The Execution of Originality

After watching Dollhouse last night, I started browsing some message boards to see what other viewers think of Joss Whedon's latest creation. While many of the reviews were good, some of them were disappointing.

Granted, as a huge Joss fan, I am biased. Before the first episode, I was fully prepared to fall in love. However, it wasn't just the fact that some people dared to insult a Joss creation that bothered me. The problem was the way some viewers disregarded the show from the first episode because they felt the premise wasn't "original enough".

If you haven't watched, the Dollhouse is a secret, illegal organization that uses technology to wipe away "actives" original personalities and imprint them with whatever personalities are required for their current engagement. The clients who hire actives are extremely wealthy and are buying the perfect date/bodyguard/hostage negotiator/omlette maker or whatever else they want.

After seeing exactly one pilot episode, some viewers said that Dollhouse reminded them of Alias, Pretender, Quantum Leap, Point of No Return, etc. etc., therefore it wasn't original enough and not worth their time.

One of my favorite books, The Time Traveler Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, suffers similar comparisons. It is the story of the relationship between a man who uncontrollably travels through time (due to a genetic disorder) and his wife.

People turn up on message boards asking if they should bother reading it, because it sounds like Butterfly Effect, The Lake House, or other movies or books that are only similar in the fact that they involve some form of time travel.

These people misunderstand the entire concept of originality in storytelling. Originality does not simply lie in creating a unique premise. Originality is in the execution. Originality is in the nuances. It lives and grows from within the characters and where the story takes them. It involves looking at a seemingly familiar concept in a new way.

I blame it on the human brain. Humans are hard-wired to look for patterns. That's why people become addicted to sudoku or solitaire and see bunny rabbits in clouds. Finding patterns is an important skill, but too well honed in some.

People see patterns where none exist, often using stretched analogies and faulty logic. They perceive a pattern and their brains react by giving them a rush of dopamine -- Aha! You saw that those clouds are shaped like Mickey Mouse and the Grinch doing a jig, you are so clever, have some dopamine!

Perhaps that process of evolution has gone a bit too far. When people find patterns that don't exist or are inconsequential, they often simplify a subject and discard it without bothering to see the complexities within.

A leaf is a leaf is a leaf is a leaf, until you take the time to stop and compare the unique beauty in each of them.

My Mother's Death

Earlier this month was the 20th anniversary of my mother’s death. I spent the day with my husband and kids, looking through old family photos, but I can’t stop thinking about her.

The hardest anniversary for me was the 13th. I was 13 when my mother died, so every day after that 13th anniversary meant I would be living longer without my mother than I had lived with her in my life. This 20th anniversary, however, feels more introspective than painful.

I cannot remember her funeral. There is a vague memory of being in a church. I wore a plain black dress that my sister took me to buy. At the calling hours, I remember standing with my family to receive a line of people that seemed to never end. I remember sneaking to an empty back room a few times because I just couldn’t take another hug.

I was devastated when my mother died, but I couldn’t admit it. I went back to school two days after she died because I couldn’t stand being at home. I needed the distraction.

I didn’t tell anyone how I was feeling. I quickly learned how to give people the answers that would make them stop asking questions. I didn’t tell anyone how I blamed myself.

It was a Monday afternoon when she had a heart attack. After, she insisted it was just an anxiety attack and didn’t want me or my brother call an ambulance. We called my dad at work instead. He said he would come home and take her to the hospital, just to be safe.

While we were waiting, she became more agitated, frantic. She suddenly wanted to drive herself, but she was shaking, terrified. I was afraid she would get in a car accident, so I took her car keys and we argued. Minutes later, my dad pulled up and she rushed out to meet him. That was the last time I saw her.

I was consumed with guilt but tried to hide it. Why hadn’t I insisted on calling an ambulance? Why had I spent my last moments with her arguing? For years, I became increasingly self-destructive, while outwardly putting on a show -- smiling and laughing, pretending to be like everyone else. I barely slept. I barely ate. I had damaging relationships and pulled away when anyone tried to get close.

Becoming a mother was my first step toward healing. I began to realize that I couldn’t be a strong mother if I kept tearing myself down. Yet it has been less than a decade since I truly began to heal.

My husband, Peter, has been an unfailing source of strength. Over the years, many others -- family, friends, boyfriends, teachers -- wanted to help, but I pushed them away. I wish I could tell them how I appreciate their efforts, but that I just hadn’t been ready yet. I’d like to apologize for pushing them away, for hurting them. I didn’t understand what I was doing. I was only trying to make it through each day.

Many wanted to help, but a few only pretended to care and took advantage the moment I let my guard down. It was partially my own fault. As Sartre might say, I, in bad faith, allowed it to happen. To those people, I have nothing to say, except that I am strong now and hope our paths never cross again.

Why am I posting these personal thoughts on a public blog? It feels like the right time. Perhaps my story can help someone else who is grieving.

I want anyone who has suffered the loss of a loved one to know that it is not strength to bury the pain. Strength is finding help, talking to a therapist, working through the grief.

To anyone who knows a child who has lost a parent or loved one, seek expert help. Children are prone to blaming themselves and often do not have the experience or maturity to cope with trauma alone.

I will always miss my mom. I am sad that I never had an adult relationship with her, that she never saw any of her children married and never met her grandchildren.

I still wish I had called an ambulance. I still wonder if it would have made a difference. But I now understand that I was only thirteen and I tried my best. I have also learned, from being a mother myself, that it didn’t matter that our last words were in anger. I know she loved me, just as I still love her.

Valentine Heartbreak

My new relationship isn't working out.

Years ago, I began a love affair. My husband encouraged it. In fact, he had been suggesting it for some time. He knew it would keep me happy during the day and he wanted to watch when he came home from work too.

This love affair was with my ideal boyfriend, Tivo.

My first was a DirecTV Tivo. He didn't have every feature of a full Tivo, but I never missed what I didn't know about. What Tivo did bring made me very happy.

When I wanted to watch something while eating lunch, Tivo gave me a recorded Daily Show from the night before instead of whatever was broadcast at the time. Tivo held season passes for favorite shows and let me watch them with Peter after the kids went to bed. Tivo let me pause TV and skip commercials.

Best of all, Tivo knew me. Tivo paid attention to what I watched and listened to what I liked and didn't like. Tivo would surprise me with suggestions. He would record shows that I liked and similar shows that I might like. He was always surprising me.

But then I got restless. I heard about Fios, a newer, faster service. I knew Fios would replace my cable modem -- Comcast and I had never got on well -- but the idea of Fios TV was appealing as well. I knew Fios meant trading Tivo for a DVR, but it would still record shows and it would play recorded shows in other rooms -- something my DirecTV Tivo didn't do.

I thought there couldn't be that much difference between Tivo and a Fios DVR. I was wrong.

DVR doesn't know me at all. He doesn't care if I like a show or not. He doesn't bring me suggestions, he's hard to communicate with, and he barely listens when I tell him what to do. He frequently lies about the shows that will be on and the descripions he does give are thin and badly written.

DVR hasn't lived up to his promises. He said he would play shows on other TVs, but when he does the other TVs are slow to respond. They frequently become confused and the shows need to be stopped and restarted to continue. Even on his own TV, DVR is often unresponsive and spends ages thinking of answers to my requests.

It may be time to break-up. I haven't told DVR yet, but I've been visiting Tivo's website, checking out what it would take to bring a full Tivo home. I would still need to pay Fios for the service, but I could run it through a real Tivo and kick DVR to the curb.

And so I have spent Valentine's Day plotting a break-up and dreaming of future holidays happily spent with my love, Tivo.

My Name is Now a Verb

The dishwasher is my nemesis. I should love my dishwasher -- it is convenient, it saves me time, and it keeps me from scrubbing dishes all day long. But I have some sort of mental block when it comes to my dishwasher. Some kind of strange, subconscious issue.

I don't know why this happens, repeatedly. But this is my pattern... I unload the dishwasher. I load the dishwasher. I put soap in the dishwasher and close the door. I run hot water in the kitchen sink -- so the dishwasher won't pull cold water. Then, I walk away, mentally crossing a task off my list.

I come back hours later to unload the dishwasher. I open the door to find the soap still in the dispenser. The dishes are still dirty.

I forgot to press start. Again.

This isn't something that I've done once in a while. This is something that is a weekly or multi-weekly occurrence. I think about it while I'm loading the dishwasher, "don't forget to press start, don't forget to press start".

I do remember sometimes -- I'm not completely daft -- but nearly a quarter of the time I leave the room and come back to find the dishwasher silently mocking me with it's unwashed dishes and undissolved soap tab.

The other day, I thought I was having a productive morning. I cleaned up the kitchen, put away my laundry, went to do some yoga. But then, I came back into the kitchen to find Peter smirking at me.

He laughed and said, "Hey, you Susaned the dishwasher again."

Sigh.

Do you think there's a support group for this? Dishwasher Disorders Anonymous?