time and effort to establish intimate relationships when platonic friendships satisfy all my needs for companionship. Basically? Physical intimacy of any kind grosses me out and I want no part of it. Like, ever.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t believe in love. Romantic love, and sexual love as well, obviously exist. I can point it out to you in a crowd, conk it on the head, dissect it, put it under a microscope and tell you what it’s all about. I’ve just kind of come to accept that, for all my trying, it seems that I lack the emotional capacity to love anybody else.

Cry more, human female.

KIDS.

I have a kitten named Boots. That’s as close as I want to get to raising offspring.

BROTHERS/SISTERS.

I have two younger brothers, Ian (21) and Blaine (19). Yes, my parents decided to keep fake-Irish up as the naming theme in my family.

PETS.

I have a red-eared slider named Filburt, a kitten named Boots, and two dogs, named Basil and Spud. There’s also a fish tank in the living room, and my brother has a cat named Millie with a Hitler mustache. So we’ve started calling her Kitty-Hitler, or Kitler.

LIST THE 3/5 BIGGEST THINGS GOING ON IN YOUR LIFE.

1. School, which steals my soul a little bit every day
2. Writing
3. More writing
4. Star Trek, fandom, Star Trek fandom
5. Chasing my friends around

PARENTS.

My parents are both Air Force veterans. My dad has worked for the airline industry in one capacity or another for 25 years. My mom has had every kind of job imaginable, just about. My mom’s kind of my best friend, I think? My dad and I have intellectual differences, but we work past them.

WHO ARE SOME OF YOUR CLOSEST FRIENDS?.

I had more friends down here, honest, but we’re estranged. Irreconcilible differences, I’m afraid, to do with money and not respecting people and basically just being craptacular friends and not feeling sorry for it. So yes. Melli from work is a good friend of mine. We sit around all the time talking about horror films and rock concerts and Umbrella Academy, and our pathetic socio-economic conditions. We also keep making plans to go out, but then we realize we have sucky schedules and give up to go to bed early. It’s fun.

Basically my BFF is Karolyn. We’ve been friends since…forever, I think. I don’t know. 2005? 2006? We talk almost every day and I’ve flown cross-country to see her sorry ass twice. And she makes me write stuff for her. We’re basically married. Also, my internet partner-in-crime is Melissa Dominic. I don’t even remember how or when we met, if I’m totally honest with you. She’s like, my internet BFF. We’re already planning the book-signing tour.

COMING TO YOU LIVE IN 35 CITIES. In full costume. Tremble in anticipation.

Picture inspiration post four: Bad romance

GTT: Magen’s fictional five

I usually save these kinds of lists from my personal journal, which is full of random real-life rants, bad Photoshopping and incriminating Star Trek fanfiction. But this list? This was just too good to pass up.

It was hard coming up with these. I really had some trouble coming up with a list of five fictional characters that I would consider attractive. So bear with me here, I did my very best.

Karl Urban as Ghost in Pathfinder

 

Oh, Ghost. You’re my favorite Anglo Native American. The assless chaps and loin cloth don’t hurt either.

 

Karl Urban as Harry Ballard in The Truth About Demons

 

Bondage. Demons. Sweaty intensity. Slow-motion sex scenes. Harry Ballard makes it all happen. (He’s classy like that.)

 

Karl Urban as Lord Vaako in Chronicles of Riddick

 

 

Lord Vaako, career bottom with slinky German industrial apptitudes. Who could say no to this? All thunder-mullets aside, of course.

 

Karl Urban as John “Reaper” Grimm in DOOM

 

Reaper was a senstive Marine with a dark past. And also a very large gun. Also he loved his sister, which is endearing. Well. Maybe. (I mean, he really loved his sister.)

 

Karl Urban as Leonard McCoy in Star Trek

 

Leonard McCoy is better than you. He’s better than your mother. He’s better than your father. Compared to the sheer volume of his awesome, you really don’t matter. So yes.

Oops, are those Kirk/McCoy .gifs I’m seeing here? Darn. How did these get in here?

 

 

Whew. That was tough.

 

It ain’t me, babe

Since acquiring my new hula hoop, I’m not going to lie: I’ve gotten pretty good at it. Standing outside in my backyard, decked out in sunglasses and polka dot house shoes and mp3 player in tow, I’ve started a routine of hooping a half-hour a day. In that time I just focus on the basics: controlling my speed, hooping on different parts of my body, turning, hand tosses, and changing positions while hooping.

I’m not great, by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s a nice bit of exercise. It gets me outside for a while, lets me clear my mind, and most importantly, it’s fun. It’s a form of physical activity that I actually look forward to every day, as opposed to the sense of duty or dread that comes with exercise equipment or a gym membership.

However, a girl needs her hooping music if she’s ever going to get any where. It’s a good way to practice keeping rhythm, by keeping time to different songs. And, let’s be honest, putting on a sexy song and dancing around like an idiot with your hula hoop is just fun to do. This is what I find most helpful when doing my own hooping:

 

What, embarassed? Me? Never.

Crack city

I’m going to be honest: I’m not a maternal person.

I don’t like kids. I don’t want to have kids. I don’t get warm and fuzzy feelings when I look at babies. I lack the biological drive to reproduce, as well as the altruistic desire to care for any of the tiny human beings that people keep yelling at me to create, so that I can finally live a fulfilling life. And no matter how much people yell at me about it, I’m just not that kind of a girl. Breeding just doesn’t carry the same weight with me, I’m sorry to say.

That said, one of my biggest fears is pregnancy. Yes, as ridiculous as it sounds, it’s true. Since I lack any desire to produce, as well as people that I would to reproduce with if given the opportunity, I’ve developed an intense phobia of forced pregnancy. On any given night my nightmares involve scenes of asexual reproduction or strange cases of insemination via toilet seat in a public restroom, or other completely paranoid and outlandish scenarios that end up with me knocked up.

In all of these dreams I’m impregnanted through forces beyond my control. I find myself with a child I don’t want, unable to form an emotional rapport with the parasite that decided to set up shop in my womb when I wasn’t looking. I’m constantly surrounded by friends and family who are either ridiculously happy for me (despite my vehement protests) and won’t let me abort it, or disapproving loved ones who can’t believe I’m being so selfish and refusing to bond with my fetus. One way or another, I’m a victim of a reproductive practical joke, forced to carry and give birth to a baby that I do not want, do not care for, and intensely resent, because I never asked or intended to have it.

The ridiculousness of these dreams aside, the realistic terror associated with forced pregnancy is something that appeals to me. As a woman, I’ve grown up with a certain, very natural fear and protectiveness regarding my body. Sexual violence, gender discrimination, the public tug-of-war of reproductive rights and privacy, and the rape-friendly attitudes of male-dominated society give every woman the sense of being at war with the world around her. The idea that your father, your husband or your government can tell you that you don’t have control and ownership over your own body, because your reproductive organs are a matter of public interest and property, is an absolutely terrifying reality that women all over the world still live with. And here in Texas, where our conservative lawmakers constantly threaten to repeal advancements in women’s reproductive rights, hey, I feel pretty justified in my paranoia.

The fear of being told that my body is little more than an incubator for another entity whose rights and interests supercede my own, just because my reproductive system decided to play doctor one day when I wasn’t paying attention, is real to me. It strips me of control over my life, my body and my own well-being. It makes me less than human, a slab of flesh meant to warm the investments of a third party, who has taken interest in a lifeform I had no decision in creating. And you know what? It scares the literal shit out of me. 

That’s why I decided to approach the subject in my next project. Tentatively given the working title Deborah’s Baby, I’m sketching out the world of Deborah Lyn Saunders, from a small town on the edges of the Appalachian Mountains. It’s a story about a young woman who finds herself taken from her bedroom one night by The Goat-Men, a legendary half-man, half-ram said to roam the woods outside the town. Taken into the forest, delirious and half-dreaming, Deborah is made to swallow a small white pebble, and when she wakes in her bed the next morning, covered in dirt and twigs, she finds herself impregnated.

The story is about what it means to be a woman, and what happens when your womanhood — and humanity — is violated against your will. It’s also a story about monsters, both real and imagined, and how the realms of the concrete and the mystical can collide. And in a lot of ways it’s about exorcising my own personal fears about womanhood and the myths of maternity, and exploring ways to shed that sense of protectiveness about my own body and live beyond it.

I just hope it actually lives up to what I’m setting out to do. I guess we’ll see.

Music to be murdered by

Little known fact: My brother is the degenerate proprietor of his own underground music blog. It’s the story of the A-Bomb apocalypse, Funkian evangelism, and a boy and his radioactive brain-slug. I promise he doesn’t bite.

Well, not hard, anyway.

Transmissions From Survival Town.

I think we better knock on wood

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself in the last year, it’s this: I’m a frustrated writer.

Well, let me rephrase that. I’m not frustrated with my writing. It’s more a matter of my writing being the outlet of my frustrations. Namely my frustrations with the world I’ve been plonked down in, and not by my own volition, mind you.

I wouldn’t be lying if I told you I don’t like the world I’ve found myself living in. To me it’s a rather bland, boring place, full of shallow and uninteresting people racing around me in fruitless ventures for monetary gain and social acceptance. I’m sure that’s not true for every one and every place, but in my corner of the world, most days it feels like creative thought has largely been couched for the sake of material pursuits. Everyone dresses the same and talks about the same things, and is patted on the head and rewarded for their mediocrity. But hey, that’s college for you.

It comes out in a lot of my writing these days. Women fleeing the oppression of normality and social convention. Abandoning the mundane and seeking the bizarre, the metaphysical, the terrifying. I can’t blame Lily Mackey or Shelby Day for the things that they do. If someone offered me the prospect of happiness in the form of a dead octopus on my front porch step, or a close-knit group of friends in a post-zombified Parker County, I’d jump on it. If I could convince my jealous lover to swallow a key and trap himself inside his own obsessions so that I may find freedom on my own, I most certainly would.

But I have to wonder, though. If I were happy, what would I write about? If I suddenly found myself in more conducive surroundings, or found that romantic companionship I that always mock, what would I do? Would I still write about women running away from real life? Would all my male characters still date each other, while all the girls become post-feminist pioneers of the weird? Would I write anything at all?

Sometimes I think it’s good to be unhappy. At least it makes me more interesting.

(And no, Mom, I’m not really unhappy. No need to throw an intervention just yet. And stop reading my blog.)