I don’t write about TV because we don’t have TV (thank God). We have books and writing and board games and cooking and conversations and ping pong. Ah, ping pong. But every now and then something comes along good enough to interrupt those activities for forty minutes. Meet Veronica Mars, the only show I have ever seen that deals so honestly with race, class, single parenthood, pregnancy, abuse, rape, and high school—-and still manages to be funny, sexy, and absolutely unpredictable.
But a large part of why I love Veronica Mars is due to Veronica herself, a short, smart girl from a lower middle class, single parent home who will bug your phone, get you arrested, run over your surfboard, and just generally kick your ass. Veronica reminds me of Buffy, who reminds me of the werewolf sisters from Ginger Snaps, Sarah Polley in the remake of Dawn of the Dead, and a long line of ax-wielding girls. They are not exactly final girls. They don’t have masculine names and they aren’t always after a killer, but they are small and they are angry and they will surprise you.
I’m not diminutive; I’m five foot eight, soaking wet. I’m pretty happy most of the time. I’m quiet. You may not notice me standing here.
That’s fine. My power is stealth. I will—-I hope—-surprise you. One day, whoever you are, you will open a book, turn to a page, and lose your breath. Until that day, I view the setbacks as fuel. Fuel to make me stronger, make me work harder, write better, love fiercer, and hold on even tighter.
Veronica says things and does things I would never dream of doing. But I must say, to the giant mosquito stalking the bedroom and dotting my body with huge, painful bite welts every morning, oh mosquito: two words. GAME ON.