The Lesson I Learned From My Impromptu One-Line Role on House of Cards

If you opened up this blog post because of the title, I might as well admit right up front: It’s a lie. Sorry, kids, but that’s showbiz.

Since you’re here though, you might as well keep reading… Right?

The truth is that House of Cards is filming its Season 3 finale in my office building this week, two and three floors below me. I’m just not allowed anywhere near the actors. Apparently, someone got ahold of my police record from the time I threw myself at Gerard Butler and declared my undying love for his shoulders. And accent. And abs.

Okay. That’s a lie too: the part about the restraining order, I mean. The rest is true. So true that I was prevented from entering my office this morning by two very nice but very firm House of Cards security personnel. Apparently, the show was in the middle of shooting a scene and it was “quiet on the set” for another three minutes.

Once I was allowed in, I had to snake my way up the backstairs, past camera crew and other techies to the fourth floor. I didn’t get to see much, and I definitely didn’t get a glimpse of Kevin Spacey or Robin Wright, but what I saw wasn’t that much of a turn-on.

That’s not meant as a slam against any of the dozens of additional individuals at my office building. The ones I’ve briefly interacted with seem pleasant (and one of them apparently told off one of my more obnoxious coworkers, which makes me giggle). Not to mention that the food platters I saw set up for cast and crew looked delicious.

All the same, it was a madhouse! There were people everywhere: outside lining the sidewalk, around the front and back doors, inside… This little introvert-writer wasn’t overwhelmed, but I also wasn’t craving what I saw (except for the food. That really did look good).

There was no Little Mermaid moment for me: I really have no desire to be part of that world.

Then again, I’ve never understood the appeal of Hollywood. I don’t care how many gorgeous mansions they get to live in or dresses they get to wear or cars they get to drive; they’re also told what they’re allowed to weigh, do and even be.

“Don’t stand like that, honey. The camera doesn’t like you from this angle.” “Let’s Photoshop that nose; it could be a lot more attractive if we just…” “She’s thirty-two now. Cast her as a mother. That’s all she’s good for anymore.”

Those are the kinds of comments you get to hear when you’re in front of the camera. Hence the reason why I think it’s so much more worthwhile to be a writer, where I call the shots.

The only tempting aspect about having even an impromptu one-line role on House of Cards is that maybe… just maybe… I’d be able to help myself to those food platters.

Sabrina Is As Human As a Faerie Can Be: A Rant Against Hollywood-Style Feminism

I’m going to go off on a writer’s rant for today’s blogpost about how I really can’t stand Hollywood sometimes, especially when it comes to how it portrays women.

No, I’m not going to accuse it of baring all our assets all the time, turning us into a closed box of bedroom fantasy characters. Though that’s true too.

I’m actually going to take issue with how kick-derriere those bedroom-fantasy heroines are these days. They’re physically, emotionally, psychologically and intellectually capable of handling just about anything that comes their way.

In other words, they’re not really human. They’re false portrayals of what feminism can be, giving women everywhere the idea that we can constantly bend a boardroom of hostile coworkers to our will, turn the tables on four – count them: four – bad guys who have us trussed up in an old warehouse without messing up a single hair on our head, and manage our personal lives with the casual cool of… well… someone who has the patent out on being casually cool.

Clearly, I’m running low on awesome metaphors today. I suppose that means I don’t qualify for Hollywood-style feminism. Which just happens to be my point: I’m usually a confident woman, but I do have my limits. There’s no way I can take on everything under the sun.

In writing her dark and twisted novels, including run-away bestseller “Gone Girl,” Gillian Flynn had this to say about how she portrays women: “Isn’t it time to acknowledge the ugly side? I’ve grown quite weary of the spunky heroines, brave rape victims [and] soul-searching fashionistas that stock so many books.”

While I still quite like my spunky heroines, I understand exactly what Flynn means: Women aren’t perfect. (Before you get all cocky, boys, neither are you.) So why try to depict us otherwise? What’s so wrong with just being human… capable of good, evil and mediocrity?

Now admittedly, with her superior faerie strength, Sabrina does have a physical edge on us non-winged women. And she also successfully handles a lot of psychological stuff in “To Err Is Faerie.”

But as any instructor at Langley will tell you, everyone has their breaking point. And I’m sure if they knew about faeries’ existence, they wouldn’t amend that statement one bit.

My writer’s philosophy is that fiction should reflect reality, even in the fantasy genre. Which is why Sabrina isn’t consistently kick-derriere throughout the Faerietales series. She falls, she breaks, and she needs help putting herself back together sometimes.

Because faerie or not, she’s still quite human in the sense that she’s mortal. Unlike Hollywood-style feminism.