Evil Queen Magda
Now with 30% more evil.
Twitter.
evilqueenmagda (at) gmail (dot) com
The war of the words can be bloody. Filled with carnage. Often lacking showers.
I think it is a combination of two things: having lived in Los Angeles for an extended period of time; and a wicked need to take things I don’t know how to do, teach myself how to do them, and then do the shit out of them that make me think I should take a stab at a screenplay. Hundreds of pages shorter than a novel. Less painful than a marathon. (Right?)
Eclipse VII
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI
I made her eggs because it felt parental. It was also the only thing I knew how to cook. My lack of culinary knowledge was vaguely pathetic and certainly clichéd, but other things had always gotten in the way when I opened a cookbook. Namely, my complete lack of patience for any new skill that required more than 10 minutes to master. But any idiot could make eggs, could put them on toast or in a tortilla or just sad and alone, on a plate. Pregnant yellow bellies, quivering as they were set down on the table. She stabbed her fork into the yolk and watched it bleed, the same way I used to when I was her age. We weren’t angry at the egg or the person who made it for us. We just liked to watch the yolk spread across the plate.
Because I’m feeling ranty, let’s address why we haven’t ever made out. I’m not talking about you, Internet. In fact, I’m waiting for that glorious day when a woman can marry her computer without judgment. No, I’m directing this comment at men who have accused me of the following after I did not fall into their arms, ready to be swept away:
I’m emotionally unavailable.
I’m emotionally unavailable because other men have hurt me.
I’m shy.
I’m not assertive/I don’t know what I want.
I’m afraid of intimacy.
I don’t trust anyone.
I’m difficult in general.
No. None of the above. I JUST DON’T LIKE YOU IN THAT WAY. You have created a narrative in your head as to why I won’t let you see me naked.* A complex, layered story that blatantly violates Occam’s razor. The simplest answer is that I JUST DON’T LIKE YOU IN THAT WAY.
*That last one may be true, but not in terms of making out. If I like you, I will make out with you. Simple.
Victim in Fatal Car Accident Tragically Not Glenn Beck
45 minutes before the show started last night, my friend sent me a text asking if I wanted to see the Kinks at the Orpheum. The theater is 5 blocks from my house and the only excuse I had not to go was the curry I had just put on to simmer. It was going to be a night in. ”Curry schmurry”, he said. The curry cooled on the stove while I clomped over to the venue.
This particular friend used to work for a Big Time Rock Band as their tour manager, which is how we met. They were on tour. He and the singer showed up to a party I was at in Tokyo. Then the next night, my roommates and I were backstage at the Tokyo Dome. So weird how my life used to work. Anyway, having worked in that industry since he was 16, my friend knows volumes more about “real” music than I do, which was apparent when I sidled up to him under the marquee and asked, without shame, who the hell Ray Davies was.
I’m willing to look like an idiot but my friend wasn’t and I think he was surprised that no one threw anything at me for saying something so stupid. So he sort of mumbled/whispered into my ear that Davies was the singer/songwriter for the Kinks, a band that is no longer together. Then he listed some of their songs and gave me an abridged version of Davies’ legal woes. For text message brevity, all of this boiled down to “Do you want to see the Kinks tonight?”
I’m willing to listen to virtually anything I’m introduced to, but my friend was very nearly having a musical orgasm all over himself. And I probably would have too, had I really known what I was listening to. The choral arrangements of these songs were pretty phenomenal. But by the end of the night, my friend was so disturbed by my lack of musical knowledge that he all but demanded that I bring my computer to his house to seed my iTunes with the fundamentals.
“We’ll get you a drink and some Hank Williams and everything will be fine,” he said as he patted the back of my hand, I think mainly to reassure himself that it wasn’t too late to save me.
Let’s begin easing into the weekend. No sudden movements.
True story: Miss J once critiqued my walk. He was assisting a designer during a NY Fashion Week casting. (2001? 2002?) He said, “Actually, she’s pretty good.” Mind you, I was standing right there and he could have actually spoken to me, but that’s not something you do at castings. In any case, I did not book that show because it was for a designer of gowns and at 5’9”, I was considered too short. Fin.
Sharp-toothed shark acts as midwife (Via Jezebel)
Tough ass bitches holding it down.
Eclipse VI
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V
Creep. Creepy Creep. Ugh. He hadn’t tried to touch me before, only his eyes had overstepped bounds but if that girl hadn’t come in when she did, I didn’t doubt that Jerky McCreeperson would have suggested a meeting in his office to discuss my performance. It was insulting how few lines these fuckers employed, how often they saw lint on my shirt or an eyelash on my cheek.
“Make a wish!”
I wish I wasn’t dependant on someone so revolting for a paycheck.
I think I want to grow up to be Dakota Fanning.
Q&A With Your Local First-Time Novelist
Q. Hi, Magda. How are you doing?
A. I’m okay. Getting over a cold.
Q. Sorry to hear that. So. You’re writing a book. It seems like you’ve been writing this book for a while now. Why is it taking so long?
A. Fun thing no one tells you when you set out to write a book: it takes a really, really long time.* There’s the writing part and the rewriting part and the editing with your agent part and then waiting for the appropriate time to submit part. And this particular project came with its own unique set of research/genre issues. You can also add weeks to this timeline because I am a selfish person not wholly committed to my craft. I insist on things like “living indoors with running water” and “eating three meals a day”, which requires me to give 40 hours of my week to someone in exchange for U.S. currency. Some may also call me lazy because I choose to sleep on a regular schedule and occasionally pursue outside interests and social activities.
Q. Where are you on this timeline?
A. I am in the final, minor editing part slash waiting for the appropriate time to submit part. Apparently editors are as interested in reading manuscripts over Thanksgiving/Christmas as I am being sober during this time. Submission is expected in January 2010.
Q. So we can expect you to begin reporting on your ulcers circa January?
A. Yes. And if you find me in the street, curled around a bottle of gin, muttering the lyrics to Genesis songs, just avert your eyes and don’t bring it up the next time you see me.
Q. On a scale of 1 to brilliant, where do you rank your manuscript?
A. One brillion. (See what I did there? I’m going to make it rain advance checks.)
*National Novel Writing Month was the source of much mirth during a recent agent/writer conversation.
