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This is what happens when people are empty.

I just did a bunch of stuff to my blog!  I put all three covers of my book’s editions published so far under the “13 rue Thérèse” tab, and will keep adding them as they get published.  (I think France is next at the end of this year.)  Also, each tab now has its own header, different iterations of the same photograph in various PhotoFunia montages.  Is it awesome?

It was nice to go all OCD for a while on something that is not terrifying.  A few days ago, I watched a two-hour interview with Jeffrey Dahmer and his father.  Then afterward I went on a huge google binge about American serial killers.  And then I went to bed.  My advice would be, now that I have done this: do not do that.

I have effectively fucked myself in the brain for this whole week.  Some of the specimens from my ill-advised google binge:

Backwards through time:

  • Ted Bundy, 1946-1989, good-looking dude with crazy gleam in his eye.  Raped and killed a stunning number of young women (30 confessed, actual number unknown).  Necrophiliac.  Interstate murder sprees.  Represented himself at trial.  Executed.
  • Albert Fish, 1870-1939, scruffy old gent who tortured, mutilated, raped, killed, and ate children.  Seriously.  If you ever want to sleep again, do not read the letters he wrote to the families of his victims.  A masochist as well as a sadist.  Made psychiatry look damn bad when he was diagnosed as “sane” so he could be executed.
  • H.H. Holmes, 1861-1896, one of the original American serial killers.  Harvested victims from the Chicago world’s fair, usually single young women who stayed in his hotel/”murder castle” (outfitted with various torture chambers and body processing amenities).  Raped, tortured, killed and stripped his victims of flesh–then sold their skeletons and organs to medical schools.  Really.

So, you see, I have fodder for nightmares for quite a while.  Also, here is something that I find just as disturbing as the horrific crimes committed by these severely fucked-up individuals: the shocking amount of time these dudes operated with total impunity.  I mean, holy shit.  Holmes built a fucking hotel with gas chambers and lime pits in the middle of Chicago.  And none of the representatives from the medical schools ever asked him, dude, where do you keep getting all these skeletons?  Sometimes total human indifference is as unfathomable to me as the most depraved evil.  You might remember this story about Dahmer if you paid attention to his trial in the early 90s: one of his victims, a 14-year old boy, escaped when he woke up from his drugged sleep while Dahmer was off doing something.  The boy went stumbling out into the street buck naked and ran into these two women.  He was terrified and incoherent.  They called the police.  The police showed up.  Dahmer had the balls to show up too and collect this kid from the police despite the two women pointing out that the kid was clearly scared of him.  Because the testimony of two black chicks and a kid drugged out of his mind weighed nothing against the soothing words of one calm white dude, the police escorted the kid back to Dahmer’s apartment.  They took Dahmer’s ID but did not ask him to show them around the place despite the weird smell emanating from the bedroom.  They delivered the kid right back into the nightmare.  They left him there to be raped and killed and chopped up.  Dahmer kept his skull as a trophy.

This is what happens when people are empty.

Right now I am going to pretend that I am not a human being.  I am a fallen leaf.  I dance on the wind and decay gently into the ground with no scent.

I am a mirror.  If you do not like the image I cast, it is none of my business.  If you smash me into pieces, all you will do is make your hand bleed.  Watch out, the edges are sharp.

New! Colgate Whitening Existential Angst! With Liberal White Guilt Beads!

Dear Capitalism,

I don’t mean to complain.  I mean, you are much nicer than Feudalism.  But seriously, Capitalism, we do not need this many kinds of toothpaste.

Last night, I emptied out a tube of toothpaste.  I went to get another tube, and when I opened that one, the contents had separated into a gritty paste and a viscous blue liquid that smelled and tasted funny.  I understand that toothpaste expires eventually, and this mishap was probably due to this tube being the last one in a Costco 144-pack of Colgate that I’d been working my way through since I was eleven years old.  So, I went to Target this morning to get a single new tube of toothpaste, to discover with great awe that there was an entire aisle devoted completely to different kinds of toothpaste.  I thought: verily, this is a great country.

The aisle was half Crest, half Colgate.  I entirely bypassed the Crest half, since I’ve been brushing with Colgate as long as I can remember.  (I’m sure lots of marketers would like to figure out where that brand loyalty gland lies in my consumer brain, and how to access it.  It appears that only Colgate has found its way to it, for I do not have particular allegiances to any other kind of hygiene product.  I am, for example, a total shampoo slut, switching brands with every new bottle.)  I was confronted with a stunning panoply of Colgate products, all in graphically similar but subtly variegated packages.  Clearly, toothpaste technology had evolved since I last picked a tube (it’s been a long time; I usually just get whatever kind of Colgate Costco has, and it is always the same).  There was Colgate Whitening, and there was Colgate Clinical Whitening.  There was also Colgate Sparkling White.  Then there was Colgate with Baking Soda Whitening Bubbles.  Then there was Colgate Tartar Protection with Whitening.  Colgate with tiny strips of breath freshener leavened right into the paste.  Colgate with little globules of mouthwash hovering in gel.  Colgate Max Clean with Smart Foam (look the fuck out for that shit, it threatens “an intense sensation,” the package copy guaranteeing that the paste will absolutely explode in your mouth into rabid quantities of froth sure to clean the fuck out of your teeth so thoroughly that your teeth will be too scared to ever be dirty again–won’t you, punks?!  The experience of this product must indeed be X-treme.) and even Colgate Luminous, if you’re more into getting ineffable religious ecstasies out of your toothpaste.  Also, Colgate that comes in a little bottle instead of a tube.  Every single choice iterated in both paste and gel forms.

Capitalism, I appreciate the effort, I really do.  I really try to believe in what our patriarchs call the wisdom of the free market.  I looked at numerous Colgates, trying to gauge which one would be the best for me, since you were considerate enough to provide me with so many choices.  After a while, this started to hurt.  After a while, I considered the idea that maybe one kind of Socialist Standard Issue Government Toothpaste in a blank gray box would not be oppressive but rather restful.  After a while, I flipped the boxes over to look at the “active ingredient” in each.  Strap in, Capitalism: the “active ingredient” was the same in all the tubes.  It was also present in the same dosage in all the tubes.  All that patter and flash and all those copywriters coming up with slightly differently-worded promises of gleaming whiteness and cleanliness–indeed I could choose to have my toothpaste talk to me in the reassuring tones of a clinician or with the effervescent pep of a caffeinated cheerleader–all that choice to discover that the actual products contained in all those seductively colorful tubes at all those slightly different price points were all one and the same.

I grabbed a tube of exactly the same stuff Costco carries, the same stuff I’ve been using for years, and made a quick exit because I was thisclose to having a full-blown existential meltdown right there in the aisle.  Capitalism, I suspect that maybe you have something to do with why our nation suffers from the most mental illnesses despite the fact that it is possibly the most comfortable place to live in the world.  Capitalism, I suspect that maybe you have something to do with our fragmentation, with the slow erosion of collective experience, with our chronic loneliness, with our nameless fears, with our emptiness.  You are giving us too much; instead of making us expand in welcoming openness you are making us contract in overwhelmed terror.  Our hearts and minds may be shrinking in the face of that much choice, tightening ourselves around a few familiar things that are disappearing in our death grip because they are being translated into ever new and improved and varied versions by the wisdom, by the infinitely outward spiraling wisdom of our beloved free market.

Capitalism, please, we do not need this many kinds of toothpaste.

Sincerely,

America

Second Annual Sophomore Novel Angst Google Search Jubilee Extravaganza Celebration

A while back I wrote a post about the various google search terms that people used to reach my blog.  Looking at the date–yipes, that was over a year ago!  Let us waste no further time, and begin the Second Annual Sophomore Novel Angst Google Search Jubilee Extravaganza Celebration:

• Favorite misspelling of my name and book title: 13 routerays by helena shipiro.  I think this one came in shortly after my radio broadcast so it was probably someone trying to guess the spelling phonetically.  I heartily commend google for actually finding me with this!

• Inadvertent Poetry Award: golden apple music box memories.  Honorable mention for: tulle as snow.

• Many people have reached me googling something about cheez doodles, which I consider a great honor.  A couple of searches found me attempting to find a French translation for “cheez doodle.”  I will be reporting you to the French Consulate and/or Académie Française for Culinary Sacrilege immediately.  However, the most alarming cheez doodle-related search has to be: when can baby have cheese doodles.  Please, please do not feed this to your infant.

• Early on in the life of this blog, I wrote a post about the Crazy Horse Cabaret in Paris.  This has caused a truly horrifying number of people to reach me searching for footage of people doing unmentionable things to horses.  People.  Horses are our friends, not our lovers.

• “This Sounds Kind Of Sexy” Award: i will write a story in french then translate it slowly.  Rowr.  Call me.

• “Why, Thank You” Award: elena mauli shapiro is a sex goddess.

• Salient Questions:

  • how does my immigrant experience relate to the person i am? In many untold ways, my friend.
  • so are you saying that we’re all just, like, really excellent sheep? Yes.
  • four phases of vagina? They are: prophase, metaphase, anaphase and telophase.
  • simile for indeed? I think you may mean “synonym,” and the answer is “forsooth.”  You’re welcome.
  • why do sophomore novels suck? Generally because the author is scared shitless of failure in a way that they weren’t with the first novel, which causes them to freeze up and fail.  Life is awesome like that.

• “Who you gonna call?  Ghostbusters!” Award: vaporous specter fuck off (Seriously though, I’m sorry about your specter problem.)

• Hilarious academia-related searches: the word other as a verb, difference between sign and signifier.  It should be no surprise that these things lead to: post “qualifying exam” syndrome.  Do get that looked at, or it might very well lead to “Fuck This, I Am Going To Clown College Instead” Syndrome.

• And finally, would the following searchers please, please contact me and explain what exactly you were looking for?

  • arachnid tradeshow dallas
  • women shitting pants waiting for elevator
  • حصان مع حصان سكس

+

=

NO

International Hug Your Agent Day

Happy International Women’s Day!  Although, you’d think that given that we rend our bodies to propagate the human race, we’d get more than a day.  But hey, let’s take what we can get?  Find a woman in your life who kicks ass, and tell her she is awesome.  I just did this with my agent.  Quote my latest e-mail to her:

Of course publishing a book changed my life!  I might not be on Oprah and/or snorting caviar off a geisha’s boobs anytime soon but I don’t think I would have been invited to this monster fund raising thingy for Sacramento libraries last weekend in my capacity as a grad student…  If it weren’t for publishing this thing, I would be waking up every morning to torture myself writing a book I don’t really give a shit about (a dissertation), which is already an amazing privilege.  As things stand I get to wake up every morning to torture myself writing a book I’m investing my soul into (this weird Romanian thing), which is an UNFATHOMABLE privilege.  Bonnie, seriously, you beat the crap out of Santa Claus: all he ever got me were some random toys I don’t even remember but you gave physical form to this thing that ate my dreams.  You are awesome, and thank you.

The fund raising thingy last weekend was Sacramento Authors on the Move, and we raised around 70K for Sacramento Libraries.  Very impressive.  It is a pretty surreal and fabulous experience to move from table to table to be witty at different sets of people.  I think I acquitted myself of my charge reasonably well.  This Thursday evening, I have a reading at Stanford, so do come say hello if you’re around!

Bandwidth limit exceeded–noooooooooooo!

[Edit Sunday Feb 27 18:17 PST: seems to be back up–phew.]

This is the message currently displayed at 13ruetherese.com!  Yipes!  (Well, minus the “noooooooooooo!”)

In a way I am guessing this is awesome, because it must mean that lots of people have checked out the site, no?  Anyway, I e-mailed a bunch of marketing & internet people in the hopes of hitting the right person to fix the problem.  It will surely be back up Tuesday at the latest, because as I understand it, bandwidth is something that’s re-upped every month?  I think it will probably be back before then, when someone gets wind of the problem.  I wonder how long it’s been like that?  It must be in part due to this absolutely fantastic review of 13 rue Thérèse at the Los Angeles Times.  Huzzah!  As far as I am concerned, the question of New York vs. LA has been permanently settled because

LA

kicks

ass.

marriage, sampled

Cool web stuff: guest post at Indie Reader Houston.  Also: my story is going up in installments every day this week at Five Chapters.  The photos are kind of messed up right now, the original image files were all FUBARed.  Today I managed to get high-def jpeg captures off the word document and sent them along to the editor, so the image problem should be fixed by tomorrow.  Hey, you know how in scifi movies, they can boot up a computer unearthed after a thousand years with no problem? Begs the question of why you can’t get the data off a CD from 2003!

This week, my husband apparently knocked the socks off one of his co-workers who hadn’t previously known that he is married to a novelist (NB my husband is a scientist).  “How do you live under the same roof?” the coworker said, “what do you talk about?”

An interesting question.  So, let me provide a series of random samplings from my marriage:

Me, bemoaning the loss of my youthful flat tummy: “Man, it used to be concave–what the hell happened?”
Husband: “Well, it’s concave from the inside; you just have to invert the coordinate system.”
“Dude. Repeat after me–‘you are as beautiful as the day I met you.'”
Husband, touches the side of his face with big toe
Me: “HOLY SHIT YOU CAN DO THAT?”
Husband: “I’m as surprised as you are!”
Me, some remark including the phrase “bringing home the bacon”
Husband: “If they’re paying you in bacon, you need to get a better agent.”
Placeholder title on academic paper, “Super pimp-ass clever title: with colon and possible pun”
Husband’s edit: “If you turn it in like that, I will give you five dollars.”
“Elena, did you really eat that muffin with the flecks of white mold on the top?”
“Dude, this is why I have a stronger immune system than you.”
“This movie blows enormous chunks of ass.”
“So you’re saying, at some point, this movie ate a spoiled ass.”
“At least I didn’t fart on you again.”
Quoting pretentious windbag blurb on the back of a book: “”Müller scatters narrative bombshells across a field of dreams.”
Riposte: “Müller lays down a creeping barrage of luminous prose to cover the advance of an infantry of hope.”
“Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are–hey why the hell am I singing that?  Were you humming that earlier?”
“Ayep.”
“SPOUSAL ABUSE!”
Husband, comes home from business trip
Me, fitting myself into his arms: “I don’t like it when you go.”
“I know.  I don’t like it either.”

Twelve years and counting.

Web madness!

All sorts of fabulous web stuff today…

First, the beautiful site 13ruetherese.com has launched.  Go look at it!  It is so pretty you will plotz!

I also have a facebook “like” page.  Go “like” me!  Even though putting it in quotes like that makes it look like a possible euphemism for something unsavory!

(I have also changed the look of this blog a little bit to accommodate all the extra links and stuff.  I hope it isn’t too crowded.)

Also totally awesome and web-related: this wonderful advance review of 13 rue Thérèse on Booktopia, an Australian book blog.  Woohoo!  I’m all international.  AND the novel is going to come out in an enhanced e-book edition, which given all the illustrations is probably going to be fantastic.

I must dash for now so I don’t have time for my usual goofball musings, but I wanted to post all this exciting stuff ASAP.  Happy 2011 everyone!

A resolution, a review and… warped gravity!

I am publicly making a new year’s resolution: In 2011 I will write a full draft of In the Red.  It may suck, but it’s happening.  Hopefully at this time next year I will not be writing a sad blog post about how extravagantly short I fell of that goal.

13-rue-Thérèse-wise, I just got a review on Booklist, a mostly good one.  Since it is behind a pay wall, I can’t link to it, so I will quote the best bit here:

This ambitious first novel…At turns truly exciting and overflowing with imagination,…is full of intriguing characters…  Puzzle-lovers will be curious to check out the book’s online counterpart, in which they can view 3-D versions of the book’s images.

Yay!  I think that is the last of the pre-pub reviews in industry papers.  I am glad they mentioned the website because it is shaping up to be ferociously awesome.  It will come online January 7.

Meanwhile I just got back from a tiny holiday in Santa Cruz, where I got to visit with an old friend, witness sea lions doing alternately endearing and disgusting things, and experienced radically altered gravity.  That last one was at the Mystery Spot.  My husband and I were prepared to be underwhelmed (being inveterate skeptics) but it was really, really weird, and thus I recommend it.  If you’re into the idea of feeling like you need a barf bag while standing still on solid ground, it will rock your world.  The warped pendulum was especially cool.

The property was purchased in 1939 by a dude who wanted to build a summer home, and the guy who sold him the lot insisted that he also buy a big piece of land up the side of the hill even though it was unbuildable.  The man who absolutely had to shed the property lacked capitalist vision.  The purchaser, however, did not.  And thus, an amusing tourist trap was born–because who wouldn’t pay five bucks to watch a billiard ball roll the wrong way up an incline?

 

Addendum, after being told, “duh, don’t you know mystery spots are just optical illusions:” It doesn’t interest me whether they are “real” or not.  All I’m saying is that I got a sense of the uncanny there that was well worth the admission price.  I am not angry with the director of House of Wax for not having actually thrown a stake through Paris Hilton’s head.  (Wait, come to think of it, maybe I kind of am…)

Four fail-proof steps to smashing success!

So, I watched this interesting video of Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg’s TED talk and it sent me into paroxysms of ambivalence.  In it, she discusses what women can do to further their careers and make it to the “C-suite.”  Her advice, which basically boils down to “stick up for yourself and be more aggressive,” is undoubtedly helpful to reach that goal.

Sandberg lodges the rightful complaint that success and likability generally correlate directly for men and inversely for women.  That certainly sucks, but I stop short of saying “hey, since I like the male CEO, I should make an effort to like the female CEO too!” because, frankly, I don’t like the male CEO either.  He probably made it up there by being a pushy, self-promoting douche.  To climb to the top echelons, you have to spend a lifetime in board rooms out-assholing a bunch of assholes.  It sounds exhausting and kind of sad.  Even the word “C-suite” is kind of gross.  The more time I spend alive, the more suspicious I am of the very idea of success.  Look at those painful binding stiletto devices Sandberg has on her feet while she gives her talk.  If she were a man?  Why, she’d be wearing a silk noose.  Scarcely better.

She also has an intensely American pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps approach to the whole problem.  She harbors a clear belief that if you have talent and you want something bad enough, you can have it.  Given that I have actually managed to sell a novel to a major publishing house, it would certainly flatter my self-esteem to espouse that belief.  But, I guess I am a typical chick, because I don’t particularly believe that I managed to get where I am with the power of my sheer awesomeness.  I’ll tell you right now what success is made of–so if you want to make it to the C-suite, get a pen:

  1. circumstance.  Largely what social class you are born into.  What you can do about it: come out of the right vagina.
  2. luck.  Right time right place.  What you can do about it: hahahahahaha.  Nothing.
  3. drive.  How many times you are willing to get punched in the face by life to get your cookie and/or how many people you are willing to push aside to get your punches/cookies. What you can do about it: I don’t know.  Numb yourself with drugs or something.
  4. talent.  Don’t get too excited, because this is a distant fourth.  What you can do about it: You can work real hard to cultivate whatever talent you were given.  If you have enough drive.  But this will be no great help if luck chooses not to strike.

So, get cracking.  Start by coming out of the right vagina.

The White North, Great and Less Great

So, I am taking my summer vacation in the Great White North.  It’s been a real peaks and hollows experience so far!  The first half of the trip was in Alaska, which was fantastic.  I think last Thursday had to be one of the top five best days of my entire life: I went dog sledding on Punch Bowl Glacier.  What a stunning experience, and what a perfect day for it too: clear weather for the scenic helicopter ride up and doggie drive.  Actually, let me go ahead and attach a public link to my facebook photo album chronicling the experience, because I think prose will come up short–pictures are needed.

Then when I got back down from the glacier, the husband & I went on a hike into the rain forest on a trail right behind the Alyeska Hotel grounds, a trail that goes to freaking Narnia.  Unbelievable.  So gorgeous, and there was a hand tram over the rapids that you could use to pull yourself across.  You can look down at the swirling waters below right through the grid floor of that swaying little death bucket.  It will make you shit yourself, and it is awesome.

And then…  Then there was the cruise ship that we were supposed to take from Anchorage to Vancouver, which was pure unremitting hell.  First of all, it turns out I am extravagantly seasick.  I had to get a shot in the ass my first night there, and had to stay on heavy medications that put me in this scary twilight place in order not to puke myself dead.  When we finally docked in Juneau on the third day, we simply had to get off.  Oh my God, I could have made out with the ground pope-style.  Anyway, I got a note from the nice onboard Romanian doctor whose name was–I am not making this up–Vasilica Andreescu.  (I have two main characters in my current book named Vasilii and Andrei so it was a little spooky.)  This note should, hopefully, help me get a partial refund from the travel insurance.  I hope, otherwise this cruise will turn out to be one of my costlier mistakes!  Anyway, we took a plane down and are now in Vancouver. I have yet to experience the city but I am pretty sure I will always, always love it for not being a fucking cruise ship.

The whole cruise universe, even besides the seasickness, is definitely not for me.  There were political undertones there that sent every Liberal White Guilt gland in my entire body into overdrive.  All the people staffing the ship were from developing nations, and so floridly solicitous that it made me feel sorry for them.  It made me suspect they had been to some kind of terrifying Customer Satisfaction Re-Education Camp.  I wanted to ask them, “if you do not please us, do they beat you?  It’s okay, you can answer, I won’t tell them.”  They made me want to write an HG Wells-type dystopia set on a cruise ship, where the crew are entirely subjugated by the fat, blank-faced passengers, but whenever one of the passengers becomes ill or weak, the crew eat him–or better yet, serve him as the chef’s special to the other passengers.  Think about it: the confinement, the forced cheeriness, the strict hierarchy; it’s like a massive floating allegory.  What a perfect setting for spine-tingling creepiness.

The awesome dog sledding experience, on the other hand, might prompt me to produce some Jack London-type stuff.  If I somehow merge the two genres, Call of the Wild & Cruise Ship Dystopia, then I could give birth to a terrifying hybrid.  But no.  I will not taint the wonderfulness of the Great White North with the grubby queasy Royal Caribbean microcosm.

One thing that was worth it about my miserable time on the ship was seeing Hubbard Glacier.  It was so gorgeous, and so many layered shades of blue–I’m so glad I got to see that before all the ice up there melts, courtesy of us humans.  The ship pulls right up to it and lets the horn rip a few times, which, if you’re lucky, causes some pretty spectacular calvings,  It certainly did this time; a section of ice that must have been the size of a ten-story building detached and collapsed so beautifully it took my breath away.  Actually, it kind of looked like what desire feels like: the softening from growing heat, hairline cracks snaking their way through an entire structure just waiting to give, waiting for the right stimulus–something as slight as the vibration from a sound wave–to yield.