I mentioned how recently I've been getting a gazillion emails a day from retailers who wish to sell me their merchandise for the holidays? Well, I am on the email list of Spanx. You know, the "shapewear" (i.e. let's not call a girdle and controltop tights a girdle and controltop tights) people? And in my email box RIGHT NOW I have a missive entitled "It's the Most Wonderful Time for the Rear!"
R U Serious? Someone signed off on that groan-inducer?
I think this is one of those cases in which really bad advertising would actually deter me from buying what is in reality a good product. Especially when they go on to tell me that I should give myself "the ultimate gift of lift". Who the fuck thinks this is clever? I'm just...wow.
xoxo
P.S. I scared myself yesterday listing how behind I was on Christmas, so I went out and bought almost all my son's stocking stuffers. That's something, right?
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
varied things
1.) I realized yesterday that there's a simple test to tell what kind of person you are. If you are in line at a store and the cashier hands you back your change or credit card and/or receipt and/or coupons and you need to sort these things out and put them in your wallet or bag, do you step to the side to do so in order for the person behind you to be taken care of, or do you stand where you are, clogging up the wheels of progress for the next minute and a half? It's along the lines of, do you say please and thank you to your waiter and tip decently for adequate service? or if you are driving and not in a terrible hurry because you are late for an appointment or some such, do you at least occasionally stop and let someone pull out in front of you? or do you offer your seat on the T to the elderly person, the obviously pregnant woman, or the parent trying to balance a 2 year old on their hip? You know, the How Rude and Self-Centered Are You? quiz. More people fail these tests than you, my polite and generous readers, may imagine.
2.) Also, yesterday. I got a check in the mail for 11 dollars and change for something I wrote in 1996. Oh, the lulz. Do you remember me telling you that I realized a few months ago that an anthology I was in years ago was on the kindle? I think this is my royalties for that. Though there was no accompanying letter or any indication on the check, so I'm just assuming. See? I'm still a real writer, goddamnit.
3.) An email that I received and read yesterday is mysteriously not in my old mail, my recently deleted mail, or my saved mail. It's just...gone. Huh.
4.) I got my new netbook yesterday. Did I tell you? I ordered one for myself that's just like the one I got D for his birthday last spring. Except his is brown and mine is orange. For less than $300, you really cannot go wrong. Now my computing is mobile again. Prepare yourself for the resumption of posts written from my bed, bitches. I still kinda want an Amazon Fire thingy when they come out, though. Although, I've heard a lot of people saying they're gonna wait for the second generation because it will probably have 3G. Not that I really understand what 3G is or how it works or why I would really need it.
5.) I have SO MUCH trash to put out after the whole basement trauma and, because Monday is a holiday, I can't even do it till Tuesday. It's all in my garage, getting stinky in there. :sad face: I'm toying with the idea of having the 1-800-gotjunk guys come out again, because I still have stuff in the basement that I can't otherwise get rid of, like two old mattresses and a broken recliner. It's muy expensive, though. :sad face again:
6.) I don't know what I did squatting yesterday, but the left side of my butt really hurts. And I thought I would share.
7.) I wanted the Phillies to win. Sigh. All my other teams won though. I want a Brewers-Rangers World Series. Let's see how that pans out.
Happy Columbus Day weekend, all y'all.
xoxo
2.) Also, yesterday. I got a check in the mail for 11 dollars and change for something I wrote in 1996. Oh, the lulz. Do you remember me telling you that I realized a few months ago that an anthology I was in years ago was on the kindle? I think this is my royalties for that. Though there was no accompanying letter or any indication on the check, so I'm just assuming. See? I'm still a real writer, goddamnit.
3.) An email that I received and read yesterday is mysteriously not in my old mail, my recently deleted mail, or my saved mail. It's just...gone. Huh.
4.) I got my new netbook yesterday. Did I tell you? I ordered one for myself that's just like the one I got D for his birthday last spring. Except his is brown and mine is orange. For less than $300, you really cannot go wrong. Now my computing is mobile again. Prepare yourself for the resumption of posts written from my bed, bitches. I still kinda want an Amazon Fire thingy when they come out, though. Although, I've heard a lot of people saying they're gonna wait for the second generation because it will probably have 3G. Not that I really understand what 3G is or how it works or why I would really need it.
5.) I have SO MUCH trash to put out after the whole basement trauma and, because Monday is a holiday, I can't even do it till Tuesday. It's all in my garage, getting stinky in there. :sad face: I'm toying with the idea of having the 1-800-gotjunk guys come out again, because I still have stuff in the basement that I can't otherwise get rid of, like two old mattresses and a broken recliner. It's muy expensive, though. :sad face again:
6.) I don't know what I did squatting yesterday, but the left side of my butt really hurts. And I thought I would share.
7.) I wanted the Phillies to win. Sigh. All my other teams won though. I want a Brewers-Rangers World Series. Let's see how that pans out.
Happy Columbus Day weekend, all y'all.
xoxo
Friday, May 27, 2011
a line has been crossed
That could apply to a lot of things this week, but Ima just discuss one.
I don't know whether I discussed it in the blog or not, but in debating the pros and cons of getting a kindle, Mr Indemnity and I mused that one of the pros was the ability to bring pr0n--excuse me, EROTICA--anywhere and read it in public without embarrassing oneself. A small point in the kindle's favor, but a point nevertheless. Well, yesterday, after owning my device for six months, I broke down and for $1.99, bought myself a piece of literary smut. As an experiment. And because I needed a little inspiration last night, if you know what I mean and I'm sure you lot do. And this is my reaction:
Are you fucking kidding me?
People buy and sell this stuff? I am very sure that with the right amount of effort (i.e. barely none) I could have found for free, on the internet, "erotica" of similar literary merit (i.e. absolutely none.) [But it got its job done in the inspiration department, so what the hell am I complaining about?] The idea that I could, if I were the enterprising type, just write down a bunch of my sordid sexual fantasies without any attention to plausibility, plot, characterization, or for godsake, spelling, slap them up on kindle self-publishing under a pseudonym and get people looking for wank material to pony up $1.99 for them is both tantalizing and upsetting. As you all know, I have written smut, but it was smut that was labored over with as much care as any other piece of fiction I ever wrote. They were actual stories***. I couldn't write one in a couple of free hours, is what I'm saying.
But, having crossed the self-respect line far enough to purchase this shiz for my kindle, could I cross the self-respect line a little further and bang out (unintentional pun, I swear to god) this dreck for money? Lord knows, extra money for very little effort would be awesome. You kids know I like to buy stuff and I don't use credit. But this is the writing equivalent of prostitution, I fear, and more the crack ho than the high-class escort type. I'm really tempted and yet horrified by being tempted.
xoxo
***my very favorite review of anything I ever wrote was by a somewhat well-known genre writer who, in his blog, said the story I had published in the erotica webzine his also somewhat famous author wife was editing was so good that it wasn't until after you finished it that you realized that it was kinda, technically, furry pr0n. Heh. [It was a takeoff on Goldilocks and the Three Bears, dudes. Papa and Mama Bear were status-conscious yuppies and Goldilocks was their internet sex slave. It was hilarious. But with dirty parts. It took a while to write. There was a lot of pointed satire in with the wank material. That's all I'm sayin'.]
I don't know whether I discussed it in the blog or not, but in debating the pros and cons of getting a kindle, Mr Indemnity and I mused that one of the pros was the ability to bring pr0n--excuse me, EROTICA--anywhere and read it in public without embarrassing oneself. A small point in the kindle's favor, but a point nevertheless. Well, yesterday, after owning my device for six months, I broke down and for $1.99, bought myself a piece of literary smut. As an experiment. And because I needed a little inspiration last night, if you know what I mean and I'm sure you lot do. And this is my reaction:
Are you fucking kidding me?
People buy and sell this stuff? I am very sure that with the right amount of effort (i.e. barely none) I could have found for free, on the internet, "erotica" of similar literary merit (i.e. absolutely none.) [But it got its job done in the inspiration department, so what the hell am I complaining about?] The idea that I could, if I were the enterprising type, just write down a bunch of my sordid sexual fantasies without any attention to plausibility, plot, characterization, or for godsake, spelling, slap them up on kindle self-publishing under a pseudonym and get people looking for wank material to pony up $1.99 for them is both tantalizing and upsetting. As you all know, I have written smut, but it was smut that was labored over with as much care as any other piece of fiction I ever wrote. They were actual stories***. I couldn't write one in a couple of free hours, is what I'm saying.
But, having crossed the self-respect line far enough to purchase this shiz for my kindle, could I cross the self-respect line a little further and bang out (unintentional pun, I swear to god) this dreck for money? Lord knows, extra money for very little effort would be awesome. You kids know I like to buy stuff and I don't use credit. But this is the writing equivalent of prostitution, I fear, and more the crack ho than the high-class escort type. I'm really tempted and yet horrified by being tempted.
xoxo
***my very favorite review of anything I ever wrote was by a somewhat well-known genre writer who, in his blog, said the story I had published in the erotica webzine his also somewhat famous author wife was editing was so good that it wasn't until after you finished it that you realized that it was kinda, technically, furry pr0n. Heh. [It was a takeoff on Goldilocks and the Three Bears, dudes. Papa and Mama Bear were status-conscious yuppies and Goldilocks was their internet sex slave. It was hilarious. But with dirty parts. It took a while to write. There was a lot of pointed satire in with the wank material. That's all I'm sayin'.]
Monday, March 21, 2011
what's new, pussycat?
Can I just tell you, I went to the new TJMaxx yesterday and bought a very cute shirt, which I am wearing even as I type, and a pair of jeans that depressed me highly? Just keep your comments about why a person would buy pants that depress them to yourselves please. Anyway, the thing is/was that I didn't have a pair of tight jeans anymore, suitable for going out and so forth. All my jeans that I wear day-to-day that fit are kinda loose, which is fine for the supermarket or the mall, but not for when you want to get dressed up. All my male readers are now going, "What is this concept of dressy 'going out' jeans you speak of?" (Except perhaps Mr Indemnity, because I think in all our years of friendship and my advising him on his wardrobe, I finally indoctrinated him in this.) Just take it on faith, male persons: a girl needs going out jeans.
These jeans I ended up buying are very silly and I should probably be embarrassed to wear them in any case. They are very low waisted, which is okay since I've got no muffin top, bitches, but not so okay in that, one wrong move, and underwear exposure or butt crack. They also have bling on the back pockets. You people know I have an unnatural affinity for bling. It's almost a sickness. They were also pretty damn cheap in comparison to what I usually pay for my jeans. But what made me sad, so sad, is that while these jeans look awesome from the front and okay from the side, from the back it is apparent that my saddlebag goo is still in full force. It's very discouraging. I cannot afford to lose any more weight. I have been working hard in the gym for seven months. That the backs of my legs still look that bad makes me want to cry, because I can't see what I could possibly be doing better. I'm keeping them as inspiration pants, with the hope that someday I'll actually look sexeh in them. Like I said, I'm out of ideas on how I'm gonna accomplish that, but whatever.
Also new? I actually have been writing for real again! I dug out a story that has been unfinished for literally years and over the past week wrote 3300 new words. That's the good news. The bad news is I still don't know what happens in the end. It'll come to me!
And also new? My national certification in massage therapy, which is good for 4 years at a time, was due to be up this month. M2 and G did their recerts in January after we all took a cheap online ethics course (because of your required CEUs, six have to be ethics ::insert eyeroll here::) I got my stuff together and mailed my recert stuff in February. Basically they want a list of your CEUs, which I had all in one nice folder which I knew exactly where it was--I bet you are surprised, aren't you, bitches?, and they wanted to know how many massages you've done per year in the last four years and where. You are supposed to keep track of that. Let us just say, I have not. But after a couple of days of going through calendars, old emails, and a notebook I had when I worked for the evil massage place, I was able to make a good honest guess. You do not have to provide any proof with your application unless you are selected to be audited. Then they want logs with clients' names blacked out, plus a letter from any place you worked at, testifying to that fact.
Well, you know I immediately freaked out when I saw the random audit threat. While I could recreate logs of all the massages I have done on my own--and if I made a mistake with a date here or there, who'd know?--I could never get a letter from those evil massage bastards (who hopefully are in federal prison by now) and while I have a list of most of my clients there, I have no idea what dates they were seen. M2 assured me that she thinks the random audit threat is just a threat and that she thinks no one gets audited unless they've also filled out the section asking if you've been arrested or sued. Or if your check doesn't clear. She's far less freaked out by this kind of thing than I am. So, anyway, I asked her the last time I saw her how long it took her to get a response, because I had, at that point, probably mailed my stuff in 10 days prior. She said that it took longer than that and not to worry. Well. What did I get in my email this morning, but confirmation that they had received my packet and that, unless they need further info from me, I should get my new certificate in the mail in three to four weeks. Cross your fingers I do NOT hear anything from them till my certificate arrives. And, btw? Apparently they do not move swiftly. It's gotta be a month now since I mailed that stuff.
Okay, I am sure this was all very fascinating. Carry on.
xoxo
These jeans I ended up buying are very silly and I should probably be embarrassed to wear them in any case. They are very low waisted, which is okay since I've got no muffin top, bitches, but not so okay in that, one wrong move, and underwear exposure or butt crack. They also have bling on the back pockets. You people know I have an unnatural affinity for bling. It's almost a sickness. They were also pretty damn cheap in comparison to what I usually pay for my jeans. But what made me sad, so sad, is that while these jeans look awesome from the front and okay from the side, from the back it is apparent that my saddlebag goo is still in full force. It's very discouraging. I cannot afford to lose any more weight. I have been working hard in the gym for seven months. That the backs of my legs still look that bad makes me want to cry, because I can't see what I could possibly be doing better. I'm keeping them as inspiration pants, with the hope that someday I'll actually look sexeh in them. Like I said, I'm out of ideas on how I'm gonna accomplish that, but whatever.
Also new? I actually have been writing for real again! I dug out a story that has been unfinished for literally years and over the past week wrote 3300 new words. That's the good news. The bad news is I still don't know what happens in the end. It'll come to me!
And also new? My national certification in massage therapy, which is good for 4 years at a time, was due to be up this month. M2 and G did their recerts in January after we all took a cheap online ethics course (because of your required CEUs, six have to be ethics ::insert eyeroll here::) I got my stuff together and mailed my recert stuff in February. Basically they want a list of your CEUs, which I had all in one nice folder which I knew exactly where it was--I bet you are surprised, aren't you, bitches?, and they wanted to know how many massages you've done per year in the last four years and where. You are supposed to keep track of that. Let us just say, I have not. But after a couple of days of going through calendars, old emails, and a notebook I had when I worked for the evil massage place, I was able to make a good honest guess. You do not have to provide any proof with your application unless you are selected to be audited. Then they want logs with clients' names blacked out, plus a letter from any place you worked at, testifying to that fact.
Well, you know I immediately freaked out when I saw the random audit threat. While I could recreate logs of all the massages I have done on my own--and if I made a mistake with a date here or there, who'd know?--I could never get a letter from those evil massage bastards (who hopefully are in federal prison by now) and while I have a list of most of my clients there, I have no idea what dates they were seen. M2 assured me that she thinks the random audit threat is just a threat and that she thinks no one gets audited unless they've also filled out the section asking if you've been arrested or sued. Or if your check doesn't clear. She's far less freaked out by this kind of thing than I am. So, anyway, I asked her the last time I saw her how long it took her to get a response, because I had, at that point, probably mailed my stuff in 10 days prior. She said that it took longer than that and not to worry. Well. What did I get in my email this morning, but confirmation that they had received my packet and that, unless they need further info from me, I should get my new certificate in the mail in three to four weeks. Cross your fingers I do NOT hear anything from them till my certificate arrives. And, btw? Apparently they do not move swiftly. It's gotta be a month now since I mailed that stuff.
Okay, I am sure this was all very fascinating. Carry on.
xoxo
Monday, March 7, 2011
literary endeavors
So, bitches, I am still all excited by this kindle self-publishing thing and have been wasting spending much time investigating it. I found a whole website, not owned by amazon, devoted to nothing but discussing the kindle and which contains a subforum for people who write for the kindle. It's a busy, busy place. Suddenly I feel like, whoa, there's a whole nother world I knew nothing about. (Kinda like when I found the hoarder-people's message boards!) There is all this helpful chatter about designing your ebook cover and publicizing and "tags" and pricing and writing a good "product description," which is to say, your blurb.
And the latter sent me to the amazon kindle store to actually read some and to see what genre classifications amazon has and what was selling in them. One thing led to another and I was looking at the erotica titles (which, best thing ever to put on your kindle if you think about it--no humiliating covers to worry about in public, yo). And there I found that, Oh Em Gee, you can already buy something for your kindle that was (partially) authored by me. And under my real name, too!
You see, boys and girls, many years ago--1996 to be exact--one of the first stories I ever sold was to an anthology of literary scifi erotica (shut UP). Now being that it was 1996, the internet was, if not in its infancy, at least still wearing pullups, if you know what I mean. There was absolutely no conception in the average person's mind that it would grow to be the kind of thing where you could find out anything about anyone forever, you know? I felt perfectly comfortable about putting my whole full name on this staggering work of smutty genius because anyone who was going to read it would have had to go looking for small press literary scifi erotica, and if they happened to be any of my relatives, co-workers, or neighbors, well, hell, they'd have to be as guilty of buying it as I was of writing it, correct?
(This inability to foresee the future came back to bite me in the ass, however, as such things do, somewhere around the turn of the century when our friend google became The Thing and vanity googling was everyone's new pastime. My young teenage son and I decided to google me one evening and what should pop up as the first result? Oh, just a review of said smutty anthology. "Let's google your dad!" I said, clicking away at the speed of light and hoping that was quick enough. Well, apparently not. A year or so later when D was at the apex of his pubertal obnoxiousness, I was telling my mom that I'd just sold another story. "What's it about?" she asked, just as D walked through the room. Under his breath with dripping sarcasm: "Elves having sex?" [For the record, I have never written about elves having sex. God.] Anyway, I learned my lesson and everything else I ever published that was NC17 from then on was published under a variant of my real name, one no one would think to google me under.)
But, to get back to the present, another thing the average person never envisioned in 1996 was the kindle. Whatever rights I sold to that anthology I guess didn't include me being paid another 50 bucks or whatever when the book was re-released in another format. Because I ain't seen a check in the mail and apparently it's been a kindle book since 2008. Writers: being screwed since cuneiform!
Okay. That is all.
xoxo
And the latter sent me to the amazon kindle store to actually read some and to see what genre classifications amazon has and what was selling in them. One thing led to another and I was looking at the erotica titles (which, best thing ever to put on your kindle if you think about it--no humiliating covers to worry about in public, yo). And there I found that, Oh Em Gee, you can already buy something for your kindle that was (partially) authored by me. And under my real name, too!
You see, boys and girls, many years ago--1996 to be exact--one of the first stories I ever sold was to an anthology of literary scifi erotica (shut UP). Now being that it was 1996, the internet was, if not in its infancy, at least still wearing pullups, if you know what I mean. There was absolutely no conception in the average person's mind that it would grow to be the kind of thing where you could find out anything about anyone forever, you know? I felt perfectly comfortable about putting my whole full name on this staggering work of smutty genius because anyone who was going to read it would have had to go looking for small press literary scifi erotica, and if they happened to be any of my relatives, co-workers, or neighbors, well, hell, they'd have to be as guilty of buying it as I was of writing it, correct?
(This inability to foresee the future came back to bite me in the ass, however, as such things do, somewhere around the turn of the century when our friend google became The Thing and vanity googling was everyone's new pastime. My young teenage son and I decided to google me one evening and what should pop up as the first result? Oh, just a review of said smutty anthology. "Let's google your dad!" I said, clicking away at the speed of light and hoping that was quick enough. Well, apparently not. A year or so later when D was at the apex of his pubertal obnoxiousness, I was telling my mom that I'd just sold another story. "What's it about?" she asked, just as D walked through the room. Under his breath with dripping sarcasm: "Elves having sex?" [For the record, I have never written about elves having sex. God.] Anyway, I learned my lesson and everything else I ever published that was NC17 from then on was published under a variant of my real name, one no one would think to google me under.)
But, to get back to the present, another thing the average person never envisioned in 1996 was the kindle. Whatever rights I sold to that anthology I guess didn't include me being paid another 50 bucks or whatever when the book was re-released in another format. Because I ain't seen a check in the mail and apparently it's been a kindle book since 2008. Writers: being screwed since cuneiform!
Okay. That is all.
xoxo
Saturday, March 5, 2011
have a jay-z saturday
And then let me tell you a few things. Mr Indemnity must have been bored in work yesterday, because he was forwarding me stuff like whoa, which I always appreciate. It's nice when the blog fodder comes to *you*.
There was this, about everyone's favorite coke addict. My quibble with it? The reason Chris Brown was so reviled for beating up Rihanna has little to do with her being as/more successful than him and much to do with the leaked photos of her absolutely battered face. There's an instinctive revulsion to seeing a young (and, yes, especially beautiful) girl with her face bruised and swollen and cut that "he pushed me" or "he threatened me with a knife" does not invoke. This may not be fair, but it is what it is. If there were pictures of any of Charlie's women with shocking facial injuries circulating, the public would have turned on him sooner, I'm willing to bet.
Then there was Derek Jeter comedy. By the time I got to the colostomy bag, I was literally LOLing.
I countered by sending him this, considering we'd been talking about ebooks, and his disgruntlement with how certain things he wanted to buy for his kindle were actually cheaper in paperback. But that has nothing to do with my link. My link just makes me lament that I have NO skill at self-promotion, because god knows, I've got a shitty genre novel (and a half!) that I would love to sell electronically, since apparently it's totally doable these days. Maybe I'll start writing again. (You've heard that before, haven't you? Shut up. It could happen.)
xoxo
Monday, August 23, 2010
more later
The other thing I wanted to talk about was last night's episode of Mad Men. If you haven't seen it and you want to, unspoiled, don't read this. You have now been appropriately warned. So there.
Okay. In last night's episode, there's a big Sally storyline. Development number one is that, while at Don's house (being watched by a babysitter while he's out on a date), she cuts her own hair in the bathroom with predictable success. When Don brings her home to Betty, Betty smacks her right across the face. Um, harsh. Parenting is not one of Betty's skills. Development number two is that, while at a sleepover, Sally is caught (sorta unconsciously) masturbating to a hot actor on TV by her (sleeping) friend's mother and all hell breaks loose. Development number three is that, as a result of developments one and two, psychiatric treatment is deemed necessary for the poor kid.
Well, the interwebs are awash today with certain conspiracy theorists postulating that Sally will disclose to the kindly psychiatrist lady that she was molested by Grampa Gene. Or possibly Henry. And this is why she is acting out. The basis for this supposition for some people is that a ten year old masturbating is, whoa, unusual and a sign of abuse. This is countered by other people pointing out that, whoa, no, kids practically come out of the womb masturbating and it's not weird at all. I guess this age at which any one of us discovered our own genitalia highly influences where we stand on this issue! Too funny.
Anyway, I will be very very disappointed if Mad Men does unveil a molestation storyline, maybe even more than I was disappointed that they went with the "ooo, Don feels guilty so now he's paying whores to smack him around" plot point. Both of these tropes--masochism=guilt, child acting out=having been touched inappropriately--are so played out, it's lazy writing. Do either of those things happen in real life? Well, yeah, sometimes they do. Have we not seen them in bad TV and movies over and over enough now that they've become easy cliched shortcuts? Well, yeah, we have. I do not expect lazy writing from Mad Men. I hope they don't disappoint me again.
And thus ends your TV critique for the day.
xoxo
Okay. In last night's episode, there's a big Sally storyline. Development number one is that, while at Don's house (being watched by a babysitter while he's out on a date), she cuts her own hair in the bathroom with predictable success. When Don brings her home to Betty, Betty smacks her right across the face. Um, harsh. Parenting is not one of Betty's skills. Development number two is that, while at a sleepover, Sally is caught (sorta unconsciously) masturbating to a hot actor on TV by her (sleeping) friend's mother and all hell breaks loose. Development number three is that, as a result of developments one and two, psychiatric treatment is deemed necessary for the poor kid.
Well, the interwebs are awash today with certain conspiracy theorists postulating that Sally will disclose to the kindly psychiatrist lady that she was molested by Grampa Gene. Or possibly Henry. And this is why she is acting out. The basis for this supposition for some people is that a ten year old masturbating is, whoa, unusual and a sign of abuse. This is countered by other people pointing out that, whoa, no, kids practically come out of the womb masturbating and it's not weird at all. I guess this age at which any one of us discovered our own genitalia highly influences where we stand on this issue! Too funny.
Anyway, I will be very very disappointed if Mad Men does unveil a molestation storyline, maybe even more than I was disappointed that they went with the "ooo, Don feels guilty so now he's paying whores to smack him around" plot point. Both of these tropes--masochism=guilt, child acting out=having been touched inappropriately--are so played out, it's lazy writing. Do either of those things happen in real life? Well, yeah, sometimes they do. Have we not seen them in bad TV and movies over and over enough now that they've become easy cliched shortcuts? Well, yeah, we have. I do not expect lazy writing from Mad Men. I hope they don't disappoint me again.
And thus ends your TV critique for the day.
xoxo
Monday, February 15, 2010
this the life that everybody ask for
For a good chunk of my childhood, my uncle, aunt, and little cousin lived in the first-floor apartment in my house. My cousin, whom we shall call Ann because that was her name, was two years younger than me. Because neither of us had a sister, we had somewhat of a sisterly relationship between us. The crucial difference being, of course--besides that whole "mom loves you better than me" thing--that when one of us got on the other's nerves, we could just go to our own house. It was brilliant.
(Though, I have to say, this was the source of an important life lesson for me. One day when I was probably ten or so, Ann was upstairs playing at my house and my BFF Debbie called and asked if she could come over. So I told Ann she had to go home. Lemme tell you, when my mother found out I had done that, she was *so* angry with me. I got in so much trouble. I swear, I hadn't done it to be mean. It hadn't even occurred to me I was being mean. But, ohmygod, once it was forcefully pointed out to me, I've never done that shit again.)
Anyway, often when we got home from school, if neither of us was doing anything else, I would go downstairs to Ann's house. And when I was in fourth or fifth grade, what would happen is this: Ann would beg me to play Barbies, I would say no, she would beg some more, and then I would "give in." Except, actually, I wanted to play Barbies all along but was supposed to be too old and too cool to do that, so I had to pretend I was doing her the favor. We would act out these elaborate soap operas, many of which would leave Barbie and friends nekkid, limbless, with unfortunate humiliating haircuts, etc. I'm sure a psychologist would have had a field day.
What brings this up? I woke up out of this dream I was having this morning (in which I was staying at a hotel at a conference with three other people and the toilet above our room exploded, ruining all our stuff, and infuriatingly, the hotel was only going to buy us one set of clothes in recompense, but dolls were also involved somehow) and for some reason, it occurred to me that writing fiction was the [somewhat] socially acceptable equivalent of playing Barbies for adults. You get to make up all these people and what they do and say and think and feel and wear and where they go and how they get there, and if they end up nekkid and limbless, oh well. Of course, when you're *really* writing fiction, you have to worry about things like plausible plotting and consistent characterization and interesting dialogue blah blah. Buzzkill. So, y'know, you can always just make up stories to yourself about the people on the bus. Ahem.
xoxo
(Though, I have to say, this was the source of an important life lesson for me. One day when I was probably ten or so, Ann was upstairs playing at my house and my BFF Debbie called and asked if she could come over. So I told Ann she had to go home. Lemme tell you, when my mother found out I had done that, she was *so* angry with me. I got in so much trouble. I swear, I hadn't done it to be mean. It hadn't even occurred to me I was being mean. But, ohmygod, once it was forcefully pointed out to me, I've never done that shit again.)
Anyway, often when we got home from school, if neither of us was doing anything else, I would go downstairs to Ann's house. And when I was in fourth or fifth grade, what would happen is this: Ann would beg me to play Barbies, I would say no, she would beg some more, and then I would "give in." Except, actually, I wanted to play Barbies all along but was supposed to be too old and too cool to do that, so I had to pretend I was doing her the favor. We would act out these elaborate soap operas, many of which would leave Barbie and friends nekkid, limbless, with unfortunate humiliating haircuts, etc. I'm sure a psychologist would have had a field day.
What brings this up? I woke up out of this dream I was having this morning (in which I was staying at a hotel at a conference with three other people and the toilet above our room exploded, ruining all our stuff, and infuriatingly, the hotel was only going to buy us one set of clothes in recompense, but dolls were also involved somehow) and for some reason, it occurred to me that writing fiction was the [somewhat] socially acceptable equivalent of playing Barbies for adults. You get to make up all these people and what they do and say and think and feel and wear and where they go and how they get there, and if they end up nekkid and limbless, oh well. Of course, when you're *really* writing fiction, you have to worry about things like plausible plotting and consistent characterization and interesting dialogue blah blah. Buzzkill. So, y'know, you can always just make up stories to yourself about the people on the bus. Ahem.
xoxo
Monday, January 25, 2010
and one more thing
So, did you know Neil Gaiman is now engaged to Amanda Palmer? (Do you know who either of those people are? If not, you probably don't care!) Anyway, I care, because Mr Gaiman is my celebrity writer pretend boyfriend, and if he was gonna leave his wife, I would have preferred it to be for me rather than some hussy who basically changed her clothes on the red carpet at the Golden Globes. God. I have a sense of decorum, yo.
But what was most hilarious about the whole Golden Globe thing was that (as related on gofugyourself) the pictures of Mr Gaiman and Ms Palmer were tagged by the photo service as Amanda Palmer "and companion" even though Mr Gaiman was the one who was nominated for an award. Ha! Poor Neil, no respect except amongst the geeks. It's very sad.
If he was in any way upset by this, or by the fact that his fiance is an exhibitionist, he's welcome to come cry on my shoulder. Or any other body part he desires. For real! And then we can collaborate on a novel that would be much better than anything I could ever write. And then he can introduce me to his BFF Tori Amos. Doesn't that sound like a plan??!!!
xoxo
But what was most hilarious about the whole Golden Globe thing was that (as related on gofugyourself) the pictures of Mr Gaiman and Ms Palmer were tagged by the photo service as Amanda Palmer "and companion" even though Mr Gaiman was the one who was nominated for an award. Ha! Poor Neil, no respect except amongst the geeks. It's very sad.
If he was in any way upset by this, or by the fact that his fiance is an exhibitionist, he's welcome to come cry on my shoulder. Or any other body part he desires. For real! And then we can collaborate on a novel that would be much better than anything I could ever write. And then he can introduce me to his BFF Tori Amos. Doesn't that sound like a plan??!!!
xoxo
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
checking in
1.) Not having the best of all possible weeks, health-wise and stress-wise, which is my excuse for not taking and posting those pics I am sure you are all waiting breathlessly--breathlessly, I tell you!--for. I'll get around to it.
2.) Of course, you have to know that now that I'm back to the house renos, I'm also back to looking at Rate My Space and the HGTV message boards, which is an exercise in masochism. And also, self-control. Here's a real question, paraphrased: "Do you allow sweaty workout clothes in your hamper? The stench from my husband's almost knocks me out." Do you know how much restraint it takes for me not to answer, "Why, no, no, I do not! I expect my dirty laundry to smell of nothing but roses at all times!" But no one likes a wiseass.
3.) Omar from The Wire is in two new movies coming out this fall. If I ever went to the movies, I would probably go see them, 'cause that man is an actor, I'll tell you what. Always nice to see someone from that cast doing well. (Has anyone given Bodie a job yet? If not, someone get on it. Love me some Bodie. I'll start crying if I think too hard about his "death.")
4.) Related. As a writer (ha!), there is nothing as awesome to me as someone somewhere being so taken by one of your fictional characters that their "death" actually affects them.
5.) I would tell you about the vivid dream I had two nights ago, but honestly, I don't want to turn out to be One of Those People. Well, okay. It involved my uncle and aunt calling after midnight to see if my dad spoke French, which they were convinced he did, while meanwhile I was desperate to get them off the phone because my new roof was leaking. Because it was made of those plastic loops they used to make lawn chairs out of, and the rain could come right in.
xoxo
2.) Of course, you have to know that now that I'm back to the house renos, I'm also back to looking at Rate My Space and the HGTV message boards, which is an exercise in masochism. And also, self-control. Here's a real question, paraphrased: "Do you allow sweaty workout clothes in your hamper? The stench from my husband's almost knocks me out." Do you know how much restraint it takes for me not to answer, "Why, no, no, I do not! I expect my dirty laundry to smell of nothing but roses at all times!" But no one likes a wiseass.
3.) Omar from The Wire is in two new movies coming out this fall. If I ever went to the movies, I would probably go see them, 'cause that man is an actor, I'll tell you what. Always nice to see someone from that cast doing well. (Has anyone given Bodie a job yet? If not, someone get on it. Love me some Bodie. I'll start crying if I think too hard about his "death.")
4.) Related. As a writer (ha!), there is nothing as awesome to me as someone somewhere being so taken by one of your fictional characters that their "death" actually affects them.
5.) I would tell you about the vivid dream I had two nights ago, but honestly, I don't want to turn out to be One of Those People. Well, okay. It involved my uncle and aunt calling after midnight to see if my dad spoke French, which they were convinced he did, while meanwhile I was desperate to get them off the phone because my new roof was leaking. Because it was made of those plastic loops they used to make lawn chairs out of, and the rain could come right in.
xoxo
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
someday there will be a thesis
But today there will just be more miscellaneous crap.
1.) I hear the Sox won today while I was occupied elsewhere, thus making all right with the world. Also, I'm informed that Tek hit a home run. I'm sticking by my contention that the reason his hitting sucked so very, very much last year was that the boy's head was all messed up by the dissolution of his marriage. Divorce is stressful, yo!
2.) There is right now, even as I type, a device called a "press ball" in the cartilage of my right ear, which can apparently stay there for a week (or till I get irritated with it) through hairwashing and showering and, I dunno, ear molestation or whatever may occur, and by which I can stimulate an acupuncture point that will calm me the fuck down if I start having an anxiety fit. I kinda think that ancient Chinese medicine might well be trumped by modern American pharmaceuticals in this case, but do I *have* a script for klonopins? No, I do not. Sigh. So we'll give this thing in my ear a shot.
3.) I bought a book today entitled I'm Sorry You Feel That Way (the astonishing but true story of a daughter, sister, slut, wife, mother, and friend to man and dog), and then I read 54 pages of it on the bus. I am so very convinced I have one of these books in me. But since certain of my friends are already somewhat uncomfortable when they appear *in this blog*, even though they are referred to only by pseudonym, catchy nickname, or initial, I'm pretty sure if I wrote an amusing yet poignant, smutty yet thoughtful, book about my marvelous adventures and got it published, no one would ever talk to me again and I would have to make all new friends and get another family. And then I'd be so sad I'd need weird Chinese shit in both my ears. Or something like that.
4.) I am also informed that Eminem's new video, in which he portrays both Bret Michaels circa "Rock of Love" and Sarah Palin (in bed together yet!), is on the interwebs now, so I think I'm gonna eat some chips and go watch it. <---yes, a person who writes a statement like that is going to get a book published, yup yup, uh huh. I think my friendships are safe.
xoxo
1.) I hear the Sox won today while I was occupied elsewhere, thus making all right with the world. Also, I'm informed that Tek hit a home run. I'm sticking by my contention that the reason his hitting sucked so very, very much last year was that the boy's head was all messed up by the dissolution of his marriage. Divorce is stressful, yo!
2.) There is right now, even as I type, a device called a "press ball" in the cartilage of my right ear, which can apparently stay there for a week (or till I get irritated with it) through hairwashing and showering and, I dunno, ear molestation or whatever may occur, and by which I can stimulate an acupuncture point that will calm me the fuck down if I start having an anxiety fit. I kinda think that ancient Chinese medicine might well be trumped by modern American pharmaceuticals in this case, but do I *have* a script for klonopins? No, I do not. Sigh. So we'll give this thing in my ear a shot.
3.) I bought a book today entitled I'm Sorry You Feel That Way (the astonishing but true story of a daughter, sister, slut, wife, mother, and friend to man and dog), and then I read 54 pages of it on the bus. I am so very convinced I have one of these books in me. But since certain of my friends are already somewhat uncomfortable when they appear *in this blog*, even though they are referred to only by pseudonym, catchy nickname, or initial, I'm pretty sure if I wrote an amusing yet poignant, smutty yet thoughtful, book about my marvelous adventures and got it published, no one would ever talk to me again and I would have to make all new friends and get another family. And then I'd be so sad I'd need weird Chinese shit in both my ears. Or something like that.
4.) I am also informed that Eminem's new video, in which he portrays both Bret Michaels circa "Rock of Love" and Sarah Palin (in bed together yet!), is on the interwebs now, so I think I'm gonna eat some chips and go watch it. <---yes, a person who writes a statement like that is going to get a book published, yup yup, uh huh. I think my friendships are safe.
xoxo
Sunday, January 25, 2009
more bad writing
On this morning's news, in a story about a Suffolk University student injured by falling ice, we hear "despite her countless stitches..." Um, no. I'm fairly sure her ER doc not only counted how many stitches s/he put in, s/he documented them too.
Idiots.
xoxo
Idiots.
xoxo
Sunday, December 14, 2008
brotherhood thoughts
If I were still doing disclaimers in here, I'd warn you in advance that this is gonna be one of those posts that's interesting only to me. And if I were doing truth-in-labeling, I'd admit that this is a procrastination post, because I've either got to go out and finish my Xmas shopping today or I need to stay home, vacuum the whole house, clean the bathrooms, finally put those new curtain rods up that have been sitting in a box for three months and steam the drapes that are going on them, but writing nonsense from the comfort of my loveseat is looking far more appealing than either of those two options.
Be that as it may. I'm still struggling through the first season of Brotherhood and waffling about whether to just send the DVDs back to Netflix unfinished. I still can't give a crap about any of the characters. It's not just that I don't like any of them (well, except maybe Declan) but that I don't hate any of them either. I just don't care. They're not real people to me. The motivation for any of their actions remains opaque beyond the gross surface level, so I have no empathy for any of them. (Not sympathy [which I don't have either], empathy.)
Now, I could perhaps blame it on the acting, because, ohmygod, those RI accents still burn my delicate ears, but the acting isn't that bad or that flat. I must blame the writing. And it occurs to me that I'm probably very, very spoiled, and just judging everything by Sopranos, The Wire, Mad Men standards wherein fabulous writing is capable of making one empathize with characters who are, in many instances, doing very very bad things. Not approve of, not condone, but understand. I'm finding that's the mark of great writing for me, personally: the ability to create characters who become real to me, whose actions are not only within the realm of possibility, but *exactly* what they should be doing for who they are. And you know *who they are*, beyond a collection of stereotypes and stock character.
(Does that make any sense to anyone but me? Sigh. Also? I recognize that there are other types and marks of great writing: the beautiful turn of phrase, the perfectly crafted sentence, the flawless execution of pacing that makes the reader/watcher keep turning pages/stay glued to video long after they should have gone to bed, to name just a few. But it's the multi-layered characterization that does it for me personally. Because, you may have noticed, watching people and trying to figure out who they are and why they do what they do might just have a certain draw for me. Again, sigh.)
So, finish watching this show or not? The jury's still out.
Be that as it may. I'm still struggling through the first season of Brotherhood and waffling about whether to just send the DVDs back to Netflix unfinished. I still can't give a crap about any of the characters. It's not just that I don't like any of them (well, except maybe Declan) but that I don't hate any of them either. I just don't care. They're not real people to me. The motivation for any of their actions remains opaque beyond the gross surface level, so I have no empathy for any of them. (Not sympathy [which I don't have either], empathy.)
Now, I could perhaps blame it on the acting, because, ohmygod, those RI accents still burn my delicate ears, but the acting isn't that bad or that flat. I must blame the writing. And it occurs to me that I'm probably very, very spoiled, and just judging everything by Sopranos, The Wire, Mad Men standards wherein fabulous writing is capable of making one empathize with characters who are, in many instances, doing very very bad things. Not approve of, not condone, but understand. I'm finding that's the mark of great writing for me, personally: the ability to create characters who become real to me, whose actions are not only within the realm of possibility, but *exactly* what they should be doing for who they are. And you know *who they are*, beyond a collection of stereotypes and stock character.
(Does that make any sense to anyone but me? Sigh. Also? I recognize that there are other types and marks of great writing: the beautiful turn of phrase, the perfectly crafted sentence, the flawless execution of pacing that makes the reader/watcher keep turning pages/stay glued to video long after they should have gone to bed, to name just a few. But it's the multi-layered characterization that does it for me personally. Because, you may have noticed, watching people and trying to figure out who they are and why they do what they do might just have a certain draw for me. Again, sigh.)
So, finish watching this show or not? The jury's still out.
Friday, December 5, 2008
writing quandry
I'm taking a poll. I know, I know, I always ask you people for your opinion and then just do what I feel like anyway, but please don't let that dissuade you from offering it nevertheless.
Here's the background. I haven't written any original fiction since 2003/2004, though I did do a little revising after that. In the process of cleaning closets, I found a draft of my last half-written story with two more scenes than I knew I had. So, I read it and I liked it and I decided it's probably worth trying to finish. And lately I've been feeling like maybe I want to start writing again.
Here's the question. If I finish this story I either have to update all the 2003 references in it (the protagonist's kitten-heeled boots, the fact that the band plays "yet another Outkast song" at her wedding, the late supper at Sonsie, etc.) OR I have to make plain in the story that this is all happening circa 2002-2003. It's easy enough to fix the fashion references, the restaurants, the hit songs that are inescapable, but on the other hand, the protagonist's suitor/lover/husband is in--wait for it--commercial real estate (when I made that quip in here a couple months ago about commercial real estate being a cover for the mob, I *totally* forgot I ever had used it for a character) and I'm thinking, in the current economy that doesn't have the same meaning as it did in 2002/2003. See, Jeff has to be in an occupation that has made him *a lot* of money at a fairly young age, and an occupation that relies on smoothness, charm, and really nice suits, for the purposes of the story and characterization. Jeff cannot have made his money through geekery. And I'm thinking, those are the kind of people who would be very nervous in today's economy. Jeff cannot be nervous for my purposes; Jeff cannot have a moment of doubt.
So perhaps it's best to have this all taking place in the near-recent past rather than the present. Would it disturb you as a reader to read something that clearly happens almost-now but not now? Would you think "why the hell isn't this happening in 2009?"
Oh, and if anyone would like to be a beta reader, please let me know. I don't have anyone to do that for me anymore and it's always so useful.
xoxo
Here's the background. I haven't written any original fiction since 2003/2004, though I did do a little revising after that. In the process of cleaning closets, I found a draft of my last half-written story with two more scenes than I knew I had. So, I read it and I liked it and I decided it's probably worth trying to finish. And lately I've been feeling like maybe I want to start writing again.
Here's the question. If I finish this story I either have to update all the 2003 references in it (the protagonist's kitten-heeled boots, the fact that the band plays "yet another Outkast song" at her wedding, the late supper at Sonsie, etc.) OR I have to make plain in the story that this is all happening circa 2002-2003. It's easy enough to fix the fashion references, the restaurants, the hit songs that are inescapable, but on the other hand, the protagonist's suitor/lover/husband is in--wait for it--commercial real estate (when I made that quip in here a couple months ago about commercial real estate being a cover for the mob, I *totally* forgot I ever had used it for a character) and I'm thinking, in the current economy that doesn't have the same meaning as it did in 2002/2003. See, Jeff has to be in an occupation that has made him *a lot* of money at a fairly young age, and an occupation that relies on smoothness, charm, and really nice suits, for the purposes of the story and characterization. Jeff cannot have made his money through geekery. And I'm thinking, those are the kind of people who would be very nervous in today's economy. Jeff cannot be nervous for my purposes; Jeff cannot have a moment of doubt.
So perhaps it's best to have this all taking place in the near-recent past rather than the present. Would it disturb you as a reader to read something that clearly happens almost-now but not now? Would you think "why the hell isn't this happening in 2009?"
Oh, and if anyone would like to be a beta reader, please let me know. I don't have anyone to do that for me anymore and it's always so useful.
xoxo
Friday, October 17, 2008
good writing, right here
You people know I do so enjoy a well-crafted metaphor. Well, here's Bill Simmons on Jason Bay:
"I can't look at Bay and not think of Manny. At least not yet. Bay is like the dutiful, pretty second wife who does everything right … and yet, I can't stop thinking about the soul-wrenching tramp who married me first and broke my heart. I wish it wasn't that way, but it's going to take some time."
I wish I had written that.
xoxo
"I can't look at Bay and not think of Manny. At least not yet. Bay is like the dutiful, pretty second wife who does everything right … and yet, I can't stop thinking about the soul-wrenching tramp who married me first and broke my heart. I wish it wasn't that way, but it's going to take some time."
I wish I had written that.
xoxo
Sunday, September 21, 2008
memoirs and persona
I just finished Candy Girl, Diablo Cody's book, which a kind blog reader lent me. It's funny, in a make-fun-of-everything-but-especially-herself kind of way. And it has lists! (My favorite? The ten worst songs to strip to. Diablo: #7, any Eminem song about matricide, Quaaludes, or fatherhood. Andrea: Oh, c'mon, that's all the good ones!)
So, basically, you know where this is going, right? I read this book, and go, yeah, I could write that. Except for never having been a stripper for a year and thus having no insights on the sex industry. So then I think, well, yeah, I could write a sarcastic, vaguely self-deprecating but charming memoir (with lists!) if only my life wasn't so fucking ordinary and lacking in experiences anyone would like to read about.
But that's not true either, is it? I've lived through my only child having two psychotic breaks and being diagnosed with a form of schizophrenia, and I've come through it with not just a lot of painful recollections, but a bunch of fairly hilarious (in a laugh-or-you'll-cry kinda way) anecdotes. I mean, *that* book might be less Diablo Cody and more Augustin Burroughs or David Sedaris (why do gay guys have the writing market cornered on the "turn the most horrific life experiences into gut-bustingly funny reading" books and isn't it time for a het girl to write one?) but I even have the subtitle for it: Dispatches from the Mother of the World's Politest Psychotic. But you know I'd never invade D's privacy by writing that book.
Oh, and there are other not-quite-routine portions of my life, some of which other people have been known to find both amusing and titillating. But I'd never write that book either. At least under my own name.
Maybe I just need a snappy new fake name, much like Diablo Cody. If my name wasn't Andrea, who would I be?
xoxo
So, basically, you know where this is going, right? I read this book, and go, yeah, I could write that. Except for never having been a stripper for a year and thus having no insights on the sex industry. So then I think, well, yeah, I could write a sarcastic, vaguely self-deprecating but charming memoir (with lists!) if only my life wasn't so fucking ordinary and lacking in experiences anyone would like to read about.
But that's not true either, is it? I've lived through my only child having two psychotic breaks and being diagnosed with a form of schizophrenia, and I've come through it with not just a lot of painful recollections, but a bunch of fairly hilarious (in a laugh-or-you'll-cry kinda way) anecdotes. I mean, *that* book might be less Diablo Cody and more Augustin Burroughs or David Sedaris (why do gay guys have the writing market cornered on the "turn the most horrific life experiences into gut-bustingly funny reading" books and isn't it time for a het girl to write one?) but I even have the subtitle for it: Dispatches from the Mother of the World's Politest Psychotic. But you know I'd never invade D's privacy by writing that book.
Oh, and there are other not-quite-routine portions of my life, some of which other people have been known to find both amusing and titillating. But I'd never write that book either. At least under my own name.
Maybe I just need a snappy new fake name, much like Diablo Cody. If my name wasn't Andrea, who would I be?
xoxo
Monday, June 9, 2008
today's slightly disturbing developments
1.) Evil Kitty 1, chipmunks 0
2.) I learned that a.) there is such a thing as Led Zep fan fic and b.) our office manager writes it. Dirty Led Zep fan fic. Which is, y'know, why no one I work with will ever find out the existence of this blog if I can freaking help it. You just don't really need to know what people you have to deal with in a professional capacity are up to on the internet. Srsly.
xoxo
2.) I learned that a.) there is such a thing as Led Zep fan fic and b.) our office manager writes it. Dirty Led Zep fan fic. Which is, y'know, why no one I work with will ever find out the existence of this blog if I can freaking help it. You just don't really need to know what people you have to deal with in a professional capacity are up to on the internet. Srsly.
xoxo
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
read a book, Andrea
So, I finally bought Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs by Chuck Klosterman, after having picked it up, looked at its back cover, and put it back down approximately 563 times over the past three years (or roughly twice every time I've been in a Borders or Barnes & Noble over said period.) I knew I'd crack eventually.
Why? Because it's the same book I keep reading over and over. Oh, they've got different names and different authors, but they're all the same book on a Platonic level. Non-fiction, so I don't have to tax my brain too much with plot. Funny enough to keep my apparently-now-less-than-optimal attention, while clever enough that I can fool myself into thinking I'm, you know, thinking. And with enough pop culture references to feed my obsessions.
And, of course, most importantly, there's the delicious masochism involved in enjoying something that is a barely better written--or at least cleaned up and professionally edited--version of one's own blog spewing, crackpot theories and all, but which is, theoretically at least, earning the author big buckets o' money.
Okay, Mr Klosterman hasn't (so far, in this book) publicly discussed his underwear. But I think my own willingness to do so could only be a plus in today's publishing climate.
xoxo
Why? Because it's the same book I keep reading over and over. Oh, they've got different names and different authors, but they're all the same book on a Platonic level. Non-fiction, so I don't have to tax my brain too much with plot. Funny enough to keep my apparently-now-less-than-optimal attention, while clever enough that I can fool myself into thinking I'm, you know, thinking. And with enough pop culture references to feed my obsessions.
And, of course, most importantly, there's the delicious masochism involved in enjoying something that is a barely better written--or at least cleaned up and professionally edited--version of one's own blog spewing, crackpot theories and all, but which is, theoretically at least, earning the author big buckets o' money.
Okay, Mr Klosterman hasn't (so far, in this book) publicly discussed his underwear. But I think my own willingness to do so could only be a plus in today's publishing climate.
xoxo
Monday, September 10, 2007
in which I am a bad girl
I've been trying to blog every day, sort of as a challenge to myself and my (lack of) writerly discipline, but obviously I missed yesterday. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I was too busy brunching, shopping, cake-eating, walking, and movie-attending to fit it in yesterday. I will endeavor to do better the rest of the week.
I hope yesterday's brunch was not the last meal this season that I eat sitting at a sidewalk table. But rather than bore you all with a sad meditation on how all the long, warm days are coming to a crashing end, and because I'm supposed to be upstairs this very minute, cleaning and throwing out more crap, I'll just bring up one thing D pointed out the other day when he was watching the original 1978 Halloween on TV:
Michael Myers breaks out of the mental institution and steals a car. If, according to the story, he's been locked up since he was a young child, who taught him how to drive?
Plot holes, plot holes. The bane of a writer's existence.
xoxo
I hope yesterday's brunch was not the last meal this season that I eat sitting at a sidewalk table. But rather than bore you all with a sad meditation on how all the long, warm days are coming to a crashing end, and because I'm supposed to be upstairs this very minute, cleaning and throwing out more crap, I'll just bring up one thing D pointed out the other day when he was watching the original 1978 Halloween on TV:
Michael Myers breaks out of the mental institution and steals a car. If, according to the story, he's been locked up since he was a young child, who taught him how to drive?
Plot holes, plot holes. The bane of a writer's existence.
xoxo
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
when your characters die
Here's the thing. I used to write fiction. I say "used to" because I haven't finished a piece of fiction in over four years and I'm not sure I ever will again. But back when I was turning 30 and wondering how the hell my life had gotten to where it was then, I decided on two goals for the upcoming decade. The second one was to become a published writer.
I bought all the beginner's writing and how-to-get-published books I could find and read them faithfully (since my Creative Writing experience in high school had consisted of two years of getting A's for showing up and occasionally handing something in and my Creative Writing experience in college was all about paying lots of money to have some earnest grad student tell me my crap poetry was promising.) I read the books and bought My First P.C. (tm) and decided to start out easy by writing a novel.
Oh, yes, write a novel I did. I wrote and wrote and eventually I finished a manuscript. It was--don't snicker--a science fiction romance. Sorta. I said, stop snickering. That's a valid genre. My manuscript, however, was not a valid book. It had some plot problems and some bigger worldbuilding problems. On the plus side, besides being finished, it had some good dialogue and some kickass characterization. More on that later.
All my how-to books were telling me that it was easier to get a novel looked at if you'd published some short fiction, so I wrote some. I wrote some, and got a little better at writing, and eventually got some of it published. For real money, even. (Go, Andrea! Goals accomplished by 33, leaving the rest of the decade to slack off. Damn good thing they'd already invented the Internet.)
Meanwhile, I hooked up with a critique group full of people who were serious about all this and workshopped my book. And despite the numerous essential flaws in the manuscript, the one thing everyone agreed on was that they loved my characters. Hell, I loved my characters. Star-crossed lovers Ayla and Liam. Snotty, snarky, sexy Joey and her smoothly evil brother, Bri. Roguish opportunist and ladies' man Rael. The bullying, but ultimately tragic, Captain. And most of all, the complexity that is Jesse. They were like real people to me, with real (fictional) lives.
Part of why I kept trying to re-write that unsalvageable book was that to give up on them, to give up on anyone other than a select few of my friends ever reading the novel, meant they would "die." Or cease to exist. Giving up on them was like commiting murder, murder of people I was really fond of.
As recently as three years ago, I dragged the manuscript out again and tried, unsuccessfully, to revise it.
I think I've got to say it.
R.I.P., Ayla, R.I.P.
xoxo
I bought all the beginner's writing and how-to-get-published books I could find and read them faithfully (since my Creative Writing experience in high school had consisted of two years of getting A's for showing up and occasionally handing something in and my Creative Writing experience in college was all about paying lots of money to have some earnest grad student tell me my crap poetry was promising.) I read the books and bought My First P.C. (tm) and decided to start out easy by writing a novel.
Oh, yes, write a novel I did. I wrote and wrote and eventually I finished a manuscript. It was--don't snicker--a science fiction romance. Sorta. I said, stop snickering. That's a valid genre. My manuscript, however, was not a valid book. It had some plot problems and some bigger worldbuilding problems. On the plus side, besides being finished, it had some good dialogue and some kickass characterization. More on that later.
All my how-to books were telling me that it was easier to get a novel looked at if you'd published some short fiction, so I wrote some. I wrote some, and got a little better at writing, and eventually got some of it published. For real money, even. (Go, Andrea! Goals accomplished by 33, leaving the rest of the decade to slack off. Damn good thing they'd already invented the Internet.)
Meanwhile, I hooked up with a critique group full of people who were serious about all this and workshopped my book. And despite the numerous essential flaws in the manuscript, the one thing everyone agreed on was that they loved my characters. Hell, I loved my characters. Star-crossed lovers Ayla and Liam. Snotty, snarky, sexy Joey and her smoothly evil brother, Bri. Roguish opportunist and ladies' man Rael. The bullying, but ultimately tragic, Captain. And most of all, the complexity that is Jesse. They were like real people to me, with real (fictional) lives.
Part of why I kept trying to re-write that unsalvageable book was that to give up on them, to give up on anyone other than a select few of my friends ever reading the novel, meant they would "die." Or cease to exist. Giving up on them was like commiting murder, murder of people I was really fond of.
As recently as three years ago, I dragged the manuscript out again and tried, unsuccessfully, to revise it.
I think I've got to say it.
R.I.P., Ayla, R.I.P.
xoxo
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