Reducing the noise

Jupiter on the far left, Venus below it, while Mercury is just able to be viewed below and to the right of Venus. From last night on Woodley Island, Eureka, California.

Last night my husband and I went to Woodley Island in Eureka, where the marina resides, as well as a great view of the western skies; I wanted to see Jupiter, Venus, and Mercury, and from our house that isn't possible, too many trees.

From the marina, the vista was expansive, the recent sunset's warm orange glow like a balm, other than keeping Mercury hidden until around nine thirty. By then that tiny planet could be spotted, and in the photo at top you can see it, albeit faintly. Jupiter and Venus are prominent, as well as the Fisherman sculpture at the bottom left corner, commemorating those local lost at sea.

Yet I didn't gaze at the stars much from outside; it was windy and chilly, so mostly I remained in the car, extremely grateful for the clear night in which to view stars. Those same clear skies greeted us this morning, such an amazing blessing. After a few marvelous days of visiting family in the busy San Francisco Bay Area, I relish our quiet North Coast, even if a field trip of sorts is necessary to view planets and their extraordinary shine.

How do we tune out what isn't necessary, yet keep our feet in this realm? It's such a personal journey, these existences we live, trying to do the right thing, often failing miserably, then attempting again to make our little corners of the world better than previously. Most of us are trying, ahem, yet I need to put Judgy Me on the back shelf, lol. I can't truly know how someone else's heart and soul work, no matter how many miles I walk in their shoes.

Recently I was given a novel, that of contemporary romance, beach romance, chick lit. A book less than five years old, maybe you could call it a best seller, or thereabouts. I got through the prologue, grateful I'm not the only one who likes writing a prologue. I managed the first chapter, then read the blurb on the back, then sighed, the ending given away as if the author or marketing department feared without that spoiler, the audience would disappear. Knowing how the novel would end 1) Gave me relief because I truly didn't wish to read any more and 2) Spurred me to read the last two chapters, one of which was the epilogue, for which again I was thankful. Yet I was also troubled, because what I did read felt so claustrophobic, so nuanced, so FULL OF IDEAS that if I read any more I'd get a headache.

What I realized later was the BRIGHT SPARKLY manner in which the story was being told, and I mean TELL not SHOW. Too much information, too many pop culture references, so much blah blah blah that I felt unable to breathe, much less grasp who were these characters beyond their high dollar wardrobes and tropes left and right. But not merely tropes. The author seemed to need to pack every sentence with ten witticisms. And again, as a reader, nothing was left for me to imagine; this was a tell not show story like I've not encountered in.... Maybe part of the issue is contemporary romance isn't my genre, beach novels not my thing. Yet I've written what I've classified as chick lit, yet it's paired with some science fiction so.... So I like to mix it up. I like readers to have breathing space in my books. Not screaming and shouting disguised as cleverness shoved down my throat.

The screaming and shouting are figurative, much like American living. Shiny lights and loud barking and flag waving and.... Okay, there were no flags in the four chapters I read. But I felt like there were, flags saying, "All that matters is wearing the right clothes and living in big metropolitan cities and having flashy jobs and being the first with the most cutting edge remark." Yuck. Like a million crappy commercials ringing from every paragraph. Not my kind of literary thing, I'm afraid.

And while I'm not really fearful, I'm disappointed that such fiction seems to be what sells. The author is popular, and I'm happy for them, I think. I'm happy I can write what I want to write is more the truth. Oh my goodness, this is an incredibly judgy post! Am I reducing the noise at all by my own honk honking?

Years ago when we lived in the UK, no one used their horns while driving. It just wasn't what the English did, at least not in our northern section of the country. Once we were at a park, and someone was honking their horn and a local couple nearby snorted. "What's with all that honk honking?" a woman said.

We've joked about that for years, not needing an actual car horn for the example. Initially I was going to title this post What's with all the honk honking? but instead I took pictures of beautiful QUIET planets and chose a different title. Yet I'm still grousing about a novel that truly made me grateful for my indie status, then made me ponder why so many crave so much outside sound? Distractions for some, irritants for others. I groused to my husband about this and he replied that allegedly Hollywood screen writers have to write dialogue that basically repeats itself three times so the audience GETS the story. That otherwise screen writers face their work being drowned out by cell phone usage. I don't go to movies, but do people really play on their phones after spending upwards of ten bucks a ticket to sit in a dark theater and not watch the film? Why do authors, or their marketing departments, include discussion questions at the end of books, which the novel I could not read did. Does chick lit need that kind of analysis?

Do I need to be analyzing more than those planets? Jupiter, Venus and even little Mercury are going to LONG OUTLIVE humans, ahem. They don't need marketing departments, merely cloudless skies to shine so brightly. And with that reiterated, in case I got so far off track that you, dear reader, had to reach for your cell phone, have a lovely weekend reading whatever makes you smile.

That's why this writer does what she does; I just want to make someone smile.