If you’re an indie writer or creative type in general and you haven’t heard Rachel Thompson’s name mentioned yet, you’re in for a treat. The self-proclaimed “Bad Redhead” is one of the sharpest indie satirists and social commentators going – as evidenced by not one but, two best-selling books on Amazon - but, I’ll let her get into that herself.
More than a writer, she’s also a well-regarded social media consultant (see BadRedhead Media badge on the right). Her easy to follow, no-nonsense approach is great resource for both rookies and seasoned social media vets looking to refine their game.
Rachel and I have worked together on a number of occasions over the past couple of years. She has appeared on my show more than once and generously teed up additional interviews for me with some wicked cool buddies of hers. She even let me horse around with a couple of “Kindergarten Nonsense” guest posts on her blog too.
As such, I could think of no other person that I’d rather have on for the first ever Cutting Room Floor “Guest Post”. The fact that she’s about to point her laser at the old “chick flick” genre is a big bonus. Enjoy!
Rachel, the floor is yours……
Why Chick Flicks Suck:
I’m not a big ‘girly movie’ fan. Mostly because I think the stories are usually insipidly stupid, unrealistic, and rarely move me. And, as a strong independent woman, most insult my intelligence and feminist leanings.
Steel Magnolias, that video bastion of female bonding, made me want to barf. I laughed at the graveyard scene because it was so obviously manipulative (though I do love the line, “I love you more than my luggage,” most likely because of the intrinsic sarcasm), not to mention how pretty and perfect they all looked. (In fact, I was kinda happy when they killed off Julia Robert’s character, Shelby. Did you see that hair?)
(I should note that I do give the film props for making the male characters beside the point.)
Maybe it’s the nonfiction writer in me (I have two bestsellers on Amazon: A Walk in the Snark and The Mancode: Exposed), but I need some guts to clench when I watch a film. Not that I’m a horror buff, either. More of a sci-fi chick, actually (give me Blade Runner or The Fifth Element anytime, thanks).
However, I’m probably in the minority.
And yet, when it comes to watching movies at home or the occasional TV show, I admit to picking girlier stuff (sports? No. History channel? No. Car stuff? God, no.). But sit me down with The Proposal (‘Did you see Ryan Reynolds’s abs?’ my friend asked. Me: No, I was too busy ogling her shoes), or an ‘America’s Next Top Model’ marathon and I’m stuck.
Of course, that brings comments from the peanut gallery, known as My Husband. ‘Why is she wearing that?’ or ‘What’s she crying about?’ or ‘Who got kicked off?’ (I’d know if I COULD HEAR THE SHOW I silently say with my stink-eye).
‘Shhhh!’ I’ll hiss at him. Doesn’t he know that I need to hear every word uttered by these women in the contest of their lives? Doesn’t he get that I must know which mascara they used to get drop-dead lashes?
My guy says no. It’s Chickspeak.
And perhaps he is right. He does not speak makeup. Or clothing or shoes. If he did, he’d understand why I need another pair of black heels or peachy lip-gloss.
Hey, I’m thrilled he remembered to buy the Nutella.
I tell him no, it goes deeper than that. As a five-foot four woman who has birthed two children, I’m in awe of these amazons who can eat everything and gain nary an ounce. Who can never take off their makeup and still have flawless skin. Who, despite incredible beauty, and who hope to make money off that gift, are just as messed up as the rest of us (if not more so)?
Despite the pictures these girls take, they are, in the end, susceptible to real-life just as much as all humans whose legs are not a mile long.
When we lived in New York at the beginning of our marriage, we sometimes ate at a trendy sushi place called Fujiama Mama’s. The food was good and it was a fun place to people watch.
Well, one night in walks Robin Leach (caviar dreams dude) with supermodel Linda Evangelista (top 80s supermodel who changed her hair color a lot), and another model I didn’t recognize. In that setting, she looked like a very tall, very skinny bird (especially next to him). Husband had of course no clue who they were (Mancode), but couldn’t believe she was a world-famous model.
She looked like a scarecrow (with stringy blonde hair and no makeup), albeit one with a big nose.
I loved that.
Not because she didn’t look beautiful, like we see in all the airbrushed ads, but because she went out for dinner at a place ‘to be seen,’ and she looked like crap.
But so what? It was a huge awakening for me as a woman. If someone who is paid $10,000 per day to look like that, us normal chicks need to step up and look like crap, too. Perhaps she’s the definition of feminism, in a way.
It was a truly real moment.
Of course, Husband had no idea what I was talking about. He couldn’t understand what the big deal was about her.
Besides, he has forevermore referred to her as The Nose.
Even though I’m an avid fiction reader and love a good story (movie or book), the above experience is just one example of why I’m fascinated by nonfiction. Life is much more interesting and messy than fiction. People are unpredictable, unlike a chick flick where the girl is pretty and always gets the man.
Of course, I still want to know where she got the shoes.