Up, Up, and Away...Oh, and More Breaking News

Off on another wild adventure with the de la Cruz duo. This time the hot, sultry, south. First stop: New Orleans, then a drive over to the Biloxi/Gulfport area. It may not surprise you to learn they have CASINOS there. On Saturday, it's back to the Big Easy where I can't wait to visit some of my favorite spots for Jambalaya. Mmmmmm. Taking the laptop with me to keep up with, er, any publishing news that should come available, so I'll try to check in.

In the meantime, guess what was in my mailbox today?? My THIRD (but who's counting) contract from Dorchester--another short story for True Romance. I'm lovin' these!! So, along with the one just out in May, now I'll have another one in July, and a one in August. At this rate, who needs the kind of advance paid for a novel-length story?

Okay, kidding. I do.

One Place I Went This Weekend

Betcha can't guess, huh? Okay, I'll help ('cuz that's what I'm here for). Anna Margarita de la Cruz and the dashing Senor, and I went to Citywalk Universal Studios. The first picture depicts the view from upstairs overlooking...something. I forget what, and you can't really tell, can you? The second is of the stage at Howl At The Moon. Dueling pianos stuff. Fun!

Color Me Gone

You may have noticed something missing from ye old blog.

Yep, tonight I wiped out all the links to Triskelion Publishing and my book, Stealing Amy. I'm not going to dissect or rehash what's been going on with them. Suffice to say that I, along with the rest of their authors, were given the opportunity to take back the rights to our books when some stuff hit the fan. At the time, I elected not to for two reasons: 1) the company didn't breach my contract, so I believed I should honor my end of the bargain, and 2) once a book has been "published"--whether in e-format or print, it's not likely to get published elsewhere.

I came to that decision after much soul-searching because, believe me, the temptation was there, to yank my book. I didn't say anything publicly at the time, but the cringe factor started to build--especially in terms of what I see as my reputation.

Anyhoo, then the rumors started buzzing tonight about another management shake-up. My guess is that whether I take back my rights or not is now a moot decision. We'll see.

In the meantime, I checked out their (our!) author blog tonight to see if any official word had been put out about the rumor. That's when I decided I couldn't be associated with them anymore. At the risk of pissing a few people off, let's just say the post I read isn't what I deem appropriate as a public representation of an entire group of authors.

Straw that broke the camel's back, if you will.

Memo To Donald Trump

Got an idea for ya, hon. Now, as we all know—and believe me, the notion terrifies us!—pageant TV ratings have been swirling the basin for some time. (Witness this year’s unthinkable tragedy of Miss USA resorting to—shudder—the Country Music Television Network!) That’s why I appeal to you, the current custodian of this American institution, to DO SOMETHING BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.

Here’s the deal. Remember the GM advertising campaign that went something like: “It’s not your father’s Oldsmobile”? (Okay, bad example. I just googled that and discovered it was one of the biggest flops of all time.)

Whatever. Nevertheless. The truth is, it's time to revamp the pageant franchise for a new generation...with lessons from the past and present.

See, I grew UP on the things. I remember when the shows weren't one-shot deals squeezed in between the national and local news. I remember when they were week-long, nightly, EVENTS. Way back then--yes, I'm talking the 50's and 60's--over the course of "pageant week," we inevitably chose our favorites, rooting them on for the length of the competition.

Hm. Kinda like some other shows I can think of.

Yep, girls in my generation grew up wanting to be Miss America. Now they wanna be the next American Idol....the winning bachelorette...the Survivor.

See, Donald...here's the thing: what's better television? Beautiful women answering lame questions about how to save the world, or beautiful women eating bugs? Huh? I rest my case.

Well, no I don't. I got more. What's better television? Beautiful women on stage in bathing suits, or beautiful women in bikinis showering together under a waterfall? I rest my case.

Well, no I don't. I got more. What's better television? Beautiful women in evening gowns, or beautiful women with tear-streaked faces lamenting lost love? Huh?

Finally, in this day and age, thank GOD, it doesn't have to be about beautiful women. I mean, it doesn't even have to be about WOMEN period. Yes, Donald...I'm saying it's time to allow men into the Miss America pageant. (And after all the bitching we've done about Augusta National, I can't believe some guy hasn't already made a stink about this.)

Anyway, what I'm saying is, call up your buddy Mark Burnett (after all, he's not saddled with The Apprentice anymore) and see if you guys can turn Miss America and Miss Universe into the reality shows they TRULY USED TO BE.

And if I've failed to convince you, just snag a copy of American Idol's finale show and fast forward to the last few minutes. Watch Jordin Sparks, in her pageant-like evening gown, get "crowned" the new American Idol.

I'm telling ya, Don. The only thing missing is the tiara.

Where Do Words Come From??

The new blog word appears to be SQUEE...as in, I'm going on vacation next week. Squee!

I'm kinda enamored--first, because who doesn't like a word with a q, but second, because it's onaomontapeic, y'know? I got to wondering where these pop culture words come from...and if, per usual, I'm a little late to the party on this one. So I googled it and damned if it didn't show up in Wikipedia. Does that mean it's already in the dictionary? Like, it's a real word? I'm too lazy to check. But while I was there, I noticed it's also an animal from the computer game, Mist, so maybe that's where it originated. Or, in a second Wikipedia reference, Squee is a recurring character in something called, Johnny the Homicidal Maniac...and, I'm like, huh? Suddenly, squee's not feeling so...well...squee.

While we're on the subject of words, I'd like to bring up a few I absolutely detest, abhor, need banished from the planet like, now. Yes, we're talking the double A's: amazing and awesome. Please, People. The last time I used "awesome" was in 1962 when I visited the Grand Canyon. Unless you've been there lately, or you've visited the pyramids or something, this one shouldn't be in your vocabulary, either. Ditto with "amazing" to describe mundane stuff like the Chopped Chicken Salad you had at the corner bistro last week.

Because at the end of the day....Wait!!! Stop the presses!! More overused verbal crap! This one I blame on corporate America, and if you're using it, you just aren't even trying.

Argh. Speaking of words, Blogreader Joe just sent me an email with the news that I used the wrong word in yesterday's post about the Sopranos. Off to research and revise....

Squee!

Talkin' About The Sopranos **REVISED

Over its ten seasons, I haven’t been a rabid Sopranos fan. The language, the violence (who can forget that guy kicking the living crap out of the hooker), and the convoluted mob stuff…just not my thing.

So when I heard (spoiler alert!) that Tony killed off Christopher, I decided to catch up on this season’s episodes. Why? Because in storytelling there ain’t nothing better than patricide, right? I knew enough, from my meager viewing, that for Tony to kill a man he looked upon as a son must involve deep, emotional, conflict. ***Okay, Blogreader Joe has brought to my attention that patricide refers to the killing of one's father (duh). The word I was looking for, as it turns out, was filicide. Huh. Why doesn't that sound familiar??

Yummy, yummy.

First lesson in story conflict? Torture your hero by putting him in a no-win situation. Better yet, make it a situation involving a moral dilemma. And we’re not talking about having to choose between right and wrong. Anyone can make that decision. No, the best internal conflict comes from having to choose between TWO WRONGS, or (to use Jenny Crusie’s words) sucky and suckier.

That’s why I eagerly watched the episodes leading up to the “death of Christopher.” When he modeled the hero in his movie after Tony, portraying him as a wacko bully, I went: “Uh-oh.” When he got involved in a pissing match with Tony’s second-in-command, I tsk-tsked. When his mobster pals convinced a “clean and sober” Christopher he didn’t “belong” anymore, I saw the writing on the wall.

All the ingredients were in place for a showdown between Tony and Christopher.

Only it didn’t happen the way I pictured it.

High on drugs, Christopher got them into a car wreck, and as he struggled for breath, Tony pinched off his nose to obstruct the only available airway.

Huh?

Okay, maybe it’s me, but I didn’t see this as a huge moral dilemma, fraught with conflicting emotions on Tony’s part. First of all, the writers used an accident as the vehicle (no pun intended) to set up the scene. I’d rather have witnessed the two men making a sequence of decisions that consciously and deliberately brought them to a clash of destinies. Second, clearly, it was curtains for ol’ Chris anyway, whether Tony lifted a finger or not. I mean, globs of blood gurgling out of a guy’s mouth can’t be a promising sign of survival. So…did Tony put him out of his misery a la “They Shoot Horses Don’t They”? Not much evidence of that either, because Tony’s expression was flat. No regret, no remorse…no glee, either. Just…nothing. And what about Christopher? Where was the electrifying moment where we should have seen some nonverbal message pass between the two? Was I sleeping?

Okay, granted. In a subsequent scene, Tony expressed relief to his shrink…but it was a dream sequence. I guess we’re supposed to be horrified by this subconscious revelation, but to me it wasn’t enough.

Then Tony goes off to Vegas where he personally breaks the news to a lady friend of Christopher’s, and they get high and jump each other’s bones. Still no real expression on Tony’s face except maybe the manic euphoria during the sunrise scene. But was that the drugs talking??

I wanted to see angst. The huge, gut-wrenching, moral angst of a man forced to choose between his son and his future.

But then maybe that’s the point. I heard one of those TV analysts say we’re finally seeing Tony Soprano for what he is: a cold-blooded murderer. I say, huh? So all those other murders didn’t count? As long as he was a loving husband and father, we could forgive the other deaths? Ah, but see…the difference is (if I recall correctly), Tony displayed at least a modicum of emotion during those other episodes—whether it was guilt, compassion…nonchalance. Something.

I got nothing from Tony Soprano ending Christopher’s life.

And as a writer, I feel ripped off.

It Wasn't The Alcohol, I Swear

So, last night I apparently decided it was time for a quick bone density scan. Here's how I accomplished it:

I pulled into one of two empty parking spaces behind the bar at which I was meeting friends, gathered up my purse, and stepped from the car. About five strides later, my toe hit something, promptly halting all forward motion which, you guessed it, sent me crashing (palms first) onto the asphalt.

(Okay, before you think this was an alcohol-induced moment, hold on. There'll be illustrations later.)

For a split second, I lay there taking inventory. No broken bones. Bonus.

A car crept by, and a guy lowered his window to ask if I was okay. (Side note: has anyone in the entire world, since time began, answered NO in such an embarrassing situation?) "Yes, I'm fine," I assured him. Meanwhile, splayed on the ground seemed the perfect position from which to track down all the crap that flew out of my purse when I fell. Cell phone, keys, random change. I really should start heeding Blogreader Joe's admonitions to keep my purse zipped.

Anyway, I scrambled to my feet, proving my fitness to concerned onlooker car-guy, then checked for damage. Blood and bruises on my left knee, right shin, and right palm--but otherwise, nothing serious. I turned to see what had caused this potential disaster and located it right away. In a parking lot big enough to hold about eight cars, a random berm-like structure jutted out beyond one of the occupied spaces. Some clever soul had painted the top white, but left the sides natural.

Uh, hello? Thanks for making the damn thing look like a stripe!


Oh, well. As long as I didn't break any bones. And maybe I can take it as a sign osteoporosis is a long way off.

Over The River And Through The Woods...

...to step-brother Mike's we go.

We're talking Sunday, Mother's Day, and okay...to tell you the truth, there was no river. Just a series of freakishly long winding roads. As the crow flies, Mike and Susie's is about twenty minutes away, and yes, although I can almost flap my arms and get lift-off, I was forced to drive. I took a two-lane road from my house through the Malibu mountains to Pacific Coast Highway, hung a right along the glittering blue ocean, then another right onto an even skinnier two-lane road. From there I climbed back up into the mountains until I forked onto a single lane road (sans middle white stripe), then a right onto a dirt road. This is the one I always pray won't result in a punctured tire or--even worse--a punctured whosis in the underbelly of my slightly low-slung car.

As I made my final approach, I remembered what brother Barry said the first time he made the trek: "Driving along that last stretch, I was sure this would be our last visit...until I saw the house...and the view."

Yep, stunning. So here now, for your viewing pleasure, some pictures I took on Sunday. Please note that as a Mother's Day present to mom Annie, I took NO pictures of her. It's an age thing, I guess.

P.S. Doggie Daisy is part wolf. Cool.

Trolling For Reviews

New lesson learned in the art of epublishing. Googling the title of your release, your name, and the word 'review' can turn up good stuff.

Today's discovery can be found here at a review site called Bare Essensuals. Hey, I swear I didn't pay her for the kind words! Imagine that! And we're not even related!

After giving a pretty damn good synopsis of the book (better than, er, I probably wrote myself), Michelle expressed this opinion:

"I liked this book from beginning to end. It was a fun and fast read. The heroine made me laugh out loud and her attitude about everything made me wish that I thought more like that. Even as someone kept taking over her identity and getting her in trouble she tried to carefree. Combine her with the sexy but uptight hero and it made for a great read. Best of all, the heroine saved herself in the end, while Nick had to come to his own conclusions and take care of his own issues that had been plaguing him. The characters were well built and the addition of several side character, including Amy’s rather neurotic mother and the alcohol swilling bad guy with many faces.

I read this all in one sitting. The pacing and tone of the book was well done – there was fun and suspense, a very hard combination but it worked here. I will definitely look forward to reading more from this author."


She wrapped things up by giving it a FIVE (on a 1 to 5 scale, 5 being best)....YIPPEE!

Reminder!

Don't forget to run out and buy the May issue of True Romance Magazine. (It WAS on your shopping list, right?) As, er, highlighted to the left, the story you wanna look for is titled "Party of Two--Catering to our Romance." No, you won't see my name anywhere; you'll just have to take my word that I wrote it. And don't worry--the trouble you encounter finding a local distributor won't be for nothing, because...come JULY...you'll get to run out and buy the SECOND story I sold them. Stay tuned for the title.

Thanks, But No Thanks

I'm probably not supposed to publicly report my failures in the writing world, but oh well. No one's looking anyway, right?

So I got my latest rejection on Leftovers. If you're keeping count, that's only about three or four. Drop in the bucket according to those in the know. Still...it's disheartening, isn't it? This particular agent read the first 50 pages. She had nice things to say. Very nice things. Even *almost* specific enough to lead me to believe the letter was tailored to me, but I'm no dummy. It was a form letter. I'm wondering now if agents have their A, B, C, and D letters.

Y'know. Like D would be:

Dear Author:
Thanks for giving me the opportunity to read your chapters. Unfortunately, (insert one here: my list is full right now and I'm not taking on new clients and/or I just didn't feel passionate enough to get behind the work). As you know, the publishing world is totally subjective; another agent might feel differently, so I encourage you to continue your search (or words to that effect).

Letter C is more like the one I got today:

Dear Author:
Thanks for giving me the opportunity to read your chapters. Although you write well, the plot is well-conceived and the characters are well-drawn, I just didn't feel passionate enough to get behind the work. Cue the rest of letter D.

Letter B is one I don't seem to be able to get:

Dear Author:
Thanks for giving me the opportunity to read your chapters. Although you write well, the plot is well-conceived, and the characters are well-drawn, I just didn't feel passionate enough to get behind the work. I do love your voice however, and feel your work has promise; do you have other material I can look at? (An alternate to that last sentence is the one that reads thusly: please feel free to send me anything else you have.)

Letter A is the one I've only gotten once (well, outside of the ebook I sold, which I'm not counting):

Dear Author:
Thanks for giving me the opportunity to read your chapters. I find I remain interested in this project and would like to see more. Please send the entire manuscript.......

Sigh. Moving on.

Oh, I submitted an 800-word piece to an anthology yesterday. Got some positive feedback, but nothing's a slam dunk, is it?

Explaining Yesterday

I wrote yesterday's post with my tongue just slightly in cheek. What I meant to convey (and boy, don't anyone ever accuse me of being a transparent writer) was that targets of bias and insensitivity are everywhere...and sometimes they're so subtle we don't even notice them.

Last weekend, I watched a comedy show during which Carlos Mencia referred to white people as "crackers." I watched a political discussion digress into "amusing" banter about blonde women, and I don't have to tell you where that led. The point is that race isn't the only criteria by which we as a society separate ourselves from others just to feel superior.

I don't personally know ONE PERSON who isn't guilty of some form of prejudice.

And it cracks me up that we think firing a person is progressive. If anything, getting rid of Imus allowed us to anesthetize ourselves into believing the rabbit crawled back into the hat.

Meanwhile, on this morning's Mark and Brian radio show, Mark recounted hearing Stevie Wonder's song "Living For the City"--on SATELLITE radio over the weekend. Remember that song? Having been a disk jockey back in the day, Mark remembered the shorter, edited, radio version, and the longer, unedited album version which contained the N-word. Well, guess what. In 2007, the unedited version on SATELLITE radio, became the EDITED version without the N-word. Now, come on, people. This song was recorded in the 70's, for God's sake. To me, taking out the N-word is like re-writing the author's story.

What's next? Covering up the genitalia on all those offensive statues? Oh, wait. Didn't someone in the Bush administration already try to do that?

This And That

I want all media types who make fun of blondes fired immediately.

I want all media types who make fun of fat people fired immediately.

I want all media types who make fun of skinny people fired immediately.

I want all media types who make fun of gay people fired immediately.

I want all media types who make fun of people with eating disorders fired immediately.

I want all media types who make fun of people who live in trailers fired immediately.

I want all media types who make fun of people whose advanced years cause them to move slowly or take their time remembering stuff fired immediately.

I want all media types who make fun of people who flip burgers for a living fired immediately.

I want all media types who make fun of people who aren't fashion forward fired immediately.

I want all media types who make fun of the way Asian people drive fired immediately.

I want all media types who make fun of teenagers with bad skin fired immediately.

I want all media types who make fun of bald men fired immediately.

I want all media types who make fun of Californians fired immediately.

While we're at it, let's expunge the air waves of all comedy performances taped for broadcast before May of this year.

Oh, Here's A Real Shocker

You Don't Need a Man ... or Want One!

Generally, you're very happy being a single woman. And anyone who has a problem with that... well, that's there problem. Not that you wouldn't share your life with the almost perfect guy. You simply won't settle though. Your life is too good to share with some substandard man!

Do You Need a Man?

This idea shamelessly stolen from Carol Burnside's blog
Click above to see if YOU need a man...and if you ARE a man, well, y'know...my condolences. Now go put the toilet seat (and lid!) down.

Love This Story

Nephew Brian just e-mailed me a snippet about a class of kindergarten kids in Calabasas coming home to their parents with tales of a "weird guitar guy" who keeps showing up to sing "scary songs" for them.

Turns out this guy's grandson is in the class...and the guy is none other than....

BOB DYLAN.

Yep. Just think of it. Bob Dylan serenading the pals of his grandson. The time's they are a-changin' all right. When did we all get so old?

If It's May, It Must Be...

...time to drag myself out of bed at least an hour earlier than usual, just to sign myself up for the torture--er, pleasure-- known as editor or agent appointments. Y'all remember my previous rants on the subject, right? Editor or agent appointments are one of the benefits to attending RWA's annual national conference. (Although setting yourself up for a guaranteed panic attack in front of a publishing professional hardly scores as a benefit to me.)

Anyway, let's make one thing clear. Brooke made me do it. Last year, we went to Atlanta unencumbered by dreaded appointments, which allowed us to have The. Best. Time. Ever.

So, why why why...? Why this year?

Beats the hell out of me, frankly. All I know is, we west coast people have to get up before six, make sure our fingers are up to the task of furious typing, log into our RWA accounts and....hands poised over keys...

uh...

huh....?

Server's busy.

Click, Refresh. Server's busy.

Click, Refresh, Repeat.

Still busy.

I got out of bed for this?????

See, the trouble is...I'm already low on the pecking order. Appointments opened up days ago for the current Golden Heart Finalists (as if THEY need extra help) and next came past winners and finalists. Now, today, May 1st, it's Pro and Pan members' turns. Well, guess what? This year, the pickings looked pretty slim to begin with, so I'm not hopeful for

WHENEVER THE FRIGGIN' SITE GETS FIXED.

Grrrrr....

I'm so frustrated I could...I could...I could smoke. Ha. So there.

Spaced Out

Okay, on Thursday, I composed a nice little rant, then forgot to post it. Friday came and went, same thing. Forgot about it. Now it's on my computer at the office and it'll be Monday before I can toss it up here. By then it'll probably be even more outdated than it already was. But take my word for it, the damn thing had Imus, Baldwin, and Rosie O'Donnell...what could be better?

Sigh.

Chalk it up to this stuff, and that's all I'm gonna say about it.

David Halberstam

It must have been about September of 1973 when I read David Halberstam’s “The Best And The Brightest.” The Fall Quarter of my junior year in college was about to begin and armed with my course schedule, I eagerly visited the campus bookstore to load up on assigned reading. I still remember how I’d get “intellectual goose bumps” from shaking hands with the assorted materials that would shape my world for the coming months.

On this particular day, I went straight for the shelves containing books for my Foreign Policy class. I picked up "The Best And The Brightest"--and nearly fainted. Nine hundred frigging pages. And it was only one of the ten titles required. Yikes.

I decided to get a head start, so even before school began, I cracked it open and started reading…and pretty much didn’t put it down again until I’d finished (which, you can well imagine, was a unique experience when it came to a “textbook”).

I was enthralled...and an instant fan.

So much so that somewhere around the Fall of 1976, when I saw in the newspaper that David Halberstam would be giving a talk at a local college, I couldn’t wait to go…only I didn’t know anyone who’d go with me. That was when I first realized that in life, you have to be prepared to do things on your own, or risk never doing them at all. So I went by myself, sitting a little self-consciously toward the back. First he gave a talk, then he opened things up for questions.

I had one in mind. I desperately wanted to ask about his research process. How he kept the massive amount of facts straight that went into a tome like "The Best and the Brightest." I sat there with my palms getting sweaty, scared to death my hand would involuntarily shoot up in the air, asking to be called on.

But, I was too shy. I never made a peep.

Still...I never forgot my "brush" with author greatness, and I'm saddened by his untimely passing.

This Just In...

Forget those smoothies from Jamba Juice.

Throw out all that wheat germ crap.

And, dammit, Blogreader Joe, if I hear you're still knocking back spirulina....when you could be making those free radicals behave and boosting your antioxidant capacity by drinking none other than...FROU-FROU COCKTAILS complete with gaily decorated paper umbrellas!

Okay, I'm not joshing ya, folks. It's all there in black and white in my LA Times today. A joint study conducted by U.S. and Thai researchers (bless their hearts), and reported in the Journal of the Science of Food and Agriculture. In their attempt to find a way to keep strawberries fresh, they added alcohol, and voila! Instant health drink!

I'd keep writing...but I'm off to fight cancer with a strawberry margarita.

Wow. Some days are just exceptional, aren't they?

Random

Hm. I wrote half a post in MS Word, then my computer ate it. Maybe it's a sign. Yeah, think I'll ix-nay the topic I was going to write about....and instead...

Guess what was in the mail on Friday? A comp copy of the May issue of True Romance--with my first EVER story to appear in PRINT! They re-titled it (big surprise) so now you have to look for the one with: "Party For Two--Catering Our Romance" (you'll see it on the lower right hand corner of the cover). The best part was getting to let my parents read it (since, y'know, there's no S-E-X in it). I would have scanned and posted the cover, but I let them keep it. Oh, and don't go looking for my name 'cuz they don't print authors' names. My theory is, we're all (readers and writers alike) playing this pretend game that the stories are true. Anyway, it was still a thrill. Can't wait for July's issue, too!

So, time's a-wasting...are your taxes signed, sealed, and off to the mailbox? (Or, better yet, winging their way through cyberspace?)

I tried. I really did. Turns out Turbo-tax doesn't like Windows 98 (which, of course, they neglected to mention until I'd PAID for and DOWNLOADED the damn thing). Next, I noticed they had an on-line version for us morons still using the antiquated operating system. Fine, I'd use it.

Only, it's next-to-impossible, because the on-line software doesn't let you override stuff. Doesn't let you go directly to a form and fill stuff in. So, for example, I'd have to go back to day one and input all the historical data on my real estate rentals to get the proper depreciation. Ugh.

Next I tried other on-line services. Just give me the forms, I cried. All I want are the forms.

No way. (Except for California State--they provide a nice little fill-in-the-blanks PDF version you can complete and print. Not save, mind you. Still...)

Anyway, I guess I'm finished. I basically did it all by hand. Manually. (I know...plenty of room for errors, huh?) But, the truth is, I only came up with one bottom line number...unlike last year, where each time I attacked it brought forth a new result.

Guess it's time to take the deep breath and put in the mail.

And hope for the best.

The Lazy Girl's Route To Brainstorming

Jenny Crusie fans are familiar with her use of collages to brainstorm her fabulous books. Well, I was browsing her blog the other night and discovered she's found some software for making them on the computer. As soon as I saw the picture, I thought: THIS IS FOR ME.

See, I'm not an artistic person; I don't do well with glue sticks and scissors. But I AM kinda visual. I ACHE to see stuff pictorially, which is why I also like spreadsheets. Anyway, I hunted up the software but, dammit, apparently it's only available for MAC users.

But...but...there MUST be something for us PC slackers, right? I surfed around but didn't find anything suitable.

Finally thought about the way I make my web pages on sitebuilder. Hm. Yeah, I thought, that might work. (Okay, so later, my CP's said I could have done the same thing using MS Word. Duh, they were right.)

Anyway, view the result here at my website (click on the link that comes up in the box). It's not finished, but it represents my WIP...yeah, that one without the title. (Oh, and it may take a moment to load 'cuz it's lots of pictures.)

Fun though, huh?

From The Valley To The Peak!

Bleh. What a day yesterday. And I thought WEDNESDAY was bad.

Let's just say the highlight (insert sarcasm here) was when Jeremiah managed to get the company truck impounded on the way to delivering a chamber to a customer. Long story.

Phones still working only intermittently.

Main printer working only intermittently.

Vendor hounding us for big bucks--only it's hard to justify paying for something that was DESTROYED in shipment.

Anyway, enough of the negativity. To improve my mood, I phoned the de la Cruz's and talked them into dinner at BJ's. Afterward, Martay decided we needed more libations so we meandered up the street to try out the new bistro in town. Man, oh, man. Can't vouch for the food, but Mastro's definitely has it going on in the ambience department. I mean, how often do you come across a restaurant with an honest-to-goodness piano bar? Yum!

We finally dragged our butts out of there at...ten? eleven?...anyway, past my bedtime...and when I got home, guess what I found in the mail?

Another contract from Dorchester for a short story submission! Yippeeeeee! I LOVE seeing their envelopes amidst all the casino offers and bills!

And that, boys in girls, is how my day went from a valley to a peak!

What Did I Do??

If I were wearing one of those stupid mood rings from the 60's, it's color would be RED because I'm feeling extremely cranky. Turns out, the Technology Gods really have it in for me today.

First, I arrived at the office to find our network down. Might I add our IT guy is on extended vacation somewhere half-way around the world? Luckily, the instructions he left actually succeeded. Network's back up; score one for ME.

Second crisis, the phones stop working. Correction. They ring, you can tell a caller's there, but the static's so loud you can't understand what he's saying. Except, of course, that he's cussing you out--something to do with a chamber that was supposed to be delivered Friday, then Monday, then Tuesday, then today...but we don't have a truck to deliver it with because SOMEONE took it on some kind of service call up north without bothering to mention it to anyone...

Then there's the tug-o'-war between Pac Bell and the phone manufacturer. It's not our problem, it's theirs. Nuh-uh. It's theirs.

Mysteriously, after Pac Bell runs a diagnostic and pronounces the lines free of problems, they start working. We keep the Monday (Monday??) appointment with the phone manufacturer in case the system starts acting up again. Meanwhile, Pac Bell tries to talk us into paying a one-time $79 fee that will cover the cost of a service call in the event we need one. Otherwise, we'll be charged at the rate of $89 for the first hour and $25 for every fifteen minute increment thereafter.

Isn't this blackmail?

Anyway, third, our main printer croaked. Well, it whirs...it TRIES to work, but jams every time. I don't even know where to begin resurrecting it.

Okay, so at least I don't have Don Imus's problems which, by the way, I'm composing a blog about, so stay tuned. I still would've been better off staying in bed today.

Because We All Have Nothing Better To Do...

Someone came up with yet ANOTHER way to waste our precious moments. This time, it's BEBO and you can see my page here. Be sure to scroll down and take my quiz (it's on the left); you may learn something interesting about me.

Or, not.

Ooh...and now, just added for your political pleasure, cast your vote in my poll about what should happen to Don Imus. (It's below the quiz.)

Stop Me If You've Heard This Before...

...but DAMN, the book I'm working on now is good.

Yeah, yeah, yeah...I said the same thing a couple months ago, didn't I? And, guess what? I haven't written one new word.

This is the Nano project again--the one without a title that, I swear to God, will probably end up being "The Nano Project" forever. I read it again last night, and I wuv, wuv, wuv it. The only problem--the one that keeps sending me off to other writerly things like editing old manuscripts and submitting to True Romance--is that the plot is waaaay complex. Too complex for my brain? Maybe. Hope not.

I made some notes last night. See, the way it work is this: you got your hero and heroine. Then you got your secondary characters--about eight in all. My plot requires each of them to have a separate motive for killing the hero and heroine. (Are you following so far? Yeah, me either). So I connected all the dots pretty well, except a couple dots are kinda cliche and obvious. Those I have to work on. And one character is stumping me. Can't figure out her motive for killing anyone...which kinda tells me, she oughta turn out to be the villain.

Argh. Spreadsheet anyone??

But I will persevere. I must. This book's too good not to (and when's the last time you heard me brag like that??)

I toted up the old word count on this baby last night and it stands at 45,000. About half the book. My New Year's goal was to finish it by April.

Woops.

Okay, so how about I finish it before the conference in July? Huh? Is that too much to ask? Hell, if I can whip out those TR stories in a week (7500 words), I should be able to write another entire BOOK by July.

Yeah, right.

Stop me if you've heard this before.

Welcome To Thursday

Doncha love when your day starts off with a process server?

So, I walk through the doors of the office this morning and a rather nice-looking guy is at the front window talking to Joey. An applicant for the job we're advertising, I think to myself as I brush past.

Joey stops me. "Hey, this is for you."

The guy takes my name and hands me the subpeona. "Thanks," I say.

"Have a nice day," he says before leaving.

At first I scan the thing with dread. What unintentional crime have we committed? Who is suing us and for what? Nuisance or real?

Then, the first thing I notice--we're not even the defendants. We're only being called as a witness. Doesn't even say who, specifically, should appear.

I flip to the pages without all the legal mumbo jumbo--y'know, where it says in plain English what we're expected to provide. Apparently, the case revolves around one Robert Jones who purportedly worked for us...in 1959.

EXCUSE ME? NINETEEN FRIGGIN FIFTY-NINE??

Extrapolating from the questions, the guy didn't even work an entire year. Yet they're asking us to provide the names of his co-workers, his supervisor, and stuff like where did we purchase our compressors that year. Reading between the lines, I detect an asbestos lawsuit. Have to wonder how old it is--after all, if Mr. Jones were still alive, he'd be pretty old by now anyway, wouldn't he? But the suit's in the name of a woman--probably his widow.

Did a small search of the archives--gee, somehow the 1959 files either didn't make the move with us in 1991, or they got tossed long ago. So we can't prove or disprove whether the guy worked here or not, although we know who his supervisor would have been--a guy who died about ten years ago. I mean, who are they kidding? Working adults employed in 1959 are liable to be one of two things--old or dead.

I mean, we're talking almost FIFTY YEARS.

And The Forecast in Hell is for Snow

If you don't believe me, check out what NBA star Stephon Marbury is doing. Okay, if you'd rather not make the effort, I'll tell ya. Like a zillion athletes before him, he's endorsed a sneaker.

Big deal, right?

How about this...his Starbury sneakers cost 15 bucks. Yep, you read that correctly. Not one-five-zero as in a hundred and fifty--the cost of a pair of Air Jordans--but 15 (fifteen) bucks.

Affordable for young kids. What a concept, eh?

Didn't take a fancy signing bonus for 'em, either.

So, what's the deal? Must be a nutcake, huh? Nope...just a guy with a good memory of being poor and unable to afford designer tennis shoes.

Now if we can just talk kids into believing cheaper shoes are cool.

Old People I Have Known

Another Saturday Night...

So there I am, driving home from a mini-high school reunion, and I decide it's too early to go home, so I swing by Bogie's, the watering hole I usually frequent on Friday nights. I snag a seat at the bar, say hello to the bartender, and notice immediately that the average age on a Saturday night is considerably less than on Friday. I order a Bailey's and coffee and prepare to make this a quick stop when...

A young man sidles up and strikes up a conversation. We find ourselves on topic number 76 in the book of things strangers talk about on a Saturday night in bars.

He asks me what I look for in a man.

I tell him a sense of humor.

He says something funny, and I laugh.

He complains about all the fifty-year old men lurking around. I refrain from giving up my age.

Time passes and I realize he's hitting on me. I politely mumble something about his being much younger, but he's not put off. "Live a little," he insists. "Throw caution to the wind." I wonder if he knows just HOW much younger he is. I begin to wonder myself.

I discover he's there to celebrate a buddy's birthday. A buddy's THIRTIETH birthday.

"How old do you think I am?" he asks.

Wisely, I guess thirty, and I'm right.

More discussion of whether I should go out with him ensues. Meanwhile, I try to gauge how much alcohol may be involved in his failure to discern the gap in our ages. Or, maybe he truly doesn't care.

Then another buddy comes up.

"She's not that hot," I hear him say.

I spend a few minutes trying to recall if there was any emphasis on the word THAT. As in she's not THAT hot, or just she's not that hot.

Either way, I pack up and go home.

Here, for your viewing pleasure...three "Hot Chicks" from the mini-reunion. L to R: Debi, Randi M. and Randy B. (Is it just me, or do I look like some kind of Amazon next to those two??) More pics tomorrow...

More Pics of the Bellagio Gardens

Vegas Weekend

Ah, the Bellagio...could there be a more beautiful hotel?





Yep, it was another foray to Sin City...this time with "the girls." (L to R: Dodi, Lucille, Cathi) And this time it wasn't about the gambling.

Okay, it was a LITTLE about the gambling. But on Saturday night, we also took in the Barry Manilow show at the Hilton. As rumored, Barry puts on an outstanding show, and dammit...I'd post pictures but SOME PEOPLE follow the rules, so I don't have any.



L to R: Lucille, Dodi, Randy

And, yes...that purse I'm carrying was a little heavy...what with all the CASH I won!! (Big shout-out to my peeps at the Planet Hollywood crap table who kept me company till 6 a.m.!)

Now Here This

I don’t have ONE fashion bone in my body…which will not come as a news flash to anyone who knows me.

But if I were made Queen of All Fashion (and, I believe this is something the world should seriously consider), here are a few of the laws I would enact to which all fashionistas would have to adhere:

1. Thou shalt pick ONE hemline and be done with it. Personally, I prefer a couple inches above the knee, so as Queen of All Fashion, that’s what we’re going with.

2. Thou shalt pick one heel and one toe for shoes. Personally, I prefer about three inches, spiked, with a moderately pointed toe. Absolutely, positively, under no circumstances, should one more pair of platform shoes EVER be manufactured.

3. Thou shalt decide once and for all: skinny, straight-legged jeans or wide, bell-bottomed jeans. Being a reasonable person, I shall allow this one to be decided by American Idol voters. While, we’re at it, let’s figure out the waistline—hip-hugger or high-rise.

4. Thou shalt settle on one size purse—either gargantuan or small.

5. Thou shalt spend 80% of design time and 95% of advertising dollars on fashions for middle-aged women with post-pubescent bodies. (Make that waaaaay post-pubescent.)

6. Men, I haven’t forgotten you, although I’m really not that interested in your attire. I figure if what you’re wearing is CLEAN, we’re all ahead of the game. But just to demonstrate my evenhandedness, I proclaim that within one year of my ascendancy to the throne, all ties and lapels shall be narrow (whether aesthetically pleasing or not, we’re going for what’s easiest to remember, here).

7. Exceptions. Yes, there will be exceptions. The one I have in mind relates to hair. Some women have curly hair, some have board-straight. I propose that for the first six months of the year, we go with the former, and the second six months, the latter. Give everyone equal time to feel like crap about themselves.

In addition, seasonal variations will be observed; however it should be noted that people who stick to summer attire without regard to geographical location shall be considered "fashion-forward."

Finally, this list is not all-inclusive and may be added to at any time by decree at the capricious whim of the Fashion Queen.

American Idol

Okay, folks. The joke's over. You've had your fun, now it's time to get serious.

Sanjaya has GOT TO GO next week.

I'm Feeling A Bit Bi-Polar...

During the query process, it's nice to have friends who are selling, 'cuz I'm tellin' ya, otherwise, the writing biz is looking awfully bleak.

First, the good news.

CP Vonda Sinclair sold a novella to Red Sage! Woo hoo, Vonda!! Way to go!

And CP Terry Spear's been selling so much I can't even keep track of it all, so check out her blog to see what she's been up to.

Meanwhile (sigh) after a couple of quick e-queries (result: two No's and a nonresponse) I'm putting together a comprehensive list of likely targets. Here's what's got me down: I keep coming across agents who are closed to submissions.

Yep. Simply shut.

Oh, most list exceptions. Like if you've met them at a conference. Or you have a deal on the table--in which case they'd be happy to take you on--gee, ya think?

Then there are the publishing houses. Some of them are closed, too. Unless, you've met an editor at a conference, have an agent, yada yada. One said it's temporarily closed but IS accepting anthology submissions with the following themes: 1) dragons, 2) hot and spicy "strangers in the night," and 3) same sex.

Um, guess what? I don't write anything REMOTELY matching those requirements.

So, far awhile the other night, I got a little testy. I mean, talk about a Catch-22. Agents aren't taking submissions, publishers aren't taking them without agents...how do they expect us to ever get anywhere?

Then I realized my anger was mis-directed. The truth is there are too many f*ing writers out there. With everyone and her sister trying to become the next Nora Roberts/JK Rowling/fill-in-the-bestselling-name-here, it's no wonder the other side of the equation (the business side) has more than they can handle.

Especially when you consider that NO ONE READS ANYMORE.

So there you have it. A zillion writers on the supply side versus fewer and fewer readers on the demand side.

Who can blame agents and editors for turning off the faucet that only serves to mess up their workday?

Happy You-Know-What!

Did I go out and tie one on in honor of the Irish? Hell, no. I stayed home and tended to a cold. Grrrrrrrrr.

Is Blogging Over With?

Today I noticed an extremely popular blogger is going out of business. Burned out, she said. Brings to mind another blogger I used to read daily who closed her doors awhile back. Same thing. The more widely read the blog, the more it apparently eats into that person's life and, presumably, the activities that, er, actually pay the bills.

Personally, my readership has dwindled to about half what it used to be. Have I become boring (not that I was ever that exciting to begin with, but...)...or have people just become blase about blogs?

Come to think of it, I used to faithfully surf about 20 blogs a day, and hey, what a coinky-dinky, I probably hit about 10 of them now. Half.

Between blogs, websites, and Myspace pages, have we exposed ourselves to the point of saturation?

Going From Stale To Fresh...

In one quick, easy, lesson.

Ha.

So, I caught a new drama on the FX channel last night called The Riches. As I watched, I thought about how much more I appreciated its quality now that I know a tiny bit about crafting a story. Much like I guess I’d appreciate the Mona Lisa more if I knew the first damn thing about art.

Anyway, in a nutshell, The Riches is a fish-out-of-water story—the old plotline in which characters are tossed into a totally foreign situation (think Private Benjamin or The Beverly Hillbillies, for instance). But if that’s all it was, we wouldn’t be watching it at 10:00 on Monday nights. Like the publishing industry, TV execs demand a twist, a hook. A new take on an old storyline. (How many times have we heard publishing professionals tell us they’re looking for something fresh?)

So, here’s how I picture the brainstorming session that resulted in The Riches.

It starts off with the aforementioned fish-out-of-water story…in this case, a poor Southern family is suddenly thrust into country-club living. Fine. Lots of fodder for what happens next.

But how did they suddenly become rich? Did they hit the lotto?

Nope. Too pedestrian.

Did they inherit from a long-lost relative?

Done a million times. But how about this: what if they assumed the identity of the rich people?

Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. But how could they do that? They couldn't just waltz in and take over two strangers' lives.

What if they were involved with the strangers’ deaths?

Euw. We’d hate them, wouldn’t we?

What if it was an accident…like a car accident, maybe. And our hero and heroine tried to save their lives, but failed.

Okay, but is it realistic to believe a man and woman could then step into another couple’s shoes? After all, most people wouldn’t know the first thing about assuming someone else’s identity.

Let’s make them con artists. People comfortable with pulling scams.

Hold on. Con artists aren’t sympathetic characters. If we’re gonna watch a TV show about these people week after week, we have to care about them, don’t we?

Okay, we'll give them a family…say…three kids.

KIDS? How’re you gonna incorporate kids into the scheme of things? Won’t the kids blow their country club cover?

Not if we make them Irish Travelers.

Ah…Irish Travelers…fascinating. Still…the viewing public’s not gonna go for a family of thieves, is it?

What if we make them defect from the clan?

Why would they do that?

Because the clan leader is trying to force their daughter into an arranged marriage with someone they detest.

Okay. That works. But what about ongoing conflict? You gotta give me more than watching this family learn the difference between a salad fork and a dessert fork.

How about, when they defect from the clan, they take all its money?

Ah…so people are after them. Sounds good. What else?

How about if the wife’s just been released from prison so when they run away, she’s violated her parole?

Even better. Anything else? What kind of relationship do the husband and wife have?

What if she’s bitter because she took the rap for her husband? So bitter, she's incurred a heroin addiction in prison? And, what if her loyalties still lie with the clan, even though her husband's don't?

Ah. You got me.

Hooked that is.

Can She Go Two For Two?

So I submitted my second short story to True Romance last night. Aside from an itty bitty desire to verify whether the first sale was a fluke, I actually enjoy writing these things. For tons of reasons, but today I’ll focus on just one.

It’s a whole lot easier to edit twenty-five pages than it is to wade through 400. Trust me.

And you’d think, what with the brevity and all, I could do it without help, right? Wrong.

I passed this latest one through two crit groups, collecting roughly 6 critiques. And, guess what? I missed a lot of stuff. Mostly minor, yes, but still…embarrassing stuff. Like, how about the time I accidentally called the hero NICK (Stealing Amy creeping in)? Or how about the time the 20-year reunion switched to a 25-year reunion? Yep, these are the things your trusty writing buddies find and point out for you.

Mind you, when I uploaded the story to my groups, I thought it was polished to a sheen. So you can imagine what shape Leftovers is in.

Lots of writers eschew critique groups, and sure, there are reasons not to use them. Mainly, when you’re in a bad one. But, ahhhhh….when you’re fortunate enough to land in a GOOD one (or two!) it’s magic, and the feedback you get is worth its weight in gold (I know, there’s a cliché for you, but it’s Sunday so that part of my brain has the day off).

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Latest submission. It’s about a high school reunion cruise, and I’ll keep y’all posted if I hear anything.

P.S. On the subject of CPs (critique partners) another advantage to GOOD ones is that they do nice things for you. Check out what Carol did for me.

P.P.S. SEE?!?!?!!!! I just noticed a typo in the boredom poem I posted the other day. The last line should have been: To overcome MY boredom, not BY boredom. Geesh.

Woof

Ho Hum...Pant, Pant

I’m afraid I have an undiagnosed condition. Syndrome. Whatever.

Actually, it’s a problem the medical profession hasn’t discovered yet. Kinda like back in the days when that kid in the corner of the classroom was just dumb instead of having Attention Deficit Disorder.

To give my illness a sense of cache, I looked up some Latin and came up with the word acedia. Right. So, I have acedia phobia. Before you head off to Googleland, let me help you. According to this site, the Christian church “has traditionally named boredom-under the Latin title acedia-as one of the seven deadly sins. Frederick Buechner describes it as a voluntary form of death. Boredom is an absence of feeling, emotional flatness, passivity to life, lack of interest in anything.”

Okay, wait. I don’t have that.

No, what I have is a FEAR of boredom.

Back to Google.

Ah…what I have is THAASOPHOBIA. Who knew they had a term for fear of boredom? I feel so blessed to have found it. Much like the elation those who suffer from fibromyalgia must feel when a study comes out saying it’s a real disease.

Before you scoff at my so-called illness, let me show you how it manifests itself.

One time I was at a company Christmas party and the guy that wrote our technical manuals launched into a dissertation on the history of the stapler. I started getting short of breath and my head threatened to quiver off my shoulders. My natural defense against boredom in full operation.

But don’t think this thaasophobia thing only rears its ugly head in social situations. Oh, no. It permeates my entire life.

That blanket of leaves on my patio isn’t there because I’m lazy. Nope. Chalk it up to Thaasophobia.

All that junk in my garage screaming for a dumpster? Again, Thaasophobia.

Uh-oh…do I feel a bout of it coming on right this second?

Before I go, I’ll leave you with this poem I wrote in Junior High.

Upon a misty morn I came
With no one to disturb the flame
That kindered my spirit deep within
Which had no name and could not win
To overcome my boredom.

Must Have Been The Hair Color

Setting: Chumash Casino, $1 slot machines
Present: Me and Anna Margarita de la Cruz
Situation: We've just collectively lost $40

Anna Maria: "Damn, we didn't even get to spin."

Me: "Totally sucks."

Handsome young stranger sitting next to us, thrusting hundred dolloar bill in front of me: "Here. Keep trying."

Conclusion: Sometimes it pays to be blonde.

Memo To Jenny Craig

Dear Jenny,

Love the food.

Love the broccoli and cheddar baked potato.

But, um...maybe you should re-think that sneaky way of getting minerals into my diet...

'Cuz, y'know...c-c-c-runch...clink is not a comforting sound.

Patience Smatience

Waiting forever sucks.

And the writing biz is all about the waiting. Oh sure, you hear of authors whose trip to publication between query to sale took all of a week. But man, those are the exceptions. HUGE exceptions.

Now before anyone concludes I've blanketed the world of editors and agents with simultaneous submissions, let's get one thing straight. I haven't. What I'm about to refer to involves several projects and both editors and agents (two very separate entities).

So at the present time, I have x amount of queries out. Two via snail mail in November went to publishing houses. The first, as requested on their website, is just a measly one-page letter. According to RWA's "market update" this publisher responds to queries within two weeks. Uh, it's been nearly four months. Re-send??

The second snail mail submission in November consisted of three chapters. Their response time is six to eight months. Okay (tapping fingernails against the desk). Still waiting.

Sent out another couple equeries in late January. Still waiting.

All of which is to say, if you're an instant gratification kinda gal, forget the writing biz. (Even that magazine sale I reported the other day is apparently an anomaly--their guidelines say to give them a YEAR to get back to you.)

And if you think DEATH can't happen just before someone gets published, think again. It happens.

Too bad it's not like a cruise where you can buy trip insurance. Y'know, like...you submit to Publisher X in 2006 and they get back to you with a "no" in 2007, but because you've got "rejection insurance" you get to go to the top of the slush pile with your next project.

Hm. Obviously, I'm on to something here.