OUCH

That’s what I have to say about the editing process.

For each blessed word sent to the crapper, I think: “If it’s expendable now, why’d it seem necessary the first time around? The second? The third?”

Trust me. As a writer, this is a humbling experience.

Here’s my Progress Report:

Manuscript page reduction: From 385 pages to 320
Word count reduction: From 96,250 to 80,000

You do the math.

Never mind, I’ll do it for you. I still need to find 40 pages to chop. Are you thinking what I am? That in its previous form, this manuscript must have sucked??

The First Cut Is The Deepest....

So, as reported, I got a request from a publisher who shall remain nameless.

I knew when I queried them, my manuscript was longer than they allow. I also knew they don’t permit graphic sex scenes. No problem—I could use the extra word count, plus, as my dad said, “You mean I’ll be able to read it?” Yeah, bonus.

Anyway, so this weekend I started hacking. First off, I realized my book was 10,000 words longer than I’d remembered. For you nonwriters, that translates to forty manuscript pages. Bottom line, I needed to cut about 100 pages, or a fourth of the book. A lot more than I’d anticipated.

I thought yeah, right. Impossible.

Then I got a tip from a writing partner. Get rid of instances where a line on the page contains only one or two words. Likewise, when a page contains the last couple sentences of a chapter. So I’ve been going over the manuscript, paragraph by paragraph, and guess what? I’ve lopped off about a “page” or two per chapter. At this point, I’m guessing that by the time I finish this part of the process, I’ll have reduced the manuscript by fifty pages.

So where am I gonna find the other fifty?

Should I even try? Part of me says: If the story you wanted to tell took 400 pages, so be it. At 300 pages, it’s not the same story.

Maybe so. Maybe that’s a lesson I need to learn.

What scares me even more is how poorly I’d edited this manuscript to begin with. I mean, I truly thought I’d polished it to a sheen. And as I’ve gone over each paragraph with a fine tooth comb, looking to see what I could cut, I’ve found dozens of unnecessary words, repeated concepts, banal conversation…yikes.

So even if this submission disappears into that vast wasteland of publishing house limbo, my writing will have improved.

That’s the important thing to remember during this agonizing process.

Another Katrina Screw-Up

I hear that viewers of last Friday’s Price Is Right rerun got quite a shock when the showcase featured an all-expenses paid vacation to...New Orleans.

Now, really. Come on, guys. Can’t you do better than that?

Way back when, during a previous life, I managed the commercial advertising for The Richard Simmons show which we syndicated to something like two hundred stations across the country. We made our money by retaining 2-1/2 minutes of commercial time and shipping the show with the spots built-in.

Anyway, I came back to work after the Thanksgiving weekend on which Natalie Wood had died and thought, damn. We’ve got one of her Noxema commercials running for the next four weeks. Worse, in the spot, Natalie said something charming like, “I’ll never use another moisturizer again.”

You see my dilemma.

Well, in those days, we didn’t have fax machines or email, for God’s sake. So I spent a couple hours on the phone reading the physical addresses of all two hundred stations to Western frickin’ Union to send (you guessed it) TELEGRAMS (remember those?) with instructions to substitute whatever the hell the program director wanted. Just DON’T RUN NATALIE.

So, I’m thinking if I was able to spare the viewing public Natalie’s fateful words, couldn’t someone have pulled the plug on a Price Is Right rerun??

Remembering September

I can still see this time of year through a child’s eyes. For me, growing up, the month of September was about clean slates and everything new.

New school clothes.
New classroom.
New teacher.
New schoolbooks.
New friends.
New desk uncluttered (yet) with my debris.
New doodle-free notebook with fresh lined paper just waiting for my wisdom.
New opportunities.

Yes, I loved everything about September.

I loved the thrill of anticipating the unknown.

Now the unknown just scares me. Now September is just about managing to get another year older without having found Mr. Right. To make matters worse, this particular September, I have to renew my driver’s license. Yep, I’m finally gonna have to carry around picture I.D. on which I look my age. (By the way, should I cut my hair? Leave it long?)

Anyway, I think one of the reasons I started writing was to give myself an unknown that could simulate the thrill of September all year long.

With a couple submissions floating around at various agencies and publishing houses, there’s a chance something GOOD will happen.

So, the above thoughts flitted through my mind during my drive home from the gym tonight. I pulled in the garage, then went to the mailbox. The first letter I saw bore the unmistakable look of the reply envelopes I use for submissions.

Guess what? Based on seeing three chapters and a synopsis, a publisher has requested the FULL manuscript of FIT FOR LOVE!!!!.

Ah, yes. I LOVE September.

Life As A Plotter--Progress Report

Along with forgetting what my goals are, I don’t keep track of my writing progress. If it weren’t for my blog, I wouldn’t even know when I started my latest WIP, and I don’t have a clue how fast or slow I’m progressing. Which is a shame, because it would be nice to know whether my efforts at plotting beforehand are bearing fruit. Something tells me they are.

I’m here to say I’ve witnessed one advantage right off the bat. Usually when I finish a scene (let alone a chapter), there’s this huge writing lull afterward while I flounder around figuring out what should happen next. By contrast, I closed chapter four yesterday and wrote two-and-a-half pages of chapter five today, so there’s a good sign, right?

On the other hand, I ran into a highly dramatic scene in chapter four, and since I usually write stuff that’s pretty light and fluffy, that slowed me down. Still, I’m kinda jazzed that a difficult scene comes so early in the book—maybe another good sign that I’ve got more tension going on than usual.

Some writers don’t like to plot beforehand—they say it ruins the surprises along the way, and that if they know where they’re going, they get bored by the journey. Not me. What I can’t stand is finishing page thirty-five, seeing that vast gaping hole between me and the finish line, and wondering how the hell I’m gonna fill up 350 more pages.

Which brings me to the current WIP. Remember I wrote an outline that I liked? So far, it’s working. And, rather than getting bored by knowing what happens, I’m anxious to tell the story. Another good sign, n’est-ce pas?

Plus, I’m at that point in writing manuscripts (3 down and counting) that I’m far less worried about whether what I’m working on is marketable, aligned with the rules, or anything else. I like the story, period.

Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself. ‘Cuz that’s when you sell for sure, right?

The Pink Index Card

...or why it’s good to write things down.

When I see entire workshops devoted to ‘goal setting,’ I shake my head and think what’s the big deal? You set a goal, you strive to achieve it, and bingo—you either succeed or fail. Plain and simple. Why overanalyze? Why turn goal setting into some mysterious ritual full of hocus pocus psychobabble?

So, at the RWA National conference in Reno this past July, we arrived at one of our lunches to find pink index cards on the table. Enough for each of us. Turns out they’re the bright idea of multi-published author Debbie Macomber, our speaker that day. She instructed us to take the pink cards home and use them to write down five writing-related goals for the coming year. Then she called out the names of several authors in the audience who stood and waved their pink cards triumphantly. Recipients of Debbie’s advice in workshops past, they’d followed her advice and achieved their goals.

Well, I may not believe in hocus pocus, but I’m all about being superstitious. So, I toted that pink index card home (mindful that just any ol’ index card wouldn’t do—it had to be the one I got in Reno) and wrote down five goals. The first two were long-term best case scenario kinda things, and the others were stepping stones.

By the end of August, I had started to believe in the magic of the pink index card. Instead of my usual half-assed effort, I’d methodically mailed out several submissions—to agents, editors and contests. Feeling smug, I dug out my pink index card to mentally tick off what I’d accomplished.

Guess what I discovered?

I hadn’t remembered them correctly. I hadn’t even completed one of the stepping stones which, trust me, were quite do-able. This, after even writing them down!

So, it just goes to show you that 1) it’s not enough to store your goals in your head, and 2) it’s not enough to write them down.

I’m tacking that little pink card on the wall next to my computer.

Perspective

In the moments immediately following the disaster that struck Southern California on January 17, 1994, my first thoughts centered on my personal safety. That’s okay. Self-preservation is the bottom rung on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

I knew instantly we’d had an earthquake because I’d been through them before. None had included the sound of glass breaking, eerie flashes of light, nor instant loss of power and phones.

So, when all the noise and the shaking stopped,and I stood in the doorframe waiting for the next big jolt, my thoughts turned to guessing where, logistically, I fit in. Was I directly over the epicenter? If so, good. I had experienced the worst of it, and I was fine.

But, what if the epicenter were ten miles away? Thirty miles away? Hundreds of miles away? If so, a lot of people were in deep, deep trouble.

Without electricity and phones, there was no way to know.

I longed to get in my car and drive to my parents, but what if the freeways had collapsed? There was no way to know.

In a relatively short time, the phones were restored in my neighborhood. My niece called from Maryland and held the phone up to the TV so I could hear what CNN was reporting. Only then was I able to gain some perspective. As awful as the news was, I knew we hadn’t suffered “The Big One.” But I also knew that what had happened didn’t just happen to my house, my block, or even my neighborhood. An entire metropolitan area had been effected.

My point is, as I watch the coverage of the horrific disaster on the Gulf Coast, and witness the overwhelming anger, disappointment and abandonment the victims feel, I have to remind myself they have no perspective. Without electrical power, phones—without modern communication—they have no concept of how vast the destruction is, nor how complex the relief effort must be. The people trapped in the convention center believe they’re at the epicenter; the thousands in the Superdome believe they are; and likewise the citizens of Gulfport and the people trapped in attics. All believe they've been forgotten. The only thing they know for sure is that they haven’t eaten, they have no water, and no one is coming to help.

I have less compassion for those who know what the score is but are focused on blame. As in, the police aren’t doing enough...the Mayor’s not doing enough...the President’s not doing enough...the government’s not doing enough.

Maybe we’ve become a culture who too readily expects to be taken care of. Maybe we’ve bred a generation of citizens accustomed to being bailed out. Maybe we’ve come to believe that government officials, like doctors, are gods who can fix anything.

They’re people, after all. People doing their best in a calamity of unprecedented proportions.

Thoughts on Katrina

Click here to read Peggy Noonan's thoughtful essay.

Is A Rose Still A Rose?

“Tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen, the Los Angeles Dodgers extend a warm welcome to Elisha and Miranda* visiting from Zermatt, Switzerland.”

As the PA announcement blared through the stadium, our eyes darted to the giant message board above left field. Sure enough, our scheme had worked. Clearly, it was the exotic birthplace that had secured a screen all to ourselves.

Mindy and I dissolved in girlish giggles--an ironic contrast to the sophistication and glamour we’d borrowed from a fabricated name and birthplace.

As the years went by, Mindy became Melinda with a lifestyle befitting the name, but me? I’m still plain old Randy.

So, as I consider using a pen name, Miranda comes instantly to mind. (‘Randy’ gets mistaken for a guy’s name, and my surname doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. Not great for a romance author.) Could I legitimately become Miranda at last?

Hell. Tonight, it dawned on me that I’m no more Miranda now than I was at seventeen.

Can anyone picture Randy Jean on a book cover?? Or, does the middle-name-as-last-name suck? Keep in mind, we’re talking mostly romantic comedy and snarky chick-lit.

Hm. Maybe.


*We used our real last names.

Just Do It

Yesterday’s post is embarrassing given the news I’ve been watching this evening.

Do you have a place to sleep tonight?
Do you have food and water?
Are you connected to the Internet using electrical power?
Do you have TV and radio?
Are you able to dial 9-1-1 in case of emergency?
Do you have a job to go to tomorrow?
Do you have a way to get there?
Can you expect a paycheck next week? Next month?

Good. Then you’re in a position to donate to the Red Cross. Either send a check tomorrow, or better yet click here and do it tonight.

AMERICANS need your help.

It takes less than two minutes.

Space Aliens Have Invaded My Body...

At least, I hope they have. Either that, or I’m pregnant.

Did that get your attention? (Don’t worry. It’d have to be the longest gestation period in history...or the result of immaculate conception.)

So, sigh. It’s back to the gym. As much as I detest exercise of any kind. As much as it depresses me (nope, the miraculous endorphin rush eludes me). And as much as I’d rather spend my time writing.

Four times a week. Minimum.

That’s what it’s gonna have to be. ‘Cuz for whatever reason, dieting sure as hell ain’t working, and I wanna look in the mirror and see myself again. Not that space alien.

He Said, She Thought

What he said: You’re so beautiful.

What I thought: You’d score a lot more points by complimenting my brain.

What he said: You look sexy when you smoke.

What I thought: Who am I, Betty Davis in an old movie?

What he said: I split up with my wife of seventeen years two months ago.

What I thought: Funny. How come I’ve been seeing you in here for the past three years?

What he said: I think we’re both attracted to each other. We should go out some time.

What I thought: You’re 6’8; you’d probably smother me in bed.

What he said: No, really. You’re so sexy when you smoke.

What I thought: Like I’m gonna fall for that line from a nonsmoker?

What he said: I’m so glad we met.

What I thought: We’ve met before. You just don’t remember (and by the way, who gave you permission to touch me?).

What he said: Why don’t you give me your phone number.

What I thought: Guess I’ll be screening my calls tomorrow.

Secrets

Love to hear them. Hate to keep them.

Especially when I feel manipulated by them.

Women know the score with secrets. They know if they tell a girlfriend something, she’s probably gonna tell someone else—she just has to. It’s practically the law. So when you disclose something to your best friend, you trust she’ll tell someone who doesn’t have a stake in the matter or, better yet, doesn’t know the people involved.

Thank God, most men don’t attempt to enter the world of secrets because they suck at the process.

First, they forget to swear you to secrecy until AFTER they’ve imparted the information. Or, and this is even worse, they give you hearsay info, then expect you to keep the confidence, which means you can’t even investigate the truth.

Of all the people they could pick to share a secret with, they tell the person who will 1) be hurt the most; 2) be most likely to tell the person who will be hurt; and/or 3) be most honor bound to reveal the secret, and in so doing achieve the result the man wanted in the first place.

Let’s not even discuss the man who divulges stuff to his girlfriend’s best friends (which is the cardinal sin of secret keeping, by the way). That man does not deserve to walk the earth.

By the way…let’s all meet in the quad at lunch and make fun of the new chemistry teacher, okay?

Blog Block

Lately I’ve been at a loss for what to blog about. (Gee, have ya noticed?) So, I decided to filch an idea from another blogger and describe to you what’s on my desk. That’s when it came to me that perhaps my desk is the source of my blog block. It’s so cluttered with crap, no wonder I can’t put coherent sentences together. Oh, well. Here goes. Try not to yawn too audibly. Let’s play “What’s On Randy’s Desk?”

1. Unopened mail. My motto: why open mail today that can be opened tomorrow? Better yet, next week? It’s all junk anyway. Presumably.

2. The mystery stack. This consists of files, memos, a phone book, and assorted other BS I’m either too lazy to file or don’t know what to do with. Currently, it’s about a foot high.

3. Vendor giveaway clock with a place for pictures. People keep asking me who those Asian children are and I have to explain they came included.

4. Box of small binder clips. Ostensibly purchased for Bemco’s use, but I steal them for my manuscript submissions and contest entries.

5. Bottle of ibuprofen. I never take anything for a headache, but my brother can’t take them anymore so he foisted them off on me. No doubt they’ll sit there for as long as…

6. The three bottles of vitamins. Pushed off to the side, they probably expired years ago. I don’t even know what kind they are.

7. A dinner bell from Jamaica. On top of the dinner bell is a bunny hand puppet.

8. Assorted CD’s. Some of them even in their jewel case. Playing right now: Eva Cassidy.

9. A computer camera. I don’t know what else to call it. It’s one of those thingies that allow people to view you over the internet and came free with something my dad ordered off the TV. No, it’s not on.

10. A picture of my dad from WWII next to the P-38 he flew.

11. A picture of my dad with my late dog, Kody. (Please note, there are other photos on my desk, but they’ve slipped and slid to the point where they are now buried under debris. But, I’m sure there are pix of my great nieces and nephews. Somewhere.)

12. Empty videocassette case.

13. Empty cup of coffee.

14. Copy of Atkins diet book. Oh, wow. Make that two copies.

15. CD changer from the car I haven’t sold yet.

16. Stacks of diskettes. Some even labeled.

17. Something round, black, plastic and about 1-1/2” in diameter. Have no clue what it is.

18. Two staplers, one of which actually contains staples.

19. Scotch tape dispenser (including tape).

20. Three highlighters and two regular pens, one with ink.

21. About a dozen scratch pads. Flipping through them is like reading my diary. Mostly they contain notes on flights and hotels at various fantasy destinations.

22. Receipt from Home Depot for money I owe our shop foreman.

23. Two nearly empty diet soda cans.

24. Recipe for apple pudding cake. (And no, I’ve never made it but the picture looks yummy.)

25. This weeks’ shop payroll and time sheets.

26. Office Depot receipt and change for the petty cash I dispensed.

27. Desk calendar opened to July 13.

28. Ah, finally. Something of immense value. A Federal Express envelope with one front row ticket to see Luis Miguel at the Universal Amphitheater (birthday present to myself purchased on Ebay)

So there ya have it.

And that’s about two minutes of your life you’ll never get back.

Oh What An Untangled Web They Weave...

This was hanging from the tree where I park my car in the morning. Cool, huh?

Palm Springs Weekend

(Wasn’t that a movie in the 60’s with Troy Donahue and Connie Stevens?)

So, here’s a random observation.

I’m taking a break from the noise at Melvyn’s, a well-known Palm Springs drinking establishment, when a handsome young man joins me. My flirtation devices activate automatically, but the guy turns out to be gay. Duh. I said he was handsome, didn’t I? I said he was young, didn’t I? This is Palm Springs, for God’s sake.

When I go back inside, I notice a couple sitting by the piano. She’s social security age and frumpy but must have an attractive bank account. I conclude this based on her companion, a Johnny Cochran lookalike doing his best imitation of an aging James Bond, complete with white dinner jacket.

Meanwhile, two young girls are all over each other at the bar.

Then a woman passes me on her way to the ladies’ room. She’s 80 if she’s a day. I know this because she moves with the precision of a person whose joints ache. Otherwise, she’s dressed, coifed, and stretched (wink, wink) much younger. Clearly, she’s on the prowl. But who’s her prey? Not the gay guys, not the gay women, not the gigolo who’s already spoken for.

Basically, the cast of characters in Palm Springs consists mainly of 1) ultraconservative old-money widows, and 2) young gays and lesbians. I can’t help but wonder if mixing ‘em all together doesn’t get a bit confusing at times.

Reminds me of a bad game of Scrabble. You know, like when you’ve got a rack of nothing but vowels? Or, you’ve got the Q but no U?

Somebody needs to gather all the pieces and shake again.

Guilty Pleasures

Ah, Friday. The last day of the weekly grind.

At Bemco, (where I work) the day is just beginning. The mud disguised as coffee is brewing, the computers are humming to life, and at the flick of a switch, cool air is beginning to spew through the overhead vents. Out in the factory, the press brake makes a ba-boom noise as it bends its first piece of sheet metal.

Employees wander in, one at a time, and rehash the overnight news and the latest episode of Big Brother.

Only one thing is missing.

Me!

I’m home getting ready for Palm Springs!

If anything blogworthy happens (and how could it NOT) I’ll check in. Otherwise, see y’all Monday!

Meet a Sucky Heroine

Let’s get one thing straight up front. I should be shot for what I did last night, and I know it.

Yep, put me in the category of those heroines you hate because they’re too stupid to live. And yes, I’d probably follow the serial killer into the basement saying, “who’s there?” too.

Okay, so it’s about 8:30p.m. I’ve got a potato boiling on the stove, the T.V.’s blaring, and I’m in a negligee. Typical Wednesday evening.

The doorbell rings. Not so typical.

First of all, no one ever “shows up” at my door. So, I flip on the outside light, and yell: “Who is it?”

“(unintelligible) your neighbor.”

My neighbors don’t show up at my door either.

Thoughts flit through my head. I should probably go upstairs for a robe, but no, I’m too lazy. I should probably ask what he wants through the door, but no, I feel too silly.

I open the door a crack and peek around it.

I’ve never seen this person before.

Lucky for me, the guy turns out to be a former neighbor (one I’d never met) who’d rented a room from the psycho who sold and moved out last year. I believe him because he mentions having had a boat, which I do in fact remember. He says he fell in love with the neighborhood, is looking for a place to lease, and did I know of any?

That he missed the “for lease” sign in front of the first townhouse he passed gives me some concern, but I quickly chalk it up to figuring he’s really looking for another room to rent, not an entire unit. Oh, God. He wants to rent a room from me?

He seems to doubt I’m the same person he saw going in and out during his tenure across the street, but I confirm I drive a Mercedes, and he rambles on about how he’s German, like that means we have something in common. He keeps motioning toward his pocket, asking if I’ll take his name and cell number in case I hear of anything, and I wait for him to produce a business card but eventually realize that’s where his cell phone is, not the business card.

I have to leave the door to get a pen and paper, and when I return he isn't there. For a moment, I panic—did he come inside the house? Why don’t I just invite him in to rape me and be done with it, for God's sakes? Whew, no. A moment later, he reappears out of the darkness and I dutifully take down his info.

We shake hands, he mentions he’s a retired fire fighter (oh, now I’m relieved because everyone knows all fire fighters are upstanding, honorable, non-rapists), I promise to let him know if I hear anything, and he leaves.

Half an hour later, I check my back slider and sure enough it’s unlocked. Probably been that way for months.

I’ve lived in my townhouse for 23 years, and believe me when I say it’s in one of the safest neighborhoods in the nation. Still…there’s no excuse for my negligent behavior.

Like I say, you’d hate me if I were a heroine in a book you were reading.

Where Have I Been?

As a public service to my non-California readers, I thought I should mention some terminology with which I, for one, was unfamiliar.

It comes to us courtesy of one Gigi Goyette, a masseuse based out of Ohio, now living in Malibu. According to Ms. Goyette, once a year, over the past twenty, California Governor Arnold Schwarzenneger has partaken of her services to relieve stress. Now, I know being Arnold probably entails a lot of mental anguish, but I’m a bit surprised to learn he had to go all the way to Ohio to obtain the proper therapy.

At least, I was surprised...then I heard Ms. Goyette offers something I hadn’t heard of before (whether to all her clients, or merely Mr. S I’m not sure).

It’s called outercourse.

At first, I thought “outercourse” was something she made up, but no. It’s right there in the Wikipedia:

“Outercourse is sexual activity that does not involve penetration. No bodily fluids are intended to be exchanged, and outercourse is therefore often considered a practice of safer sex as well as of birth control.”

"Some practices of outercourse include oral sex, sexual roleplaying, heavy petting, clothed frotteurism, and mutual masturbation."

Frotteurism? Jesus, who knew? (Look it up yourself like I had to.) Then there’s axillary intercourse which involves putting the penis in someone’s armpit. Yep, you read that right. Armpit. Can't you just picture Arnold's...oh, never mind.

Anyway, Ms. Goyette claims she and Arnold only indulged in outercourse (much to Maria’s relief, I’m sure).

All I wanna know now is this: How come this word wasn't around when President Clinton was in office?

Can't you picture him saying: “I did not have outercourse with that woman”?

Dating

Click here to check out Susan McBride’s August 14th post on The Lipstick Chronicles (including input by yours truly on the subject of dating).

Speaking of which…I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve already exhausted my allotment for the current century. I mean, it’s been two, er, years. Two and a half, to be precise, but who’s counting….

Okay, let's be honest; I’m a bit picky. Here’s what a guy has to have:

1. His teeth (preferably the original ones)

2. A job that doesn’t require the Karen Silkwood scrubdown when he gets home from work

3. Relatives that he actually speaks to and sees on occasion

4. Working knowledge of the female anatomy (and I’m not talking about readily visible parts, like boobs)

5. Modern transportation (don’t laugh; a friend of mine dated a guy who road a bike—as in bicycle) and while we’re at it, the description of said modern transportation should in no way incorporate the words “muscle,” “cherry,” or “souped up”

6. Suitable living accommodations; (no boarding houses, no “in between situations, can I crash at your place for awhile”)

7. The absence of psycho bitch leftovers who haven’t gotten over the way the bastard dumped them

8. Clothes purchased this millennium and from somewhere other than Target

9. Hands-on experience with plumbing, electricity, automobiles, carpentry, wallpapering, tiling, electronics, and cosmetic surgery

10. A vocabulary that contains phrases like: “Oh no, let me pay,” “you look so much younger/thinner/prettier than your friends,” and “I’m really into monogamy”

See? Not so demanding, after all. Makes me wonder why I haven’t found anyone lately.

Bars In The 'Burbs

Note: I wrote this yesterday but didn’t get around to posting it until today. You’ll know why in a minute.

Putting more than two polysyllabic words next to each other while including proper punctuation might cause my head to explode. Oh, shit. See? I was right. Pardon me while I clean up the mess.

Just kidding.

(I’m crackin’ myself up here.)

Anyway, it’s all Penny’s fault. She’s the one who suggested we needed a girls’ night out. Well, four bars, countless cocktails, not enough food later…I’m convinced today (Friday) will never end.

So, Penny’s whining about how much blogspace I’ve given to the topic of writing lately. (Are you liking this post so far, Penny? How about if I blog about the rest of our conversation? Uh-huh. Didn’t think so.) She says I should write a soap opera here, which seemed like a good idea last night but today not so much.

We started with Chapter 8, the new spot in town. I swear, this place is so hip and groovy I could die. At ten o’clock it morphs from a steakhouse to a nightclub, complete with caged go-go dancers (yes, the 60’s are back). But why, oh why, must it be overrun by 20-somethings? And, how the hell do these kids pay $34 for a steak? Had a $9 glass of wine then walked up the rode to the Adobe.

The Adobe is a laid back casual kinda place (although yummy lobster quesedillas are on the menu). Drank margaritas and picked at our dinners before moving on to stop number three, The Martini Bar. More drinks, more conversation, blah, blah, blah and on to the fourth bar.

Right about now Penny’s reading this, thinking: “Four bars? Four bars? But there were only three.” Sorry, dear. After you left, Ann and I decided to hit the Buddha Bar.

So, when did this bedroom community become a magnet for the kinda nightlife one normally has to go through two zip codes to reach? Before you know it, we’ll get an honest-to-goodness concert venue. Oh yeah, forgot. The Canyon Club--where we saw Melissa Manchester a couple weeks ago, and the only bar within walking distance we didn’t make it to last night.

Thank God...I’m pretty sure we’d already killed our quota of brain cells for the evening--as evidenced by this post.

Reading Can Be Hazardous...

…to a writer’s mental health.

I’m serious. Since jetting back from Reno, I’ve read two of the conference freebies. First was Lani Diane Rich’s “Time Off For Good Behavior,” and second was Eileen Rendahl’s “Do Me, Do My Roots.” Both are chick-lit.

Lani’s is quirky, poignant, and wonderful. I mean, tell me how it’s possible to write a book about an abused woman that makes a person laugh out loud?

Eileen’s is funny, poignant, and wonderful. I mean, tell me how it’s possible to write a book about a young widow that makes a person laugh out loud?

I think I hate them both. The authors, that is—not their books.

Okay, just kidding. I WILL NOT succumb to author envy. But it’s hard not to question whether you’ve ever written something compelling enough to pass the bathtub test (you know what I mean—when you find yourself lying in a bone-dry tub, the water drained away, because you can’t put the damn book down long enough to climb out--and, yes…both books passed with flying colors.)

Have I mastered the knack of keeping my reader glued to the page? Dunno. The jury’s still out. Yes, I open with a hook. Likewise, I open and end each scene with one. And it goes without saying my chapters end the same way, but what about in between?

Alas, Grasshopper, that’s the hard part. For just like many books suffer from a “sagging middle,” so can any scene.

And, as much as it pains me to read a really good book that makes my writing pale in comparison, I’ll continue to do so and hope to God these authors I admire will osmose (oh hush, it should be a word) some of their talent to me.

I got this personality test from Manic Mom's blog

Check it out...can you predict which one I chose? Which one is you?

Boom! Boom!

Two welcome sounds split the silence of Southern California just before dawn.

Some wonder if we’ve had an earthquake as their windows continue to rattle.

Others believe they’ve heard gunshots and brace themselves for accompanying sirens.

Not me. I breathe a sigh of relief as I instantly recognize the familiar sound the shuttle makes as it passes overhead.

Two minutes later, Discovery glides to a perfect landing on a darkened runway in the Mojave Desert.

Glad to have you back, gang!

From The Better-Late-Than-Never File...

We pre-published writers are a tenacious group. Either that, or we’re just plain stupid. We devote hours and hours to a goal that may never be achieved and for which the benefits along the way are few and far between.

Oh, sure…there’s the occasional contest placement or win. Then there’s the one in ten queries that come back with a request for a partial or full. After awhile, even a glowing critique has to suffice as validation.

Yet, we keep plugging away.

Maybe that’s why I’m playing a CD by Ibrahim Ferrer on my computer today. Not familiar? I’m not surprised.

Senor Ferrer was born in Cuba in the 1920’s and gained local fame as one of the originators of “son,” a pre-revolutionary Cuban music melding African and Spanish sounds which later morphed into salsa. Remember the black-and-white movies set in Cuba during the ‘40’s? The ones full of exotic romance and sultry music? Of seductive hips moving to rhythmic beats under swaying palms?

Unfortunately, the music scene deteriorated with the advent of the Castro era, and Senor Ferrer faded into obscurity before he could gain recognition beyond his homeland. He spent the ensuing years singing very little while supporting himself shining shoes and selling lottery tickets.

But about thirty years later, that all changed. It was then that American musician Ry Cooder and Cuban bandleader Juan de Marco Gonzalez persuaded Ferrer to join a group they’d organized of “Afro-Cuban All Stars” and the rest, as they say, is history. At the 2000 Latin Grammys, Ferrer won “Best New Artist.” He was 73 years old.

He comes to mind because I happened across his obituary this morning. Mr. Ferrer died in Havana on Saturday at the age of 78, but not before spending the last five years of his life touring the world and exposing his music to fans everywhere.

It’s nice to know your dream can happen when you least expect it.

With Apologies to Shakespeare

To blog, or not to blog: that is the question;
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of cyber fortune,
Or to post against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them.

Ha…as if my little blog could make matters worse.

First, I was at the ceremony so I know whereof I speak with regard to its content. Second, I’ve read all the posts—the accusations, the apologies, the excuses, the rants, and the raves. People reading this blog who have a stake in the matter know what I’m talking about; people who aren’t involved in the romance industry—well, you’ll have to read between the lines, because I don’t want to be accused of making the issue any more public than it is.

Yes, the video montage and accompanying music was inappropriate. Did I think that at the time? No, I thought it merely boring and poorly executed.

Did I think it was politicized? Yes, but not in the way the opposite sides have characterized. “Blue state” people thought it favored the red. “Red state” people thought it favored the blue.

What the ….?

Red states and blue???

How did the RWA get divided into red and blue?

I’ll tell you how, and this is the crux of the matter. It’s not about the ceremony; it’s not about the board’s decision making or lack thereof; it all comes down to the graphic standards issue. The reaction to the awards ceremony is like the tumor finally breaking through the skin to form an ugly melanoma.

It’s erotica vs. family values
It’s the older generation vs. younger
And, yes…in a way, it’s the red states vs. the blue.

Which really sucks since I’m conservative on some things and liberal on others, and hate being lumped into a stereotype.

All I know is, that although I don’t read or write erotica, I’ll defend anyone who does it well and gets the romance part right. Can’t there be an in-between position…say, magenta? (I looked it up--that’s what red and blue make and it’s a lovely color.)

All in favor, say “Aye” and wear a magenta ribbon in Atlanta.

Priorities

All I can say is, holy crap--when did things get so complicated?

Back when I started writing three years ago, setting priorities was easy.

1. Write.

2. Write more.

3. Keep writing.

So, here’s what’s on the current plate:

Put finishing touches on Stealing Amy partial.
Put pizzazz into Stealing Amy synopsis.
Send both to agent who requested.

Put finishing touches on Fit For Love packet (for unsolicited submission). Do same for Stealing Amy.

Do another round of queries (this time snail mail) for Stealing Amy. (Side note: Why not Fit For Love, too? It’s not like I’ve even BEGUN to exhaust the avenues.)

Work on first draft of LEFTOVERS (the chick lit) and submit to editor who requested.

Do crits for loop partners (approximately 10 chapters in the queue).

As I say, holy crap.

What, you ask, have I done in the four days since the conference? Can I say crap for a third time?

The answer is basically nada…zip…zilch. The damn day job (and my social life) keeps getting in the way. Thank God, I don’t have a husband and kids—uh-oh, did I really just say that?

Gee, talk about getting your priorities straight....

Conflicting Stories....

Aha! Betcha thought I was gonna address the broohaha (sp?) over the RWA GH/Rita Awards Ceremony, but nah….maybe I will at a later date. Right now, I’m too chicken to enter the fray.

I’m talking about the contradictory advice flying around the workshops, speeches, and editor/agent appointments. Here are just a few (keep in mind, not all are firsthand):

Agent: I like to see contest wins in an unpubbed author’s credits.
Editor: Forget contests. No one cares about contests. Let your writing speak for itself.

Author: There’s no such thing as the breakout novel.
Pubbed Author: I took my writing to a new level after reading Donald Maass' "Writing the Breakout Novel". (Okay, to tell you the truth, the second statement came from a different conference.)

Author: Never, ever use a prologue to begin your book.
First page of book contained in “goody bag”: Prologue

Author: Never, ever use flashbacks.
Second page of book contained in “goody bag”: Flashback

Agent: Age your protagonist to about 48.
Editor: 32 is perfect.

Agent: I prefer books heavy on external conflict.
Agent: Internal conflict is paramount.

Author: The query letter was the worst thing ever invented. Same with the synopsis. Send chapters.
Editor: Send only query letters.
Editor: If you’re not agented, don’t send anything.

Author: Persistence is key. Never give up. You can do it.
Author, Editor, Keynote Speaker: Not all of you are gonna get published.

Editor: No POV switches.
Author: Change POV when you want, as long as you do it well.

Author: Write the book of your heart.
Author: Write the book of your heart but be willing to tweak it when you’re done in order to find a market for it.

Author: Lists of questions to ask your characters are useless.
Author: Here’s a list of questions to ask your characters.

Author: Forget about using charts.
Author: Now, you can see by looking at this chart….


Bear in mind, I hardly went to any workshops or spotlights. Now, you know why!

My advice: Go with your GUT. Period.

Conference Sidebar

I guess I’ve just about had it with conference workshops. Reno was my fourth and, outside of a nugget here and there, the new info was scarce.

So, what’s a girl to do?

Observe, that’s what.

So, there I was, all buckled into my seat, ready to depart Reno for Burbank. After profiling the foreigner next to me (and checking for protruding wires from his shoes), I shifted my attention to the tarmac where one last guy, wearing one of those silly neon vests, tossed (and I do mean TOSSED) luggage onto a conveyor belt.

Talk about profiling. The writer in me made up a life for this big brawny male I dubbed "Chuck." I pictured him at night, haunting the local pool hall, dressed in faded jeans, a wife-beater t-shirt, and an expression that broadcast how much he hated his life. He’d chain smoke Marlboro reds, slug back Coors from a bottle, and call women “babe,” “sugar,” and “sweetheart.” He’d growl more often than he’d smile, and on the rare occasion he lost a round of pool, the bar would grow ominously silent.

Yep, I had Chuck all figured out, I decided.

Then, something strange happened. A cluster of pigeons collected around Chuck’s feet and I thought, what the hell? What would attract birds to the middle of the tarmac on a hot Reno day?

No, no...say it ain’t so, Chuck.

His hand dipped in his pocket, then scattered something on the ground, and even from my odd vantage point from inside the plane, I could almost hear the pigeons coo with glee.

Yep, my rough, tough, mad-at-the-world Chuck was feeding pigeons.

And because of the life I’d created for him, the action was extraordinarily touching.

So, there I was, courtesy of Southwest Airlines (and Chuck), learning a writing tip. Somewhere, sometime, I’m gonna create a character who has no visible redeeming qualities...with the exception that he's always got a pocketful of birdseed for his feathered friends.

Appointment Number Two...Or, Does It Ever Get Any Easier???

I’m waiting for my conference impressions to unscramble before I post them, so you’ll have to bear with me. (Good luck to us all, by the way.)

In the meantime, here’s the update on my second appointment.

NO HEAD SHAKING! I’M GETTING BETTER AT IT!

Ha…either that, or I’m less intimidated by being face-to-face with an EDITOR young enough to be my daughter. (If I had one, that is). (And, just so you know, when I say FACE, I mean FACE. Literally, the physical space between us was about three feet…hmm…do I smell an evil RWA psychologist at work?) Without naming names, let’s just say this editor was not in the market for ST (which I discovered about a week before the conference—not my fault, I trusted the area-of-interest grid). Nonetheless, I arrived armed with Plan B, my unfinished chick-lit, for which she expressed an interest. (Waiting for applause to die down.)

Not that she gushed or anything. I’m just not the kind of “pitcher” to inspire visible enthusiasm (sigh.) But she did use the words “sounds like a fresh approach” and asked me (gave me permission?) to submit when it’s completed. Ah…there’s an incentive I’ve never had while writing a book!

Oh, and this was just adorable—she mentioned they’re looking for “older” protagonists and I responded with, “Mine’s thirty-two.” “Perfect,” she said, nodding innocently.

Older??? Older????

Okay. I know. I’m over it.

But wait. Putting aside whether 32 is (cough) older, for my money, chick-lit has never been solely about 22-year olds. Case in point: on Saturday night, Lani Diane Rich won a Rita for “Time Off For Good Behavior” which she wrote in 2002 and which bears a 2004 copyright. Heroine’s age? Thirty-two. Chick-lit? Definitely.

By the way, I discussed my chick-lit WIP with an agent on the previous day and she suggested I “age” my protagonist to 48.

Yeah, I could do that, but…………I’m not MENTALLY old enough to write what everyone calls HEN-LIT. You DO understand, don’t you?

P.S. My self-designed business card garnered some eye twinkles. Too bad I didn’t shove it in more faces. (Or down more throats.)

Another Quickie

Well, as you can see, I'm still alive. Just barely.

Got through the agent appointment with a minimum of head tremors (note: the operative word here is minimum--it DID shake and I thought about my faithful blog readers and how they'd be shaking their own heads with a sympathetic smile). More details later, but she DID request a partial.

One down, one to go. Tomorrow's appointment is at 9 friggin' a.m. so you can be sure whatever comes out of my mouth will be brilliant. Not.

Big news of the day: I won another $85 at video poker.

Off to dinner with an assortment of fellow unpubbed authors.....

Quick Notes from The RWA Conference

At the moment, I'm sitting in my room (well, duh). But an hour from now, I'll be shaking the hand of the agent I have an appointment with and hoping my palms aren't sweaty.

I pray I won't draw a blank if she asks something like: "Tell me about the conflict between your hero and heroine."

Ack....I'll tell you one thing. I will NEVER schedule appointments again. EVER. Not that I don't think I'll survive and do fine, but just having these moments lurking on the horizon like black clouds over an outdoor wedding...well, you get my drift...sorta takes away from the overall conference experience.

So far, one impression from this conference (my fourth) sticks out in my mind. Usually, this is a four-day pep rally...with a lot of "You Can Do It" kinda motivational speeches. But for the first time, several speakers have candidly admitted, "Not all of you are gonna be published." Hm. Not exactly breaking news, but I've never heard publishing professionals and fellow authors say it aloud before.

Is RWA trying to thin out the ranks?

Are editors and agents in cahoots with them?

Just a thought. One I plan to bring up in conversation at lunch today.

In other news...two critique partners WON their categories in the DAPHNE. This is HUGE for them....the bad news is, neither of these people have actually written the book......?!?!? (Isn't that a no-no?)

On the gambling front, I'm happy to report there's more cash in my wallet than when I arrived. A good sign, right?

Thunderstorms knocked out the hotel cable yesterday. Bummer. I was enjoying a channel that carried a NASA feed.

Okay...I've put it off long enough. Time to don my conference I.D. tag and make my way to the appointment area.

Gulp.

More later when I start taking in oxygen again...

After A Brief Delay

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing a maintenance issue.”

Hm. Not the words you like to hear while sitting on an airplane. I look out the window and see a blue pick-up with ‘for sale’ signs in its windows drive up and park under the wing. On the door is a sign that reads “Burbank Airport Service.” The guy that gets out is, apparently, our mechanic. He looks about a week shy of retirement, sports a walrus moustache and has one of those nifty little red tool boxes that don’t carry anything more sophisticated than a Phillips head screwdriver. Well, I guess this isn’t the space shuttle.

Anyway, I name him Fred.

Fred disappears from view and is presumably checking on our maintenance issue. I see the flaps go back and forth (or is it up and down?) and envision Fred, from the innards of the plane, yelling, “Try ‘er now, Captain!”

A woman sitting a couple rows behind me decides driving to her meeting might be quicker. She asks to be let off the plane. As I watch her make her way down the aisle, I think, what an idiot. We’ll probably be on our way in minutes. But, then maybe she hasn’t noticed that Fred is on the case. Or, maybe she’s lost all confidence in the plane.

Hm.

The pilot announces that Fred has found the problem and is waiting for hydraulic fluid. (Does this mean a trip to Home Depot?)

I see someone (not Fred) attempting to start Fred’s car. Stop thief! But, no...he’s just moving it out of the way. It concerns me that Fred isn’t familiar with the parking strategy.

Nonetheless, what the hell. The Captain announces we’re a “go” so I guess the dipstick registers full.

Off to Reno (via San Jose).

Back To The Future

Wheeeeee! America returns to space!

How well I remember an evening back in (gulp) 1958 (I was a wee child, mind you) sitting on my aunt and uncle’s porch gazing at the Minnesota sky. The grownups kept pointing to a tiny blip of light inching past the millions of stationery ones.

“Sputnik,” they said, their voices full of awe.

So, yes. I grew up in the sixties—a decade that began with Frankie and Annette but ended with Jimi and Janis. A decade that began with innocence and ended with sociopolitical upheaval.

But, in the midst of the turmoil, there was always the wonder of space: Alan Shepard’s first flight…John Glenn’s trip around the earth...the trio who circled the moon. And, of course, the day Neil Armstrong uttered those infamous words (which, unfortunately, also coincided with my first hangover, so that’s a memorable day for a couple of reasons, but oh, I digress).


A lot of people sniff at space exploration. They feel it’s a waste of money. But every time you power up your computer, you can thank the aerospace industry whose need for it fostered the explosion of Information Technology. Every time you face an MRI, you can thank the aerospace industry for lending its knowledge to other applications. And, of course, it goes without saying that every time you crack those eggs into a Teflon pan…or Velcro-up those sneakers…

Enough about space, I’m off to pack for Reno.....

Eureka!

I know you've all been waiting with baited (bated?) breath (what the hell do either of those mean, anyway) for news on the radio front.

Well, I'm declaring VICTORY! I have sound once again! Hallelujah!!!

Got the code around 6 a.m. this morning, punched it in, hit the SC button (only because, through past experimentation, it seemed to play some sort of role) and yippi-yi-yay, the digital display for FM radio appeared!

Whew. This little episode goes under the category of "you don't know how much you care about something until it's gone."

Still Waiting....

No magical code yet. And nothing but eerie silence in the car. It's scary to hear the odd assortment of noises your car makes when you don't have Talk Radio to drown them out.

And So I Wait

Yesterday I had a friend replace the battery in my car and since it wasn't even totally dead yet, I was feeling pretty good about myself. Hell, I’ve had the car for two years and haven’t even had it serviced. (I know, I know. I hear you men out there shrieking in dismay, but see, I have this theory about the automobile industry—I think all that servicing is a diabolical plot to wear cars out faster.)

Anyway, so I happily drove away in my fully charged car only to discover that the radio now wants a code.

A CODE! I don’t HAVE the friggin’ code! I don’t have the MANUAL (long story).

I called my brother who promised to get on the case (by contacting his friend, the wholesaler, from whom I purchased the thing) but, well...if you knew my brother, you’d understand I don’t wanna wait until next year to hear the dulcet tones of Melissa Manchester on my CD player.

So, where else do I go for answers but the Internet.

I Googled “Mercedes Radio Code” and found several resources (aha! this is a common problem!). Tried to find one for free but gave up.

The most promising website was www.radio-code.com which had a place to click on for getting the code and one for using the code. First, I had to research whether my radio had to be removed in order to obtain the serial number. Didn’t look like it, but just to be sure, I did more research to figure out whether the number I got off it was in fact the serial number. Hmm. Couldn’t tell.

Finally, I decided the hell with it. Let’s just start entering stuff and see what happens.

Clicked on Mercedes and entered the year, make, model, and VID number. Hmmm...didn’t even ASK for a radio serial number. Things were looking up.

Paid $48 (yes, forty-eight dollars) through PayPal and, voila! Supposedly, my code number is winging its way through the Internet and will arrive in 30 minutes to 24 hours. At this point, I was high-fiving mid-air and clapping myself on the back.

Only one thing. AFTER I paid the $48, PayPal sent me back to the radio site and there was this little message that said something like: Because Mercedes vary, we will be unable to assist you with the unlocking process.

Perfect. Wish they'd told me that BEFOE I paid the $48.

So, now I’m waiting for an all-important email which, once received, I probably won’t be able to do a damn thing with.

Flaws In The Ointment

Okay, bad pun. I’m talking about character flaws. Those traits with which you imbue your hero and heroine to make them human.

In my first two manuscripts (both traditional romantic comedy/suspense) my characters have flaws all right. But they’re the kind that endear you to them, not turn you off (hopefully).

In Fit For Love, Ava is a couch potato whose idea of working out involves beating fellow shoppers to the cashmere sweaters at the day-after-Thanksgiving sales.

In Stealing Amy, Nick is absentminded to the point that he places little sticky notes on his laptop to remind him which tie to wear with which suit when he travels. (Aw, sorta sweet, huh?)

Not that the characters in these books didn’t have deeper, emotional flaws…but they were flaws that made the characters heroic. Chinks in their armor with which the reader could easily sympathize.

But now I’m writing chick-lit and without even meaning to, I’ve created characters whose flaws are deeper and less likeable. Rose, for example, is possessive and clingy, both traits I abhor in women. The trick, I’m finding, is to show the reader enough motivation behind the behavior to make the character sympathetic.

Duh. It all makes such sense when you think about it.

Pitching At National

Okay, I’m gonna tell a story on myself just to convince y’all how terrified I am of public speaking.

Date and Time: 7 p.m. on a Monday night, circa 1975
The Setting: A classroom at UC Irvine
The Characters: 50 students (mostly older adults--many at the graduate level) plus the professor (on whom I had an enormous crush)
The plot: I am to present a year’s worth of research on my particular topic (something about public policy, the media, and minorities)

Now, I was one of those students who carefully scrutinized the course syllabus on the first day of the semester. If there was even a hint of a future oral presentation, I said sayonara. Unfortunately, this time, I screwed up. It was a 3-semester course and by the time I learned of the requirement, I couldn’t very well quit.

That’s how I found myself on a Monday in 1975, awaiting my turn to make a presentation.

Hip to my Achilles’ heel, I’d made a stab at solving the problem. To wit, I’d worn a dress (yes—I wore dresses in college!) with pockets so I’d have somewhere to stick my trembling hands. Truly, I figured that as long as no one could see how badly my hands were shaking, I’d be fine.

Ah, to still be that naïve.

When the professor called my name, I advanced to the front of the class and stood before a table and chair that faced the audience.

I sat.

I put my hands in my pockets.

I began my rehearsed speech.

My hands, trapped in their prisons, remained remarkably still.

So…instead…my head started shaking. I mean visibly. I mean uncontrollably.

I stopped mid-sentence and shot a look at my professor, silently beseeching him to rescue me from this nightmare. Head bowed, the coward kept his eyes averted and let me suffer.

As dead silence spread like a poisonous vapor, I briefly considered running from the room. Luckily, I had the good sense to realize flight would make me look even worse.

Oh, the humanity.

At last, I did the only thing I could do. I propped my elbows on the table and used my hands like a vice to steady my spazzy head. And gave the remainder of my speech that way.

(Just recounting this story has bugs doing the tarantella in my stomach.)

Anyway, the story doesn’t end that badly. I did get an A, I did date the professor, and the very next year I taught a class at the junior college level (it took about three weeks to get over my nerves).

Still…the prospect of sitting across the desk from a publishing professional who’s waiting to hear my pitch brings back nasty memories.

Here’s my plan: I’ve heard that picturing your audience naked really helps. Bwaahahaaa. Nope. Not gonna do that. But, maybe I’ll leave my reading glasses on so they get real blurry.

Out For A Stroll

So, this evening I’m walking through my neighborhood (mentally hashing out the next scene of my WIP--which went well thankyouverymuch) when I notice a van sort of hovering at a stop sign. The driver is consulting a paper with what I assume are directions. As I pass by, I expect him to ask for help, but he doesn’t, so I turn left and keep walking.

He makes the turn, too.

Again, I wait to hear a question since he’s moving slowly but no, he continues past me and drives into a cul-de-sac.

By the time I reach said cul-de-sac, he’s already swung around and is back at the intersection. Waiting?

He’s still consulting the paper, and this time I’m sure he’ll ask for directions, but of course, he doesn’t because (well, duh) he’s a man.

At this point, I decide to get a good look at him and it registers that he could be on the no-fly list. Not that I’m prone to profiling—the thought just pops into my head. And since my sense of social propriety tends to outweigh my common sense, I know that if called upon, I will stop and try to help. I begin to wonder what I will do if this turns into a dangerous situation.

Running isn’t an option since a 3-year-old can flatten me in the 50-yard dash.

Screaming is out too, since this is the kind of neighborhood where people (cough) keep to themselves a bit.

And the closest thing I’ve got to a weapon is a pair of white plastic sunglasses.

At the last second, I’m saved from making a decision. He puts the van in gear and roars back onto the main street at full speed, seemingly no longer uncertain of his destination.

I decide that from now on I’ll carry something worthy of getting confiscated at an airline security checkpoint.

Blogworthy News

…that I couldn’t let pass without commenting on.

We’ll start with the oldest one (which you may have heard about already). Last week it was reported that a man in Washington State died of injuries incurred while having sex with a horse. Without pondering the evidence (no, let’s not go there) let’s focus on the consequent investigation. Apparently, hospital cameras got the license plate of the car that dropped him off and authorities tracked the incident to a particular farm. Now, it turns out, bestiality is not illegal in Washington, however the farm’s being investigated for possible crimes committed against smaller, weaker, animals. Like chickens and pigs.

My question is this: Is it okay to screw a horse because we can assume by virtue of its size and strength it’s got a say in the matter? And, that a chicken does not?

So are you enjoying the visual yet? Consensual sex between a man and a horse. What a delightful concept.

I guess, by definition, sex with a chicken is always rape. Good to know.

Okay, second news item. In California, you can now sue your employer for sexual harassment without ever being touched, taunted, or leered at.

Wait. Do I hear the sound of a thousand lawyers rubbing their hands together?

Yep. If that bitch in the next cubicle is sleeping with your boss you may have grounds for sexual harassment. (Wouldn’t that be nonsexual sexual harassment?) Anyway, let’s call it the no muss/no fuss route to a frivolous lawsuit, shall we?

This decision comes from the California Supreme Court, which ruled unanimously that “widespread favoritism based upon consensual sexual affairs may imbue the workplace with an atmosphere that is demeaning to women because a message is conveyed that managers view women as ‘sexual playthings.’” (Imagine a man viewing a woman as a sexual plaything—what’s the world coming to?)

Next thing you know, we'll elect a governor who gropes.

Preparing For National...

…as in the annual Romance Writers of America conference—this year in bone-dry Reno, Nevada. Only ten more days!

Here are some tips for first-timers….

1. Clothes– According to my on-line loops, pre-conference shopping carries an extremely high priority. Maybe I’m aberrant (to me shopping is an excruciating activity). Don’t you people own clothes already? Who are you out to impress? (Shrug)

2. Finish the manuscript—a mental exercise really. No one physically totes their book to the conference, or at least, they shouldn’t. Must I remind you that no editor or agent wants to cart your overweight drivel back to her office?

3. Practice the pitch—(Take deep breaths while your heart resumes a healthier pace.) Time to hone those 400 pages down to one succinct sentence that perfectly encapsulates the essence of your book.

Okay, say it out loud without sounding rehearsed.

Hm. Can you try that again? This time, ditch the uhs, ums, and ers.

All right. We’ll work on that during the flight.

4. Practice packing—pack, unpack, repack. Do this several times until you’re at least 20 lbs. under the airline weight allowance ‘cuz that’s how much the freebies are gonna add to your luggage.

5. Create/buy business cards—Done! Mine arrived today and they’re so cute I wanna hand them out to everyone I see. (It’s sorta funny that I chose them before I started my latest WIP because they ended up very chick-litty…makes me believe I’m going in the right direction. Note to self: don’t forget to bring plenty!)

6. Coordinate schedules/obtain cell phone numbers—Ack. So many people, so little time. Especially when you don’t know someone by sight. I recommend rendez-vous-ing early-on so you don’t end up realizing that the person you’ve been sitting next to at all the workshops is your on-line critique partner. (Scrutinizing nametags isn’t as simple as it sounds, trust me.)

7. Sleep!—Get lots of sleep before you arrive because those 8 o’clock meetings, workshops and appointments are a real bitch when you’ve stayed up half the night gambling, carousing, and schmoozing.

8. DO Attend the Awards Ceremony—no matter how tempted you are to skip it, I promise that watching an unpubbed author win a Golden Heart is truly inspiring!!!

9. Have fun, fun, fun! At every turn—from the woman standing next to you at the bar, to the one sneaking a cigarette, to the one holding the elevator—she has something uniquely in common with you, so savor the connection and strike up a conversation. There are NO STRANGERS at National!

10. Get free stuff!—Be sure to visit the publisher signings. You get lots of free books signed by your favorite authors.

11. Don’t be shy!—Romance authors are some of the most generous people around. If you happen to share an elevator with Jayne Ann Krentz, Patricia Gaffney, Jenny Crusie, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, or Nora Roberts (the list is endless), be sure to smile and say hello.

You are one of them.

A Face In The Crowd

It seemed like an okay plan. Kathleen and her boyfriend Erik were driving up from Laguna Niguel for the Pasadena Jazz Festival and wanted me to meet them. Being wishy-washy, I didn’t commit right away, and we decided to hook-up via cell phone on Saturday.

Well, Saturday came and I missed her call, but no problem, right? That’s what cell phones are for. Kath said she’d leave hers on.

Around three o’clock I checked Yahoo for directions and current traffic conditions and figure it’d take me about an hour. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking—trusting Yahoo was dumb. The directions were fine, but a two-car fender bender lengthened my journey to an hour-and-a-half.

Anyway, being a whiz at following directions (didn’t even write ‘em down!) I found the place (near the Rose Bowl), parked, paid my forty bucks to enter and called Kath.

Uh-oh. Straight to voicemail. Right about then, misgivings set in.

Nevertheless, she’d said she keep checking, right? So, I figured it was just a matter of time before she’d discover I was there.

Time for plan B.

Okay, so how hard could it be to find one of the twenty or so white faces among thousands of black ones? And, if I kept moving, wouldn’t she see me?

Turns out the answer is no.

I bought a beer, hiked around the place for almost two hours, and never found her. By that time, I was exhausted so I located my car and drove home.

Lesson: Always have your cell phone on vibrate.

The Chick Lit Voice

More and more, I’m noticing that a lot of chick-lit authors come from legal and corporate backgrounds. Makes me wonder, how the hell do these ladies, who’ve schooled themselves in writing the driest of the dry, switch to the “anything goes” style that is the trademark of chick-lit?

Speaking for myself, after umpteen college papers (including graduate level) plus a lifetime of business documents, it’s not easy to, shall we say, de-formalize my style.

Add to that three years of studying what’s “required” of traditional romance, and my brain is starting to schiz-ify. (See…the “old” me would have written “I’m starting to feel schizophrenic.)

To demonstrate even more clearly, here’s my first pass at the opening paragraph of the synopsis I’m working on for my new WIP.

Rose Thornton is fed up with getting the fuzzy end of the Popsicle stick.

Starting with the day of her ninth birthday, which should have consisted of pony rides, presents, and cake with butter cream frosting, and instead is spent moving into a strange house, with strange new siblings, and a strange woman insisting she be called Mom, Life has not gone according to plan.

I’ve since decided to write this novel as a straight chick-lit. Here’s the new opener:

Now here this. I, Rose Thornton, under penalty of perjury and an eternity of bad hair days, do solemnly swear on the heads of my future children, that I am finished with getting the fuzzy end of the Popsicle stick.

A bit dramatic you say? Well, you try existing like a footnote in the term paper of your family’s life.

Me here again. Do you know how difficult it was to “let go” and write that second version?

Feels good though. And it’s a lot more fun to write than corporate BS.

HEADLINE: Mariah Carey's Clothes Fall Off

Apparently, the pop diva experienced a wardrobe malfunction in Germany the other day, and it must be true because I saw it on the Drudge Report.

So what’s up with female celebrities and their faulty clothes? Tara, Janet, and now Mariah—don’t they have stylists? Don’t they have wardrobe assistants? Don’t they have duct tape? And how come it’s always their boobs that are getting exposed? (Come to think of it, thank God.) Ladies, please take a lesson from a pro: Remember J.Lo’s green Grammy dress? Nary a nipple!

I searched my memory and couldn’t come up with a single public incident in which I inadvertently exposed myself (and, as y’all know, I’ve made some fashion mistakes). But not one episode where a strap slipped, a bustier got ripped, or—as in Ms. Carey’s case—my clothes fell off.

At least the current debacle occurred in Germany—I don’t think America could take another national ta-ta exhibition. In fact, I’m proposing a new comprehensive insurance program for female celebrities. Oh, not to protect them or their careers. I’m talking about protecting us from additional censorship. I say, let’s call it the National Insurance Pact (NIP for short). Each year, we all contribute $1 to an interest bearing escrow account. Then, whenever a female celebrity slips the TV viewing public more skin than it can stand, in exchange for leering the other way, Michael Powell (or whoever runs the FCC at the moment) gets to use the cash for an all-expenses paid, year-long vacation to the Club Med of his choice.

Weekend News

Started off by driving all over town looking for my missing wallet—only to find it lying on my bed.

Avoided certain disaster when I realized in the nick of time that the tube of facial cleanser I was about to use was instead “metal cleaner” left behind by my maid. (Truly, it would have been an honest mistake—almost identical packaging!)

Saw 70’s pop star Melissa Manchester perform at a local venue. She sounds better than ever and has a lot more talent and style than she’s given credit for. Even the tried-and-true “Don’t Cry Out Loud” and “Midnight Blue” sounded up-to-date with jazz/blues nuances. Had the opportunity to meet her afterward—nice lady!

Watched CNN coverage of Hurricane Dennis and marveled once again at the monotony of California weather.

Watched a new reality (?) show called “The Princes of Malibu.” Hm. What to say about this program? Entertaining in an odd “don’t hate us ‘cuz we’re good-looking, rich, and clueless” sort of way. Brody Jenner (stepson of David Foster and birth son of Bruce Jenner) is undeniably one of the most handsome men on the planet—at the ripe young age of 21 no less.

Here’s what I’d planned to get done on the writing front this weekend:

1. Work on Stealing Amy synopsis
2. Edit chapters two and three for entering Golden Gateway Contest
3. Write opening scene of new WIP
4. Upload critiques for writing partners

Here’s what I accomplished:

1. Uploaded one critique

So during the mad dash around town in search of the wallet, I began mentally composing the first scene of my new WIP. Geez, it sounded so good as the dialogue bounced around my brain! Yet, when I put fingers to keyboard, something happened. I wrote a half page and hated every sentence. Something about the voice is completely wrong. I had decided to try first person present (which isn’t everyone’s favorite, but whatever). Now must re-think. Or, maybe I’m just opening the book at the wrong moment. New writers tend to make that mistake. All I know is my heroine comes off like a sniveling whiner—not what I’d intended or expected at all. Hope she shapes up before I decide to dump her entire story.

Interviews

I was checking out Annie Rayburn's blog and discovered a link to her very first interview as a published author. How cool is that?

Then I sobered. How come nobody ever interviews unpublished authors? I mean, where is the fairness in that?

So, without further ado, here is mine:

Interviewer: Hi, Randy. Thank you for taking the time to speak with us today.

Me: Well, I just ruined my streak of 950 consecutive Free Cell wins, so I’m taking a break.

Interviewer: All unpubbed authors dream of the day they’ll get “the call.” Can you tell us what getting “the call” would mean to you?

Me: The call? There’s a call? Like on the phone? Excuse me, gotta go check my messages. (Pause) Okay, where were we?

Interviewer: Er, let’s move on. Do you have an agent?

Me: Sure, doesn’t everyone? Mine’s with Mercury Casualty.

Interviewer: I was referring to—well, never mind. Why don’t you tell us about the project you’re currently working on.

Me: Hey, thanks for asking! I’ve pretty much given up on romantic suspense, historicals (all eras), single title contemporary, category, and westerns so that leaves me with fantasy, sci-fi, and chick-lit. My new novel is titled “Cinderstellar” and it’s about this editorial assistant at Vogue who goes from planet to planet searching for the lost mate to her favorite pair of Pradas.

Interviewer: Um, sure you don't mean Manalo's?

Me: Whatever.

Interviwer: Sounds fascinating.

Me: Yeah, I can’t wait to start querying.

Interviewer: Tell us about your writing process. Are you a pantser or a plotter?

Me: Neither. Personally, I find it much easier to plagiarize. Takes all the stress out.

Interviewer: I think that’s about all the time we have for today. Thanks again for speaking with us.

Me: My pleasure. By the way, who do I make the check out to?

Words

You gotta hand it to the British. Along with that stiff upper lip, they rock when it comes to gentility. Part of it’s the accent, of course. Even the least educated UK citizen sounds like a Harvard grad to my ears. But it’s more than that. It’s the words.

Here are two memorable examples from yesterday’s news coverage of the tragedy.

Since three of the blasts occurred in trains (subways?), a lot of eyewitness accounts came from passengers. They began by identifying which "carriage” they were in. I don’t know about you, but when I hear the word “carriage” I think “Central Park” and “horse drawn”, not an overcrowded, smelly tube whisking me through the bowels of Central London.

Next, toward the end of the workday, I saw a London official (maybe the Mayor?) addressing the logistics of getting workers from their jobs in the city to their homes in the suburbs. He kept referring to their “journey”…as in, “tonight, citizens will need to practice patience in their journey homeward.” Again, I don’t know about you, but when I leave work it’s a "commute"…as in, please commute my sentence, release me from prison, and let me get the hell home. The British make it sound like leaving work is a life affirming experience. Well, maybe yesterday it was.

So, do the British use language as a way of putting a smiley face on the ugly stuff?

Hm. Whatta concept.

Very Truly Yours, Anonymous

You know the worst part about blogging?

You’re driving along with your mind doing its customary random iterations…suddenly, you hit on a great topic for your blog. You start mentally composing it, marveling at your brilliance and how it will make people laugh out loud. Your typing fingers begin to itch.

You arrive at your destination, race to the computer, and screech to a halt.

What about that guy, girl, friend, colleague, business associate, relative, store clerk, random stranger you gave your blog address to? The one you’re about to piss off?

Your shoulders deflate in frustration.

So, here now…if I had the time and—well, let’s be honest, the energy—to create an alternative blog to which I would never, ever reveal the address…the first topics I would cover:

Male sexuality—the myths I’ve witnessed firsthand

Co-workers I would like to send on permanent business trips

Friends I secretly think are too stupid too live

My opinion on the war in Iraq, abortion, illegal immigration and Paris Hilton’s Burger King commercial

How the query process is going with my second book

The skeletons in my family closet

Stories about myself that are a hundred times more embarrassing than the shoe fiasco

Skanks I know personally

Anything anyone ever said to me that was prefaced with: “Psst... swear to God you won't tell anyone?”

Ahhhhh...that last one...I could devote a year's worth of blogs to that one alone.

If only I'd stayed anonymous.

Blog Fun and Queries

...or how to distract yourself when you really should be writing.

Last night I was browsing some of my favorite blogs and dropped in on literary agent Nadia Cornier's. Nadia represents YA (Young Adult) authors and also happens to be very down to earth. Would love to have her as my agent (well, I'd love to have anyone as my agent--within reason) but, like I say, she's into YA and I'm not.

Anyway, she invited blog droppees to submit truly terrible query letters and the winner gets a 3-chapter critique from her.

After reading the 45 already posted, I just had to try my hand, so here's what I wrote (keep in mind, I ommitted some of the obvious stuff that other people had already used).




Dear Deirdre,

Ever wonder what would happen if a teenage space alien girl with weight issues got involved with a lying sack of shit mortal male who slept with all her friends?

Me too, since I haven’t actually finished writing the book. But the idea’s got “high concept” written all over it, doncha think?

And here’s the best part: the heroine’s name is Leai Jones and she’s honest-to-goodness space age royalty so...yep, you guessed it: the title’s The Princess Jones’ Diaries. It’s a no-brainer when you think about it.

Like I say, I haven’t quite gotten around to finishing it, but I’ve got three really, really, well-polished chapters...because. after all, if you and the 1000 other agents on my A-list turn it down, what’s the use of actually writing the book? From what I hear, my contest wins are ample proof for the IRS that this whole writing gig is more than a hobby.

By the way, I’ve run it by my fifteen on-line critique groups and they hardly had any corrections to make so I know it’s really good. (Well, I’m fibbing a bit—several thought I needed more leather and lace—if you know what I mean—but I’m saving that stuff for my other pen name, Feather La Flame.)

I’ll be following this query up with a phone call so we can set a date to meet and discuss all the publishing houses you’d like to submit to. And let me just assure you, I’m no literary snob. Big house, little house, epub, vanity press—I don’t really care as long as I get published.

Love,
Writerwannabe

Love And Lust

Way back in college, in between studying everything from microeconomics to microorganisms, I still managed to squeeze in a romance here and there.

Then one day I picked up Fear Of Flying by Erica Jong.

Ohmigod. Finished it in one sitting, I think. Her character’s “zipless f*ck” philosophy was both tantalizing and scary to a twenty-year-old.

But the truth is that fantasy rarely lives up to reality, does it?

For me, it’s still about love, not lust. That’s why I write romance instead of erotica. And, believe me, getting two characters into bed is a whole lot easier than getting them to fall in love.

Sorta like life.

Happy Fourth Of July, Boys

While we're all drinking beer and eating hot dogs...let's not forget what this holiday is about. Today, I salute my nephew-in-law, Jon, who is a surgeon in the U.S. Air Force. Stationed at Travis AFB where he lives with my niece Jamie and their three children, Ashley, Jake, and Zak, Jon is currently just south of Baghdad in Iraq. Here, he and his fellow surgeon buddies are taking a "cigar break." Jon's fourth from the left in the rear.

Not exactly Cedars-Sinai conditions

A well deserved rest....Note Jon is the one who's apparently fallen asleep with a cup in his hand.

What I Learned On Wednesday

Guess what? I’m not exactly a go-to gal in an emergency.

So, here’s what happened. First, you have to understand that drafting people are a strange breed and they always have been. In the old days they were frustrated artists; these days they’re computer geeks. Our draftsman Bruce is no exception.

So, I’m walking down the hall from my office, heading for the reception area, when a strange noise draws my attention to Bruce who’s about ten feet away. He’s slumped over the side of his chair, bucking wildly, and making inhuman sounds. Swear to God, at first I thought it was a case of Bruce being Bruce.

Nonetheless, I decide the prudent course of action is to make sure. “Bruce!” I yell. “Are you okay?” After all, he’s diabetic, has already had a minor stroke, and eats like I imagine John Candy did. In other words, he’s not the poster child for healthy living.

No response. More bucking. More gasping.

Do I run into his office? No, I do not. I run for the next available human being. “Rolly, something’s wrong with Bruce. Go check it out.”

Then I run in the opposite direction and tell Kari to dial 911.

By the time I return to Bruce’s office, two guys have managed to move him from the chair to the floor. Jovanna (an ex-lifeguard who’s been taking disaster preparedness courses) is assessing the situation.

His lips are blue, his tongue is bleeding, and his eyes are open but they’re not tracking.

Where are the paramedics??? Where’s the fire department???

My brother goes outside and hears sirens, but they keep passing by. Eventually, the paramedics arrive but sirens continue to wail as the firemen apparently search for us.

By the time the paramedics reach Bruce, his breathing has steadied and he’s able to give one-word answers to their queries. After rigging up an IV and checking vitals, they load him on a gurney and cart him off to the hospital.

The doctors still can’t say what happened. They haven’t ruled out heart attack, stroke or seizure. When I spoke to Bruce yesterday, he apologized for missing work but figured he’d be back after the holiday. That’s why you gotta love the guy—he may be odd and annoying, but he’s also a real team player.

Shame on me for running from him, not to him.