V.C. Chickering's Blog: The Pith Monger

Let's talk life's purpose, in real time. As I figuring it out you can hum along. One of my goodreads reviewers wrote in her comments about my new novel that I made her laugh out loud. Really?! Were you being honest, Michelle? For reals? Because if that's true, you have no idea how over-the-moon giddy that makes me.

In fact, it's everything. But why?

Why this innate desire to entertain, above all else? Zero interest in running marathons, absolutely none in doing a cleanse. But the notion of giving someone a chuckle or a little thought provocation is all I've ever yearned for and all I've ever done.

Since college I've written plays, musicals, essays, columns, screenplays, songs, and novels--all for the delight of getting a rise out of you and making you laugh. But, again I ask--why? I've been mulling this over--mull-dee-mull--and what I've come to is this: I was raised in a family that valued entertainment. I mean, really and truly laid ourselves prone at the alter of story arc, snappy banter, and the almighty snicker.

Our world revolved around the TV guide, circling weekly comedies and variety specials for cozy destination couch viewing. Carol Burnett, Cher, and Saturday Night Live--it was all free for the devouring back then. Later there was the miracle of the VCR with the record function button on the remote. Thereafter my father reclined in front of the Million Dollar Movie, ready to hit pause before the ad breaks. The Marx Brothers, Monty Python, film noirs, musicals, and rom coms--over 700 manually taped movies, free and ready to watch, whose titles were entered by hand alphabetically into a little notebook.

Heaps of sweaty hormonal high school kids descended on Friday nights. They sat on couches, laps, and floors, watching movies my parents recommended--peels of laughter and occasionally hot debate. We held the same esteem for reading and music, dancing, art, and song. I basically grew up in a salon it's clear to me now.

So I think that's why I'm here today, creating content like a banshee. Because in my home, to entertain and provoke was a notion highly regarded. And art was directly linked to the prized commodity of joy.

So, there's this funny thing that happens when your very first goodreads reader review is lousy. Well, I don't know if 'funny' is really the right word. Let's say 'challenging.' It calls into question every needlepoint pillow--before memes there were bumper stickers and pillows--I've ever read about trusting myself and staying the course. It forces me to thank the universe for giving me the 'opportunity' for growth and self-discovery, aka, self-restraint.

It's all I can do to sit on my typing fingers and not reach out to the unsatisfied reader. "If only you'd kept reading" or "My goal was to explore..." "You may have discovered it wasn't what you thought." I have to squwash each impulse with every fiber of my being to not offer whatever to her heart's desire. I don't suppose a batch of chocolate chip cookies would make a difference. Surf lessons? I know a guy. Feng shui? I got a girl for that, too. Just please, take down your lousy review, for the love of Pete.

Honestly, the hoops my mind jumps through while considering what I would do for just a small slice of break--and control. But it's a trap, as those of us know who've been in this game a while. It's a bad idea, a feckless plan. And as someone who's no stranger to the sunset stock photos with the scripty-fonted admonitions to breathe and let go, I breathe, for crying out loud, and let it go, goshdarnit. I know it's our egos who are holding the hoops, teasing us to jump through faster and higher. Take a hike, ego, I've no time for your hoop-y bullshit. I've got a book to promote, the next to write, and laundry to fold and put away.

And because the algorithm gods are mischievous that review will be parked there like a pickup on cinder blocks in my front yard. So, each time I log in I'll have the great good fortune of being reminded to breathe and let go. To encourage myself to remain focused on the work and thank the universe while ignoring the hoops.

Greetings Person Probably Wearing Glasses,

You may be wondering why I'm just now hopping aboard the Goodreads author blog juggernaught. It's quite simple; I was terrified. For two years I've been putting this off for all the usual reasons: crippling self-doubt and low confidence of proper comma use. You see, my first novel, Nookietown, was undeniably racy. It was also very funny, super improbable, and an unpredictable delve into the painfully honest mindsets of women who have either been married to the same husband for a long time--think more than ten years--or are recently divorced after being tethered to the same schlub. I knew it would provoke when I wrote it and provoke it did. It wasn't for everyone. The way the women in the story think and behave wasn't for the reader who hasn't been stuck in a monogamous relationship for a long time because it's difficult to fathom the experience. That and sex positivity for its own socially unacceptable, hedonist sake tends to rub a whole bunch of folks the wrong way. It makes them uncomfortable--but those are the areas I find compelling to explore. The discomfort.

On the other hand, those babes who have been married forever, or divorced? They loved it--couldn't get enough and laughed out loud. You know who else loved it? Their husbands. Because when you've been married forever you spend plenty of time daydreaming of ways to spice it up in some mutually beneficial way, converting to Mormonism, or simple escape. For them, a sex co-op is a totally acceptable, if hilariously improbable solution to a daily conundrum--super fun to consider, if only for the duration of a novel, though highly unlikely. It was risky as hell to write, even though its genesis was the truth. You'll see what I mean in about 15/20 years.

So, I avoided this arena like the plague and didn't read a single review, no thanks.

But I'm older now and have had my heart and ego replaced with 3-D printed Teflon refrigerator magnets. I'm rising up out of my sainted mother’s cigarette ashes to herald the coming of my second stab at insatiable desire and stupid choices made by educated adults who should know better. Twisted Family Values: A Novel is a four-generation dysfunctional family saga of expectation, desire, and stifling social positioning between two families over the course of fifty years in a small town of wealth and privilege in suburban New Jersey. There's a hook and a twist, and no, it's not for the squeamish. But you can handle it because you're a grown up.

It begins in 1968 when the two main characters are toddlers and ends when they're nearing fifty. There are awesome 70's hors d'oeuvres in party scenes and fabulous 80's New Wave songs in bar. There are references to movies, fashion, and technology that take you through the decades and, of course, heartache, betrayal, failure, and forgiveness as we're doomed to repeat.

I think it's pretty good and I hope if you enjoy it you'll give it some stars. It was really fun to write, and yes, it's loaded with sex.

Fabulous.

Thanks and chat soon,
V.C.