The Social Network

I’ve been on a self-imposed Facebook ban for the past week and a half.  Ironically, the ban was not put into place because I was spending too much time snooping into the lives of friends and acquaintances or because I am clueless as to how to set privacy settings or protect pictures from unwanted eyes. 

No, I went on a Facebook strike after watching “The Social Network,” which may or may not be a somewhat dramatized version of how the pervasive social medium came into existence.   I always thought that whoever started this phenomenon had to be a megalomaniac bent on some form of world domination.  But, since I never cared enough to look into the history behind it, I never realized that Facebook was actually the brainchild of a drunken Harvard student, young enough to be my kid brother, who set out one night to hack a bunch of dorm pages and create a terribly demeaning and demoralizing misogynistic site to get back at his ex-girlfriend who dumped him due to his social ineptitude. 

And from this lofty beginning the story just got worse.  Not only did Mark Zuckerberg begin his social networking site with bad intentions, but he moved on to steal the full concept of a college connections site from his classmates and then continued his unconscionable efforts by eventually cutting out his start-up partner and only friend from any profits once the company made it big.  Many lawsuits later, Zuckerberg, with plenty of money to spare, received nothing more than a reprimand and a nominal settlement penalty that was undoubtedly a mere drop in the proverbial bucket of billions that his company is worth.

Did the movie provide an entertaining documentary look into the making of this current cultural trend?  Uhh, no!  It was disturbing at most and shocking at best.  From the extremely risqué scenes of drunken and drug-laden college behavior across the nation’s top ivy leagues, to the implicit individualistic idea of getting ahead regardless of the cost, the movie just left me feeling devoid of any sympathy for a brilliant man who’s made billions at the expense of others. 

While some might argue that ideas are everywhere and success comes to those who choose to do something with their ideas, I think there are simple human morals that need to dictate who benefits from which ideas.  It seems like what started out for me as an innocent movie review appears to have turned into a ranting social commentary blog post. 

At the end of the day though, there must be some truth to the fact that ill-intentioned ideas can be used for good, like the Facebook posts about different fundraisers, awareness campaigns, or information posted that could actually benefit others.  Even things like keeping in touch with long distance friends or family or celebrating milestones, events, and other successes seem to be a great way for using a network that could go either way.  And with that mental epiphany, it’s time to end my ban and hop into Facebook again in order to “like” my blog post in the hopes that my ramblings might prove interesting to someone out there in cyberspace. J            

  -Suzy Ismail

You know you're getting old when...

Grandparents.  I was fortunate to have good ones who I spent oodles of time with.  And even though they were the best mommom and poppop I could have asked for, there was still something about them that confounded me.  The whole ‘waking up at the crack of dawn even though I’m retired’ thing. 

Please understand, I was busy staying up late studying and working on papers (cough, cough…and talking on the phone to my boyfriend at the time…and reading the latest 800 page fantasy novel published by Del Rey or Tor) and I still had to get up by 7:00 a.m. to get ready for high school/college.  I only dreamed of being graced with the luxury of ‘sleeping in’. 

Yet, every morning, whether weekday or weekend, my mommom would be up before the sun dared to peek over the top of the cemetery near their home, often humming a hymn or two.  She was always certain to get up at least a half hour before my poppop. And I would lie in bed and moan and think to myself, ‘when I retire, I’m going to sleep until noon.’ 

 And so this summer, I had a plan. Heck with waiting for retirement. On the days I didn’t work (I work part time), I was going to sleep in.  My kids are pretty well behaved first thing in the morning and are content to play in their rooms for a while.  Plus they’re old enough that I’m not worried about anyone poking their fingers in outlet sockets or guzzling window cleaner.  I waited eagerly for summer to begin. 

 On the first day of summer, I woke up all on my own, no alarm clock.  I swear I heard a choir of angels singing the Hallelujah chorus!  I examined the bedside clock and gasped in horror.  6:30 a.m.  Same time I got up to take my kids to school.  But I was wide awake!  So I fired up the Keurig and flopped in my chaise lounge (otherwise known as Mama’s Throne) and opened up my laptop.  Ah, my laptop.  My favorite present my husband ever bought me.  And there I was, just after six thirty in the morning, snuggled up with a mug of Donut Shop coffee splashed with a smidgen of half and half.  The only noise in my house or  the entire neighborhood was the happy hum of my computer—I’d found utter delight in the early hours of morning, much like my mommom, who woke up extra early just to have some quiet time with a cup of coffee, instant Taster’s Choice no less <she gags> , and the newspaper. 

 Swirling some caffeinated joy around in my mouth, I checked my email, my blog, Facebook, and last but not least, I proof-read whatever words of fiction I’d conjured the night before.  A bit of Heaven on earth.

Looking back now, far too late to tell her I concur, I’ve discovered my mommom was quite a wise woman.  The wee hours of the morning (as my mommom would say) have turned out to be my moments of peace and sanctuary.  I guess that makes me officially old.  Oh well.  Worse things to be. 

--Suzi Ryan 

                 

               

In Predawn Darkness

It’s 5:00 am and as I sit here typing, I can’t help but wonder why I am punishing myself by sitting in the cold downstairs office feeling a pressing need to do something.  The house is silent except for the tiny waterfall cadence of the fish tank filter.  The thought flits through my mind that the filter needs to be changed along with a thousand other things that should be taken care of; the dishes in the sink, the dirty laundry in the hampers, the exams and papers that need to be graded, the book that needs to be edited, the chapters that need to be written, the girl scout badges that need to be sewn on, the soccer uniform that needs to be mended and a million other things that need to be done.  Instead, I sit here, shivering slightly and typing away.

Each day begins with this usual sanity-saving ritualistic routine; the early waking up, the pre-sunrise prayers, the moments to make my mental to-do list and the built-in “me” time that precludes any logging in.  In those early morning moments, it’s the silence that I relish… the quiet so loud that it’s only slightly broken up by the tap, tap, tapping of the keys on the keyboard.  Like the chanting mantra of a studied yogi, this is where I find my peace.  An extra hour of sleep seems like a small sacrifice for the chance to do something that doesn’t need to be done.  In less than two hours, I know that the Jekyll and Hyde transformation of my sanctuary will begin as every corner is filled with the rowdy getting-ready-for-the-day shouts of my husband and three children chasing each other down the stairs, crashing into the office, and filling every corner with their impossible to ignore presence.  This alone is enough motivation for the keyboard clicking to double its pace.

Yet, as much as I relish the rambunctious noise and crazy schedules that fill the day and leave me utterly exhausted after my emails and online classes are wrapped up by midnight, I can’t help but look out into the early predawn darkness and hope for an extra moment of quiet before the sun starts streaming through the cherry wood blinds, urging my lightning bolts to wake up.  It’s the calm before the storm.  As minutes change to hours, I find myself bracing for the deluge and mentally prepare for the start of another insane day.  And with that thought, the calm begins to break before the thin line of dawn even winds its way through the dark skies.  Soon enough, I hear the clichéd pitter-patter of three pairs of little feet, sounding more like the stomping of sleepy elephants, making their way towards me.

Deep breath… big smile… it looks like an early start today. J

     -Suzy Ismail

On the fast track

So my friend Suzy recently finished observing Ramadan, a month of daylight fasting.  And we started chatting about fasting and whether or not Christians fast. I’ve had a few thoughts.

My Catholic friends are all very accustomed to fasting during the Lenten season, forty days from Ash Wednesday to Easter.  Unlike Ramadan where no food or drink can be taken in during daylight hours, Catholics during lent give up something in their lives as a sacrifice to God.  My dear Catholic friend (one who I have had many enlightening Catholic/Protestant debates with over the years) feels that fasting during Lent draws her closer to the Lord instead of the things of this earth. 

So what about me, a Protestant Christian?  I have fasted before in similar to Lent mechanics.  I always give up my greatest temptation, sweets.  That’s what hurts the most (check out my hips if you don’t believe me).  I start out by letting God know:  I tell him what exactly I’m giving up (I need to be precise, otherwise I find ways to cheat), I tell God for how long, (this gives me a finish line to keep my focus, and anyone who knows me, knows I have focus issues) and most importantly, I let God know why I’m doing it.  I present my specific prayer request since in the Bible fasting and praying go together like chocolate and peanut butter.  See, how hard giving up sweets is for me?  So, I’ve found in my own life, that fasting is my way of letting God know that a specific prayer request is extra important to me. 

  -Suzi Ryan

Would love comments on your own personal experiences with fasting. 

The Little Things...

As I stare at the blank open document and wonder what thoughts or random musings I should sprinkle upon it today, I take a long and drawn-out sip of lovely morning coffee and hear a contented little sigh escape from my happy lips.  And then it hits me… I don’t need to wax and wane about some monumental topic.  Sometimes it’s the little things in life that mean the most. 

I know that line sounds like something I stole off a Hallmark greeting card (no, I don’t mean the ones that play gaudy music and have bawdy bathroom humor birthday wishes—I mean the other kind with the clichéd rainbows and butterflies sending get well wishes your way--- although the singing bathroom humor ones often spout more wisdom than the others).  Anyway, I swear I’m not posting about rainbows or butterflies or even the little smiles our kids’ might put on our faces with their out-of-place innocently funny comments (now there’s another post just begging to be written).

The little things I’m talking about are that first sip of morning coffee, that tiny bite of dark chocolate cake that you may think twice about and then sink your teeth into with utter abandon, or that extra few minutes of sleep that you squeeze in once you’ve hit the snooze button seven times more than you should have (but subconsciously you know it’s okay because you’ve set your upstairs alarm clock to be 10 minutes fast just in case).  The funny thing though, is sometimes it takes some serious stepping away from the good stuff to know how good the stuff really is (not necessarily breaking up with the chocolate or coffee—but maybe just taking a break).

A few weeks ago, my mind, body, and soul went through the annual “break” of Ramadan.  Yep, it’s that month of fasting that many people know has something to do with Muslims, but aren’t quite sure what it entails exactly.  It’s the month where no food or drink is allowed for observant Muslims from sunrise to sunset every day.  Since the Islamic months are based on a lunar calendar, the month of Ramadan changes every year.  This year the month began in mid-August with sunrise tolling in at around 4 am and sunset extending past 8:00 pm.  Difficult to go through all those hours with no food and drink, you ask?  Yes… and no.  The food and drink are the easy parts after the first few days of your body adjusting to a different intake level.  It’s the spiritual part that’s a bit trickier.  The Muslim fast is about more than just learning patience and self-discipline; it’s also about focusing on the good things you’ve got in life and realizing that others do live without the basics every day.  It’s quite an eye, heart, and pocket-opener on an empty stomach.  It’ also amazing how changing something simple like an often mindless routine of eating and drinking can completely change entire perspectives, thought processes, and actions.

As I reach over for another “ahhhhhh” sip of my French vanilla flavored coffee, I realize that the little things don’t seem so little when you’ve taken a break from them.  Mixing things up and stepping away from routine is such an awesome awakener when you’re stuck in a rut.  Funny, but I’m suddenly feeling a serious craving for a bite of dark chocolate cake.  Looks like a great time for another “ahhhhh” moment. J

  -Suzy Ismail

From A Totally Team Edward Fan

Ahhhh… the Stephenie Meyer phenomenon.  Just how many writing phoenixes must have arisen from the ashes of the tortured Bella, Edward, and Jacob saga with a little light bulb and an “Aha!” moment of “maybe I can do this too?” The beauty of the Twilight books was not limited to the “cha-ching” sound jingling in the well-lined pockets of agents, publishers, and merchandisers who jumped on the sparkly vampire bandwagon.  Instead, Meyers’ stories provided great fodder for a massive exodus of closet writers and sworn-off readers who concealed their copies of teeny-bopper romance novels behind the New York Times on their train rides into work or on the park benches while their children played, (although my cover-up of choice was actually The Wall Street Journal).

What was astounding to me as I breezed through the series was that a nearing middle-aged mom of three was able to single-handedly incite a mass following of adoring fans through her writing.  This had to be a clear sign that there was hope for us all.

And in that same vein of hope, I forced fingers to keyboard and began to type, type, type—but a love saga was as far away as possible from what I happened to spill out onto the pages.  Part social commentary, part self-help book, and completely not children’s book, even I was surprised by where my fingers took me when I first restarted that writing journey. 

I guess there’s a lesson in there somewhere.  Something corny along the lines of follow your dreams and find the rainbow or the silver lining or maybe the chicken that crossed the road.  Moving beyond mixed-up metaphors, though, I think there’s a more important message, which may not be so lame-o.  I set out wanting to write another children’s fiction book—preferably MG—so that I wouldn’t have to get caught up in a decidedly uncomfortable PG-13 scene.  Yet, somehow I found myself writing an adult book about divorce cases among Muslim couples instead.  Way to veer off course, right? 

The funny thing was that after all was said and done and the book was published, I realized that the course I’d originally charted was probably not the best one to begin with.  So, in the spirit of rolling with the punches, I’ve resigned myself to accepting the fact that the next Harry Potter or Twilight Saga may not be what comes gently gliding off my printer.  But, whatever does happen to make its way off my keyboard and onto the semi-permanence of clean white paper, will in itself be a small victory.  Because every time I write, I know that I am putting a small piece of myself out into the world and just waiting to see what the world might have to say in return.  So, even if there isn’t quite a resounding “cha-ching,” a Hollywood contract, or a mass following, there is that satisfaction that a nearing middle-aged mom of three put something out there that may eventually gain an adoring fan—even if that fan is just herself.

-Suzy Ismail

Thank you Stephenie Meyer

I was a holdout.  A naysayer.  A denier.  I was too much of a snob to get involved in a cultural phenomenon (Star Wars was enough for me, thank you).  But sitting at a family barbeque, I was a clueless idiot.  My teen niece was hanging with the much more ‘in the know’ aunts, passionately discussing Edward, Bella, and Jacob.  And I had nothing to add.  I knew nothing of this.  Even my insanely intelligent sister -in-law from West Virginia was hooked.  I felt <gasp> left out.

So I did it.  I jumped into the ocean of Stephenie Meyer.  Well, I must confess I dipped my pedicured big toe in the water first by watching Twilight on DVD.  And it was okay.  Quite honestly, the best parts for me were the longing stares—across the cafeteria, across the parking lot, in the hallway, etc.  And so, with trepidation swirling in my belly, I went to Target and picked up the first book. 

And I read like a reformed cocaine addict who’d just fallen off the wagon (I purposely did not use heroin as an example because of one of my most despised lines in literary fiction—you know the one, all you Twi-hards.  Sorry Steph).  The only thing I’d read in five years was Sandra Boynton board books (Barnyard Dance is my favorite, just in case you were wondering).  And so, I devoured Twilight in less than a day and found myself again at Target (how did I ever live without Target?) with New Moon firmly gripped in my hands, spittle dribbling from my chin.  I needed another fix.  One hit was most assuredly not enough. 

Prior to even finishing New Moon, I found myself once again standing in line, my head fuzzy from the literary high.  Eclipse and Breaking Dawn were happily scooting down the check out conveyer belt and I wielded my credit card like a sword.  The woman running the register rolled her eyes at me.  She apparently had seen many in my demented, strung out state.  I was one of “them” now. 

Fast forward.  I finished all four books, though I confess Eclipse and the last fourth of Breaking Dawn was absolutely painful (so sorry Steph).  Much can be said of the journey.  I could talk for hours now about Edward, Bella, and hunky, ‘loved him better with long hair’ Jacob.  Can’t tell which team I was on, can you? 

But the journey for me was an inward one.  I was once again the same chick (albeit it a much fatter chick) from high school and college who stayed up ‘til three a.m. because I just couldn’t put down Terry Brooks or Tad Williams.

And so I stand before you now, a book-loving phoenix, arisen from the ashes of children’s rhyming books*, a born again bibliophile. 

For that, Stephenie Meyer, I sincerely thank you.   

(*No books of any kind were actually harmed in the writing of this post)

-Suzi Ryan