a reason i feel inadequate as a writer.

a good deal of the reason i never feel up to par as a writer (beyond the fact that i am lazy with my diction and also just lazy generally) is that basically everything i want to express has already been written. specifically, it's already been written by Douglas Adams. he passed away in 2001, but not before shaping much of my comedic and written sensibility. most of what i write is in a specific style i attribute primarily to him. he worked in radio and comedy before becoming a novelist, and therefore most of his books SOUND many times better when read aloud than when read silently on the page. if you know me at all in person, and you imagine me saying the words instead of just reading them on the page... it sounds more... right. i am not sure if that is a deficiency of the writer for not being to create a written voice that can express itself in a verbal way ONLY, or if it's a specific effort to take into consideration the aural aspects of communication. regardless, there is a very specific, very English rhythym to Douglas Adams' work that affected me deeply, in addition to his quirky, playful, dark and intense worldview. hearing George Carlin talk about his incredibly dark views of humanity in recent retrospectives has convinced me of two things; 1) i should have worked harder to familiarize myself with Carlin's stuff long ago and 2) Adams was the British, novelist version of Carlin. Carlin aside... aside, i miss Douglas Adams terribly, and suggest his books (specifically the books on tape that he read) to anyone and everyone. below is the specific passage that i was reminded of shortly after writing yesterday's 'pizza and boobs' entry. this is from 'The Long, Dark Tea Time of the Soul', the main character is Kate Schechter, a New York writer who now lives in London.

She enjoyed the notion that New York was home, and that she missed it, but in fact the only thing she really missed was pizza. And not just any old pizza, but the sort of pizza they brought to your door if you phoned them up and asked them to. That was the only real pizza. Pizza that you had to go out and sit at a table staring at red paper napkins for wasn't real pizza however much extra pepperoni and anchovy they put on it. London was the place she liked living in most, apart, of course, from the pizza problem, which drove her crazy. Why would no one deliver pizza? Why did no one understand that it was fundamental to the whole nature of pizza that it arrived at your front door in a hot cardboard box? That you slithered it out of greaseproof paper and ate it in folded slices in front of the TV? What was the fundamental flaw in the stupid, stuck-up, sluggardly English that they couldn't grasp this simple principle? For some odd reason it was the one frustration she could never learn simply to live with and accept, and about once a month or so she would get very depressed, phone a pizza restaurant, order the biggest, most lavish pizza she could describe - pizza with an extra pizza on it, essentially - and them, sweetly, ask them to deliver it.
"To what?"
"Deliver. Let me give you the address - "
"I don't understand. Aren't you going to come and pick it up?"
"No. Aren't you going to deliver? My address - "
"Er, we don't do that, miss."
"Don't do what?"
"Er, deliver. . ."
"You don't deliver? Am I hearing you correctly... ?"
The exchange would quickly degenerate into an ugly slanging match which would leave her feeling drained and shaky, but much, much better the following morning. In all other respects she was one of the most sweet-natured people you could hope to meet.

i googled myself recently. it could have been disappointing if i occupied a space in this world beyond utter obscurity, but i don't, so it was actually really cool because i found an article i wrote for my college's paper my senior year. for some strange reason it is in the 'sports' section of the online version of the spectator... which is odd since it was written for the arts and entertainment section. anyway, it's actually not as bad as it easily could have been... so there you go for wishy-washy self-praise! niiiiice!



Love, Actually, is all around...


By Katey Healy-Wurzburg Jan. 28, 2005



What!? A review of a romance?? BY ME?!? I know, I know... I am your faithful Katey, ever-nerdy, never-sappy and oh-so-crazy. Well, even I can get sucked into a romance... if the romance part ends with -tic and is attached to -comedy that is. Anyway, like many people over this past break, I maybe watched a smidgen of television. Luckily for me, my family got digital cable (ooooh!) right after I left for college. Which means my breaks are scintillating non-stop thrill-a-minute adventures... okay, no, of course not, I sit on me bum all day and watch the telly. And I do mean the telly. 'Yay!' to BBC America. And HBO, as it turns out. HBO's near Christmas scheduling was a flurry of British programming... must be the whole Scrooge, Charles Dickens-complex-we don't feel properly holly and jolly until the Brits help us along. Anywho, we must express deep and ever-lasting gratitude to HBO for doing this because they are responsible for exposing me to a wonderful movie, Love Actually.



Wow. Okay, that was the longest introduction ever. Anyway, back to the review. If you haven't seen Love Actually... because you have been living under a rock, or because you have been feeling extra sensitive about romantic stuff because of a recent break-up... or lack of romatic activity... or because you just sort of suck generally... GO RENT IT NOW! Buy it, even. It was on sale for ten dollars at Target last week. Boy, girl, man, womyn, young, older, single, married, dating, whatever, watch it! I really think this is one of those few movies that can appeal to nearly everyone. Except maybe Pol Pot. He probably would have disliked the general lack of genocide. It is funny, it has a great soundtrack, it is sweet... okay, okay, enough unqualified praise, lets get down to the nitty gritty.



The movie is first and foremost British. It is secondly a cast. The movie is centered within a period of time and on certain storylines, as opposed to a traditional single-relationship romance. For me, this is what made it so funny and yet realistic. It is set in the Christmas Season, in the month leading up to Christmas. You see the rather rapid development of storylines and relationships between eight primary couples. However, none are traditional or ideal relationships... as much of our own lives tend to unfold. Burning, never-revealed crushes, contemplated infidelity, the struggle to overcome the loss of a love and the never ending attempt to be an appealing version of yourself long enough to find someone to keep up with you... familiar encounters to us all, I think. Love Actually is admirably and unflaggingly British. The appearance of Rowan Atkinson, who I think epitomizes his country's quirks and best qualities equally, is a cameo whose value and hilarity is comparable only to those of Christopher Walken. Most fascinating to me was the director, Richard Curtis', use of music as a palpable, universalizing force nearly took on the role of actor itself, serving to help the story and people's actions to be eased remarkably. However, many of my favorite actors are actually in it as well, including Liam Neeson, Alan Rickman and Keira Knightley. A Jedi Knight, the Voice of God and a bad-ass pirate. Sweeet! Also gracing the screen with their excellent and super sexy performances were Hugh Grant, Colin Firth and Rodrigo Santoro (Karl). In my horny, er, I mean, humble opinion, the movie could have just been these two standing around being hot, and I would have been happy.



But the best part is that it wasn't. Love Actually was all of the stories-pain and love and laughter together, weaving a lovely, somewhat cheesy, but profoundly true story of the family of friends and loves possible today. Love Actually is funny, sweet, hilarious, silly, optimistic and also somehow true, all at the same time. It is amazing, and I quite simply love it. I give Love Actually 11 out of 10 stars... or maybe hearts.