Me and random guy at bar--I looked much thinner in person. No, really.
And a good time was had by all....
Monday, October 30, 2006
Random Halloween Pix--Brought to You by "White Trash"
Me and random guy at bar--I looked much thinner in person. No, really.
And a good time was had by all....
Sunday, October 29, 2006
New Stealing Amy Teaser!
Oops...bare with me...this thing is probably gonna screw up the whole sidebar until I post enough to move it down the page....
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Magical Mayhem!
Over on the Triskelion loops, there's a scavenger hunt going on and my blog is one of the stops contestants have to visit in order to pick up an item.
So..............WAVING TO ALL YOU TRISK READERS...........Scroll down and click on Randy's Blurbs to find your answer!
So..............WAVING TO ALL YOU TRISK READERS...........Scroll down and click on Randy's Blurbs to find your answer!
25 Other Letters--Pick One
Years ago, back in another lifetime, I worked for the company that syndicated The Richard Simmons Show (yes, darlings--it was my big brush with, er, "celebrity").
Anyway, I handled the 10 million dollars worth of advertising placed with us, and we retained 2-1/2 minutes of of commercial time, so that meant placing 5 spots somewhere in the show each day, five days a week, for the period of the buy which was 3 months. Simple, right? Except our biggest account was General Foods, and their contract stipulated a specific requirement: no bumping up next to other ads that would make the consumer go, "euw"...
In other words, no scheduling our Preparation H commercials to lead into Cheerios.
Which got me to thinking yesterday...here in California we have something on the ballot called Propostion H. Now, without even knowing what it's about, I'm not sure I can vote for something called Proposition H. I mean, couldn't they have picked another letter? Every time an ad comes on for it, I start laughing and I miss what the issue is.
Anyway, I handled the 10 million dollars worth of advertising placed with us, and we retained 2-1/2 minutes of of commercial time, so that meant placing 5 spots somewhere in the show each day, five days a week, for the period of the buy which was 3 months. Simple, right? Except our biggest account was General Foods, and their contract stipulated a specific requirement: no bumping up next to other ads that would make the consumer go, "euw"...
In other words, no scheduling our Preparation H commercials to lead into Cheerios.
Which got me to thinking yesterday...here in California we have something on the ballot called Propostion H. Now, without even knowing what it's about, I'm not sure I can vote for something called Proposition H. I mean, couldn't they have picked another letter? Every time an ad comes on for it, I start laughing and I miss what the issue is.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Me and My Aching Back
It was first grade and I was about to bring home my first report card.
"I'll give you a dollar for every 'A'," my dad told me.
Not that I even had a clue about money in those days (er, still don't) but I figured this sounded like a pretty good deal. Only, when I brought home straight A's, guess what? He reneged. I think I'm gonna have to call him up and ask him about that today.
Anyway, I exaggerate. Not quite all A's. One A MINUS...in, of all things, posture. (The minuses in cleanliness--messy desk!--came later.) But I remember thinking, huh? Geez, if the teacher singled out that one area for markdown, I must've been slouching off to Bethlehem, all right. (Obscure reference to Joan Didion there.) As a result, I overcompensated--I trained myself to sit up so straight I think I incurred permanent damage.
Flash forward to the computer years. The hours and hours spent sitting at a desk hovered over a keyboard. My newest obsessions (making book trailers and--shhhhh--creating a website) have left me practically crippled. All because I sit up too straight (damn first grade teacher!). Literally, when I get up in the morning, I am unable to slump. If I could only snap my lower backbone in two, it seems, all would be good.
Either that, or I need to give up this new addiction to the web. Man, I mean, did you ever stop to think about how many fonts exist in the world? Who knew that there are people out there whose sole purpose in life is to sit around creating new ones. And that they were available for me to download for free! 'Course first I had to learn how to unzip 'em...then I had to discover that you can't just throw them up on the web 'cuz not everyone'll have 'em on their computer (resulting in my cool script turning into some boring default)...then I had to learn to make 'em more interesting by painting a picture behind 'em and turning the whole thing into an image by saving it as a jpeg.
Oh, and did I mention, I'm not good with color??
Yeah, so multiply by ten, the times it takes me to come up with anything decent.
This isn't the final result, but...I'm getting there.
That is, unless, my back gives out entirely.
And, yes...upon further review, I screwed the bars up toward the right-hand side! Back to the drawing, er, painting board....
"I'll give you a dollar for every 'A'," my dad told me.
Not that I even had a clue about money in those days (er, still don't) but I figured this sounded like a pretty good deal. Only, when I brought home straight A's, guess what? He reneged. I think I'm gonna have to call him up and ask him about that today.
Anyway, I exaggerate. Not quite all A's. One A MINUS...in, of all things, posture. (The minuses in cleanliness--messy desk!--came later.) But I remember thinking, huh? Geez, if the teacher singled out that one area for markdown, I must've been slouching off to Bethlehem, all right. (Obscure reference to Joan Didion there.) As a result, I overcompensated--I trained myself to sit up so straight I think I incurred permanent damage.
Flash forward to the computer years. The hours and hours spent sitting at a desk hovered over a keyboard. My newest obsessions (making book trailers and--shhhhh--creating a website) have left me practically crippled. All because I sit up too straight (damn first grade teacher!). Literally, when I get up in the morning, I am unable to slump. If I could only snap my lower backbone in two, it seems, all would be good.
Either that, or I need to give up this new addiction to the web. Man, I mean, did you ever stop to think about how many fonts exist in the world? Who knew that there are people out there whose sole purpose in life is to sit around creating new ones. And that they were available for me to download for free! 'Course first I had to learn how to unzip 'em...then I had to discover that you can't just throw them up on the web 'cuz not everyone'll have 'em on their computer (resulting in my cool script turning into some boring default)...then I had to learn to make 'em more interesting by painting a picture behind 'em and turning the whole thing into an image by saving it as a jpeg.
Oh, and did I mention, I'm not good with color??
Yeah, so multiply by ten, the times it takes me to come up with anything decent.
This isn't the final result, but...I'm getting there.That is, unless, my back gives out entirely.
And, yes...upon further review, I screwed the bars up toward the right-hand side! Back to the drawing, er, painting board....
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Nano Nano
I started writing this post about a week ago, saved it under drafts, and am just getting back to it. Goes to show ya--there's a whole lot more to writing than...er...writing. Well, and then there's the dreaded day job. Don't get me started on that....
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Nano Nano.
I suppose I wrote roughly the same blog this time last year. To Nano or not to Nano. Ah, that is the question.
NaNoWriMo...National Novel Writing Month...starts November 1st and goes...(appropriately)...for thirty days. . Longtime blog readers will remember that an L.A.. Times article on NaNoWriMo sent me down the writing path in the first place.
Briefly, it's a month where writers all over the world commit to "writing a 50,000-word novel" in thirty days. Take it from me, to do this, ya gotta turn off the "internal editor" and spew, spew, spew. In fact, the guy who started the whole deal has a motto: No plot? No problem.
The first year I "signed up" (it's all just a formality--there aren't any rules; you don't win a prize) I did it--I wrote 50,000 words in thirty days. In fact, I did it in less 'cuz I went to Puerto Vallarta at the beginning of week four. Since I started writing for real, the same production takes about six months. Euw. This is progress? Okay, granted...what I churn out in six months is (hopefully) better crafted than what I achieved in thirty days...still...there's something to be said for taking a month off...to just write.
So, should I? Or, shouldn't I?
There's an idea brewing in my head for a new story. I'm thinking of putting it on the NaNo burner.
Stay tuned for decisions...and to see what I spent the whole weekend working on. (Doncha love a secret?)
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Nano Nano.
I suppose I wrote roughly the same blog this time last year. To Nano or not to Nano. Ah, that is the question.
NaNoWriMo...National Novel Writing Month...starts November 1st and goes...(appropriately)...for thirty days. . Longtime blog readers will remember that an L.A.. Times article on NaNoWriMo sent me down the writing path in the first place.
Briefly, it's a month where writers all over the world commit to "writing a 50,000-word novel" in thirty days. Take it from me, to do this, ya gotta turn off the "internal editor" and spew, spew, spew. In fact, the guy who started the whole deal has a motto: No plot? No problem.
The first year I "signed up" (it's all just a formality--there aren't any rules; you don't win a prize) I did it--I wrote 50,000 words in thirty days. In fact, I did it in less 'cuz I went to Puerto Vallarta at the beginning of week four. Since I started writing for real, the same production takes about six months. Euw. This is progress? Okay, granted...what I churn out in six months is (hopefully) better crafted than what I achieved in thirty days...still...there's something to be said for taking a month off...to just write.
So, should I? Or, shouldn't I?
There's an idea brewing in my head for a new story. I'm thinking of putting it on the NaNo burner.
Stay tuned for decisions...and to see what I spent the whole weekend working on. (Doncha love a secret?)
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Video Games
Hey, you parents out there--yeah, you--the ones who don't let their kids play video games. Listen up! I heard about a study that says they might not be so bad after all. Of course I didn't listen to the ENTIRE story--after all, I don't have kids so what do I care? (Kidding--I care about the planet, blah blah blah.)
Anyway, like I say, I quickly tuned out and started reminiscing about the time I fell in love with Super Mario Brothers. Oh. My. God. I was addicted (which, come to think of it, may be a precursor to my falling in love with video slots, but I digress).
For those of you not familiar (and, geez, where were YOU in the 80's?) Mario Brothers came with Ninentdo and involved this little guy you had to maneuver through four worlds (each consisting of four levels) to save the princess. Co-worker John's son Jeremiah (who was young at the time--now HE'S a co-worker) introduced me to it. After thirty minutes, I HAD TO HAVE THIS GAME, so I ran out and got my own.
Here's what I learned...pretty much in the order I learned it.
1. Hand/eye coordination. Duh, that one's self-explanatory.
2. Daunting tasks can be broken down into smaller, doable components.
See, it took me forever to get past the first level of the first world. But once I mastered it, I began to feel more confident in my skills and realized I had to look at the game piece by piece.
3. Seemingly impossible tasks can be mastered with practice.
See, each time I got to a new level (with its associated rise in required skill), I thought: "Man, I'll NEVER be able to do this." Well, endless hours later, I always graduated to the next level.
4. Think outside the box.
See, in the first level, you learn that by jumping high and hitting stuff, you release hidden coins that do something (I forget what). So, naturally, I fell into a pattern of jumping high and hitting coins. Then, for example, one day I looked at the screen and realized just because the brick wall framed the picture, didn't mean I couldn't send my guy up there. Sure enough, I jumped really, really, high and was able to run across the entire level, avoiding all the obstacles.
5. It's the journey, not the destination.
When I finally saved the princess, it was kind of a letdown. I never played again.
Still...look how much I learned about life. Definitely worth staying up to the wee small hours. Definitely worth the muscle relaxants I had to take to ease the ache in my back from sitting hunched over and my thumbs from staying frozen to the console for too long.
So, folks. Don't come down too hard on your kids for playing video games. Unless they have titles like Megadeath or Debby Does Duluth. Although come to think of it, there's probably plenty to learn from that second one, too.....
Anyway, like I say, I quickly tuned out and started reminiscing about the time I fell in love with Super Mario Brothers. Oh. My. God. I was addicted (which, come to think of it, may be a precursor to my falling in love with video slots, but I digress).
For those of you not familiar (and, geez, where were YOU in the 80's?) Mario Brothers came with Ninentdo and involved this little guy you had to maneuver through four worlds (each consisting of four levels) to save the princess. Co-worker John's son Jeremiah (who was young at the time--now HE'S a co-worker) introduced me to it. After thirty minutes, I HAD TO HAVE THIS GAME, so I ran out and got my own.
Here's what I learned...pretty much in the order I learned it.
1. Hand/eye coordination. Duh, that one's self-explanatory.
2. Daunting tasks can be broken down into smaller, doable components.
See, it took me forever to get past the first level of the first world. But once I mastered it, I began to feel more confident in my skills and realized I had to look at the game piece by piece.
3. Seemingly impossible tasks can be mastered with practice.
See, each time I got to a new level (with its associated rise in required skill), I thought: "Man, I'll NEVER be able to do this." Well, endless hours later, I always graduated to the next level.
4. Think outside the box.
See, in the first level, you learn that by jumping high and hitting stuff, you release hidden coins that do something (I forget what). So, naturally, I fell into a pattern of jumping high and hitting coins. Then, for example, one day I looked at the screen and realized just because the brick wall framed the picture, didn't mean I couldn't send my guy up there. Sure enough, I jumped really, really, high and was able to run across the entire level, avoiding all the obstacles.
5. It's the journey, not the destination.
When I finally saved the princess, it was kind of a letdown. I never played again.
Still...look how much I learned about life. Definitely worth staying up to the wee small hours. Definitely worth the muscle relaxants I had to take to ease the ache in my back from sitting hunched over and my thumbs from staying frozen to the console for too long.
So, folks. Don't come down too hard on your kids for playing video games. Unless they have titles like Megadeath or Debby Does Duluth. Although come to think of it, there's probably plenty to learn from that second one, too.....
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The Suckiest Part About Revisions
Revisions via your editor come in many forms. Anything from "make your heroine more sympathetic in this scene" down to "vary the sentence structure in paragraph two on page 119." In the two passes thus far between my editor and me, the changes have been mostly grammatical and minor.
But see, here's the thing.
I'm down to the stuff that makes me tear my hair out because...well, the truth is...there's a reason, what's left has problems because if it were easy to write, I'd have done it correctly the first time.
I mean, we're talking cases in which it's only one sentence--sometimes one word--where there's an issuse. Yet I can spend an hour trying to fix it with no luck.
I don't know what it is...am I being too anal? Am I looking at the trees instead of the forest? Shouldn't this be the easy part?
One hour. One word.
You do the math.
Meanwhile, Leftovers sits in limbo...and so much for that vow I made here to have it finished by mid-October.
Grrrrr. I really need to brush up on my multi-tasking. Or editing.
Or both.
But see, here's the thing.
I'm down to the stuff that makes me tear my hair out because...well, the truth is...there's a reason, what's left has problems because if it were easy to write, I'd have done it correctly the first time.
I mean, we're talking cases in which it's only one sentence--sometimes one word--where there's an issuse. Yet I can spend an hour trying to fix it with no luck.
I don't know what it is...am I being too anal? Am I looking at the trees instead of the forest? Shouldn't this be the easy part?
One hour. One word.
You do the math.
Meanwhile, Leftovers sits in limbo...and so much for that vow I made here to have it finished by mid-October.
Grrrrr. I really need to brush up on my multi-tasking. Or editing.
Or both.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Here's a good article
Click here to see why I'm not that unusual (right after you click on what I did yesterday).
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Look What I Did Today!
Okay, so it's a work-in-progress...and probably illegal as hell. Still, it's pretty cool.
Turn up your speakers and check it out by clicking here.
(Ain't technology grand? Thank you, google-guys!)
Turn up your speakers and check it out by clicking here.
(Ain't technology grand? Thank you, google-guys!)
Friday, October 13, 2006
365 Days
...a.k.a. ONE YEAR. As of TODAY.
That's how long ago I sent the requested full of Fit For Love to a New York publisher. Regular blog readers will remember the senior editor recalled it as "currently under consideration" back at RWA National in late July.
Not that I'm holding my breath, mind you, but no day has passed without the same thought blipping on my radar: "maybe today will be the day."
Eventually, I added the tag line: "yay or nay. Something. Please."
First-time writers have to be taught the concept of starting a new book while jumping through the hoops to sell the first one. Well, I did...and...I did. Wrote and sold, albeit to an epublisher. Now I'm finishing my third. See the way this works?
And you thought waiting for the next installment of the Sopranos was hard....
That's how long ago I sent the requested full of Fit For Love to a New York publisher. Regular blog readers will remember the senior editor recalled it as "currently under consideration" back at RWA National in late July.
Not that I'm holding my breath, mind you, but no day has passed without the same thought blipping on my radar: "maybe today will be the day."
Eventually, I added the tag line: "yay or nay. Something. Please."
First-time writers have to be taught the concept of starting a new book while jumping through the hoops to sell the first one. Well, I did...and...I did. Wrote and sold, albeit to an epublisher. Now I'm finishing my third. See the way this works?
And you thought waiting for the next installment of the Sopranos was hard....
Thursday, October 12, 2006
;) ;) ;)
...that's three more winks, in case anyone's keeping track.
Oh, I know my blog title is "Randy Writes Romance" and, strictly speaking, we're s'posed to be talkin' romance writing here, but...well...the search for romance kinda applies, doesn't it?
So, as you might have figured out, I got three more nibbles at that line I threw out on match.com. At least this time all three are in California. One is actually good looking. The other two, not bad. One appears to be very sweet, but a tad on the old side for me and...well...he says he's a social drinker but has never been drunk in his life! (Okay, Blogreader John, I'm sure that probably applies to you, too--no comments necessary!) But isn't the point of this to be as honest and realistic as possible? So, ixnay on the ocialsay inkerdray.
And you know what? Ditto for the other two. Cuz here's the deal: All three say they're nonsmokers but they'll accept someone who smokes occasionally or is trying to quit.
Uh-uh. Been there, done that. The guy says it's okay at the beginning, then he turns into Simon Legree around date four. Don't get me started.
So what, you may ask, are the qualities I might wink back at?
Ha. I'll let you know when I see 'em.
Oh, I know my blog title is "Randy Writes Romance" and, strictly speaking, we're s'posed to be talkin' romance writing here, but...well...the search for romance kinda applies, doesn't it?
So, as you might have figured out, I got three more nibbles at that line I threw out on match.com. At least this time all three are in California. One is actually good looking. The other two, not bad. One appears to be very sweet, but a tad on the old side for me and...well...he says he's a social drinker but has never been drunk in his life! (Okay, Blogreader John, I'm sure that probably applies to you, too--no comments necessary!) But isn't the point of this to be as honest and realistic as possible? So, ixnay on the ocialsay inkerdray.
And you know what? Ditto for the other two. Cuz here's the deal: All three say they're nonsmokers but they'll accept someone who smokes occasionally or is trying to quit.
Uh-uh. Been there, done that. The guy says it's okay at the beginning, then he turns into Simon Legree around date four. Don't get me started.
So what, you may ask, are the qualities I might wink back at?
Ha. I'll let you know when I see 'em.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Ann Flips the Lid on Pandora's Box
It's Saturday night. I'm doing what any self-respecting single woman does on Saturday night--in other words, I'm on the computer. The phone rings. It's Anna Margarita de la Cruz.
"I just came from a wedding next door," she gushes. "The bride and groom met on Match.com four months ago. You gotta do it."
(Indistinguishable comments in the background from Senor de la Cruz result in an argument. They're not making Match.com look like a fruitful endeavor.)
But I hang up and think, what the hell? I could use a diversion from editing. So I click on over.
(Oh, sure. Let ME be your ginea pig.)
First, I browse. For you long-time blog readers, you may remember a similar experince months ago on the Yahoo personals. I quickly insert the smoking filter (yeah, yeah--I know) to whittle down the possibilities. Ha, the field goes from five pages of guys to four guys total, two with pictures, two without. It scares me to think what the two non-pictured might look like since the two sporting photos are scary enough.
These candidates quickly bore me so I decide to play with the profile questionnaire. Twenty minutes later, I've answered all the stupid questions and...I dunno...I guess because I CAN, I upload my own image.
Then it asks for money. Well, of course, I knew such a stellar service wouldn't be free, but somehow I hadn't expected to get this far. I peruse the three payment options, lose interest, and point my browser homeward.
So much for match.com.
A couple days go by. I get to thinking (dangerous, to be sure). It occurs to me that I've established a username, a password, a profile--hell, I've even uploaded photos--all under an email account I barely use.
I start to get a little nervous as I surf on over to the account.
Uh-oh. Three men have winked at me. Which is kinda concerning because I really didn't fill out that questionnaire as though someone would actually read it.
Turns out that although I can't contact match.com members, they can contact me, then I can look up their profile.
First wink lives on Whidbey Island, Washington. Seems like a nice enough guy--and who wouldn't love to visit Whidbey Island--but, um, kinda geographically undesirable, doncha think?
Second wink lives in New Zealand. Double ditto.
Third wink lives twenty minutes away but forgot to pay attention to my profile. Under smoking he put: NO WAY. He shoulda added Jose.
Now, along with these wink notifications, match.com kindly advises that it's polite to respond, even if you're not interested. Uh, no...not fallin' for it. I'm not starting up a dialogue with strangers who live frequent flyer miles away.
Still...my profile's up there...it'd be a shame to waste all that time I spent creating it...let's see what kinda fish the net drags in over the next couple of weeks, shall we?
"I just came from a wedding next door," she gushes. "The bride and groom met on Match.com four months ago. You gotta do it."
(Indistinguishable comments in the background from Senor de la Cruz result in an argument. They're not making Match.com look like a fruitful endeavor.)
But I hang up and think, what the hell? I could use a diversion from editing. So I click on over.
(Oh, sure. Let ME be your ginea pig.)
First, I browse. For you long-time blog readers, you may remember a similar experince months ago on the Yahoo personals. I quickly insert the smoking filter (yeah, yeah--I know) to whittle down the possibilities. Ha, the field goes from five pages of guys to four guys total, two with pictures, two without. It scares me to think what the two non-pictured might look like since the two sporting photos are scary enough.
These candidates quickly bore me so I decide to play with the profile questionnaire. Twenty minutes later, I've answered all the stupid questions and...I dunno...I guess because I CAN, I upload my own image.
Then it asks for money. Well, of course, I knew such a stellar service wouldn't be free, but somehow I hadn't expected to get this far. I peruse the three payment options, lose interest, and point my browser homeward.
So much for match.com.
A couple days go by. I get to thinking (dangerous, to be sure). It occurs to me that I've established a username, a password, a profile--hell, I've even uploaded photos--all under an email account I barely use.
I start to get a little nervous as I surf on over to the account.
Uh-oh. Three men have winked at me. Which is kinda concerning because I really didn't fill out that questionnaire as though someone would actually read it.
Turns out that although I can't contact match.com members, they can contact me, then I can look up their profile.
First wink lives on Whidbey Island, Washington. Seems like a nice enough guy--and who wouldn't love to visit Whidbey Island--but, um, kinda geographically undesirable, doncha think?
Second wink lives in New Zealand. Double ditto.
Third wink lives twenty minutes away but forgot to pay attention to my profile. Under smoking he put: NO WAY. He shoulda added Jose.
Now, along with these wink notifications, match.com kindly advises that it's polite to respond, even if you're not interested. Uh, no...not fallin' for it. I'm not starting up a dialogue with strangers who live frequent flyer miles away.
Still...my profile's up there...it'd be a shame to waste all that time I spent creating it...let's see what kinda fish the net drags in over the next couple of weeks, shall we?
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Yum
First, the bad news. Not ONE celebrity saw fit to dine at Nobu Malibu last night. Well, except for yours truly, of course. (Y’know, the famous romance novelist.) I did see several social X-rays though (hat’s off to Tom Wolfe for the label). Wish I could have seen what they ordered. Or didn’t.
So, back to me and Blogreader Joe. Talk about a couple of rookies. During the week, we’d both perused the on-line menu (studying up, as it were) and we both had a hankering for the salmon. Only one problem. No salmon on the real, in-person menu. Chilean sea bass, yes. Salmon, no. Guess we were looking at the menu of Chef Nobu Matsushita’s sister restaurants.
When the waiter asked if we had questions, Joe said: “If I were a salmon, where would I be?”
“You’d be sashimi, sushi, or the artic char.”
Huh? I checked my menu. Sure enough, something called artic char−not to be confused with ARCTIC char (as I kept pointing out to Blogreader Joe.) Well, I just googled it and, apparently, t
he typo’s on them ‘cuz google gave me one of those “DID YOU MEAN ARCTIC CHAR?” comments. Anyway, arctic char is some relation to the salmon family and that was close enough for me. Blogreader Joe inquired about the whole fish and when told it was snapper figured that was good enough for him.
Meanwhile, we munched on endemame and thank God I knew enough not to pop the whole pod in my mouth−and this is pretty much where my Japanese food-eating hipness ended…because, minutes later a plate arrived looking much like a salad. Except we hadn’t ordered a salad; we’d ordered yellow-tail sushi. Okay, maybe the sushi comes after salad, we thought.
Now, I’m no food critic−and I’m even less a cook−so please forgive me for the lame descriptions I’m about to impart. But, Oh. My. God. Whatever this green stuff was−um−I hadn’t tasted anything like it before. I saw Blogreader Joe digging around beneath it, unearthing what I naively presumed was some sort of garlic bread (uh, HELLO−we’re in a Japanese restaurant!) and what did he discover? My salmon. We’re eating my entrée, not a salad.
Ah. Guess that’s what they meant by ‘family style dining.’ Anyway, now my memory kicked in−the salmon was served on a bed of pan-fried crispy spinach (eek! E.coli!) but that description doesn’t begin to do it justice. What can I say? You’ll just have to go there and try it yourself.
Next the whole fish arrived. (Where’s that sushi?) Now, Blogreader Joe LOVES whole fish−y’know, head and all−and usually they arrive as big ol’ ugly things lying limp on a plate…or even a platter. Not this one. First, it was relatively small−maybe 9” in length−and it was all primped and posed kinda like in mid-flip. Blogreader Joe had warned me he was hungry so I knew right away I wouldn’t be getting much of HIS entrée. I contented myself with stealing all the vegetables surrounding it and man, where they good. Again. I know. Lame. I need my friend Andi, the caterer, to go there, taste the food, and tell me what the spices are.
About ten minutes later, the only thing on Blogreader Joe’s plate was a very sad-looking skeleton. I was dying to take a picture of it, but good manners kept the camera in my purse.
That’s when the sushi arrived. Turns out the Japanese eat it last−after the hot stuff. Who knew?
We wrapped things up with caramel cheesecake. Again. Oh. My. God. Cheesecake with a thick layer of caramel on top. What could be better than that???
So it’s back to the Jenny Craig menu today…and not an artic char or caramel cheesecake in sight.
So, back to me and Blogreader Joe. Talk about a couple of rookies. During the week, we’d both perused the on-line menu (studying up, as it were) and we both had a hankering for the salmon. Only one problem. No salmon on the real, in-person menu. Chilean sea bass, yes. Salmon, no. Guess we were looking at the menu of Chef Nobu Matsushita’s sister restaurants.
When the waiter asked if we had questions, Joe said: “If I were a salmon, where would I be?”
“You’d be sashimi, sushi, or the artic char.”
Huh? I checked my menu. Sure enough, something called artic char−not to be confused with ARCTIC char (as I kept pointing out to Blogreader Joe.) Well, I just googled it and, apparently, t
he typo’s on them ‘cuz google gave me one of those “DID YOU MEAN ARCTIC CHAR?” comments. Anyway, arctic char is some relation to the salmon family and that was close enough for me. Blogreader Joe inquired about the whole fish and when told it was snapper figured that was good enough for him.Meanwhile, we munched on endemame and thank God I knew enough not to pop the whole pod in my mouth−and this is pretty much where my Japanese food-eating hipness ended…because, minutes later a plate arrived looking much like a salad. Except we hadn’t ordered a salad; we’d ordered yellow-tail sushi. Okay, maybe the sushi comes after salad, we thought.
Now, I’m no food critic−and I’m even less a cook−so please forgive me for the lame descriptions I’m about to impart. But, Oh. My. God. Whatever this green stuff was−um−I hadn’t tasted anything like it before. I saw Blogreader Joe digging around beneath it, unearthing what I naively presumed was some sort of garlic bread (uh, HELLO−we’re in a Japanese restaurant!) and what did he discover? My salmon. We’re eating my entrée, not a salad.
Ah. Guess that’s what they meant by ‘family style dining.’ Anyway, now my memory kicked in−the salmon was served on a bed of pan-fried crispy spinach (eek! E.coli!) but that description doesn’t begin to do it justice. What can I say? You’ll just have to go there and try it yourself.
Next the whole fish arrived. (Where’s that sushi?) Now, Blogreader Joe LOVES whole fish−y’know, head and all−and usually they arrive as big ol’ ugly things lying limp on a plate…or even a platter. Not this one. First, it was relatively small−maybe 9” in length−and it was all primped and posed kinda like in mid-flip. Blogreader Joe had warned me he was hungry so I knew right away I wouldn’t be getting much of HIS entrée. I contented myself with stealing all the vegetables surrounding it and man, where they good. Again. I know. Lame. I need my friend Andi, the caterer, to go there, taste the food, and tell me what the spices are.
About ten minutes later, the only thing on Blogreader Joe’s plate was a very sad-looking skeleton. I was dying to take a picture of it, but good manners kept the camera in my purse.
That’s when the sushi arrived. Turns out the Japanese eat it last−after the hot stuff. Who knew?
We wrapped things up with caramel cheesecake. Again. Oh. My. God. Cheesecake with a thick layer of caramel on top. What could be better than that???
So it’s back to the Jenny Craig menu today…and not an artic char or caramel cheesecake in sight.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Psssst!
Please don't tell the paparazzi I'll be at Nobu tonight. You KNOW I detest all those flashbulbs going off when I leave a restaurant. I'm sure Jen and Jude felt the same way when these pix were shot (on separate occasions, folks--don't wanna start any rumors!)(Yes. I ripped these right off the old Internet And, yes--in case you didn't get it--Blogreader Joe is taking me to Nobu for my birthday dinner! Cross your fingers for celebrity sightings!)
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Ounce by Ounce
Ever notice how wearing something new kinda puts a spring in your step? Even though you know the same dress will seem like just another rag in the closet a year from now?
Today I'm all springy because that recent spree for cleavage-free wedding attire resulted in a net gain of three frocks for the office. Since y'all know how much I detest sojourns to the mall for ANY reason (apparently, when they were handing out the shopping gene, I was off picking up the one for gambling), I was quite pleased with the treasure trove I came home with.
And, judging by the comments, it appears my co-workers were tired of seeing the same old same old, for they fell all over themselves with compliments.
Then, I realized (somewhat triumphantly). It’s not the new dresses; it’s the weight loss!
Okay, so I had to kinda help them along with this notion, but they’re learning. One guy even called me ‘skinny’ today! (Yes, it’s true I sign his paycheck, but I’ve been doing so for nearly six years, so I’m pretty sure that’s not it.)
The fact is…although I’ve kept pretty mum about it, Jenny Craig and I have been going steady now since late July. Yes, even with all the little sidetrips, the birthday bashes, and weddings (TWO, count ‘em TWO pieces of cake on Sunday!), I’ve continue to whittle away at the goal. (Actually, I HAVE no real goal in mind, but that’s another issue.)
And for the first time in three years, I sense a bit of the old me returning. Well, actually, a bit LESS of the old me.
For those of you who’ve never had to diet (I hate you, please go away) it must be hard to imagine what a little success will do for your motivation. Especially after going through weeks and weeks with only a couple pounds to show for your efforts. A couple pounds doesn’t get you into a different section of your closet. A couple pounds doesn’t get you into a different size at the mall—all it gets you is frustrated with how long the process takes.
I don’t know about you, but I’m a baby boomer--for me, the concept of delayed gratification went bye-bye with the advent of mass consumerism. I want it all, and I want it now.
But like I’ve said before: life, like writing, is all about baby steps.
Which translate to ounces…which translate to pounds….
Ah, yes. Life is good today!
Today I'm all springy because that recent spree for cleavage-free wedding attire resulted in a net gain of three frocks for the office. Since y'all know how much I detest sojourns to the mall for ANY reason (apparently, when they were handing out the shopping gene, I was off picking up the one for gambling), I was quite pleased with the treasure trove I came home with.
And, judging by the comments, it appears my co-workers were tired of seeing the same old same old, for they fell all over themselves with compliments.
Then, I realized (somewhat triumphantly). It’s not the new dresses; it’s the weight loss!
Okay, so I had to kinda help them along with this notion, but they’re learning. One guy even called me ‘skinny’ today! (Yes, it’s true I sign his paycheck, but I’ve been doing so for nearly six years, so I’m pretty sure that’s not it.)
The fact is…although I’ve kept pretty mum about it, Jenny Craig and I have been going steady now since late July. Yes, even with all the little sidetrips, the birthday bashes, and weddings (TWO, count ‘em TWO pieces of cake on Sunday!), I’ve continue to whittle away at the goal. (Actually, I HAVE no real goal in mind, but that’s another issue.)
And for the first time in three years, I sense a bit of the old me returning. Well, actually, a bit LESS of the old me.
For those of you who’ve never had to diet (I hate you, please go away) it must be hard to imagine what a little success will do for your motivation. Especially after going through weeks and weeks with only a couple pounds to show for your efforts. A couple pounds doesn’t get you into a different section of your closet. A couple pounds doesn’t get you into a different size at the mall—all it gets you is frustrated with how long the process takes.
I don’t know about you, but I’m a baby boomer--for me, the concept of delayed gratification went bye-bye with the advent of mass consumerism. I want it all, and I want it now.
But like I’ve said before: life, like writing, is all about baby steps.
Which translate to ounces…which translate to pounds….
Ah, yes. Life is good today!
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Triskelion Contest Question
Okay, you non-Triskelion readers/authors--move along, today. There's nothing here for you. :) But, come back tomorrow. I'll rustle up something special for y'all then. Promise.
In the meantime...anyone visiting from the Inspired Sunset Event on Triskelion, please drop your answer in the comment section to qualify for the silver bracelet pictured in the sidebar.
* * * * What kind of food is Amy always in the mood for? * * * * *
In the meantime...anyone visiting from the Inspired Sunset Event on Triskelion, please drop your answer in the comment section to qualify for the silver bracelet pictured in the sidebar.
* * * * What kind of food is Amy always in the mood for? * * * * *
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Showtime on the Net
Tomorrow's my first foray into the wild world of promotion. (Yeah, I know. Turns out writing the book is only the prologue--if you will--to publishing. Geesh.).
So far, I'm not the poster child for this stuff.
First, you join about a million on-line loops (readers groups, writers groups, review sites, etc.). Then, er, you're supposed to jump in and start participating...make friends...get your name out there...establish a presence. Only, it's a bit like walking into a new school on the first day--everyone's an upperclassperson, everyone knows their way around, and you (okay, I) feel like an idiot.
Sure, your fellow "students" are nice. Yes, they welcome you with open arms. And, most are willing to share their lunch...
Still...
It's hard being the new kid on the block.
Again.
At 53.
Or, maybe there's just a whole lot of truth in the old axiom about teaching an old dog new tricks.
Speaking of which, I learned one today in preparing for the on-line soiree tomorrow. Among other things, I'll be posting excerpts from Stealing Amy. So tonight I scouted my manuscript for two-page scenes that a) represent the plot, b) show off the characterization, c) start with a hook, d) end with a hook, and e) entertain.
Turns out, this is not as easy as it seems!
Which got me to thinking…what if I wrote every scene as though it were destined to show up somewhere as a teaser? What if I put every scene to the “a through e” test as I was writing it?
Yep, that's why the writing biz learning curve is....er...exactly, what shape would that be? Steep? Long? Flat?
This is why I'm a writer, not an engineer.
So far, I'm not the poster child for this stuff.
First, you join about a million on-line loops (readers groups, writers groups, review sites, etc.). Then, er, you're supposed to jump in and start participating...make friends...get your name out there...establish a presence. Only, it's a bit like walking into a new school on the first day--everyone's an upperclassperson, everyone knows their way around, and you (okay, I) feel like an idiot.
Sure, your fellow "students" are nice. Yes, they welcome you with open arms. And, most are willing to share their lunch...
Still...
It's hard being the new kid on the block.
Again.
At 53.
Or, maybe there's just a whole lot of truth in the old axiom about teaching an old dog new tricks.
Speaking of which, I learned one today in preparing for the on-line soiree tomorrow. Among other things, I'll be posting excerpts from Stealing Amy. So tonight I scouted my manuscript for two-page scenes that a) represent the plot, b) show off the characterization, c) start with a hook, d) end with a hook, and e) entertain.
Turns out, this is not as easy as it seems!
Which got me to thinking…what if I wrote every scene as though it were destined to show up somewhere as a teaser? What if I put every scene to the “a through e” test as I was writing it?
Yep, that's why the writing biz learning curve is....er...exactly, what shape would that be? Steep? Long? Flat?
This is why I'm a writer, not an engineer.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Why Are My Photos Blurry???
I still don't seem to be gettin' the hang of taking digital photos...I mean, this doesn't look too clear, does it? Oh, well...more consulting is necessary, apparently. Anyway...without further ado..from left to right, back row:
Keith (old, old friend of groom-to-be and lead singer/songwriter of "The 88"), David (of Sonoma and boyfriend of oldest niece, Mindy), Me (check out undescribable "jacket" of previous post), oldest niece Mindy, bride-to-be Juli-Ann, nephew and groom-to-be Brian, great-niece and all-around tall (getting-too-old) great-niece Ashley, younger (ha!) niece Jamie, and her thank-god-we-have-a-doctor-in-the-family husband, Jon
Front row: yes-that's-a-boo-boo-under-his-nose great nephew Zac, all-around awesome--puts-up-with-my-brother sister-in-law Polly, super-smart (must-have-got-the brains-from-my- side-of-the-family) Jake, paying-for-the-whole-shebang brother Barry, and finally, what can I say--the best parents in the whole, wide world: Daddy and Annie
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Randy's Version of Project Runway
Okay, by my watch, I just spent one hour and forty-five minutes trying on everything in my closet. Why, you ask? It's kind of a long story....you may wanna pause to get a snack or somethin'.
So this weekend's the big family wedding. Which means tomorrow is the rehearsal dinner. Now, it's not like I left it all to the last minute--I even went (gasp) shopping!--but I thought I had back-ups. Multiple back-ups, in fact. So when I didn't find anything at the mall, I...well, I guess I rested on my laurels.
Big mistake.
See, the solution to the algorithm by which I must solve the apparel dilemma is constrained by my possession of (sorry to get personal but--oh hell, why not?) a certain amount of cleavage.
Turns out I've been forbidden to exhibit it around the parental units.
So I thought the gold cocktail dress was a safe bet. Sure it's strapless, but the bodice covers enough to protect even the Pope's sensibilities. Just to make certain though, I tried it on this evening. Well. There must be something about the color gold--it was like a big ol' spotlight shone on, er, things, making them look a whole lot more prominent than they really are. (Trust me, this is somewhat new--'cuz along with menopause came mutant boobs--yeah, I haven't seen it discussed in the literature, either).
Picture Jayne Mansfield in her prime (which would be before that car accident that decapitated her). Needless to say, the gold frock went to the back of the closet.
No problem, I thought. Didn't I say I had multiple back-ups? Next came the black sparkly strapless. Only, seen through the eyes of the parental units, it suddenly looked slutty. Ditto the next black strapless. And the next.
Started to get panicky at this point. And to wonder why I own so many black strapless dresses.
Let's try another color, I decided. A lovely shade of emerald green and although halter-style, a very demure version. Only one problem. No shoes to go with it. I must have spent twenty minutes on this one alone.
Hot and sweaty now, I resorted to clothes I haven't worn since I was thin-ner. Hm. Close, but no cigar. Besides, more cleavage, no shoes, yada, yada, yada...
At this point, I envisioned myself dragging all the options over to my parents' house and letting them choose. I even toyed with dressing up something I normally wear to work (ugh!).
Finally, I resorted to two plain black sheaths--hand-me-downs from my sister-in-law who (the bitch) grew out of them in the good way (meaning she got too skinny for them). Let me tell you why neither was an appealing option: although I may be conservative in a lot of ways, dress just isn't one of 'em.
Sigh. But, I was in a desperate situation, so I tried them on.
The first one didn't fit right. The second was better, but oh-so-boring. I looked around for something--anything!--to jazz it up.
And there it was.
This cool thing I can't even describe (I'll try in a minute) that's been hanging in my closet for years, waiting for the moment I'd figure out what the hell to do with it. I sloughed it on over my shoulders, and voila. Problem solved. (Okay, here goes: it's all beads but strung together kinda like a spider web, and sewn together to form the shape of a jacket. Screw it; I'll have to get a picture of it tomorrow night.)
So, you may be wondering why a 53-year-old woman couldn't pick her favorite cocktail dress from the line-up--boobs and parents be damned? Hey, they're 83 years old (the parents, not the boobs--although they're gettin' there). At that age, there's not a whole lot a daughter can do to make Annie and Daddy happy and proud.
I'm just glad they're still around to cause problems.
So this weekend's the big family wedding. Which means tomorrow is the rehearsal dinner. Now, it's not like I left it all to the last minute--I even went (gasp) shopping!--but I thought I had back-ups. Multiple back-ups, in fact. So when I didn't find anything at the mall, I...well, I guess I rested on my laurels.
Big mistake.
See, the solution to the algorithm by which I must solve the apparel dilemma is constrained by my possession of (sorry to get personal but--oh hell, why not?) a certain amount of cleavage.
Turns out I've been forbidden to exhibit it around the parental units.
So I thought the gold cocktail dress was a safe bet. Sure it's strapless, but the bodice covers enough to protect even the Pope's sensibilities. Just to make certain though, I tried it on this evening. Well. There must be something about the color gold--it was like a big ol' spotlight shone on, er, things, making them look a whole lot more prominent than they really are. (Trust me, this is somewhat new--'cuz along with menopause came mutant boobs--yeah, I haven't seen it discussed in the literature, either).
Picture Jayne Mansfield in her prime (which would be before that car accident that decapitated her). Needless to say, the gold frock went to the back of the closet.
No problem, I thought. Didn't I say I had multiple back-ups? Next came the black sparkly strapless. Only, seen through the eyes of the parental units, it suddenly looked slutty. Ditto the next black strapless. And the next.
Started to get panicky at this point. And to wonder why I own so many black strapless dresses.
Let's try another color, I decided. A lovely shade of emerald green and although halter-style, a very demure version. Only one problem. No shoes to go with it. I must have spent twenty minutes on this one alone.
Hot and sweaty now, I resorted to clothes I haven't worn since I was thin-ner. Hm. Close, but no cigar. Besides, more cleavage, no shoes, yada, yada, yada...
At this point, I envisioned myself dragging all the options over to my parents' house and letting them choose. I even toyed with dressing up something I normally wear to work (ugh!).
Finally, I resorted to two plain black sheaths--hand-me-downs from my sister-in-law who (the bitch) grew out of them in the good way (meaning she got too skinny for them). Let me tell you why neither was an appealing option: although I may be conservative in a lot of ways, dress just isn't one of 'em.
Sigh. But, I was in a desperate situation, so I tried them on.
The first one didn't fit right. The second was better, but oh-so-boring. I looked around for something--anything!--to jazz it up.
And there it was.
This cool thing I can't even describe (I'll try in a minute) that's been hanging in my closet for years, waiting for the moment I'd figure out what the hell to do with it. I sloughed it on over my shoulders, and voila. Problem solved. (Okay, here goes: it's all beads but strung together kinda like a spider web, and sewn together to form the shape of a jacket. Screw it; I'll have to get a picture of it tomorrow night.)
So, you may be wondering why a 53-year-old woman couldn't pick her favorite cocktail dress from the line-up--boobs and parents be damned? Hey, they're 83 years old (the parents, not the boobs--although they're gettin' there). At that age, there's not a whole lot a daughter can do to make Annie and Daddy happy and proud.
I'm just glad they're still around to cause problems.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Holy Epiphany, Batman!
Just when I really, really, think I'm gonna have to shelve Leftovers--y'know, stash a year's worth of writing under the bed until I'm old and gray (well, just gray since I'm already old)--a light bulb goes off.
Or, maybe the Muse showed up. (Wait, I don't believe in 'em, remember?)
Anyway, the words started to flow again...better yet, the ideas started to flow. And suddenly, I knew how to end it. The story that is, not the words and ideas. Well, of course, I knew the ending a long time ago, but not exactly how to get there.
Now, I do.
At least for tonight, I do.
Does that ever happen to you? A burst of brilliance sears your brain...you get all excited about FINALLY finding the answer, then wooooosh! Something gets lost in the execution, and the whole damn bubble deflates.
Not this time (she said with determination). This time I'm gonna MAKE it work. 'Cuz see, along with the inspiration, I saw very clearly that this book is so close to being finished, I'd be a fool to quit now.
Who cares if the market for chick lit is dead? (It's not really chick lit, anyway.) Who cares if the market for mom lit is dead? (Hm...not that, either). Who cares if no one's buying stuff written in first person? (Uh-oh.)
Humorous women's fiction anyone?
Sometimes they say you have to step back from a work-in-process (progress?). Get some perspective. Well, I did that (thanks to weeks spent editing Stealing Amy) and when I finally got back to writing new stuff on Leftovers, I read over the last scene and decided the whole thing was utter crapola. Big doo-doo.
Then, tonight (post-epiphany) I read it again.
Hm. Not bad. Not bad at all, in fact.
So, it's back to the drawing board. I WILL FINISH LEFTOVERS. I WILL FINISH LEFTOVERS.
Now...dare I...dare I make a commitment here? Oh, what the hell....let's say...um...I promise to type THE END three weeks from today.
Omigod. Can I backspace and delete? Nah...let's go for it, huh?
Besides...NaNoWriMo is only a month away...and I've got BIG plans for a new headache, er, masterpiece.
Or, maybe the Muse showed up. (Wait, I don't believe in 'em, remember?)
Anyway, the words started to flow again...better yet, the ideas started to flow. And suddenly, I knew how to end it. The story that is, not the words and ideas. Well, of course, I knew the ending a long time ago, but not exactly how to get there.
Now, I do.
At least for tonight, I do.
Does that ever happen to you? A burst of brilliance sears your brain...you get all excited about FINALLY finding the answer, then wooooosh! Something gets lost in the execution, and the whole damn bubble deflates.
Not this time (she said with determination). This time I'm gonna MAKE it work. 'Cuz see, along with the inspiration, I saw very clearly that this book is so close to being finished, I'd be a fool to quit now.
Who cares if the market for chick lit is dead? (It's not really chick lit, anyway.) Who cares if the market for mom lit is dead? (Hm...not that, either). Who cares if no one's buying stuff written in first person? (Uh-oh.)
Humorous women's fiction anyone?
Sometimes they say you have to step back from a work-in-process (progress?). Get some perspective. Well, I did that (thanks to weeks spent editing Stealing Amy) and when I finally got back to writing new stuff on Leftovers, I read over the last scene and decided the whole thing was utter crapola. Big doo-doo.
Then, tonight (post-epiphany) I read it again.
Hm. Not bad. Not bad at all, in fact.
So, it's back to the drawing board. I WILL FINISH LEFTOVERS. I WILL FINISH LEFTOVERS.
Now...dare I...dare I make a commitment here? Oh, what the hell....let's say...um...I promise to type THE END three weeks from today.
Omigod. Can I backspace and delete? Nah...let's go for it, huh?
Besides...NaNoWriMo is only a month away...and I've got BIG plans for a new headache, er, masterpiece.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Ka-Ching
You wake up on a morning in September and realize something is different. Something about the way the sun’s rays slant differently through the window. And then you know—even though southern California temperatures are still hitting the 90’s—you know.
Damn, it’s Fall.
Still…Fall can be beautiful—even in southern California—more precisely, it can inspire…you guessed it…another ROAD TRIP. This time up the coast to Santa Ynez where my faithful blogreaders will remember (come on, everybody—let’s hear it) yes! There's an Indian casino. Pardon me, a Native American casino?? Anyway…so yesterday, my partners in crime (you know them as Marty
and Ann) loaded me up in the car and off we went. Our route took us along Pacific Coast Highway through Ventura up to Santa Barbara where we cut inland along the San Marcos Pass. I don’t know why, but lots of people freak out as they drive over this bridge. They’d REALLY freak out if they could see it from afar.
Once at Chumash, Ann and I gravitated toward the penny and nickel machines (yes, we’re SUCH high rollers). At one point, I was playing a penny slot called KABOOM--in honor of Ann’s recent performance in Rosarito--and won a jackpot worth 6100 2 cent credits...which...after much mental calculation (and cashing out) turned out to be $122. Cool!
Eventually, we moseyed into the “high limit” area. (Notice the interesting dichotomy here--Ann and I go from pennies to $5 without blinking an eye). Long story short…won a couple of jackpots together and in the end, managed a net gain of about $270 a piece for the day, so we were happy campers.
On our return home, we retraced the route through San Marcos Pass—and would have made good time if we hadn’t run into a sobriety checkpoint! Chumash doesn’t even have a bar (and no, the sound of bottles clinking in Ann’s oversized purse were NOT mini-sized wine bottles—so don’t think that they were) and Marty doesn’t drink while he gambles, so the checkpoint didn’t give us pause, but geez. It sure added time to our drive—and caused me to miss Amazing Race (sob).
But wait. $270? Small price to pay for missing a dumb reality show, huh? And a great way to spend a perfect Fall day.
Damn, it’s Fall.
Still…Fall can be beautiful—even in southern California—more precisely, it can inspire…you guessed it…another ROAD TRIP. This time up the coast to Santa Ynez where my faithful blogreaders will remember (come on, everybody—let’s hear it) yes! There's an Indian casino. Pardon me, a Native American casino?? Anyway…so yesterday, my partners in crime (you know them as Marty
and Ann) loaded me up in the car and off we went. Our route took us along Pacific Coast Highway through Ventura up to Santa Barbara where we cut inland along the San Marcos Pass. I don’t know why, but lots of people freak out as they drive over this bridge. They’d REALLY freak out if they could see it from afar. Once at Chumash, Ann and I gravitated toward the penny and nickel machines (yes, we’re SUCH high rollers). At one point, I was playing a penny slot called KABOOM--in honor of Ann’s recent performance in Rosarito--and won a jackpot worth 6100 2 cent credits...which...after much mental calculation (and cashing out) turned out to be $122. Cool!
Eventually, we moseyed into the “high limit” area. (Notice the interesting dichotomy here--Ann and I go from pennies to $5 without blinking an eye). Long story short…won a couple of jackpots together and in the end, managed a net gain of about $270 a piece for the day, so we were happy campers.
On our return home, we retraced the route through San Marcos Pass—and would have made good time if we hadn’t run into a sobriety checkpoint! Chumash doesn’t even have a bar (and no, the sound of bottles clinking in Ann’s oversized purse were NOT mini-sized wine bottles—so don’t think that they were) and Marty doesn’t drink while he gambles, so the checkpoint didn’t give us pause, but geez. It sure added time to our drive—and caused me to miss Amazing Race (sob).
But wait. $270? Small price to pay for missing a dumb reality show, huh? And a great way to spend a perfect Fall day.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Rosarito -- The Narrative
So we got on the road last Friday by 9:30 a.m. Not bad since I was aiming for 8:30. Then, around Westwood, I successfully staved off an emergency visit to McDonald’s by having thoughtfully brought along Jenny’s Toffee Mini-bites (better get your blood-sugar levels checked, Ann!) (See post from several months ago regarding trip to Rincon-San Diego.)
Traffic was remarkably light, and in record time, we pulled into a market at Del Mar Heights to stock up before crossing the border. By “stock up” I mean all the weekend essentials, like: 4 bottles of wine, a jug of pre-mixed Mudslides, giant bag of tortilla chips, jar of salsa, two kinds of cheese, two kinds of crackers, some salami, and…oh, yeah…water.
Across the parking lot from the market, we spied a McDonald’s Gourmet Bistro (who knew?). To investigate further (okay, to be honest, in order to use their bathroom), we walked over (okay, to be honest, we drove) to check it out. Boy, hope this is the wave of McDonald’s future! It’s more like a McCheesecake Factory…or maybe a McFriday’s. You enter, and on the left you have your basic Mickey D’s, but on your right…mmmmm….tasty looking panninis and pastas! And an espresso machine! (Not to mention tastefully-decorated bathrooms on a par with upscale restaurants.)
Anyway, we got back on the road, then stopped just before the border to buy Mexican insurance. By the way, here’s my theory on that: Mexican insurance is more like a pre-paid bribe. Your own insurance covers you in an accident down there; but the Mexican insurance keeps you from going to jail. Like I say, just a thought.
We sailed over the border without incident, made all the correct yields/verges/turns to get around Tijuana, then leisurely drove forty minutes south, ending up at Calafia in time for cocktails and appetizers. Now, I don’t know what they do in Mexico, but the margaritas are exceptional. Maybe it’s the lime juice. Maybe it’s the brand of tequila. Maybe it’s just the friggin’ atmosphere, but man, were they good. The appetizers? Well, not so much. Rosarito isn’t the place to go for great food, unfortunately, but…well, how can you go wrong eating stuff like chips, salsa, quesadillas, nachos, ceviche…..? Sigh…I couldn’t have been happier.
Finally, it was time to make our way to the condo. Luckily, I knew how to get there; otherwise, we could have wound up circling Rosarito for hours. After oohing and aaahing over the view, we threw on bathing suits and hit the Jacuzzi armed with plastic glasses filled with wine. There we met some of our neighbors, enjoyed the sunset, and—frankly—got a little likkered up. Not enough to forget about going out to dinner, though! About eight, we dragged ourselves upstairs, changed, then snagged a taxi and went into town to El Nido where we ate traditional Mexican food. Oh, and we may have had a margarita. Or two.
On Saturday (my birthday!) Ann was gonna wake me up with bacon and eggs…except…well, we hadn’t exactly brought any. Instead, we drove to the Rosarito Beach Hotel and ate like civilized people in their dining room. Then…well, see…the plan was just to eat breakfast and go back to the condo for sunning by the pool. But…well, see…they have all these jewelry vendors. About FOUR hours later, we took a break from shopping and had a drink (okay, two drinks) at Pappas and Beer, where a TWENTY-THREE year old Navy guy kinda PICKED UP ON US. Was that sweet, or what?? I mean, here it’s my 53rd birthday, and this nice, young, guy asks if he can join us! And, it’s not like he was alone or anything. Oh, no. He was sitting with two other guys. So what if he was a little tipsy? He was a nice, Midwestern, boy who was respectful, but not too much so (y’know what I mean? Cuz too much respect would have been insulting).
Anyway…blah, blah, blah…more drinking, more shopping…Oh, we stopped in a pharmacia to buy illicit drugs (kidding) and when I used my credit card, the owner noticed it was my birthday, so she gave me a lovely soap as a present. How sweet was that? Sigh. Only in Mexico.
I think we took a nap when we got back home. Then we drove down to Puerto Nuevo for my birthday dinner. Translated, Puerto Nuevo turns out to be Newport Beach, but most people refer to it as Lobster Village. You turn off the road into a village square consisting of nothing but restaurants—all specializing in lobster. (Now, I’ve heard the rumor that the waters off PN lost their lobster population due to overfishing YEARS ago, but I’ve never substantiated it. Besides, who cares where the stuff comes from?) So, I picked a restaurant at random—poor choice, as it turns out. I mean, as y’all know, I’m a Mariachi fan, but not when they stay at one table for the entire evening! Not when the table is next to ours!! God, it was like a storm that never moved. We had to shout over the music the whole time. (Not that, at this point, our conversation was particularly scintillating or intellectual.) We ordered the $10.95 lobster (including rice and beans) and…well…okay, so it’s not The Palms…it WAS lobster.
Afterward, we (cough) did a little more shopping. It had gotten pretty late and was also pretty dark, so we can all excuse Ann for going boom in the middle of the street, right? A security guy rushed over, helped her up, and started speaking Spanish so fast, our heads spun. Couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was saying. The only part we understood was when he’d pause for an instant, say “Boom” really loud, then totally crack up. He thought the whole thing was hysterical…and so did we. (I know…ya probably had to be there.)
Okay, it was my birthday, so the night wasn’t over. We drove back up the coast, past the condo, and on into town to the Karoake Bar at the Rosarito Beach Hotel. Hey, they had some pretty good singers performing. Locals and tourists alike. Fun place.
An hour later, I couldn’t find our parking slip, which was kinda interesting, cuz they wouldn’t let us out of the lot. I searched and searched (how could I have lost it in such a short time?). Finally, the security guy asked to see my car registration and driver’s license. Hm. Fascinating. So, it was all about making sure I wasn’t stealing someone’s car. Cool.
Since we’d missed our appointment with tanning by the pool on Saturday, Sunday was to be The Day. Only…the fog rolled in, so we headed down to Las Rocas for breakfast/lunch instead. Then…oh, what the hell…we drove further down the coast (past Puerto Nuevo) to La Fonda. La Fonda is one of the first spots I ever visited along this stretch of Baja, and it holds a precious spot in my heart. A few years ago, I got worried when they moved it (long story—interesting, but confusing and long) and I got even more worried when it sold to a new owner, but rest assured, all is well at La Fonda again. They’ve even added two new patio levels below the original. AND (how cute is this) a Mexican blanket was draped over each chair at each table…in case it got chilly. (Loved that.)
Wish I’d had my camera with me (well, I did, but the battery had run down) to take pictures there. The beach is miles below, and it’s one of the widest ones I’ve ever seen. Long and wide enough for ultra-light planes to take off and land (which they did—yeah, we thought about finding out how much it was to go up, but not for very long). A couple margaritas came our way again, and then we even struck up a nice conversation with a couple from San Diego who bought us all a round of Tequila shots (not my favorite, but I didn’t wanna be impolite, y’know).
Then we drove back home (early! I Swear! It was early! Still daylight even!) and hit the Jacuzzi again. That night, we munched on all that stuff we brought down, watched TV, and…well, dozed off. Guess our ages finally caught up with us.
In the morning, we walked up the block to a taco stand on the corner and had something amazing called queseron. Sort of a Mexican wrap with spicy shrimp. Mmmm. Instead of tipping the security guys back at the condo, Ann brought them tacos and water—she’s sooo thoughtful!
Nothing left to do but load up the car, and soon we were on our way back to the U.S.
Well, almost.
Ann had discovered a broken earring, so we stopped in town to track down the vendor for a quick-fix. Uh-uh. The quick-fix turned into another hour-and-a-half. More buying. A couple beers. We even got matching ankle bracelets. And neither one of us even LIKES ankle bracelets.
At last, we headed up the coast toward Tijuana, hoping for a relatively brief stay at the border. Yeah, right. We got in line at 1:15 and passed through about an hour later. Which was really, really handy since ANN WASN’T FINISHED SHOPPING YET. Yep. There she was, window rolled down, hanging half-in-half-out, yelling in patented Ann-style: “Excuse me! Uh, EXCUSE ME!” One lace tablecloth and giant pink-and-white piggy bank later, we finally left the vendors behind and made our escape into the U.S.
So that’s it. That’s our four-day trip to Rosarito for my birthday. Can’t wait to do it again.
Traffic was remarkably light, and in record time, we pulled into a market at Del Mar Heights to stock up before crossing the border. By “stock up” I mean all the weekend essentials, like: 4 bottles of wine, a jug of pre-mixed Mudslides, giant bag of tortilla chips, jar of salsa, two kinds of cheese, two kinds of crackers, some salami, and…oh, yeah…water.
Across the parking lot from the market, we spied a McDonald’s Gourmet Bistro (who knew?). To investigate further (okay, to be honest, in order to use their bathroom), we walked over (okay, to be honest, we drove) to check it out. Boy, hope this is the wave of McDonald’s future! It’s more like a McCheesecake Factory…or maybe a McFriday’s. You enter, and on the left you have your basic Mickey D’s, but on your right…mmmmm….tasty looking panninis and pastas! And an espresso machine! (Not to mention tastefully-decorated bathrooms on a par with upscale restaurants.)
Anyway, we got back on the road, then stopped just before the border to buy Mexican insurance. By the way, here’s my theory on that: Mexican insurance is more like a pre-paid bribe. Your own insurance covers you in an accident down there; but the Mexican insurance keeps you from going to jail. Like I say, just a thought.
We sailed over the border without incident, made all the correct yields/verges/turns to get around Tijuana, then leisurely drove forty minutes south, ending up at Calafia in time for cocktails and appetizers. Now, I don’t know what they do in Mexico, but the margaritas are exceptional. Maybe it’s the lime juice. Maybe it’s the brand of tequila. Maybe it’s just the friggin’ atmosphere, but man, were they good. The appetizers? Well, not so much. Rosarito isn’t the place to go for great food, unfortunately, but…well, how can you go wrong eating stuff like chips, salsa, quesadillas, nachos, ceviche…..? Sigh…I couldn’t have been happier.
Finally, it was time to make our way to the condo. Luckily, I knew how to get there; otherwise, we could have wound up circling Rosarito for hours. After oohing and aaahing over the view, we threw on bathing suits and hit the Jacuzzi armed with plastic glasses filled with wine. There we met some of our neighbors, enjoyed the sunset, and—frankly—got a little likkered up. Not enough to forget about going out to dinner, though! About eight, we dragged ourselves upstairs, changed, then snagged a taxi and went into town to El Nido where we ate traditional Mexican food. Oh, and we may have had a margarita. Or two.
On Saturday (my birthday!) Ann was gonna wake me up with bacon and eggs…except…well, we hadn’t exactly brought any. Instead, we drove to the Rosarito Beach Hotel and ate like civilized people in their dining room. Then…well, see…the plan was just to eat breakfast and go back to the condo for sunning by the pool. But…well, see…they have all these jewelry vendors. About FOUR hours later, we took a break from shopping and had a drink (okay, two drinks) at Pappas and Beer, where a TWENTY-THREE year old Navy guy kinda PICKED UP ON US. Was that sweet, or what?? I mean, here it’s my 53rd birthday, and this nice, young, guy asks if he can join us! And, it’s not like he was alone or anything. Oh, no. He was sitting with two other guys. So what if he was a little tipsy? He was a nice, Midwestern, boy who was respectful, but not too much so (y’know what I mean? Cuz too much respect would have been insulting).
Anyway…blah, blah, blah…more drinking, more shopping…Oh, we stopped in a pharmacia to buy illicit drugs (kidding) and when I used my credit card, the owner noticed it was my birthday, so she gave me a lovely soap as a present. How sweet was that? Sigh. Only in Mexico.
I think we took a nap when we got back home. Then we drove down to Puerto Nuevo for my birthday dinner. Translated, Puerto Nuevo turns out to be Newport Beach, but most people refer to it as Lobster Village. You turn off the road into a village square consisting of nothing but restaurants—all specializing in lobster. (Now, I’ve heard the rumor that the waters off PN lost their lobster population due to overfishing YEARS ago, but I’ve never substantiated it. Besides, who cares where the stuff comes from?) So, I picked a restaurant at random—poor choice, as it turns out. I mean, as y’all know, I’m a Mariachi fan, but not when they stay at one table for the entire evening! Not when the table is next to ours!! God, it was like a storm that never moved. We had to shout over the music the whole time. (Not that, at this point, our conversation was particularly scintillating or intellectual.) We ordered the $10.95 lobster (including rice and beans) and…well…okay, so it’s not The Palms…it WAS lobster.
Afterward, we (cough) did a little more shopping. It had gotten pretty late and was also pretty dark, so we can all excuse Ann for going boom in the middle of the street, right? A security guy rushed over, helped her up, and started speaking Spanish so fast, our heads spun. Couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was saying. The only part we understood was when he’d pause for an instant, say “Boom” really loud, then totally crack up. He thought the whole thing was hysterical…and so did we. (I know…ya probably had to be there.)
Okay, it was my birthday, so the night wasn’t over. We drove back up the coast, past the condo, and on into town to the Karoake Bar at the Rosarito Beach Hotel. Hey, they had some pretty good singers performing. Locals and tourists alike. Fun place.
An hour later, I couldn’t find our parking slip, which was kinda interesting, cuz they wouldn’t let us out of the lot. I searched and searched (how could I have lost it in such a short time?). Finally, the security guy asked to see my car registration and driver’s license. Hm. Fascinating. So, it was all about making sure I wasn’t stealing someone’s car. Cool.
Since we’d missed our appointment with tanning by the pool on Saturday, Sunday was to be The Day. Only…the fog rolled in, so we headed down to Las Rocas for breakfast/lunch instead. Then…oh, what the hell…we drove further down the coast (past Puerto Nuevo) to La Fonda. La Fonda is one of the first spots I ever visited along this stretch of Baja, and it holds a precious spot in my heart. A few years ago, I got worried when they moved it (long story—interesting, but confusing and long) and I got even more worried when it sold to a new owner, but rest assured, all is well at La Fonda again. They’ve even added two new patio levels below the original. AND (how cute is this) a Mexican blanket was draped over each chair at each table…in case it got chilly. (Loved that.)
Wish I’d had my camera with me (well, I did, but the battery had run down) to take pictures there. The beach is miles below, and it’s one of the widest ones I’ve ever seen. Long and wide enough for ultra-light planes to take off and land (which they did—yeah, we thought about finding out how much it was to go up, but not for very long). A couple margaritas came our way again, and then we even struck up a nice conversation with a couple from San Diego who bought us all a round of Tequila shots (not my favorite, but I didn’t wanna be impolite, y’know).
Then we drove back home (early! I Swear! It was early! Still daylight even!) and hit the Jacuzzi again. That night, we munched on all that stuff we brought down, watched TV, and…well, dozed off. Guess our ages finally caught up with us.
In the morning, we walked up the block to a taco stand on the corner and had something amazing called queseron. Sort of a Mexican wrap with spicy shrimp. Mmmm. Instead of tipping the security guys back at the condo, Ann brought them tacos and water—she’s sooo thoughtful!
Nothing left to do but load up the car, and soon we were on our way back to the U.S.
Well, almost.
Ann had discovered a broken earring, so we stopped in town to track down the vendor for a quick-fix. Uh-uh. The quick-fix turned into another hour-and-a-half. More buying. A couple beers. We even got matching ankle bracelets. And neither one of us even LIKES ankle bracelets.
At last, we headed up the coast toward Tijuana, hoping for a relatively brief stay at the border. Yeah, right. We got in line at 1:15 and passed through about an hour later. Which was really, really handy since ANN WASN’T FINISHED SHOPPING YET. Yep. There she was, window rolled down, hanging half-in-half-out, yelling in patented Ann-style: “Excuse me! Uh, EXCUSE ME!” One lace tablecloth and giant pink-and-white piggy bank later, we finally left the vendors behind and made our escape into the U.S.
So that’s it. That’s our four-day trip to Rosarito for my birthday. Can’t wait to do it again.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
My Bad
Got to thinking and realized I neglected to describe the place we stayed in Rosarito. It's a small (26 units I believe) building just south of Rosarito Beach in the "furniture" neighborhood (which means the streets are lined with joints selling all manor of tile, sculpture, ceramics, etc.). Anyway, it's called Las Olas ("The Waves") and as y'all recall, I rented a 3-bedroom/3 bath condo there last March; this time it was a 2-bedroom/2 bath. All the units are decorated and furnished with top-notch appliances and amenities, and everything you could need in a kitchen (ya know, like especially a blender). The staff and security are friendly and helpful; and the entire place is totally secure with a big ol' wrought iron gate and 24-hour guard. I love the intimacy and serenity of Las Olas--no underage American partiers to mar your peaceful vacation...so, if you're interested, go here for more pics and info...and be sure to tell Rich I said, "hola."
Infinity Pool At Las Olas
Infinity Pool At Las Olas
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
So Much To Blog, So Little Time
What can I say? Viva Mexico!! It's just such a shame that the drive takes sooooo long. Anyway, back to real life, real work, and real editing.
Okay, what's up with blogger??? Just tried to upload pictures--the "go to" when I don't have time for blogging--and it's not working. Grrrr.
Keep checking back. I'm off to Plan B.
Okay, what's up with blogger??? Just tried to upload pictures--the "go to" when I don't have time for blogging--and it's not working. Grrrr.
Keep checking back. I'm off to Plan B.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Off Again!
Those of you who've been paying attention, know we've entered the rarified atmosphere known as the kickoff to Randy's Birthday Season. Which means...yep...off again! And (sob, sob) I'm not taking my laptop so more gaps in blogging. I swear, I'll make it up to ya though.
Next week, after I post all the wonderful pictures and tell all the amazing birthday stories (one can hope), I'll be talking about editing hell again. Yes, I know we've been down that path before, but I've got more to say, dammit.
By the way, Jenny Craig and birthdays don't mix, so you can forget about a diet report when I get back. Just know that I've lost 6-1/2 pounds (can I help it if I'm the slowest loser instead of the biggest?) and I'll watch each and every one of 'em like a hawk. (And, sigh, be ready to renew my commitment upon return.) After all, there's that wedding coming up...
Wait...you HAVE been paying attention, haven't you?? Not MY wedding, my nephew's. Geesh.
No, if I ever get married, you're all invited. Yep, even you.
Next week, after I post all the wonderful pictures and tell all the amazing birthday stories (one can hope), I'll be talking about editing hell again. Yes, I know we've been down that path before, but I've got more to say, dammit.
By the way, Jenny Craig and birthdays don't mix, so you can forget about a diet report when I get back. Just know that I've lost 6-1/2 pounds (can I help it if I'm the slowest loser instead of the biggest?) and I'll watch each and every one of 'em like a hawk. (And, sigh, be ready to renew my commitment upon return.) After all, there's that wedding coming up...
Wait...you HAVE been paying attention, haven't you?? Not MY wedding, my nephew's. Geesh.
No, if I ever get married, you're all invited. Yep, even you.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
118-210-15-215-30-18
Lucky numbers? Nope. Just the route I took to Big Bear on Friday. There would’ve been a 330 in there too, but the road was closed for rehabilitation (which put an odd mental picture in my mind). So, according to Mapquest this particular journey gobbled up 147 miles and approximately 2-1/2 hours. Hm. Approximately. Going by Dictionary.com's second definition, we have: "nearly exact; not perfectly accurate or correct." Let's just say it took FOUR FRIGGIN' hours. One hour ALONE on a two-lane mountain road.
Oh well. The drive was worth it. Here's the lovely
place we stayed. You can bet we never stepped
foot on the tennis court, of course. In fact, the most
exercise we got was from walking up and down stairs.
And here I'd pictured us hiking or something.
Ha! What was I thinking?? By the way, that guy on the left is the cutest male we saw all weekend. Well, not counting the 6 foot tall bunny riding shotgun in the motorhome who, as he drove past, used a PA system to inquire if we'd ever thought about having sex with a rabbit....? Um, no.
Saw lots of these, too. Lots and lots of expensive bikes. I particularly like the way they zoom around hairpin curves tilting almost parallel to the road. You know, those folks--what my friend Marty calls 'organ donors'? All right, geesh. Give a me a break. Some of my best friends ride bikes--oh, wait. This particular friend recently BEGGED me to never mention her in my blog. Forget I said anything.
There's Juli and I at a place called Boo's Bear Inn (or something like that.) Please note that instead of ordering the PATTY MELT AND FRIES (which I was DYING FOR) I opted for a modest chef salad--dressing on the side. (Whine, whine)
On my way home, I made my own stab at organ donor status by snapping pics out the window as I drove. Here's
some sad evidence of last year's fire. Then I tried to get a sense of the steep drop over the side (I was at about 7,000 feet) but alas, my photo taking skills lessen by comparison with those of my driving . Last, but not least, is Rim Of The World High School (aptly named)--my step-bro's alma mater.
Oh, and P.S...getting those new brakes the other day was an inspired idea!
Monday, September 11, 2006
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Tired of Hearing About My Writing Career?
Not as tired as I am of blogging about it, ha ha ha.
To that end...prepare yourself for another...roadtrip! This time to Big Bear...yes, the mountains! A place where I may actually need (gulp) a SWEATER at night. (For those of you in California, a sweater--pronounced swe' ter-- is a long-sleeved garment, usually made of wool or some other finely woven fabric, worn by people who are...COLD!)
*rubbing hands together*
I can't wait!
Don't even know what we're gonna do up there. Hike? (Yeah, right.) Lay by the pool? (More likely.) Eat, drink, and be merry! (Absolutely!)
(I know, I know. I might just have to leave Jenny at home. She hasn't been very good to me lately. Outside of a couple lapses--minor ones, I stress--over Labor Day weekend, I've been about 95% steadfast and yet still only have five pounds to show for all my sacrifice. Sigh. And it' ain't lookin' good for next weekend (birthday weekend! get those cards and presents ready!)...or a couple after that--nephew's wedding).
Oh, well...sometimes, a girl's just gotta live. Ya know?
Pictures to follow!
P.S. I'm feeling so accomplished. I actually got the oil changed in my car today. So what is UP with that "every 3000 miles" crap? Are they kidding? Personally, I say every 20,000 and you're good to go. Oh, and since my car shuddered every time I did something simple like slow down, I got the brakes fixed (replaced?). Figured the ability to de-accelerate (is that a word?) might come in handy as I race down the mountain.
To that end...prepare yourself for another...roadtrip! This time to Big Bear...yes, the mountains! A place where I may actually need (gulp) a SWEATER at night. (For those of you in California, a sweater--pronounced swe' ter-- is a long-sleeved garment, usually made of wool or some other finely woven fabric, worn by people who are...COLD!)
*rubbing hands together*
I can't wait!
Don't even know what we're gonna do up there. Hike? (Yeah, right.) Lay by the pool? (More likely.) Eat, drink, and be merry! (Absolutely!)
(I know, I know. I might just have to leave Jenny at home. She hasn't been very good to me lately. Outside of a couple lapses--minor ones, I stress--over Labor Day weekend, I've been about 95% steadfast and yet still only have five pounds to show for all my sacrifice. Sigh. And it' ain't lookin' good for next weekend (birthday weekend! get those cards and presents ready!)...or a couple after that--nephew's wedding).
Oh, well...sometimes, a girl's just gotta live. Ya know?
Pictures to follow!
P.S. I'm feeling so accomplished. I actually got the oil changed in my car today. So what is UP with that "every 3000 miles" crap? Are they kidding? Personally, I say every 20,000 and you're good to go. Oh, and since my car shuddered every time I did something simple like slow down, I got the brakes fixed (replaced?). Figured the ability to de-accelerate (is that a word?) might come in handy as I race down the mountain.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
The Backstretch
Could it be?? Could I really be headed for home??
Wouldn’t think so since I threatened to abandon Leftovers altogether just a couple of posts ago. And I was serious about that, folks. I was ready to throw in the towel and start something new. Something fun to write for a change.
Then I muddled through that SCENE−or as we in the romance biz call it, THE BLACK MOMENT−and now things seem to be falling together nicely again. I’ve written seven pages in the last couple of days.
Better yet…oh, wait. First I have to point out that standard manuscript formatting requires doublespacing, but I prefer to keep it to single while I’m writing. So occasionally, I stop and reformat to see what I actually have in terms of wordcount and pages.
Well, hallelujah! I have a book! Yep, the sucker translates to approximately 70,000 words at the moment−enough for some houses, though not all. So then I started mentally calculating what I *think* it’ll come in at and I realized….whoaaaa….while I wasn’t looking I somehow got near the end! I mean, about ten more scenes−maybe 15,000 words should do it. (Please note, I ALWAYS underestimate my scenes−but in this case, that’d be okay since I’m probably gonna hack out a lot of the first two chapters.)
Anyway…I’m majorly stoked.
Wouldn’t think so since I threatened to abandon Leftovers altogether just a couple of posts ago. And I was serious about that, folks. I was ready to throw in the towel and start something new. Something fun to write for a change.
Then I muddled through that SCENE−or as we in the romance biz call it, THE BLACK MOMENT−and now things seem to be falling together nicely again. I’ve written seven pages in the last couple of days.
Better yet…oh, wait. First I have to point out that standard manuscript formatting requires doublespacing, but I prefer to keep it to single while I’m writing. So occasionally, I stop and reformat to see what I actually have in terms of wordcount and pages.
Well, hallelujah! I have a book! Yep, the sucker translates to approximately 70,000 words at the moment−enough for some houses, though not all. So then I started mentally calculating what I *think* it’ll come in at and I realized….whoaaaa….while I wasn’t looking I somehow got near the end! I mean, about ten more scenes−maybe 15,000 words should do it. (Please note, I ALWAYS underestimate my scenes−but in this case, that’d be okay since I’m probably gonna hack out a lot of the first two chapters.)
Anyway…I’m majorly stoked.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Did It Work??
Gee…kinda. ..I guess…maybe…
I ended up writing two versions of tri-part dialogue, each with a very different tone (which I suppose was revealing...?). In the first one, Angie (the step-sister) came off as an arrogant bitch. That seemed cliché and boring. In the second try, I made her sly and manipulative.
Writing without surrounding the spoken words with gestures, facial expressions, and internal thoughts didn’t feel comfortable at all, so I’m not sure the exercise is something I’ll adopt on a full time basis.
I DID get through the scene. It’s not great, mind you. Needs a lot of polishing and−je ne sais quoi−more zip maybe. Yeah, definitely more zip.
But it’s better than giving up…something I considered a bazillion times this weekend. (Huge sigh.) Don’t ever let anyone tell you good writing takes talent. I swear. It’s more about the mental blood, sweat, and tears.
By the way, anyone notice my latest foray into blog interference? I copied some code, managed to figure out where to put it, and voila. Now you can click on my publisher’s name (beneath Stealing Amy’s cover) to go directly to their website. Next thing you know, I’ll figure out how to take you right to PayPal.
Kidding.
I ended up writing two versions of tri-part dialogue, each with a very different tone (which I suppose was revealing...?). In the first one, Angie (the step-sister) came off as an arrogant bitch. That seemed cliché and boring. In the second try, I made her sly and manipulative.
Writing without surrounding the spoken words with gestures, facial expressions, and internal thoughts didn’t feel comfortable at all, so I’m not sure the exercise is something I’ll adopt on a full time basis.
I DID get through the scene. It’s not great, mind you. Needs a lot of polishing and−je ne sais quoi−more zip maybe. Yeah, definitely more zip.
But it’s better than giving up…something I considered a bazillion times this weekend. (Huge sigh.) Don’t ever let anyone tell you good writing takes talent. I swear. It’s more about the mental blood, sweat, and tears.
By the way, anyone notice my latest foray into blog interference? I copied some code, managed to figure out where to put it, and voila. Now you can click on my publisher’s name (beneath Stealing Amy’s cover) to go directly to their website. Next thing you know, I’ll figure out how to take you right to PayPal.
Kidding.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Trying Something New
Remind me not to write a relationship-heavy book again. This one’s really kicking my a$$.
When I stalled out a couple weeks ago, I decided to step back, take a deep breath, and think about where I was going with the darn thing. Then, during the drive to Palm Desert (long drives are GREAT for this) I realized I’d committed a fatal error. I’d let my heroine run away from the most dramatic conflict in the book. Um, much as I would probably have done in real life.
So…delete, delete, delete. Let the dog walk himself. Rose stays in the scene to confront her step-sister.
Only, I didn’t have a clue what they’d say to each other. And Sam’s there, too. His stakes are just as important, but different. How would the three interact?
Usually it’s time for a bath when I have these questions. (Baths are only second to driving for summoning the muse.) But that hasn’t worked so far.
I’ve tried playing the scene out in my mind before I drop off to sleep at night.
Still nothing. Or next to it.
So I’ve been paying attention to movies lately. And certain scripted TV shows where dialogue is everything and there’s not a lot of time to tell the story except through the words. A good movie or TV show milks every word for what it’s worth.
That’s what I wanna do.
So, here’s the plan. I’m gonna write just the dialogue. As though the scene’s in a play, not a book. This is called layering and I’ve tried it a couple times. Later, when the words are right, I’ll “layer” in the speech and action tags. The busy stuff around the dialogue. I’m guessing the scene, if done properly, will benefit most by leaving it pretty bare.
Wish me luck.
When I stalled out a couple weeks ago, I decided to step back, take a deep breath, and think about where I was going with the darn thing. Then, during the drive to Palm Desert (long drives are GREAT for this) I realized I’d committed a fatal error. I’d let my heroine run away from the most dramatic conflict in the book. Um, much as I would probably have done in real life.
So…delete, delete, delete. Let the dog walk himself. Rose stays in the scene to confront her step-sister.
Only, I didn’t have a clue what they’d say to each other. And Sam’s there, too. His stakes are just as important, but different. How would the three interact?
Usually it’s time for a bath when I have these questions. (Baths are only second to driving for summoning the muse.) But that hasn’t worked so far.
I’ve tried playing the scene out in my mind before I drop off to sleep at night.
Still nothing. Or next to it.
So I’ve been paying attention to movies lately. And certain scripted TV shows where dialogue is everything and there’s not a lot of time to tell the story except through the words. A good movie or TV show milks every word for what it’s worth.
That’s what I wanna do.
So, here’s the plan. I’m gonna write just the dialogue. As though the scene’s in a play, not a book. This is called layering and I’ve tried it a couple times. Later, when the words are right, I’ll “layer” in the speech and action tags. The busy stuff around the dialogue. I’m guessing the scene, if done properly, will benefit most by leaving it pretty bare.
Wish me luck.
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