Dear Time-Warner...

Your service sucks.

And y’see, last week, I was ready to forgive and forget all your past transgressions. I even toyed with the notion of (gasp!) sending you more money each month in return for DVR.

Thank God, cooler heads prevailed.

‘Cuz you really pissed me off this weekend, what with the way you kept making the TV picture freeze, then turning the monitor off altogether. I mean, I was RIGHT in the middle of that story about the girl whose kidnapper chained her to the rafters in his underground bunker…then I was RIGHT in the middle of that reality show about the Canadian outfit that “stages” ritzy homes before they go on the market for sale.

I’m tellin’ ya, guys. The frustration. The bitterness. The why-do-I-pay-$100-a-month-for-this-crappy-service blues…

And while we’re at it, could you please have a word with your co-conspirator, HBO?? I mean, do you think they could bring themselves to air a show made in, say, this millennium? Trust me, I’ve seen The Truth About Cats and Dogs, and I didn’t manage to miss Galaxy Quest the first 100 times you ran it.

Best,

Randy

Paying Attention On The Job

The following is a true story. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent, however literary license has been taken to…y’know…make the action a tad more interesting.

Travel back with me to yesterday where I’m standing in Barry’s office, studying the confusion on his face.

Barry: The State Board says we underpaid the sales tax last quarter.

Randy: Hm. Imagine that.

Barry: I can’t figure out what I did.

Making my way over to his side, I peer over his shoulder at the return while he points at two figures.

Barry: See, those are the first and second pre-payments right there but the amounts don’t seem right.

Randy: Let’s look at the check register.

He digs out the notebook where he keeps a record of manually-written checks. The information is in the following format: Date, Check Number, Payee, Amount.

Randy (after some thought): Very clever. Instead of paying the AMOUNTS, you paid the CHECK NUMBERS. Nice rounding, though.

But Will It Work Again?

Y'all know that here at Randy Writes Romance, we're forever in search of tools that will speed up production, tighten up prose, and/or render writing less agonizing. So last night, I finally tried something I've seen mentioned over and over.

Yes, I set a timer.

I hauled up the ugliest kitchen timer you've ever seen--it's in the shape of a head of garlic--from downstairs and cranked it to fifteen minutes.

Then I began to write.

And I didn't stop until the garlic went ding.

Hm. So far, so good. I'd written nearly two pages. To reward myself, I played a game of Spider Solitaire, then set the timer again for another fifteen minutes.

And I didn't stop until the garlic went ding again.

Rinse, lather, repeat.

Well! Do you believe I wrote 12-1/2 pages last night? I mean, we're talking NaNoWriMo output levels!

Ah, but now to test the durability of this method. Will the novelty wear off tonight? Maybe so. I'll report in tomorrow.

Meanwhile, to see Sexy Sascha diss reality shows starring alleged female celebs, click here!

The Waiting Game

Watch this.

Based on my experience, it can take up to a year to get an answer from an agent. Hypothetically speaking, assume--praise God--I get a positive response. It could take yet another year to get a yay from an editor. After that, another year or two elapses before the masterpiece hits the shelves.

It's a wonder more books don't have that "stale" taste to them.

Just sayin'.

Are Ya Kiddin' Me?

My morning blog tour took me here via Diana Peterfreund's entry from yesterday. If you scroll down on that first link, you'll come upon Cover Cafe's dubious winner for "Worst Cover of the Year." Well, folks...I submit you can add "Worst Title Of the Year" to the list of accolades this book's likely to garner. And in case you're too busy, too lazy, or too disinterested to click over, let me just spoil the surprise: the title is "Big Spankable Asses." It's an anthology of three novellas, and it's an honest-to-god book. Y'know. Like one you can hold in your hand. Pictured on the cover is a woman sporting a white teddy lifted to reveal the right butt cheek (is butt cheek one word, or two?), and a garter belt on her left thigh. Apparently, the theme that ties the three stories together is that each heroine is looking for a man who knows the meaning of BSA (hence, the title). Little House On The Prairie, this ain't.

I'm not here to bash authors. This could be a perfectly enjoyable book...but, um...well, like they say, any publicity is GOOD publicity, right? If so, I guess I just did my part to promote "Big Spankable Asses."

News At Eleven

Was just shutting down my computer last night when I heard the ding of incoming email. Strange, I thought. Nobody emails me this late at night.

To my surprise, it wasn't a digest email. It wasn't even a penis enlargement ad.

It was...drum roll, please...a notice announcing that the Christmas anthology book for which I submitted and sold a story is finally here! And with a byline for yours truly (not to mention a nice cover quote from Paul Harvey). Neat-o, huh?

Not that I make a dime off sales, but hey--it's available for pre-order from all the usual on-line suspects in case your interested. And apparently the release date is September. Or maybe October. Depending on which site you believe. Will it be available in bookstores? Beats me!

But if you wanna find out why my dad always disappeared on Christmas Eve, buy the book.

Okay, I can't leave it that--I don't want my blogreaders thinking I had a deadbeat dad or anything...he disappeared because he was changing into his Santa suit!

I'll See Your Big-Ass Flag and Raise It (ha, pun intended)

Cruise In A Nutshell

...not to be confused with "Norway In A Nutshell," which is actually a cool, cool, tour you can take from Bergen to Oslo (or the reverse) via train, motorcoach, boat, another train, then yet another train.

Anyhoo, so yeah. Went on a 3-day cruise for the 4th of July BY MYSELF (cue Celine). Must be the only time it's ever happened in the history of Carnival Cruise Lines because one after the other--clerks, bartenders, you-name-it--upon hearing my response that no, I was traveling alone, practically gave me a high five. "Good for you!" "Atta girl!" "No, really? That's great!"

I was, therefore, delighted to meet Stephanie, a 23-year old beauty of Puerto Rican/Asian mix. Her father (the Asian part), doesn't approve of her boyfriend (a German), so he's taken to sending her on vacations in the hope she'll fall for another man. Nice. Thanks, Dad.

I was LESS delighted to meet Paul--American citizen but of Indian decent, who looked a bit like a taller version of Danny DeVito and who apparently subscribes to the theory one should consume maximum amounts of alcohol to get the true cruise experience. Poor Stephanie. She handled him well (maybe that black belt in karate she holds helped out.)

So, alas...can't say this was a very eventful cruise. On Saturday morning, we docked in Ensenada (which, as you know, I've been to a million times). To stretch my legs, I got off the ship, walked into town, then turned around, and walked back. How exciting. Next, I purchased a margarita and sat back to do some people watching. You know it's bad when the antics of 2-year old twins capture your attention for thirty minutes.

On Sunday, our "day at sea," I was all primed for a solid day of sunbathing. Even took it easy on the cocktails and went to sleep relatively early the night before. Only one problem. No sun. In fact, it was downright chilly and since I'd brought nothing warmer than cap sleeves, I couldn't even sit on deck.

Which...y'know...translated into an AWFUL LOT OF TIME at the casino. Unfortunately, this being an older ship, "casino" is really putting it politely. Oh, there were a slew of slots and the usual table games but even I got bored with playing the same machines over and over and over.

On the bright side, I have to say that the Carnival Paradise is really nice. For these shorter itineraries, the cruise lines use ships they've put out to pasture and it's true that the 7-day ships are bigger, sleeker, have more balcony rooms, and so forth, but still...the Paradise's layout is convenient, it's well-kept up, and it's just the right size. Oh AND, even though it was sold out, it didn't feel too crowded.

As a bonus, they've got embarkation and debarkation down to a science. Took me less than a 1/2 hour to board, and this morning, I was off by 7:15. (Unheard of in the old days!!)

All in all...a satisfactory trip with no drama, no surprises. Sometimes, that's as much as you can ask for!

P.S. I took the picture with my cell phone. In case you can't tell, those are the glass elevators rising from the Atrium Lobby.

Happy Fourth!

As the clock ticks down on the eve of a holiday weekend, I'm reminded that the 4th isn't just about taking off on a 3-day cruise (well, of course, that's part of it, but still)...and it's not just about getting together with friends or relatives to scarf down hot dogs and swig back plastic cups filled with ale...it's about the sacrifice made by our ancestors to give us freedom.

In this time of turmoil and uncertainty, let's all take a moment to remember...and to re-affirm our faith in the greatest country on earth.

Our flag...long may she wave.

Seriously??

Breaking news. Now you too can dress in the manner of a woman controlled by a paternalistic whacko. Yes, folks. Granny gowns in lovely pastels are just a click away.

One question: Where do I go for the 40's coif?

Y'know...cuz when I'm in style, I like to go whole hog.

Good Intentions

Was gonna eat healthy last night. I actually went so far as to haul out a box of instant brown rice, and I planned to steam some raw carrots in the microwave.

Only one problem.

I didn't have a pot with a matching lid.

Yes, I am QUITE the domestic goddess.

The Cost of Cool

Okay, remember the whole A/C debacle? Get this: the new one "works" but I still have (gasp) a leak. Somewhere. Somewhere in a line that runs from the top of my two-story condo down through my kitchen cabinets. The fix? Oh simple, really. Merely OPEN THE ENTIRE WALL FROM THE ROOF DOWN.

Yeah, I can hardly keep from passing out at the thought.

Of course the alternative is to run the line on the OUTSIDE (disguising things with some sort of rain gutter). You just KNOW the homeowners association ain't gonna go for that one, right? (Unless I hire a team of special agents, cloaked in black, to do their dirty work in the middle of the night, or something.)

And let's not discuss that I just paid a fortune in special assessment dues for the exterior paint project.

I'm thinking I need to buy a Lotto ticket this week.

Shh--Don't Tell Anyone

For complicated reasons, I was gonna keep this a secret. Well, not a secret exactly. Just unconnected. Oh, hell...forget the explanations. Here's the deal:

Lights! Camera! Love! is my latest manuscript. (I know. I still hate the title. What do you think of Daphne In TVland? Or, how about Wag the Blog?) Oh, wait. Maybe I should be more clear on what it's about.

*Clears throat*

Waiting for her big break, aspiring sitcom writer Daphne Smith is bored. So bored, in fact, she's taken to blogging as fictional seductress, Sexy Sascha, a woman out to woo a famous movie mogul. Yes! That Sexy Sascha--the one at www.sexysascha.blogspot.com! Hey, it's seemingly harmless and a great way for Daphne to live out fantasies about her boss, the dreamy but oh-so-unattainable Josh Swenson. So what if "Sascha's" tales of lust have become the talk of Tinsletown? Daphne's a mere peon at JRT Studios, and more like Ugly Betty than Sexy Sascha, so who's gonna connect the dots?

But someone does. Someone with a grudge. Anonymous threats appear on Sascha's blog, and a series of "accidents" seem designed to make Daphne look suicidal, psycho, or both.

Just as the man of her dreams offers her the TV job of a lifetime, is Daphne doomed to be cancelled...permanently?

Okay, did y'all notice that blog address??? That's the BIG SECRET! I've started blogging as Sexy Sascha...y'know...to help promote the manuscript.

So check it out...and remember, our lips are sealed.

Crisis At Randy Central

This is serious, folks.

Not one, but TWO televisions DOWN! I mean, y'all can understand the urgency, right? Remember when I almost climbed through the phone to throttle the cable lady?

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

It started about a week ago when the downstairs Sony went letterbox. Yep. Everything squished into an oblong. (Okay, so there's an upside when America's top models look short and fat--but try watching a Lakers-Celtic final that way.) I coped as best I could.

Last night, I settled into bed for my customary eleven o'clock Friends episode--the one that usually lulls me to sleep--and noticed something odd. A light seemed to be coming from the bathroom. Strange, I thought...why had I never noticed this before? I even got up to investigate.

Everything appeared normal.

Slid back into bed and that's when it hit me. Joey was carrying about something inane--as Joey is wont to do--but there was no friggin' picture!

Panic set in. I mean, I'll freely admit it: I'm an addict when it comes to falling asleep with the television on. In fact, the situation was so desperate, I got out of bed for a SECOND time...and fiddled with the whosis and the whatnot on the controls.

Still no picture.

Audio, loud and clear, thank you very much, but no picture.

Then I relaxed a bit. After all, I don't actually WATCH the tube at night. I merely listen with my eyes closed.

I can live like this...for the time being. One set for watching (albeit with a squint), and the other for listening.

That economic stimulus check arrived just in time.

It Pays To Pay

My new mantra!!

Understand, please...that I'm a baby boomer, raised by Depression-era parents who instilled in me the opposite. As in, never pay for what you can do yourself.

Well, guess what? I've discovered that living by that credo gets me nothing but a backyard full of leaves and a boatload of guilt.

So here's my shiny new epiphany: If someone can do something better, faster, and with less physical discomfort, I'm gonna hire them for the job.

Hm. Maybe it's not too late to get a pitch appointment at National. Who's up for a paycheck?

Meet Gus

Isn't he the cutest little thing you ever did see? Check out the misshapen ear...the missing eye...oh, and there's a leg gone, too. And aside from that tuft of hair on his head, he's a pretty good candidate for Rogaine.

Ah, but every dog has his day, right?

Even Gus.

For he won the Ugliest Dog Contest at the Sonoma-Marin Fair this weekend.

GO Gus!! You're my hero!!!

Hell Freezes Over, Part II

I don't know what's come over me, y'all. First the new air conditioner and now (gulp) I've actually got two honey-dew guys* coming over tomorrow for:

Cleaning up the patio
Changing out the light switch in the kitchen
Swapping beds between rooms
Changing light bulbs (hey, don't sneer--the ceilings are uber-high)

Sadly, I'm saving the garage for another day.

But, MAN. I wish I knew what got me off the dime so I could tap into it more often...y'know, like when I'm trying to write a book.

**honey-dew guy (for the uninitiated): Honey, do this...honey, do that...

And yes, I'm going out with the girls tonight, so come eight o'clock tomorrow morning, when my honey dews show up, I'll be lolling on a chaise lounge, issuing orders while the aspirin kicks in.

P.S. The new air conditioner is sublime!! Now, if I could only figure out how to turn it off...that ticking noise you hear is the sound of my meter soaring through the stratosphere.

An Interview With Jacqui Jacoby

Tired of hearing me whine about bumps in the road to publication? Cool. Let's take a break and interview a fellow author. Today's guest is Jacqui Jacoby who I met four years ago at the Desert Rose conference in Scottsdale, Arizona. When not toiling over her novels, Jacqui conducts workshops and writes articles for RWA's Romance Writers Report. Although we couldn't be more different in terms of what we write, we share a love of Mai Tai's which, after all, takes precedence, no?

So, without further ado (hold your applause till the end, please), let's welcome Jacqui to Randy Writes Romance.

Jacqui: Hey Randy, thanks for letting me to come and chat on your blog! I’ve been reading it for years, and even though you revealed my infamous toe-nail secret at the Dallas 2007 RWA Conference –complete with photos-- Randy Writes Romance is one of my favorite blogs, so it’s an honor to be here.

Randy: Great suck-up, Jacqui. Let's get down to business. I understand you have an affinity for writing kick-ass heroines. Tell us how you create characters who are larger-than-life yet multi-dimensional and emotionally appealing.

Jacqui: I do generally write about tough chicks. There's just something about a heroine who rides in to save the day that makes me all warm and fuzzy!! I mean, don't get me wrong, I love a good hero to stand beside her, and I do know that it takes an extremely self-assured man to be there for a tough chick, but to me that just makes him all the more lovable.

I create them the same way I create any lead character in a book. I get to know them. I spend months and months with them in my head, hearing their voices, seeing them in the situations they get themselves into. At some point, usually right before I start a new book, I'll fill out a detailed bio-sheet that covers everything from what kind of key chain they carry and what their handwriting looks like to whether they've ever been in love. When I'm done, I know them better than I know my dearest friends.

It’s about this point that I toss them into a story and see what happens!! Since my poor unsuspecting characters have no idea what's in store for them, seeing how they react is a lot of fun.

Randy: So, you're more of a pantser than a plotter, I gather. What sparks the initial idea for your books? A title? A character? A premise?

Jacqui: I think it was Stephen King who said in his book On Writing that he liked hanging out with other writers because they never asked him where he got his ideas. *g* Like a lot of writers, I don’t really know where I get mine. I think usually I see a person who sticks in my brain. I let them hang out in my head for awhile – maybe a few months, maybe a few years – and then I start to get to know them and they start to tell me a story. I never feel as if I am writing a book, but rather reporting on what these characters are doing. It’s their story and they are telling me where to go and what to do.

Randy: Geez. I wish my characters would do that. So, okay. You've got the characters and an initial idea--how do you translate that into a book?

Jacqui: One page at a time. Like any long term project, it is one small step at a time. Once my characters start arguing back, I know they're ready to be tossed into whatever situation awaits them. I usually have a general idea of what a story is going to be like, so I know where the character's starting point is and then I just work with them, one day at a time, one page at a time, moving forward until we both get to our destination.

Randy: Hey, quit making it sound so easy, dammit. Plus, I happen to know you’re an active mom and wife, a student of martial arts, you're taking TWO foreign languages at a time--in short, you're a HUGE multi-tasker. How do you make time in your schedule for writing? Describe a typical day in the life of Jacqui Jacobi.

Jacqui: Writing is my job. Like any active mom who works full time, I have to plan accordingly. I start each day knowing what needs to be done on my writing – in today’s case, I'm working on the first draft of a paranormal – and I work the rest of the day's events or crises around that. And there will be crises. There are always crises – LOL. I took a Franklin Covey class years ago where they had me keep track of all my time for two weeks. During those two weeks I discovered that there was about two hours a day of unscheduled events --places I had to run to, kids who needed to go someplace, something that had to be picked up that wasn’t planned for. By starting each day already knowing to plan for those lost two hours, I'm able to get to the end of the day without that wiped out feeling of “Oh my God, where did the day go?”

Randy: Gee, what you need is a course in "Randy's Ways to Procastinate" but we'll save that topic for another time. Last question since I know you're probably busy getting ready to go kick someone's ass. Anyway, complete this sentence: At this point in my writing career, the one thing I wish I’d known in the beginning is: ...

Jacqui: I wish I had known it wasn’t going to be an overnight ride. I don’t regret that it has taken me so long to achieve what I set out to achieve, but I did have to learn the hard way that this was the trip I would be on. I’ve climbed a lot of mountains and yelled in joy from the top; but I’ve also fallen into quite a few holes and maybe a few pits that made me just want to cry. Each experience has made me grow, both as a writer and a person and I wouldn’t trade them out at this point in my life for anything. However, I do wish someone would have warned me how hard a ride this was going to be ... and then ... maybe ...just maybe I would have believed them. Though it’s doubtful!!

Randy: Amen to the overnight ride bit. And ditto on the holes and pits--I've visited a few myself.

Well, thanks for stopping by today, Jacqui. And folks--go check out Jacqui's website here.

What Time Is It?

It's SQUEE time! That's right, folks. Sold another short story to True Romance Magazine. I hadn't submitted anything in awhile--don't know why except maybe I've been pre-occupied with novelly stuff. Anyway, my title for this one is "My Latin Lover"--ooh, sounds exotic, huh? I wasn't sure a multicultural story set outside the US would fly, but SURPRISE. Guess they do.

In other non-writing-related news...TA-DA! By the time I get home, hell will have frozen over. Well, perhaps I exaggerate. Let's just say it'll be ARCTIC chez moi for the first time in 3 (or is it FOUR???) years.

The downside? No more whining about how I can't write when it's 110 upstairs and I'm dripping on the keyboard.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy

Tim Russert said it best. We stand on the shoulders of our fathers.

Tim Russert, RIP

Me: The first one's for my dad. He's a former World War II pilot and my hero.

Tim: What's his name?

Me: Bruck.

Tim scrawls a personal message from one dad to another on the inside cover of Big Russ and Me, a memoir involving the relationship between a father and son.

Me: The second one's for my ex-boyfriend. I don't care how you sign it.

Tim (pausing to think): To a guy with poor judgment....

This exchange occurred approximately five years ago to the day. I know that because the book was a gift for my dad on Father's Day.

Rest in peace, Tim

Attack Of The Killer Ice Cubes

So I open the freezer door last night and just like the title says, an avalanche of murderous ice cubes launches forth in an attempt to dismember and maim.

I'm not exaggerating.

Mutant ice forms everywhere. On the floor, hanging from the shelves, stacked high in the bin. Flummoxed, I grab a handful and toss it in the sink. I do this several times. Quickly, the level in the sink rises halfway, and I haven't made a dent in the overproduction sitting inside the freezer.

I survey the situation.

My own personal icebergs dot the kitchen floor. Menacing. Potential foot slicers all.

I kick a few aside and attack the freezer again, this time with the biggest serving bowl I can find to cut down on trips to the sink. Over and over, I scoop until the metal thingy that tells the gizmo when to make ice and when to take a breather finally appears. A few more handfuls, and I'm able to release it.

I shut the door, breathing a sigh of relief. Crisis over.

Then I notice the door isn't shut all the way. I give it some hip action. It's still not shut all the way.

Turns out so much ice has fallen behind the bin, it's pushing the sucker forward. More scooping. Somehow I manage to cut my toe on a piece of ice so pointy it's like a shard of glass. Visions of the newspaper report (they found her lying in a pool of blood and a lot of frigid water) pass through my mind.

Folks, the strangest things can happen in the deceptive safety of your own home.

Help! I'm Blogless!

Truly.

Can't think of anything to write about (which tells ya right there how the noveling's going) except maybe to say that I'm a bona fide slot-slut and a non-going gym slacker.

Yes, ladies and gents, I'm on a serious gambling tear. Oh, don't schedule the intervention...yet. But, geez. I can't seem to lose lately. Big time. (That sound you hear is me knocking on wood, er, possibly wood veneer.)

As for the gym...well, here's the deal. For five business days in a row, I've dutifully packed my gym bag and remembered to put it in the car. Then...come five o'clock, dread fills me like the silicone in Pam Anderson's boobs. (Was that a metaphor, or what?) And I think, hey--no one's forcing you. If you don't wanna go, then don't.

Yeah, I'm astute that way.

Sex And The City

Yep. Saw it last night.

But since I believe ANY info on an unseen movie is too much, I'll keep my comments here pretty general to avoid spoilers.

So, the verdict? Um...yeah...I enjoyed it. I guess. (A ringing endorsement, huh?) I admit I had my writer's hat on so I overly-analyzed to the max. Couldn't help it. Call it an occupational hazard. But when there's NO CONFLICT whatsoever in the first thirty minutes, ya tend to notice. And when the eventual conflict is revealed and winds up being based on an extremely flimsy premise, ya get a little pissed. (Really. It was one of those geez, a simple conversation could probably clear this up.)

Don't get me wrong--the writers also got a whole lot right. (Again, I'm gonna have to lay off the specifics so as not to give too much away.) Suffice to say, on average I chuckled every couple minutes, guffawed about every twenty, and had one or two episodes where I threw back my head in laughter.

I kinda expected more.

The rest of my party LOVED the movie--including the lone male (eek! a male!) who reportedly teared up in spots. Which goes to show that a movie or book CAN work without all the so-called proper elements.

Still...I see a lost opportunity here. I didn't want the movie to merely work--I wanted it to be great. Something I'd wanna watch again (especially since I promised two more groups of friends I'd see it with them).

Am I wrong? Am I missing the boat?

You be the judge.

They Reached Out and Annoyed

R-r-r-ring.

I pick up the phone.

"Hello...this is Ace Carpet Cleaning with--"

Beep!

I click over.

"Hello...this is ABC Mortgage Company and you--"

"Funny," I say. "I just put one telemarketer on hold for another. What're the odds?"

Click.

Later, I'm watching the third of the political speeches tonight--which makes it the Obama speech.

R-r-ring.

I pick up the phone.

"Hello...this is Amy calling from the Republican Party, and I'm doing a poll. If the election were held tonight, do you know who you'd vote for?"

"Well Amy," I say, "since Obama's in the middle of his speech right now, I can't really say I've decided."

"Really?" she gushes. "They're on TV right now? Which station? Is it a regular channel or is it one of the cable ones?"


"Actually, it's on CNN, Fox, and MSNBC."


"Do you think it'll be on the other channels later tonight?"

Wait...did she call to get the TV schedule?

Been Awhile...

...since I've spoken of writing here on the old blog.

Several reasons. One (big surprise) I've been struggling lately. Okay, I know you're not suppose to say that stuff publicly on a writing blog, but oh well. I'm nothing if not painfully (and perhaps ill-advisedly--if that's a word) honest. Plus, the source of my angst is one common to writers: the dreaded synopsis.

I passed the first version by some crit partners and they agreed: lots of problems. Too many pages, too much detail, and worst--What's It All About, Alfie? In layman's terms, my plot rocks, my character arcs suck. The question remains: do I have the writing chops to fix it?

Or should I just ditch the whole book (a year of my life)?

For the record, I opted not to ditch. And this morning, I believe the synopsis is looking better and that a change in the ending may alleviate the character arc problem

We'll see. Time will tell.

Meanwhile, as always, the experience of writing this book has its lessons to teach. More than ever, I'm committed to spending a great deal of time in preparation before starting my next project. To that end, I'm re-reading Robert McKee's STORY again. Yep, that makes it three times so far. You'll be happy to know some of the constructs he puts forth are starting to seep in (only slightly kidding, here).

The second reason I've been struggling lately is that I'm becoming so disheartened with how s-l-o-w-l-y the publishing industry moves. Three partials submitted six months ago and no word. One partial submitted 18 months ago and the only word I have is that they received it. Fulls have taken over a year to come back with rejections.

It's hard enough to get rejections; harder still when it takes so long.

Sigh. Okay, rant over. The good news is that I'm still fascinated by writing. Can't give it up. So when the title for a new book floated through my brain, I had to pay attention. (Actually, it's the bastardization of the title of a famous book--can't tell you the name cuz then I'd have to kill you.)

First order of business (ha) read the famous book.

Well.

I'm so inspired! The theme of the book TOTALLY translates to a story fitting my title. Not that I've come UP with the story yet, but ideas are percolating. At this point, I wish I could just shove the previous project out the door and move on.

But, alas. That's not the way things work. I need to multi-task, and so I shall.

Stay tuned.

Not What You Like To Hear

I'm standing in a random Laughlin casino at the desk where you get a Player's Card. It's noon and I slept about ten hours the night before so I'm feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. As the clerk across from me enters data onto her computer, the woman next to her keeps catching my eye.

I must look like someone she knows.

I answer questions and wait, still unable to shake the feeling that the other woman is staring. Finally, I meet her gaze dead-on and offer up a questioning smile.

She smiles back. Here it comes. I look like her sister or something.

"You don't feel very well, do you?"

Huh?? Crap, I'm really gonna have to concentrate on making that appointment to get my eyes done.

I May Be Getting Too Old For This...

So, I'm here to vouch for the inadvisability of staying up till 4:30 a.m. on the night prior to travel day. Or maybe it was the shots of Patron ordered by the 3-card poker dealer. Yikes. Suffice to say I moaned and groaned my way across the desert yesterday.

Still...we DID have a blast. And I DEFINITELY came back with lots more cash in my pocket than when I arrived, which is always a good thing.

Speaking of cash...that story I alluded to in the previous post? Ann and I were sitting at a slot machine when she realized she'd lost an $80 bet slip. Now, trust me--I LOVE Ann to death--but sometimes she freaks out prematurely.

Not this time.

She swore she must have left it in the machines we'd been playing twenty minutes earlier. I swore she couldn't have because the woman who swooped in next didn't behave like someone who'd discovered a windfall. Anyway, Ann retraced her movements...and found the bet slip face down under the empty glass of wine she'd set it on.

A creative way to win $80, huh?

Later we dined at The Gourmet Room--a restaurant at Don Laughlin's Riverside Resort Hotel. What a beautiful experience! (If only Ann and I could remember the latter half of the meal. Kidding.)

I'm sure Marty was appropriately attired in one of his new shirts. Oh, not the ones he bought on Friday at the Asuza Costco. I'm talking about the shopping he did on Saturday morning. I mean, come on, folks--what's the world coming to when men SHOP?? Yeah, my head's still spinning. (P.S. Ann and I did NOT accompany him.)

So, that's pretty much it for the 2008 Memorial Day Weekend Laughlin trip. I'm here to report that we encountered ZERO traffic...either because of the gas crunch, the gloomy economy, the lousy weather, or all of the above...which, y'know...would NEVER stop diehards like us.

Four Tales From The Road

1. Marty gets out of the rental car to pump gas, leaving Ann and me inside. One small thing: he’s neglected to put the car in PARK. As we roll backward (and with the driver’s side door aiming for Marty), Ann and I scream. Fortunately, Marty has time to dive back into the car and bring us to a halt. “This is going in the blog,” I yell. (Mind you, this is not even seven minutes into our journey.)

2. Gassed up, we get on the freeway, heading for Laughlin. Two miles later, Marty starts screaming obscenities. What, I wonder, has he forgotten this time? The answer is: SHIRTS. He has forgotten ALL of his shirts. (But not his special iron, of course...oh, no...he’s REMEMBERED the iron.) A quick debate ensues and, thanks to Ann, a return home is NOT the outcome. Nor is an immediate stop at Costco, since we’re trying to get out of the city before the traffic kicks in...which brings us to...

3. A stop at the Azusa Costco an hour later. In the pouring rain, Marty makes a dash into the store, returning ten minutes later with not one, not two...well, let’s cut to the chase: SIX shirts.

4. Okay, so Memorial Day Weekend. Clear, sunny days, right? Perfect driving weather, right? WRONG. Rain, thunder and lightning accompany us for the entire 5-1/2 hours it takes to make our way across the desert. A mental inventory of my suitcase reminds me that for the upcoming three wet and windy days, all I’ve brought are shorts, tops and bathing suits...I’m so screwed.

More to come...including the harrowing search for Ann’s $80 bet slip...Marty’s trip to Sam’s Club for more shirts....

Who SAYS California Doesn't Have Weather??

Rain, hail, snow, lightning, thunder...and tornadoes?? What's the world coming to? 'Course none of that happened in MY neck o' the woods yesterday, but I'm on STORM WATCH nonetheless. And paying particular attention to the weather between here and Laughlin since we'll be driving through there three hours from now...in a rental car, no less. Let us not forget the infamous Gulf Coast rental car/storm debacle of yore (click here to read a full account).

Y'all have a safe Memorial Day Weekend...hopefully I'll have fun stuff to report from the laptop!

George Michael on American Idol

Since I suspect many of my readers are anti-American Idol watchers (you know who you are!), I feel it's my civic duty to provide this video from last night's show.

Milestones in My Writing Career

It is an early Monday morning in October 1971.

With my heart in my throat, I brush past a zillion faceless strangers and come to a stop in front of an imposing three-story building. I double check the name on its facade, comparing it with my class schedule.

Right. Humanities Hall.

Next I ascend a flight of stairs and make my way down the proper corridor, finally reaching my destination.

It is the first day of college, and I am terrified.

Somehow I force myself to open the door and step inside. Instead of the set-up I'm used to--rows of chairs facing a blackboard--I discover one large table at which perhaps eight people are sitting. I stumble to a seat.

Quickly I learn that this "section" class is run not by the professor but by a T.A. (teaching assistant). I relax a little, realizing that my only encounters with the head honcho will occur in the relative anonymity of a huge lecture hall on Thursdays. Small chance I'll ever even meet him.

That Thursday, the professor approaches the podium, makes a few introductory remarks, then does something startling: he plays a recording of Rod Stewart's Maggie May followed by James Taylor's Fire and Rain. Love songs both, he points out, but written in widely disparate "voices."

I so get it.

Since this is a creative writing course, we are instructed to mimeograph (mimeograph!) our stories for sharing in our discussion class. I put this off as long as possible, namely because my experience thus far is with writing romance and somehow I'm pretty sure romance ain't gonna fly at the university level. (This sad fact is confirmed when another student brings in her lame story about Diane and David. The unstated ridicule in the room is palpable.) So, I write a story titled The Farm, and in it I mimic the tone and what I call pointlessness of material I've read in high school.

The day comes when I can't put off sharing my story any longer. I arrive in class with trembling hands and erratic heartbeat, knowing my colleagues have come prepared to rip it apart.

But it gets worse.

The professor--the one who exists in my mind only on Thursdays--has chosen this day to sit in our class.

Kill me now.

I don't remember much about the story, although I still have a copy of it somewhere. I recall describing the heroine's brother as looking like Rock Hudson but with a gap between his teeth. And it seemed appropriate for the heroine to wear a halter top, but first I had to determine precisely what a halter top was. Finally, I remember something about the heroine studying a fly as it rose from a gatepost to wing its way down a road into the distance.

Likewise, much of the ensuing class discussion escapes me.

Except for one thing.

I remember distinctly the professor saying that the ending brought the story full circle and made the whole thing work.

For days, I basked in the compliment.

And although I never took another course from this gentlemen--nor any writing courses for that matter--I'll always be thankful he didn't squash my spirit. And hell, he makes it possible for me to say a Pulitzer Prize nominee once complimented a story I wrote.

Oakley Hall passed away this week. Before retiring in 1990, he put the writing program at UC Irvine on the map.

Insert Twilight Zone Theme Here

So y'all know I wrote a manuscript titled Fit For Love, right? It's about a couch potato heroine trapped at a boot camp for fitness freaks.

Well.

Yesterday, I picked up the June issue of True Romance 'cuz I've got two stories in it. One of them involves a hero and heroine who meet in the company gym, and I called it "When Love Works Out."

Guess what my editor renamed it?

Yep.

Fit For Love.

What are the odds, huh?

Adios, Amigo

Time to say farewell to someone with whom most of my blogreaders won't be familiar. Hell, I only met the guy a few times myself. But, oh how he impacted my social life!

I'm talking about Bob McCord, owner of the Sagebrush Cantina in Calabasas, California since 1974. Bob died May 12, 3 weeks after getting the diagnosis of a rare brain cancer. Ironic, in a way. According to reports, he went out cussing his "one-in-a-million" luck--yet those same odds played in his favor back when he was a young man. Turns out, his first career was in television, and it was while he was scouting locations in Arizona that his plane went down, killing all aboard but him. Injured, alone, and without water or food, he survived two days in the desert before being located. Later, a faulty transponder led to a hefty settlement--which he used to purchase a small, family-owned restaurant in Calabasas.

Personally, I'd be interested knowing whether he had a vision then--or, if he improvised as he went along. As the story goes, one day he took the tables and chairs outside to wash them, then noticed arriving customers sitting down to wait for service. Voila. Dining al fresco at the Sagebrush Cantina was born.

I remember well the first day I encountered its new incarnation. It was 1978, and I'd moved back to Calabasas after graduating from college. About ten of us, hung over from partying the night before at a club called Tennessee, Gin & Cotton, gathered to drink pitchers of margaritas and kamikaze shots. On a tiny stage crammed against a wall, a trio played mostly mellow music. Under the gently swaying trees, we shared jokes, laughs...youth.

Back then, the Sagebrush was a well-kept secret, but as the years passed, word got out. Either because Bob created a buzz or because the place on its own did, I don't know. Eventually, he absorbed half the parking lot to double the size of the patio and began adding oddities he'd collected from all over the world. I'm talkin' things like ferris wheels, train locomotives, and all kinds of circus memorabilia. No matter how often you went, you never knew what to expect.

And it wasn't just the decor. Oh, no. Nor was Bob satisfied with merely offering decent Mexican food at reasonable prices. Entertainment became key as well. Still mellow on weekday afternoons, but come Friday night, the rockers arrived. Good ones. I swear, one of the reasons younger generations in this area know about 60's music is because they grew up hearing it at the Cantina with their parents.

I'm not sure which decade saw Sundays at the Cantina become so popular. I mean, like I say--they were a staple for me and my friends from the get-go, but eventually the routine caught on all over the Valley. Hell, how about all over southern California? Celebrities, too. I've never been able to verify whether Bruce Springsteen truly got up and jammed one afternoon, but it wouldn't surprise me. After all, Sundays attract the widest variety of people you'll ever find in one place. From bikers in leather to socialites in silk. From babes in bikinis to sikhs in saris. Amazing.

And an integral part of the social fabric. In truth, the Sagebrush Cantina isn't a restaurant; it's a community, as evidenced by the countless relationships, friendships, marriages and yes--babies--which originated there.

So, it's with a heavy heart I note the passing of the man responsible for it all--the man who never once looked or acted like the hotshot owner of a popular restaurant/bar.

I hope he knew how much he meant to us.

A Perfect Weekend

Geesh. When a plan comes off without a hitch, you don't get much in the way of entertaining blog material...


Suffice to say, on Friday, I flew up to Sacramento to attend my nephew-in-law's surprise 40th birthday party...and everything went as planned. Flights were on-time, car rentals went as scheduled, people were where they were supposed to be...I mean, come on! How can everything go so smoothly?

Hey, can you tell Julie-Ann's preggers?




Anyway, the next morning, I rose early and...well...there was this text message on my phone from a casino called Thunder Valley. (Hm. Wonder how they got my phone number, Marty...) So what better way to kill time waiting for my flight back to Burbank than to meander through Central California's farmland to an Indian casino, right?

Right.

So, that's what I did. And several hours later, I emerged from the clanking sound of video slots about $200 richer.

Bonus!

Flew back home, got a good night's sleep and picked up my parents for the Mother's Day soiree up at step-bro Mike's house. Barry and Polly made it back from Sacramento in time to show up for a great bar-b-que.

Got home and caught the last half of the Survivor finale.

So, like I say...pretty much the PERFECT weekend.

Highway 23--Safe At All Speeds

Yes, I'm happy to announce that you can tool along the Ronald Reagan Freeway again (or is that the 118?)...without fear of my roof flying off to flatten you. (Hm. Nice alliteration, huh?)

Okay, come on, folks. I'm exaggerating--that was never gonna happen. Uh, at least I don't think so.

Anyway, thanks to my nimble fingers and incomparable Google skills, my car is no longer a traveling wind tunnel. Next up on the Randy-fixes-her-own-mistakes schedule: removal of the duct tape and bubble wrap.

Hell, I now even know the secret location of the hydraulic pump (shhh...it's underneath the spare tire). Oh, and get this! I discovered I own a windscreen!! Who knew???

Maybe the car's worth keepin' around awhile longer.

The Details

It's Spring.

The days are toasty, not yet broiling.

A fine time to take the hard top off my car and use the convertible--especially for a Sunday drive down the coast to a wedding shower in Santa Monica.

So, on Friday--thinking ahead since I can't lift the thing off by myself--I got co-worker John to help. First, he prepared a nice clean spot in the back of our factory to store it. Then, grunting and groaning, we wrestled it off, tipped it upside down, and laid it on a table. While John covered it with protective wrapping, I slid into the driver's seat to push the button that engages the automatic mechanism by which the convertible top raises and lowers.

Uh-oh. Trouble.

In a hypnotic trance, I watched as hydraulic fluid poured like Mrs. Butterworth's from an area behind the visor in an unrelenting stream to the seat about an inch from my thigh.

I guess I kinda thought it would stop in a few seconds.

It didn't.

Finally, I brought this unfortunate series of events to John's attention, and...I dunno...I guess I switched off the car. Meanwhile, the convertible top only made it half-way.

This is about when John and I dimly remembered a similar occurrence several years prior. Um, this is also when it dawned on me there was a REASON I hadn't used the convertible much...and why I wouldn't be using it this weekend.

John literally bandaged up the "wound" with paper towels and duct tape--a lovely, sophisticated addition to my snappy little sports car, then wiped the seat. And wiped some more.

Okay, so about a gallon of the fluid must have made it into the seat cushion. (That's when I had the brilliant idea about the bubble wrap--see earlier post.) Much cursing ensued.

Finally, we reversed order, lugging the hardtop back onto the frame. I pressed the button again, but guess what? Not quite enough hydraulic fluid left to get the thing to latch in place.

Nifty.

Let's recap: I've got duct tape running up one side of the window, I've got bubblewrap taped to the seat and...oh, yes...the roof of my car isn't quite attached.

Remembering that my old car had some sort of manual latches, I scanned the headliner for a similar device, and found a knob next to the rear view mirror. Twisted it.

Aha! I SWORE the "give" between latched/unlatched lessened, but my newly-arrived brother didn't believe me. To demonstrate the difference, I twisted the knob again.

It broke off and fell on the floor.

Let's recap: I've got duct tape running up one side of the window, I've got bubblewrap taped to the seat, the roof of my car isn't quite attached, and where a knob used to be, I now I have a wire dangling.

Do you see how this is a fine example of a good idea gone bad??

So now I'm cruising around in a wind tunnel...which is almost loud enough to drown out the ding ding ding designed to warn me about the roof not being 100 percent attached.

Don't worry.

I'm driving real slow.

You Know It's Bad...

when the best idea you have all day is to put three layers of bubblewrap on the driver's seat of your car.

Yeah.

Details to follow.

Necessity Is A Mutha

So I get home Monday night, pick up my phone and hear dead silence. I mean, not a hum, not a crackle. More like the ABSENCE of sound.

Grrr.

I do the thing. You know. The one where you unplug the cordless to make sure it's not the guilty party. I check the other phone.

Grrrrrr.

Half-heartedly, I disconnect the computer line.

Grrrrrrrrrr.


I dial 4-1-1 on my cell. Oops. That ain't gonna work, huh?

I call Ann to get Verizon's repair number. Proceed to spend the next ten minutes conversing with an inanimate object whose instructions begin with, "get a screwdriver." A screwdriver?? Okay, I have one. Somewhere. I go outside to locate a box marked "NID."

I don't have one.

Well, I MAY have one, but if I do, it's so old, it's pre-NID days. Hell, it's pre-Verizon days. All the boxes have GTE on 'em.

Oh, and by the way? That bolt thingy's gonna require something more sophisticated than a screwdriver. I'm thinking maybe a socket-wrench, and you can bet I don't own one of THOSE.

I give up, figuring even if I can pry the damn thing off, it's not like I'm gonna be able to make some MacGyver type repair. No, all I'm doing is adding information--like, the trouble isn't at the NID box that's not an NID box.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I capitulate and punch the numbers for scheduling an appointment. Inanimate-object-lady informs me that a repair person can be out on Wednesday (we're talking TWO days later) between eight and six. Oh, now that's handy, isn't it? I only have to give up an entire day of work?

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

All I can say is: THANK GOD IT'S NOT THE CABLE.

So, last night I had a dinner engagement which means I didn't have to suffer too much in the internet withdrawal department because I got home at 8 o'clock (in time to see Paula unravel--what the hell was that?).

But this morning...man...I wasn't sure what to do with myself. I mean, here I was, at HOME on a work day. This has only happened ONCE in twenty-six years (blame jet lag and an extremely busy time partying, er, touring Atlanta back in 1989). Somehow the average Wednesday feels different from a Saturday, y'know?

My God, I got constructive! I put a load of laundry in the washing machine. I cleaned out some boxes (circa 2002) from my "office." I (gasp) finished writing my synopsis AND added a few pages to a short story.

Grrrrrrrryipppeeeee!

Of course, by ten o'clock, I already had a call from work--"you forgot quarterly taxes were due today. Come now!" So, I leave a post-it on the door. "If you need me, I can be home in ten minutes."

At three-fifteen, a human repair guy calls me at the office. All fixed, he reports. No need to access my house.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Well, okay. Not grrr exactly, because I'm actually thrilled. But man...if I'd have waited ALL DAY...

Hm....think of how much I could've gotten done!

Closing (not to mention random) Thoughts

Ah, poolside at the Villa Premiere. Always good for chance encounters with strangers. Take Charly, for instance--a Canadian woman who qualified on-line for the World Series of Poker tournament in Las Vegas. How cool is that? Too bad she Never. Shut. Up.

Then there was Eileen--a woman with whom I chatted one day who at 43 years old (and never married!) met her now-husband (also never married!) in Aruba. (Yes, there's hope for me, too!) In the course of conversation, I happened to mention I write for True Romance and Eileen asked if I were published in novel-length. To my negative response, she boasted: "I published a photo book this year."

Okay. Hm. I ain't no rookie, but I'm also polite so I expressed suitable enthusiasm and interest. The next day, I heard her husband telling a new acquaintance about the book his wife published on Blurb. Uh...Blurb??? Isn't that like Picaboo where you upload photos and text and pay to have it printed?? Yeah. Published indeed. (Told ya I wasn't a rookie.)

Oh, and how could I forget Butt-Boy? Women at the pool offered me large sums of cash to get a picture of this guy! Sadly, I was chicken. All I can say is you really had to be there. String bikinis on MEN are...well...interesting, to say the least. Especially when their bodies are HAIRLESS and WHITE. And when they top it off with stylish hats and cool sunglasses (when they're not lying face down with their derriere prominently displayed for all to, er, enjoy.) Yep, it was quite the sight.

By the way, yes those are FOUR-POSTER BEDS out on the beach. One of these days I hope to visit Puerto Vallarta with someone other than a female friend to share one with.

Which, except for one last harrowing vacation story, brings us to the close of another wonderful journey. So, here's the deal: Ann and I dutifully arrived at the aeropuerto in plenty of time for our flight, only to be informed of its delay by 2 hours. Although frustrated, we settled in at a delightful bar complete with wireless internet access and lazed through most of the delay--checking the arrival/departure board periodically, just to make sure we were doing the math properly (times were posted military style). Finally, we wrapped things up, paid our bill, and sauntered through security, congratulating ourselves on our organizational skills.

Then disaster struck.

We checked the board again and across from our flight one word blinked off and on: Serrado.

Closed? Closed?? CLOSED?!?!?!?

How could this have happened? We weren't supposed to board for another thirty minutes! Is it Mexico's practice to simply MOVE departures without notice?

Here we were, MILES from the gate--in fact, we didn't have a clue WHERE the gate WAS--and this sign says CLOSED. To us, this meant doors are closed, the plane's pushing back...and WE'RE NOT ON IT.

We began to run. Well, let's be honest, we began to trot...down two of those moving pedestrian walkway thingies...toward an intersection where we pretty much tossed a coin and hung a left, both clutching our chests to forestall...heart attacks, I guess.

Ann's wailing: "I wanna go home today!"

My mind is running toward options: Mexicana, American....we'll go through Phoenix...we'll go through Seattle...ANYTHING. I didn't care that our luggage wouldn't be traveling with us.

Then we got to the gate.

Ha ha...false alarm! The "closed sign" meant "closed to check-in" (which, frankly, didn't make much sense either, but whatever.) We made it, and I still haven't quite caught my breath!

As I Was Saying...

..."take us somewhere interesting, Manuel."

So this is where we ended up. He called it Boca but there are lots of Bocas in Latin America...in fact, just about every time a ribbon of water trickles down from the mountains into the sea, you get yourself a boca 'cuz it means 'mouth.' So although several boca de somethings dot the coast of Mexico, I'm pretty sure this one was Boca de Tomatlan. From the photos, the day looks gloomy but that's not the way I remember it. Maybe I did something wonky to the camera? Good possibility.

Anyway, this sleepy little cove had such a cool vibe. I could have stayed for hours, sipping on cervezas...watching the boats buzz in and out. No giant hotels nearby. No warren of hillside condos. Just tourists going to Yelapa or Las Animas by boat because, hey--that's the only way to get there since the road turns inland here. (Note to future self: this is a far better idea than those overcrowded tour boats departing from the marina that take hours to get anywhere.)

Alas, it came time to vacate this peaceful scene. On the way back through town, I convinced my traveling partners to stop at my favorite bar in the whole world--El Nido--but a CLOSED sign blocked the entrance...which I'm still pondering since said sign also blocked the entrance to the restaurant and hotel the bar sits on top of. How could the hotel be closed?

Oh, well. Probably for the best--even though we missed a killer sunset. Reluctantly, we allowed Manuel to head "for home" and in return for a fabulous (not to mention SAFE) day, we provided a MAJOR tip and bonus.

Off To The Jungle!

On Saturday, we'd had enough sun the previous day (as evidenced by how my back had turned an interesting shade of irridescent indigo), so it was time for an adventure. With the devil riding on my shoulder whispering "you said you'd stick to the beaten path," we...er...left the beaten path.

Sidenote: In case you haven't heard, there's all this crap going on in the border towns of Mexico, particularly Tijuana and the neighboring town of Rosarito. The Feds (that would be the MEXICAN Feds) recently cracked down on the drug cartel populating those towns and man, let me tell ya, the drug guys are PISSED. I mean, literally, heads are rolling...into bars...into shops. It's not pretty. Although for the most part, these criminals aren't targeting American tourists...well, sometimes we get in the way. Of cool stuff like shoot-outs in the plaza at mid-day. Yeah, real nice.

As a result, people like me who frequent upper Baja, are staying away in droves. Sad, really. I hear the bars and restaurants are wastelands. And in the meantime, there's this pervasive misunderstanding that the entire country of Mexico has morphed into some sort of wild west apocolypse.

Hence, the pleas from my father the day before my scheduled departure. He begged. He cajoled. He played the guilt trip card.

Oy. I held my ground. "It'd be like if you were Canadian and were afraid of going to Lake Arrowhead because they've had some trouble in Miami. We'll be 2000 miles away!"

For some reason, this logic fell on deaf ears. I persevered and went anyway but along with my luggage, I toted a dose of paranoia because after all, aren't fathers always alarmingly RIGHT?

Which brings me back to Saturday. The hell with it, I decided. We're perfectly safe here in paradise. We could have done a public tour, but what's the fun in that? Instead we grabbed a cab, agreeing to pay $25 for a ride out to Chico's Paradise.

I hadn't been south of town in years, so it was nice to catch up on the changes...which were pretty much nil. Same hotels (different names and owners), same stretches of uninhabited beaches, same narrow two-lane road with slow trucks that simply must be passed on blind curves. I think Ann really enjoyed this part. Ha.

About an hour later, we pulled up to our destination. Since I could recall giving stranded tourists a lift back to town in the past, after quiet deliberation we arranged to pay Manuel (our cab driver) to stay and wait for an extra $15. (Oh, picture his dilemma: sit under a shady palapa listening to the melodious waterfall? Or spend the next couple hours driving back and forth across Puerto Vallarta, inhaling exhaust fumes? Right. No-brainer.)

We'd arrived early, so the place was quiet and peaceful. Seated at a table high above the river, we drank our first margarita and marveled at the young kid diving off the rocks for tips. (My memory card filled up so Ann has the good pictures and video.) By our second margarita, Ann was convinced she should try the natural water slide and I was considering the zip line, but cooler heads prevailed. (First, that devil was still firmly entrenched on my shoulder, and second, I didn't fancy having to explain injuries to Ann's husband. Still...every time someone sailed across the gorge, a screech of delight splitting the serenity, I LONGED to give it a try!)

The hours passed quickly and I started feeling bad about keeping Manuel so long but a quick check with him eased my mind. He didn't care. Who would?

Finally, we gathered up our stuff and clambered into the back of the cab, but I wasn't ready for the day to be over. "Take us somewhere interesting," I told Manuel.

More later when Blogger quits acting up...

Restaurant With A View

I learned a long time ago that for truly magical moments, get thee to restaurants perched on hillsides...on tops of buildings...hovering over cliffs...

So on our second night in Puerto Vallarta, we cabbed it up and down narrow streets into a residential neighborhood, finally winding up at El Palomar de los Gonzales. The view from this place is so breathtaking, we had to stop for a moment in the bar first to have a drink and take in the sights. (Yes, any excuse to add a margarita to the mix.) One of these days, I should (stay sober long enough to) ask about the history of El Palomar, for I suspect it originated as a family home (hence, the pool.)

Anyway, once we'd sated our appetite for view ingesting, we allowed the maitre d' to seat us. I'm not sure, but when he heard this was my second visit, he seemed much more amenable to giving us the table we'd picked out from above. In fact, you can see it (the unoccupied one, third from the left) in the photo. There, we ordered...let's see...what did we order?? Oh, yes. First a salad with house dressing. Omigod, the house dressing!!!! We were told it contained vinegar, lemon, and pepper. That's all??? Does this mean I TOO could whip up such splendor? All I could think of was how it would taste as a dippin' for French Fries (which, sadly, I did not order). For a main course, we ordered steak and lobster. Mmmmm. Excellent. And even more excellent with a musical duo playing haunting music as a backdrop.

To top things off, we ordered special Mexican coffees--the kind where they make a huge a production of it at your table complete with pyrotechnics. Yum.

Here now, for your viewing pleasure:





And, this too:



(Okay, so it came out pretty dark--anyway, that's the Mexican coffee drink-making process. Trust me.)

I Heart Puerto Vallarta

Sigh. Is there anything more beautiful than a Mexican sunset from your dinner table next to the window at an open-air restaurant overlooking the ocean?

Methinks not!

But first, after checking in on Thursday, we made a stop the pool, acquainting ourselves with people from Indiana, Ohio, and Minnesota. Oh, and with Omar, our bartender. Everything at the Villa Premiere was just as I remembered: the friendliest staff, the most attentive service, and guests about our age. Yep, not a screaming child within 300 yards because this hotel has an age minimum. (Bonus!)

For dinner that night, we walked into town over well-remembered cobblestone streets past bars with gyrating music and vendors hawking everything from woven bracelets to cheesy paper mache parrots. I felt right at home.

Establishing a tradition, we dined at a restaurant that had been our first choice three years ago: Las Palomas. While watching the sun set on the horizon, I regaled a group of obnoxious San Francisco yuppies about "the green flash." They obviously thought I was nuts, so it would've been real cool if in fact it had happened on this night, but nooooo. Not lucky enough for that. I've seen it, though. It exists. I hope they remember to google it per my instructions.

Anyway, we had an excellent dinner consisting of...um...I think it was fish. Yeah, that'd be a good bet. Let's just say mucho de margaritas were also involved. In fact, after dinner, without further ado, we grabbed a cab back to the hotel (foregoing the earlier tradition of walking), and headed for the hotel bar to report in on the night's activities. (See, the Villa Premiere is all-inclusive optional, so some guests never stray from the premises (foolish people!), and we found in the past that they enjoy hearing of our extra-curricular activities, and this trip was no exception.) So we had a nightcap, chatted with new friends and made some even newer ones. (See fish tank photo)

Yeah, we called an early night--the better to attack the pool in the morning.

More tomorrow....

Back In Town

Yesterday I couldn't wait to get home.

Today I'm beyond sad to click on this website and not see myself in the webcam picture.

Isn't that always the way?

Hola!

Quick note from paradise, er, Puerto Vallarta. Nothing but sunshine and smiles at the Villa Premiere. How about a hotel that greets you with champagne, a 5-minute massage, and your pillow menu? (Yes, a menu for pillows!) And one for which aromatherapy scent you'd like for your room. (We picked mint.)

Ah, bliss.

Yep. This week I get to be the girl in my logo (see image above).

Puerto Vallarta--The "Worry-Free" Zone

Yep, that's what I've dubbed the upcoming destination. And maaaaaaaaaaaan, I'm lookin' forward to it.

Blog posts to follow via the Senora's laptop.

Hospital Humor

Last week, after spending five hours with his tax guy, my brother collapsed when his heart ran away. Paramedics were called, a hospital stay ensued.

This morning the docs implanted a defibrillator-type pacemaker in his chest.

At his bedside tonight, I sat flipping through the brochure, looking for specs on the device. "Does it come with a warranty?" I quipped.

"Yeah," he said. "It's guaranteed for a lifetime."

Ha. Ha. My bother--he's such a card.

More on Pitching--Amended

Agent Kristin Nelson blogged here today about her experience on the other side of the table at a conference last weekend. (Note: NOT the same one I attended.) She only requested pages from four appointments, mostly because either a) the manuscript was unfinished, or b) the manuscript didn't fit any of the genres her agency represents.

This whole notion of matching genres to agencies/editors continues to intrigue me. I mean, it's not as though I chose my editor appointment by throwing a dart at a list of names. Still, I got it wrong. Or, did I? Maybe I pitch SO POORLY that I misrepresented my own manuscript. Very possible.

Which is why I'm not pitching anymore. Not at National, not at regional conferences. Not anywhere. Never. Sayonara, pitching.

At first blush, the decision may appear cowardish. Trust me, one of the reasons I ever pitched in the first place was to challenge myself--to meet a fear head-on and successfully conquer it. I measured success in being able to get through the appointment without passing out. Literally. That's how hard it is for me to pitch in person. So, the first couple times I pitched (all resulting in manuscript requests), pride in having "gotten through it" spurred me on to pitch more.

Then last Saturday happened.

On reflection, I realize the worst part of an unsuccessful pitch appointment is that despite your best efforts to rationalize, you tend to take it personally.

I mean, when you submit pages that get rejected, it's the writing.
When you submit a query that gets rejected, it's the idea.

When your two-minute pitch gets rejected, it's you. The human you.

Okay, I'm exaggerating.

Maybe.

Who knows?

Bottom line is what it feels like.

But that's not why I've decided to end my pitching career. If dings to my precious ego were the only potential casualties of pitching, I'd buck up and continue. On the other hand, isn't the smart move to downplay one's weaknesses while paying to one's strengths??

If so, then I should avoid pitching at all costs, right?

Right.

Amended to add: To her credit, the editor to whom I pitched took great pains to explain why she wasn't requesting my material--that she was no longer acquiring work in the genre she perceived it to be (rightly or wrongly--I'm still not sure). Seeing things from her side of the world, rejecting my pitch was probably more difficult than tossing off a request she knew she'd reject later on.

Clean-Up On Aisle Seven

Yes, that sound you heard on Saturday at 2:21p.m. was the sonic boom created by my heart as I realized during my editor pitch that she was NOT requesting my manuscript.

As documented here on previous occasions, for me, pitching is right up there with the one where I discover I've forgotten to wear clothes to my Algebra final.

But as everyone knows, you wake UP from nightmares, right?

Not this time.

I'm sure my head wobbled on my shoulders. I'm sure I got that panicked look in my eyes. No doubt my voice wavered.

And there were eight minutes left to get through without ending the appointment prematurely and looking like a TOTAL idiot.

In my defense, I didn't wither and die--I fought. Not well, mind you, but at least I tried to re-frame my pitch in a way that might change her mind.

Um, no.

Then I punted.

"What ARE you looking for?" I asked.

"Romantic mysteries."

Aha! My latest manuscript falls into that category. Mind racing to form a coherent pitch, I said, "I have one of those."

"But we have all the authors we need in that area, and we're not looking for more."

Oh. Didn't even get the premise out.

Managed to blah, blah, blah for a few minutes more, then DID end the appointment prematurely. I believe my succinct phrase was: "I guess we really have nothing more to talk about, do we?"

Arghghghghghghgh. NEVER. DOING. THIS. AGAIN.

Even signed something to that effect and gave it to Brooke for safe keeping.

Later, I learned I wasn't alone in failing to a get a manuscript request from this editor.

Not a HUGE consolation, but something.

Sniff.

Cross Pollinating

Minutes before leaving my office to catch a plane to Phoenix yesterday, I got the casino alert call...as in, Marty phoned to inform me of gambling opportunities in the desert. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I told him. You don't understand writing conferences. Free time is spent stalking agents and editors at the bar.

So, I arrived last night and did just that--only, my friends and I were apparently the sole early conference arrivals. Soon, Elizabeth drove off for a late date (go figure!), and Jax and Beverley had other things to do.

Well, shoot. It was only nine o'clock. Too early for bed! What are two lonely girls in Phoenix to do?

Right. Off to the casino.

Did the fact that the taxi fare was $30 one way daunt us? Hell, no.

So, we got there and the slots were NOT being kind. No bonuses, no nothing. I just kept feeding in the twenties. I hate this casino, I thought to myself...when, all of a sudden, I look...what the hell is this? Without so much as a ding or a bell, some sort of jackpot appeared. I looked at the credits in my account and couldn't figure out where to put the decimal point. (This is how bright I am--I was playing a penny machine and couldn't figure out how much I'd just won.) I studied it some more. Certainly it was at least a hundred dollars, but that didn't make sense, cuz if you move the decimal over....

Well, I had to cash out to confirm...

So here's my theory: I was using CHUMASH twenties...and isn't cross pollinating all about making things grow??

Addictions

So you've all heard on the news about the latest epidemic sweeping the nation. Yeah, the one about people addicted to texting, email--the electronic stuff that's more like an umbilical cord to our lives.

Well, let me raise my hand.

Hi, I'm Randy, and I'm an internetaholic.

I HATE to be without access to breaking news, my email--you name it. Which is why I'm already going through withdrawal because I'm getting on a plane in a couple of hours without...gulp...my laptop. Oh, I have it right here--all packed. Trouble is, I don't have the charger. Not that I forgot it, mind you. Just couldn't put my hands on it this morning. Decided it must be in the office. Now I've decided it must be in the last suitcase I used (gee, maybe it DOES pay to unpack completely).

Debating now. I have time. I could run home and get it. The only thing making me hesitate is that I detest the route to the airport from my home.

Decisions, decisions. Which do I hate more? An inconvenient drive...or being electronically incommunicado??

Stay tuned...

If you don't see a blog over the weekend, you'll know what the answer was.