12.14.09
The facts of a critical life.
In an embarrassing instance of “when authors go apeshit,” genre writer Candace Sams began a mostly one-sided wankstorm over a few negative reviews of one of her books. Within hours, it had hit Twitter and even romance blogging site Dear Author, with people basically pulling up lawn chairs and popping popcorn to watch this woman dig herself deeper and deeper into a hole of thick-headed insanity.
Good God, y’all.
Criticism is tough to take. There’s no doubt about that. And lord knows, a book is like your child, so seeing someone say the time you spent birthing and raising it wasn’t well-spent probably hurts like a bitch. But you know what? You bite your tongue or you go curse a blue streak with your door shut. You do not let people see you sweat. As someone who both dishes it out and takes it, I feel pretty qualified to say that.
Think every “Miss” I’ve written for our Critical Mass page in WEEKLY. Imagine all those scathing Soapbox columns. Never once has something I’ve written kick-started a furious personal back-and-forth with the powers-that-be. There’s a tacit, professional understanding that this is how it works: You take the good, you take the bad. It’s just the nature of the industry, especially when it comes to arts criticism.
And, as I said, I dish it out but I take it, too. I’m a Google fiend and a message board junkie. You think I haven’t read less than complimentary things about myself? Some of it borders on the ludicrous, because it’s so far off the mark about who I am as a person and what I believe!
And you can’t let any of it get to you. Especially not in a public forum like the comments of an Amazon review. People may have picked up Sams’ book before, not really knowing who she is or what she’s about. Now? With all this really unflattering light she’s shining on herself, she’s become a spectacle and, in doing so, she’s made her book secondary to herself and irrelevant.
And that’s just sad…to put all this time and effort into birthing and raising a book, only to have it become overshadowed by its momma.
Ouch.
12.08.09
Poetic license alert!
In my previous entry, I mentioned being from the land of musical numbers. My antecedants are from the land o’ Bollywood films. I’m from the land of peanut butter buckeyes, Kiwanis and Wildberry incense.
11.16.09
Updates from La Casa Mala
I’ve been on a big of a blogging hiatus, as my creative spirit battles it out with the onset of winter. I just don’t do well with cold weather. My instinct is to hibernate, both physically and emotionally. Of course, the peril of Internet silence is that if you let it stretch on too long, you become a nonentity, quickly forgotten as people move on to more immediate sources of entertainment.
So here’s a slapdash update, as I get the rant machine revved up again.
I’m still working my way through Liz Carlyle’s backlist, currently reading No True Gentleman. I haven’t watched much in the way of movies lately, and I sent Bad Education back to Netflix unwatched because a)I wasn’t in the mood to sit through it and b)Pedro Almodovar signed that fricking Polanski petition. I keep going back and forth as to whether I want to see This Is It and Precious, both of which have gotten rave reviews. And my sense is that I can’t watch either of them in the theater. I think — for different reasons, obviously — both films are just too personal and emotional to share with a big crowd of moviegoers. I need to be in my pajamas, with tissues and comfort food nearby.
Speaking of which, I’m really proud of myself because I’ve nailed a standard Bengali comfort food recipe. Khichuri, often served after prayer services, is a mix of rice, lentils and spices and is one of my favorite rainy/cold day foods. It’s like chicken soup or chili, something that just spells home. Between this and somewhat mastering chana masala (a chickpea dish), I feel like I’m really getting a handle on traditional Indian cooking once more. At some point, I have to start making chicken curry again. I was really good at it back when I lived in Ohio. Haven’t made it in New York, though.
I’m trying to balance my non-soap TV viewing as best I can, but when you watch upwards of 20 hours a week for work it gets exhausting. I had to jettison Castle (sorry, Nathan Fillion!) because the Monday at 10 spot was brutal. I’m a week behind on How I Met Your Mother. I make sure to tune in to NCIS and The Good Wife on Tuesdays, Glee on Wednesdays, and The Vampire Diaries/Supernatural on Thursdays. If I’m awake, I watch White Collar live on Friday nights at 10, but I mostly catch it On Demand on Saturday or Sunday.
Aaand that’s pretty much it for me at the moment.
Not too thrilling, eh?
10.12.09
The sleeper awakes…or maybe not
It’s been days since I’ve posted an entry, but it feels like an eternity. Writer’s block, that pernicious lack of inspiration, is a dangerous thing to give into. Couple that with a city that’s steadily growing colder — that’s always anonymous and bustling and its own immovable force —and I get a crystal clear sense of why so many animals hibernate for the winter.
Despite that inherent sluggishness and sloth, I’m trying to get out more, trying to experience the city and dig into it with both hands. I’ve lived here for years but it feels like I’ve barely seen anything —too consumed by work to lift my head and look. On Friday, I went out to Water’s Edge in Long Island City with some friends for Queens Restaurant Week. My fascination with the place pretty much comes from the fact that every Hindi movie that’s filmed in New York does a location shoot there, taking advantage of the gorgeous Manhattan skyline across the river. And, well, you’re pretty much paying for that view. Much of LIC is under development, but not nearly enough…especially along the river. It’s all industrial lots, and walking to Water’s Edge definitely screams, “Hi, please mug me!” (Of course, the restaurant’s target demographic is people who can afford to have a car in the city and, therefore, don’t have to walk to get there.) We split a bottle of wine, enjoyed delicious three-course meals, and entertained our waitress, but I couldn’t help but notice how most of the tables were empty. Whether that is because of the economic crisis or because of the restaurant’s location, I don’t know.
Saturday, I went into the city to meet my group of Bengali friends from back home. We chilled out at The Ginger Man, traded stories, and just generally indulged in that shorthand that comes from hanging out with people who’ve known each other for years. No one else in this city knows our parents, our cultural group, and understands us in that context, so it’s always lovely to touch base. But despite those hours of camaraderie, I was soon back home and in my pajamas…content to be antisocial once more.
Even going out on Sunday for work — to cover Daytime Stars and Strikes at Leisure Time Bowling — felt like too much. I had a great, productive time while I was there. I loved getting to speak to people from several shows. But even so, there was a tugging sensation inside me that said, “Go home. Crawl into bed with a book.” And several hours later, I did exactly that.
Sometimes I feel like I’m already ancient, like my bones are old, but realistically, I am too young to be this exhausted.
10.03.09
The obligatory disclaimer post.
There’s been an increase in traffic of late, so I just wanted to have the obligatory talk about the purpose of this blog.
This is my personal blog, where I review books, talk politics, and also dish what I watch on TV. Nothing I say here represents the views of my place of employment and my comments should not be attributed to SOW. It’s just Mala being Mala. Obviously I can’t stop people from quoting me left and right, and I am the same exact person who works there and then comes home to blog here, but bad necklace is hosted at WordPress for a reason: to be my own forum.
Thanks for reading!
08.17.09
Ch-ch-ch-changes
I was doing some blog maintenance this morning, making some posts through July of this year public, and it occurred to me that you can really chart how my opinion about something goes through an evolution…primarily because of the ongoing nature of soaps. A story that starts out with an inkling of promise –like Y&R’s Adam and Rafe, for instance– can quickly go off the rails. I started out kind of excited about A/R, or at least kind of intrigued. Oh, how the worm does turn.
Back in May, I got all squicked out because B&B seemed to be going the sexual harassment route with Jackie and Owen, but now they’re one of my favorite couples on that show! I also found my vitriolic rant about ATWT’s Ameera from April of ‘08. I’m kind of sad that I haven’t been able to rant on that theme again, since daytime hasn’t tried to broach a different religion again.
I don’t think I’m a flip-flopper, or someone who doesn’t stick to her guns. I have a very basic sense of what flies with me and what doesn’t. But I’m always willing to learn, to change, and to adjust my expectations based on new developments.
11.18.07
Welcome to the jewelry box.
Welcome to bad necklace: not quite pearls of wisdom, a blog for rambling natterings on writing, the Big Apple, growing up desi in the American Midwest, and whatever the heck else occurs to me.
The name “bad necklace,” comes from one of many crazy nights with my friends Ty and Tiffany. I made the mistake of kvetching about how Spanish-speaking people always think my parents had a twisted sense of humor. “Yes, yes, I know what my name means and no, no they did NOT name me ‘bad’ on purpose.” They named me the Bengali word for “necklace.” Ty, who keeps insisting I’m from Idaho or Nebraska despite my Ohioan pride, dubbed me “bad necklace,” that night and has called me that ever since.
Now I’ve finally bitten the bullet and joined the individual blog revolution. Mind you, this does not mean I am some neophyte, wandering around the Internet and encountering cries of “LOL! N00b!” I’ve done the LiveJournal thing, done the MySpace thing, and feel that, now, as I teeter on the edge of turning 30 and also celebrate my third year living in the wilds of New York City, it’s time to try something new. If this fails miserably, expect this thing to disappear with little to no fanfare. “Nothing to see here, move it along.”
As I said above, I’m almost 30. The big 2-9…. the age many women choose to stay forever. Personally, I’m ready to get the Hell into the next decade. Besides, I’ve been told I have great genes (as if people can tell by looking at you?), and I look at least five years younger than I am. Good thing, since I ACT about ten years younger than I am.
I’m a writer and editor with a tragically limited vocabulary. I guess it’s my equivalent of not bringing my work home with me. Except that, if you ask my co-workers, I don’t really bringing it to work with me either. I write and speak in slang and punctuate with four letter words. Despite an English lit. degree under my belt, I almost never read classic literature or postmodern literature or literature of any kind. Every time I try to read a “smart” book, it hurts my head. I get bored. I need something shiny to entertain me. So, it’s all about romance novels and young adult books and the sporadic comic book. (I wasn’t so sporadic in high school and college and the two boxes in my parents’ basement can bear witness.) I love shoot ‘em up movies and sci-fi, and yet won’t say no to a Lifetime movie if it’s really, really, spectacularly cheesy. (Tiffani Amber Thiessen in Buried Secrets, I’m just sayin’.)
I have no real method to the madness of this blog. I have no idea what’s in store for me or for you, the potential reader.
I have severe doubts as to anyone reading this without me rounding up all my friends (all five of you) and saying, “Hey, lookie here!” but, hey, you never know until you try.
Though, given how I stumbled upon the name for this place, maybe it’s “you never know until you’re Ty.”
