Love, Closure, and What It Feels Like to Give Up

Posted on February 13, 2012 by Annie Neugebauer

This blog post is referencing the whole mess that my brother and I have been swimming through with Passages Malibu and Blue Cross Blue Shield Anthem insurance for my dad’s alcohol rehab. I explain it all in this post. And again I will use the disclaimer that this is the truth as I’ve experienced it, accurate to the best of my knowledge.

First, I’d like to say that you all gave me such wonderful advice and support. The general consensus was that my brother and I needed to get an attorney. We tried. I was in contact with two local attorneys who were recommended to me by friends, and both were very nice and concerned. They also both said that they couldn’t do much of anything without a copy of the full insurance policy.

We don’t have that. We looked through all of the papers from my dad’s house, and it’s just not there. And since Blue Cross has been avoiding paying us for almost four years now, I certainly wasn’t naïve enough to think they’d make it easy to get it. Boy, was that an understatement.

Long story short, we are working with two companies that no longer exist and one that never cared about us to begin with. Anthem, the division of Blue Cross Blue Shield that my dad had, doesn’t even exist anymore, and therefore “doesn’t have any funds.” (Don’t ask me how we got mail from a department that doesn’t exist. It’s clearly some sort of dark magic.) My dad worked for A.G. Edwards, which has since been bought by Wachovia, which has since been bought by Wells Fargo. And on top of that, we are fast approaching the 4-year anniversary of when my dad went into Passages: February 23, 2008, which apparently means important things to legal minds. We’re out of time, options, and energy.

To try to explain the negative effect this ordeal has had on my life seems impossible. Grief is one thing. Stress is another. The aching weight of being mired in a situation you have absolutely no control over is something entirely different. And the fact that it is somehow emotionally tied to my dad and his death only makes it worse. I think, in many ways, it has held me back from the closure I need with all of it.

So I called my brother, had a talk with him to make sure he feels the same way, and made my decision. We’re giving up.

(I’m still going to file complaints with the Better Business Bureau and a couple of insurance boards, etc., but I have no delusions that it will do good.)

To be honest, I’ve been feeling pretty shitty about my choice. How many of you told us not to give up? To take it to TV? To make a loud enough racket to be heard? To produce change? After all, this whole phenomenon of the big companies stringing us along until we’re tired is designed to make us give up. Giving up means they win.

I wanted to fight, guys. I’ve wanted to make it better for four years. But I’m tired.

In the end, what hurts the most is Passages’ treatment of my dad – his need for help that he didn’t get. Blue Cross refusing to pay is upsetting, but it seems less personal. I’m pretty sure they jerk everyone around. And as useful as money is, the closure is what we really wanted. An apology. At least an acknowledgment. A definite reason to move on. I realize now that I’ll probably never get that.

So I guess I’ll have to make my own closure. At some point, I have to say “when.”

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day – a day all about love. Love. What does this legal/financial/paperwork nightmare have to do with love?

Do you read Judy Clement Wall’s blogs? You should. Last week at A Human Thing, she talked about love and faith, and this is what stands out to me:

“I wonder if it matters, in the face of such global cruelty and disregard, that there are some of us trying to love through our fear, trying to live like we believe that we hold each other’s hearts in our hands.”

Man, did that hit home. On one hand, I find myself feeling a little self-centered in instantly applying the phrase “global cruelty and disregard” to my situation – as if my problems are the ones J is talking about. I mean, there are people so much worse off. Who am I to count myself among those taken advantage of?

But then I think, no, you know what? It is us. Not me, but the people like me and my brother and the struggles we’ve gone through. Because it’s not just us; we are a symbol of others less vocal. How many people gave up faster than four years in? How many people couldn’t even consider hiring a lawyer? How many people are going through it now, lacking the safety net of inheritance money and supportive friends and family?

It breaks my heart. Where’s the love?

Clearly, the system is broken. Don’t get me wrong; we made plenty of mistakes on our end, too. But should that mean that we’re totally screwed? I think blaming it on the system can be a little bit of an evasion.

See, the problem with blaming it on “The System” is that the system doesn’t retain any responsibility. It can’t: it’s not an entity. The system isn’t accountable; it’s a tool – a tool run by people. People, however, can and should retain responsibility. Regardless of what our bosses and companies tell us to do, each person is responsible for his or her own morality.

At every step of the twisted path that my brother and I have been down, there has been a person who could have – and I would say should have – cared more, starting with Chris Prentiss, ending with the woman at Blue Cross who continually transferred me to out of service phone numbers and “accidentally” disconnected my calls.

People are the only ones who can implement change, make a difference, show love. You don’t have to love someone personally to act with love, and in the past four years I have seen quite a shortage of that. Thankfully, in other aspects of my life, I have also seen a surplus of it. Like you all, who stepped in to show your support after reading the original post.

So when I read that statement by J, above, it hits home for many reasons, on global, personal, and intimate levels. And as a person who has experienced the cruelty and disregard as well as the special people living like they believe they hold each other’s hearts in their hands, I can tell you, J, it matters. When you cut away all of the bullshit, the “systems,” the excuses, it is truly all that matters.

As I struggle to let go of the worst part of the last four years of my life, I am aware that there are some things I need to hold on to. The lessons learned, the power of forgiveness, the beautiful support I have in all of you who took the time to reach out to me when I spilled my guts in my blog (when I could never do it in person). Thank you all.

I want to hold on to my dad, his journey, his pain, my pain. Not because I deserve to hurt, but because pain is part of love. I know on Valentine’s Day we’re all tempted to pretend love is hearts and roses, but I think we all know that love would never be beautiful without the ugly to balance it. The fear I can let go of. But the love – pain and all – I’ll keep forever.

And it’s a love that can only teach me, can only make me more sensitive to the trials of those around me, can only help me become one of those who loves through my fear. I do believe that we hold each other’s hearts in our hands. It’s time we all look at our own and remember their power.

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The Air in Our Apartment

Posted on February 6, 2012 by Annie Neugebauer

I was thinking the other day about my journey as a writer. Something about starting my fourth novel has got me feeling nostalgic, as you might have guessed from my school bus post.  I think it’s that I’ve suddenly realized that I measure my life not in years, but in novels.

2007 was my very first book. That year was rough, depressing, and full of painful naiveté. 2008-2009 were the years I couldn’t find the time or energy to work, since my dad died and I was just desperately trying to stay afloat. 2010 was Book 2. 2011 was Book 3. And now, I am keenly aware that 2012 will become – and always will remain – Book 4.

It’s hard to put into words all of the things I have learned in the past five years as a full-time writer. It’s incredible to think about how far I’ve come. Maybe someday I’ll do a few posts where I share what I’ve learned (although I do have this category tag that houses some of the advice I’ve come up with along the way) but today I just wanted to share with you that first moment of joy.

My very first success came in the form of an email on April 6, 2010. The Wichita Literature and Art Review, a relatively new literary magazine in the north Texas region, wanted to publish two of my poems: “The Air in Our Apartment” and “Digital Implications.” I reread the email three times to make sure there wasn’t a mistake – so much blood rushing to my head that I’m actually a little surprised I didn’t pass out – screamed, and proceeding to generally scare the shit out of my cat by dancing around the house and sporadically rushing back to my computer to make sure that the email was still there.

Then I called my mom. And perhaps everyone I knew, although I can’t remember. I might have just posted the news on Facebook.

It was surreal. I always knew my work was good enough to be published. Not that I was arrogant, but I really did have faith in my talent. I still do. I can’t imagine submitting something I didn’t believe in. Not to say that this poem is the best I’ve ever written. It’s certainly not. But it holds such a sweet space in my heart for the sake of being the first one I ever had professionally published. It appeared in Volume IV of The Wichita Literature and Art Review.

The Air in Our Apartment

As I see the specks and motes
of pale dust
floating, suspended in horizontal light
sifting through the blinds,
I remember:
dust is primarily skin cells
that die and slough off,
landing on a shelf of knick-knacks,
the tops of doors,
the carpet…
or like these adventurous spirits
continue to hover in the air,
wandering in the light
of our apartment.
It is our apartment, you know.

I wonder
if the memory in each cell
of what its role was in our bodies
communes with the memory
of the cells it meets
as it bumps along.

And so maybe, then,
we should be more creative in our lovemaking—
match up more non-standard parts…
an elbow to a calf,
a nose to the back of a knee,
a navel to a toe…
so that when the cells
shed and drift,
when they make their greetings,
they can hail each other as old friends
rather than introducing themselves
for the first time
in the air of our apartment.

© Annie Neugebauer
All rights reserved.

Five days later, Dos Gatos Press accepted another poem, “Approaching June,” for publication in the 2011 Texas Poetry Calendar – an even bigger venue. My happy dance turned to a happy cry, and I knew I was going to be able to do this.

I still know that I’m able to do this. Poetry, stories, novels, all of it. The things I’ve always dreamed of are attainable. I’m just in the middle of the ride.

Now I’m off to work on novel number four, remembering that if I work hard enough, there is a pay-off. The work is worth it. Success, in any degree and at any level, is sweet.

I hope you all have a good, productive week. =)

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Remembering Bus 47

Posted on January 30, 2012 by Annie Neugebauer

I am up uncharacteristically early (seriously, before 8am of my own volition, what the heck?), and as I lay in bed pondering the oddness of this occurrence, I heard a sound that I haven’t noticed in years. Just like the smell of cherry-flavored Chapstick (dang it, Katy Perry, you have tainted that for all of us), this sound instantly flooded me with memories. It was the distinctly high-pitched screech of school bus brakes at the top of our street.

How many of you just heard it in your head? I don’t even have to describe it. If you rode the bus, you know. Oh my gosh, The Bus. It seems like it should be capitalized. If you don’t hurry up, we’re going to miss The Bus.

When I was young, we lived in a typical neighborhood where the bus stopped right in front of our driveway. Riding the bus back then was exciting, because my very bestest friend in the whole wide world rode the same bus as I did, and it gave us an extra thirty minutes to make up patty-cake rhymes and giggle about boys.

I guess then my mom was in charge of making my brother and I get out to the driveway in time, because I don’t remember it ever being much of an ordeal. There was one time, though, that the bus driver passed us even though she could see us running for it. My mom chased her down and gave her a good talking to. I remember because when she drove away, she used her handheld radio to talk to another bus driver. “Dude,” she said, “some crazy lady just chewed me out.” I purportedly piped up, “Hey! That crazy lady is my mom!” although I still suspect that I might have just wished I had the courage to do that.

When we were older my family moved to a different neighborhood that was more out in the country. It was residential enough to have a bus route, but there were no sidewalks or streetlights and most of the lots were at least an acre. Catching the bus back then was a quite a different story.

Ah, Bus 47. How you elude me still.

As you can imagine, our neighborhood was much too spread out to warrant a stop at the end of each driveway. In fact, our driveway was the only one on our entire side of the street. And it was a long street. Which, in turn, meant that we couldn’t just run out the door once we heard those trusty old brakes. Heck, our gravel driveway alone was a significant trek. We had to – gasp – actually be ready at the end of our street at 7:15. (Come to think of it, I think this might be why I have such an aversion to waking up early.)

Which, by the time I was a teenager with the frizziest hair that ever, ever existed (This was before straightening irons and the knowledge that you don’t brush curly hair. Seriously, in one of my school yearbook photos my hair was bigger than the box allowed to me.), was easier said than done. I can remember many a morning when my brother and I heard the brakes several streets down, looked at each other in horror, and ran. Sometimes I didn’t have my shoes on yet, forgot my backpack, or whatever, and my brother would run ahead to make the driver wait for me.

Those were good times. But actually, there was a sort of fierce glee in getting there just in time to make the bus – or even better, just in time to make it wait for you. It meant we didn’t have to stand there shivering. And since my brother refused to wear long pants unless it was below 40 degrees, there was a lot of shivering. Although, of course, this was a risky move on our part. Get there even fifteen seconds late and we had to make the walk of shame back to the house to ask Mom for a ride.

By the time we were in high school, which bus driver we had became exceptionally important. Namely, as a matter of status amongst other bus-goers (bus 63, in particular, was stiff competition). What you wanted back then was a young, attractive bus driver who was just a little lax with the rules. You didn’t want one too lax with the rules, because then they might miss your stop on purpose or ignore bullying when you were the victim, but a little lax allowed for cursing, standing up, and eating missed breakfasts. And most importantly, the cool bus drivers chose the cool radio stations. I.e., alternative rock. The lame bus drivers listened to oldies, NPR, or – God help us – country. Which is funny, since we actually lived in the country and I’m pretty sure 80% of us secretly loved country music. But hey, no one needed to know that.

I remember the ever-sticky floors, the smell and give of the leather seats, the way the fabric would stick to your legs in the summer. I remember how the windows stuck and there was always one or two people that everyone would ask to get theirs – the sound of them sliding down and slamming up. I remember slouching down to put my knees up on the back of the seat in front of me, and dreading the days when my seat-mate didn’t ride. Not that she was that great; she used to comment on everything from how often I shaved my legs to the brands of my clothes, but hey, she was familiar at least.

I learned a lot on the bus, mostly about people. I mixed with a whole different crowd of kids than the ones in my classes, and man did they know a lot more about sex than I did. They could talk a big talk, anyway. And they knew all the good cuss words, too.

By sophomore year, when kids started turning 16, The Bus became indescribably lame – no matter how cool the driver. Luckily, I was so active on my dance team, which had before- and sometimes after-school practice, that I really did need a car for my parents’ sake. So I got to drive to school and forget about the bus. Which I did quite successfully, until this morning when I happened to be lying in bed just as one braked at the end of our street, ready to drive a new load of kids down future memory-lane.

So what about you? Did you ride the bus? Are there sounds like bus brakes that send you immediately reminiscing? Smells that take you back?

And, of course, most importantly, which bus did you ride?

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25 Beautiful Unique Book Titles

Posted on January 16, 2012 by Annie Neugebauer

Titles are very important to me. For poems and stories, I like it when the title adds something to the piece itself rather than labeling. Labeling is effective for essays and sometimes novels (to a lesser degree), but for short, creative pieces, I like to take advantage of that extra line to do something special to the piece. I’m fond of one-word titles that have multiple meanings (maybe as both a noun and verb, for example). I also like it when a poem is about something without ever telling you what it is, but then the title does.

Titles are fun tools, and I wish more writers used them to their full advantage. So many times it seems like a quick afterthought. If the title doesn’t seem perfect, I’m dissatisfied – including my own titles.

I’ve been trying to figure out what to use as a working title for my new horror manuscript, and I keep drawing blanks. Working titles are often changed in the end anyway, but I’d still like to have a good one. It affects the way I think of the book as I’m writing it. And if it’s really good, it might stick around all the way to the end.

In an attempt to unblock my title impasse, I decided to make a list of all of my favorite book titles. It hasn’t helped yet, but it sure was fun. =) Here they are, in no particular order, with a few notes of my own:

1. The Forest of Hands and Teeth, Carrie Ryan
This title is actually why I first picked up the book.

2. Something Wicked This Way Comes, Ray Bradbury
This is a phrase from Shakespeare’s Macbeth: “By the pricking of my thumbs / Something wicked this way comes.”

3. *Where the Sea Breaks Its Back, Corey Ford

4. Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë

5. ‘Salem’s Lot, Stephen King
Originally titled Second Coming, but later changed to Jerusalem’s Lot, and finally shortened to its final version to avoid sounding “too religious.”

6. *Exactly Where They’d Fall, Laura Rae Amos
This book isn’t actually out yet, but I had to include it. Even if I wasn’t online friends with the author, I would buy it for its title alone.

7. The October Country, Ray Bradbury

8. Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck
This is a phrase from Robert Burns’s poem “To a Mouse,” which reads: “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft agley.” (The best laid schemes of mice and men / Often go awry.)

9. *House of Leaves, Mark Z. Danielewski

10. Wide Sargasso Sea, Jean Rhys
The Sargasso Sea is a region in the middle of the North Atlantic where several major ocean currents deposit their debris. Sargassum is a type of floating seaweed. This is a literary “prequel” to Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre.

11. The Dead-Tossed Waves, Carrie Ryan
What can I say? She’s good at titles.

12. *No Country for Old Men, Cormac McCarthy

13. It Was On Fire When I Lay Down On It, Robert Fulghum
The author of the collection, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, which was also a clever title until everyone beat it to death.

14. Who Will Run the Frog Hospital? Lorrie Moore

15. *Full Dark, No Stars, Stephen King

16. The Lives of the Heart, Jane Hirshfield

17. The Art of Drowning, Billy Collins

18. *Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul, Douglas Adams

19. A Ring of Endless Light, Madeleine L’Engle

20. The Radiance of Pigs, Stan Rice
Random fact: Stan Rice (deceased) was Anne Rice’s husband.

21. Pale Fire, Vladimir Nabokov
This is a phrase from Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens: “The moon’s an arrant thief, / And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.”

22. *Silence of the Lambs, Thomas Harris

23. Queen of the Damned, Anne Rice

24. The Crying of Lot 49, Thomas Pynchon
Auction items are called “lots.” The auctioneer is said to “cry” a lot when he takes bids on it. This novel ends with the crying of lot number 49. But it’s not as dull as it sounds, it ties into the plot, which is not about auctions at all.

25. The Sky is Everywhere, Jandy Nelson
I must say, this book is even more beautiful than the title – a rare find.

*Denotes books I haven’t read yet.

As you can see, for novels and book-length works I tend to lean toward long, phrasal, and poetic titles. They just really grab my attention and then stick with me. Not to mention that they whisper, “The writing inside is just as good.”

I want a title like that for my new WIP (work in progress). Maybe you can help me get new ideas. What are some of your favorite book titles?

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Disagreeing with Books: Writer Responsibility and Reader Accountability

Posted on January 9, 2012 by Annie Neugebauer

“There is no such thing as a moral book or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. That is all.” –Oscar Wilde

By far, the blog of mine that has gotten the largest, most passionate and intelligent reactions has been “Why I’m Tired of People Ragging on Twilight.” Comments ranged: gleeful agreement and support of my guts in approaching such a volatile topic, carefully-worded debate, and emotionally-charged (dare I call them?) accusations. I disagreed with many comments, but I could see the logic and thought behind all of them. If you haven’t had a chance to check out the comments on that post, I think they’re well worth a read.

But one thing, the main thing, that I kept coming back to as I read these comments was the concept of censorship and author responsibility. No matter what someone’s thoughts were on the messages in Twilight, the end result was the same: holding Stephenie Meyer accountable for sending said messages.

Admittedly, there is a difference between censoring and judging... for most people.

I saw a contradiction there. Since I follow and am followed primarily by other writers on Twitter (who are unfailingly also readers), I tweeted the following:

@AnnieNeugebauer When you write a character, do you have them make the choices that “send the right message” or that they would most realistically make? Or do you only write characters who make choices that teach morals? And does that answer change if you write YA instead of adult?

All of the writers who answered chose “realistic characters” over “creating morals,” even for young adult books. And yet… so many people complain when they disagree with the message of a book.

The only explanation I could think of was that there is a disconnect between reading and writing. As writers, we all have different goals. Some people want to uplift and enlarge the lives of their readers. Some want to show life as it truly is. Some just want to entertain. And as readers, our wants vary too. We want to learn, be entertained, be challenged, and see ourselves deeply reflected in characters we love. Somewhere between the two, our expectations must shift.

So where’s that line? What changes between a writer and a reader? What are the expectations of both, and more importantly, who is ultimately responsible? And does the answer vary depending on the level of morality being challenged by a book? What about the type of morality? Wuthering Heights is often accused of romanticizing destructive love. A Clockwork Orange purportedly caused copycat crimes of rape and beatings. Lolita looks at the world through the eyes of a pedophile protagonist. And American Psycho was so controversial that Bret Easton Ellis received death threats over it (ironic, no?).

Droogs: product of literary genius, encouragement for young people to rape and murder, or source of awesome Halloween costumes?

How many people have these books negatively influenced? And would those people have made similar choices eventually even if they had never read the books? Of course, no one can know these answers.

Personally, I will never agree that writers are responsible for readers’ beliefs. That’s just how I feel. I am 100% against censorship. Now, that doesn’t mean I like the messages in all books. Obviously, I don’t. There are some themes in the Twilight series that I strongly disagree with. Just because I don’t believe the books should be censored or that Meyer should be held responsible for readers’ choices doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother me that so many young women are possibly being influenced by her messages. It does. It really does.

And my answer thus far leans toward guardian responsibility: parents of young teens should talk to their children about the messages in the books. But what about kids who don’t have such involved, responsible parents? I don’t know. I’m really asking. It’s not an easy question to answer. Should all people be censored because some people might be negatively affected by something? I don’t think so, but I do feel sad for those young women (and men).

To equate (and perhaps conflate) one morally controversial topic with another, it’s sort of like the old saying, “Guns don’t kill people; people kill people.” To which many have quite snarkily replied… but the guns sure make it easier. Ever tried pointing a finger-gun at someone and saying bang? Not quite the same effect. And yet the right to bear arms is one of Americans’ fundamental (though controversial) freedoms – one that I strongly agree with. So there’s a conundrum. I dislike guns, but believe in people’s right to own and use them.

Yeah... crazy mother fuckers with guns.

Twilight doesn’t cause young women to make harmful choices. I have to believe that. It is one of my strongest principles that young people deserve respect. Respect comes with responsibility. And I believe all people, even impressionable young people, must take responsibility for their own morality. You can’t blame your bad choices on a book.

But maybe I believe this because I am a writer, and I sympathize with authors who stand accused. What’s more, I’m a horror writer. I write about some really, really bad people. Perhaps one could argue that I’m simply protecting myself from potential future reader accusations. I want to be able to write about evil, deeply flawed characters, and poor choices without the burden of guilt riding me like the weight of the world. I think, to some degree, we all choose our morals based on what allows us to live the life we want to live. Maybe I’m just in denial.

What do you think? And do your opinions shift when you answer the question as a reader and as a writer? What about as a parent? Where, for you, does author responsibility end and reader accountability begin?

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