Bright Eyes

All posts tagged Bright Eyes

On music, the muse.

Published October 24, 2019 by mandileighbean

music-thinking

Welcome to another edition of “Typist Thursday”! I need a better title, I know, but for some reason, I’m having a hell of a time updating on Wednesdays. To be honest, I’m having a hell of a time staying on schedule for nearly everything in my life, whether it be working, writing, reading, or exercising. I’m not sure if it’s a bout of depression I have to work through, just being tired, or something else. Maybe it’s just this time of the year? Whatever the reason, one surefire method to help me out of any funk is listening to music.

I listen to music when I do anything and everything: drive, cook, sleep, exercise, and even read. I N E E D music – it is my outlet, my muse, my salvation. I only wish I were musically inclined. I can’t sing a note, I can’t play a note, and I have no real ear for it. But oh, how I love it. I know I’m not the only one who loves music, and I know I’m not the only one who uses it for inspiration.

I H A V E T O listen to music when I write. I just have to. When I was writing Her Beautiful Monster, my first novel, I used specific song lyrics for inspiration which were then featured at the start of every chapter (that list is featured below). And as I move onto other projects, I keep the same system – certain lyrics really inspire a scene or a character or even a type of mood. Here’s what I’m currently listening to as I work on a new manuscript:

  • “Iceman” by Bruce Springsteen

    “my baby was a lover and the world just blew her away//once they tried to steal my heart, beat it right outta my head//but baby they didn’t know that i was born dead.”

    The new manuscript I’m working on (or at least one of them) is greatly inspired by my love for the one, the only, the true hero of the great Garden State, Bruce Springsteen. I’ve been listening to The Boss for almost as long as I’ve been writing, and his voice has been irrevocably and inextricably linked with my own. To pay him homage, I’ve made my protagonist an aging rockstar endeavoring to return his career to its former glory by embarking on a tour comprised of intimate shows in small venues of the beaten path, a sort of grass roots movement to reconnect with his people.

  • “Get Hurt” by Gaslight Anthem

    “and I came to get hurt//might as well do your worst to me, hey hey//have you come here to get hurt?//have you come to take away from me, from me, from me?//might as well do your worst to me.”

    While trying to reconnect with his fans, he gets more than he bargained for when he meets a starry-eyed young woman who asks for his autograph. She’s the only one to do so at the venue, so they talk more than they should about more than they should. And that gets the protagonist into some trouble as he’s married and significantly older.

  • “High Dive” by Andrew McMahon In The Wilderness

    “you dance with your headphones on//and i could watch you all night long//dancing to someone else’s song.”

    The age difference between the aging rock star and his young fan becomes too much for the relationship, and the young fan decides to try a romantic relationship with a young man closer to her own age. This drives the protagonist insane with jealousy. And, just to make things even more interesting, the young man is hiding a dangerous secret that could endanger the lives of everyone involved in the sordid love affair.

  • “The Thing About Things” by Amanda Palmer

    “the thing about things is that they can start meaning things//nobody actually said//and if he couldn’t make something mean something for me//i had to make up what it meant.”

    I’m not entirely sure how this particular set of lyrics inspired me, but OHMAN they resonate with me. I had a failed relationship that I’m still sore from, and I have mementos stashed in the back of a tiny drawer in my writing desk (a deck of playing cards, a hotel room key, a pair of socks) that remind me of when I was happiest, of the possibility of love and romance. I imagine the young fan would hang on to mementos of her fling with the aging rockstar in a similar fashion, which is why despite her new relationship, she can’t quite let go, and that adds to the conflict and the complexity of the narrative.

  • “Things Ain’t Like They Used to Be” by The Black Keys

    “she’s got the kind of love i need//the kind that’s never good on me//it doesn’t mean a thing to me//it doesn’t mean a thing to me//and it’s about time you see//things ain’t like they used to be.”

    This song reinforces the same ideas as the previous song, but does so from my protagonist’s point of view. I want his relationship with his fan to be somewhat toxic, and even though those involved recognize the relationship as such, they cannot leave the other alone. Personally, I believe we all fall victim to a relationship like that at one point or another- we know the person’s bad for us, but we can’t stay away and even though we’re not necessarily good for the other person either, that person can’t let go.

  • “Unsteady” by X Ambassadors

    “if you love me, don’t let go//if you love me, don’t let go//hold//hold on//hold onto me//’cause i’m a little unsteady//a little unsteady.”

    SPOILER ALERT: There is a death of a major character at the resolution of the story. To get into a somber, pleading mood, I’ll listen to this song. There’s an optimism to the lyrics that is tinged by a desperation that comes from the melody, and that contradiction is powerful. After all, power lies in contradictions for all characters and storylines.

  • “Atlantic City (Cover)” by Ed Sheeran

    “everything dies, baby, that’s a fact//but maybe everything that dies someday comes back.”

    Another epic by Springsteen that expands upon the idea of love never really dying, just ebbing and flowing because of outsider influences and/or extenuating circumstances.

  • “Kansas City” by The New Basement Tapes

    “and i love you, dear//but just how long//can i keep singing the same old song?”

    Those caught up in the love affair that drives the plot of this story are going to try and fit themselves back into familiar roles, even though that’s no longer possible because of the discoveries made and the decisions made because of those discoveries.

  • “Monster” by Mumford and Sons

    “so fuck your dreams//and don’t you pick at our seams//i’ll turn into a monster for you//if you pay me enough.”

    The aging rockstar’s wife discovers the affair and the decisions she makes based on that information seal the fate of all those involved.

And as promised:
Her Beautiful Monster playlist:

So what do you listen to when you want to be creative? Or when you want to feel brilliant, beautiful, and brave? Share your playlists in the comments!

musicsoulmusic-inspiration2

On trying not to be ungrateful and having perspective.

Published March 24, 2015 by mandileighbean

Ungrateful+brat+all+i+got+was+coal_5ef563_3156907

“He asked me, ‘How do you keep fighting?’
And the truth is I don’t know
I think it’s funny that he asked me
‘Cause I don’t feel like a fighter lately
I am too unhappy

You’d think I’d get perspective

Can I not accept that my own problems
Are so small?”

– Amanda Palmer, “Bigger on the Inside”

People probably think there’s someone living on my second floor because I’m far too lazy to climb the stairs and turn off the light.  But the truth is that I live alone.  I purchased a home independently and for a woman of 26, that’s not too shabby.  I know that I should be proud of myself and feel accomplished.

But the truth is that I live alone.

In the novel Frankenstein, the monster admits, “I am malicious because I am miserable.”  Conor Oberst expresses a similar sentiment in his song “Lovers Turn Into Monsters” when he writes, “Lovers turn into monsters at the loss of all affection, almost like it was the affection that kept them from being monsters.”

I am alone and miserable, and that makes me malicious, that makes me a monster.  Unfortunately, I’m not even a beautiful one.  I have the career, the house, the car, and my braces will be removed soon.  I’ve published one novel and written my second.  But what does that list of achievements really mean at the end of the day if no one else is impressed enough to single me out in a special and unique sort of way?  My friend half-heartedly joked that I most likely need therapy because I cannot see, or assess, my self-worth unless it is validated by someone else.  That’s weak, isn’t it?  Isn’t it cowardly?  Should I not be brave or confident enough to be alone, to be by myself, to be with myself?  Romantic poets, specifically Wordsworth, talk about “blissful solitude,” which, for me, is a personal oxymoron.  Solitude does not make me blissful, but is that because I’m my own worst enemy?

Last night, I ate dinner alone – as I do most nights – seated across from a vase filled with a dying, wilting bouquet.  I’ve been trying to convince myself the scene was romantically tragic, like I can wear my loneliness in an ironic, fashionable way, like a worn and frayed denim jacket that’s adorned with many pinks, each one displaying incredibly funny and witty social commentary.  Unfortunately, I’m falling short of that mark.  I’m more of a sniveling, unsympathetic victim than an alluring, inspiring heroine.

My mother asked, “If you died, who would be affected?”  To be fair, we were discussing financial planning and we all laughed because it was only poor phrasing and nothing more, devoid of malicious intent.  But man – what a question.

WRITING PROMPT #22: “A couple of goth high school students get busted shoplifting and are sentenced to do community service with Habitat for Humanity.”

To sixteen-year-old Morgan, everything looked like a nail, as she was one hell of a hammer, one that continuously shocked and surprised her mother who was baffled by the complete disappearance of the beautiful baby girl she had once held.  The pacifier and dresses with bows and lace gave way to jet black hair and jet black nails and thick, black eyeliner that made Morgan look more bruised and broken than anything else.  But Morgan’s mother supposed that was the look Morgan was going for, a tormented soul, as Morgan believed she was victimized and persecuted in only the way that a sixteen-year-old girl can.  No one understood Morgan and as a result, everyone was out to get her and no, no one else possibly knew what that was like because Morgan was different; she was special and unique and sensitive and intelligent.  For wanting to be accepted while simultaneously being an alternative to everyone else, while complaining about being ignored and not wanting special attention, Morgan could sure pat herself on the back.  Morgan blamed those contradictions, and the competitive, capitalistic society that put possessions before people, for her shoplifting spree with Alexis.

Morgan claimed that she and Alexis, her best friend, had tried to steal the designer handbags to be ironic.  Morgan asserted that the two girls were making a statement about the dangers of consumerism and the loss of identity, that she had only snatched the purse to transcend the lame chains of the reality that was created by everyone around her except her.  Impassioned though her speech was, it was all bullshit, and the juvenile court judge knew it.  Consequently, Morgan and Alexis were sentenced to do community service with Habitat for Humanity.  And now here she was, hammering nails into boards that created some sort of shell, or foundation, for a home.  Morgan assumed the charitable deed should fill her with some kind of positive feeling, but it didn’t.  It was a waste of time in Morgan’s opinion.  After all, there were murderers and rapists who needed their souls cleansed more than Morgan needed it.  The message, the point of it all, was utterly lost on her.

So she let her hammer fall to the ground.  Morgan released a heavy sigh.

A moment or two passed and then a handsome man shuffled over, bent to retrieve the hammer from the grass, and handed it back to Morgan.  “Here you go,” he said cheerfully.

Reluctantly, Morgan reclaimed the tool.  She said, “Thanks.”  Her tone was flat and even, nearly dead.

“Having fun?” the man asked, evidently entertained by the complete misery issuing from Morgan.

“That’s rhetorical, right?”

He smiled wider.  “Oh, come on; the weather’s amazing, we have air in our lungs, and we’re helping our fellow man.  Life is good, is it not?”

Morgan shrugged.  “You could argue that we’re perpetuating competitive, capitalistic dogma that decrees my house must be nicer than yours for me to feel complete.”

“Why argue at all?”  Morgan only blinked at the man.  So, he added, “Besides, we’re not just building a house.  We’re providing someone with a home.  Don’t cheapen it by claiming materialism.”

“I’m not cheapening anything,” Morgan argued.  “This family only thinks they need this house because -”

“What do you know about this family?” the man interrupted.

“What?”

“Tell me; what do you know about this family?”

Sheepishly, Morgan hesitated before she admitted that she knew nothing about the family, not their names, not their background, nothing.  Slowly, the man nodded.  “This family thinks they need this house because they do.  The father, the bread winner, died unexpectedly last year in a car accident, which left the ailing mother to care for five children.  I say ‘ailing’ to be polite, but she’s dying.  She’s dying of cancer.  The youngest is ten and the oldest is 24, so they need somewhere to live when the mother dies in about a month.  The oldest needs to house his siblings in an affordable shelter and then, somehow, he needs to figure out how to be an adult, how to be a father and a mother, and he needs to figure out how to be sacrificial without being bitter.  He needs to find a healthy balance between being there for them and being here for himself.”

Morgan gulped.  She was swallowing her shame.  She said, “You’re the oldest.”

The man smiled.  “I am.  And it’s a beautiful day.”  He clapped Morgan on the shoulder and continued on his way, walking back towards where he was helping to assemble the foundation of his future.

perspective

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