Snap, Crackle, Pop

Lightning strike? Car crash?

Or, was it just another Southern California Edison screw-up?

Whatever….there I was last night, enjoying a Friends rerun and finishing dinner, when I heard that odd, indescribable sound (which is actually the onset of non-sound) accompanied by instant darkness.

No power.

I groped around on the coffee table past the Healthy Choice ice cream bar wrapper and the 100-calorie Cheese Nips bag to locate my lighter. Next I fumbled for the nearest candle but the wick was so buried in wax (I estimated 3rd degree burns for sure) I had to do my best 80’s concert impression and use the Bic to find another one.

Okay, so I had light. What now?

Maybe I’ve seen too many slasher movies, but my first inclination was to make sure The Serial Killer hadn’t cut my lines, so I peeked out the window and confirmed the rest of the neighborhood was in darkness. Check.

So how do you pass the time when none of life’s modern conveniences are available? Aha, I thought. The laptop runs on a battery! That is, it does when the battery’s charged. Mine wasn’t.

Second aha! The radio my dad gave me for emergencies—the one you can crank 100 times for an hour of power when the batteries are dead! Oops. At the office.

If only…if only…Forget it. You need a male partner for that.

I settled for taking a nice hot bath and headed upstairs, mindful of my steps since I had this horrible vision of ending up in folklore right next to Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. Alas, as it turns out, candlelit baths are not what they’re cracked up to be when they’re forced. More like creepy. Or maybe it was the absence of Enya playing in the background.

Anyway, after exhausting myself with a couple marathon phone calls, I went to bed—a daunting task when you’re used to old sitcoms for lullabies. As I tossed and turned, I heard the welcome sound of heavy trucks lumbering up and down the streets of my complex. Each time one roared off into silence, I waited with crossed fingers for the power to go on and when it didn’t, I wondered if they had to go back to the shop to flip a switch or something.

Finally, total silence again. No trucks, no workmen. Also, still no power.

Then, at midnight, va-voom. The TV blasted to life and an overhead floodlight glared a path straight into my eyes.

Cool. Too bad I was sound asleep at the time.

Decisions, Decisions

Multiple choice exams always send me into a mental frenzy. Even if I know the material backwards and forwards, just throw me extra options and I’ll find a way to rationalize them into the right answer. Doesn’t matter if I’m being tested on American history or who gets to go first at a four-way stop.

Call my wishy-washy. Call me a Pollyanna. Whatever. I can always make a case for the other side and I’m a damn good Devil’s Advocate.

Unfortunately, these are not valuable traits in a writer. Writer’s need to make decisions about which they hold firm convictions.

Which is why I seemed to have smashed into a brick wall in my latest WIP. So many directions, so many options…which do I choose?

I’M STUCK! STUCK! STUCK!

Truly. For the life of me, I don’t seem to be able to add another word to the fifty pages I’ve written. I’ve tried for three days now.

Who said writing was easy?

Oh. No one said that?

Fun With Google

Agents and Editors are asked if they ever ‘Google’ a prospective client/author. Some say they do; others deny it.

I live in fear that one will look up my blog on the day I’ve posted something like the following, but shoot. Let’s have some fun, shall we?

Here’s the deal (I saw this on someone else’s blog but can’t remember whose or else I’d give credit where it is so well-deserved). Go to google and type in your name followed by the word ‘needs’. That’s right. Google can tell you what you need! Is there no end to the service these savvy people provide? But, be forewarned. Sometimes you have to read between the lines. On the whole though, I think we as a society can dispatch shrinks to the crap heap and quit reading our daily horoscopes. Google’s got us covered.

Here’s a sample of what I learned about myself:

1. Randy needs help from Raider mates.

2. Randy needs to list every skill she used in each of her jobs Randy needs to write a song about the "search for weapons of mass destrucion". ...

3. Randy needs a loving and committed family to give her a sense of belonging.
... minions are in place to quash the rebellion, and Randy needs a nap

4. Randy needs to fight wandy now and dana needs to authorize Randy to go to japan.

Hm. Anytime I hear I need a nap, I know someone’s been spying on my private life. Not sure what kind of help those Raider folks will provide, but I’m willing to accept it. And, Japan? Sure, I’ll go!

So, what does Google say YOU need?

Halloween's Around the Corner...

...do you know where your costume is?

Feel free to plagiarize some of my previous ideas since I won’t be repeating.

1. Take two kitchen-sized trash bags (the only size that’s white), put one inside the other (also known as providing a lining), then cut two holes for your legs. Step inside, pull above your boobs and tie the yellow tapes together for that come hither, strapless look. Add drippy rhinestone earrings, long gloves, stockings and stilettos. Voila. Rich White Trash. (Be forewarned—wearing two trash bags can result in a sweaty midsection, not to mention raised eyebrows.)

2. Take the sluttiest dress you have. (Come on, we all have at least one, don’t we?) At the local costume shop, buy yourself a cheap (preferably cardboard) tiara, scepter, sash, whorey-looking wig, and iron-on letters. Spell out MISS-BEHAVING on sash. Voila. Beauty Queen Gone Bad.

3. This time, take your sluttiest black skirt and throw on that whorey-looking wig again. Add your sexiest bustier bra and high-heeled boots. Stick a small British flag down inside the top of one boot (so the banner is next to your knee). Buy a couple of spears (like if you were going as a hunter). Voila. Britkneespears. Oh, I really cracked myself up with that one.

Naturally, this year’s idea won’t be unveiled until the big night…but suffice to say it involves the participation of and reliance on two other people. If they crap out, Plan B is already in the works.

I’ll bet y’all just can’t WAIT for pictures, huh?

Check's In The Mail

Er, rather…the manuscript is. Yep. Finally got the sucker out last Friday after an emergency read-through by Brooke who spent her lunch hours and other precious moments making sure I hadn’t missed anything really, really, stupid.

Was it perfect?

Nope.

Will it ever be?

Probably not.

Think of it. This is a manuscript I finished almost TWO YEARS ago. I did a lot of editing/revising back then when I first queried and submitted a couple places. After a handful of rejections, I put it on the back burner while I finished my second manuscript. Then, after National last July, I decided I’d never really given Fit For Love its proper chance, so I put it through a second round of queries. Voila…more requests. And, voila. More editing/revising. This time, a month’s worth.

Now, it’s back to the WIP (work-in-process). Talk about changing gears! Aside from this blog, I haven’t written anything “new” in a month! Hope I remember how.

The good news is, I dragged out what I’d been working on (well, the part I could find—I had a computer crash at home and hopefully the full version is on my computer at work—see, that’s how long it’s been—I don’t even know where the thing IS) and I really, really liked it. So, tonight it’s back to the drawing board.

First rule of submitting manuscripts: while they’re under consideration…write, write, write some more.

Birthday Date

Last night I celebrated my birthday with ex-boyfriend Joe. (Yes, I KNOW my birthday was nearly a month ago, but I DID tell you this was my birthday SEASON).

Joe’s my biggest blog fan so I can’t say anything really nasty about him (huge grin) but I couldn’t resist divulging the following.

While we were dating (5 years) one thing Joe introduced me to was Latin music and dancing. Frankly, I don’t know why there aren’t a zillion Latin clubs in L.A. ‘cuz the music is so infectious and salsa dancing is incredibly sexy. We loved to go to a place called La Masia in West Hollywood but then some rich snobby guys bought it out and turned it into a hip hop club. After that, we were hard pressed to find anywhere with which to replace it.

But recently, I was surfing the net and discovered a place called Mama Juana’s so we decided to try it. Arriving in Studio City (which is just over the pass from Hollywood) we parked and viewed the entrance with trepidation. It was basically just a door in a building. Looked like the place must be about four feet wide. Then I remembered the website said something about a steep staircase. Duh. We headed upstairs.

We were seated in a lovely booth one step up from the dance floor where a salsa lesson was going on. While we debated the difference between salsa and mambo, the instructor was teaching the male dancers how to twirl their partners. That’s when Joe made a fatal mistake. He pointed out that I always turn AWAY from him.

Hm, I thought. I wished he’d told me that before. Might have improved our dancing prowess. ‘Cuz, listen. We are NOT Fred and Ginger out there. Well, wait a sec. Joe THINKS he’s Fred. I’m quite aware I’m not Ginger. If you picture that John Hurely guy from that celebrity dance show on TV, you’ve got Joe to a T (minus the dancing talent).

After dinner, the band took their places on stage. All nine of them. We listened to a couple songs, then it was time for us to venture out.

Guess what? Every time we TWIRLED, Joe TWIRLED me AWAY from him. Turns out, I didn’t even have a CHOICE in the matter.

I love it when a man is wrong. I love it even more when the man is the source of the proof.

By the way, remember that blog about giving out your phone number to strange men in bars? Here’s a cautionary tale: I slipped outside to have a cigarette and got to talking to a guy who happened to be from my neck of the woods and he asked for my cellphone number. I demurred, as I always do. Then I got tired of saying no, so I reeled off what I thought was the number (who remembers their cell number?) Well, he hauls out his Blackberry and inputs the number and hits DIAL!!!! Thank God I’d made a big deal about having a hard time trying to remember it, ‘cuz it wasn’t the right number.

Yikes. Is this what guys do now?? They test you on the spot??

Hey, Bunko Ladies (or is it BunCo??)

Welcome to Thea, Pam, Charmaine et al...as promised, the post below chronicles the latest Marty/Ann/Randy journey.

Now that you've found this, be forewarned...things that happen around me tend to end up broadcast all over the Internet.

Travelin' (and the links have been fixed)

So, if you had free tickets on Southwest Airlines, and you had to use them by October 4th, where would you go?

Lincoln City, Oregon, right??

Okay, here’s how THAT happened. My friends Ann and Marty had the two tickets, not me, but well…wither they go, I goest…or something like that.

One day, Marty calls and says, “Let’s go to Atlantic City for a long weekend.” (You have to understand that just as some people choose their vacation destinations based on golfing, Marty travels from a gambling perspective.) I tell him (firmly, because Marty’s the kinda guy who doesn’t take no for an answer) that Atlantic City’s too far.

Knowing he won’t let the matter drop unless I come up with an equally attractive plan, I Google Indian gaming casinos and find a map pinpointing their locations across America. Then I check the Southwest route map to see where they crisscross.

Voila—Lincoln City, Oregon. Well, Portland, really. But I picked Lincoln City because its casino is on the coast.

I email Marty with the info and we start looking at hotels. Somewhere along the line, I receive an email from Ann: “Just when are you planning to go to Oregon with my husband?” (It’s okay. She’s kidding. We’re like the Three Mouseketeers.)

So, off we go. On the Friday after my birthday, we fly to Portland and pick up our rental car. Since I’ve done my research exceedingly well, we know ahead of time that Spirit Mountain (a—what else?—Indian casino) breaks up the drive nicely so we stop there for lunch. We don’t play much…just one slot machine for which we each contribute $10, walking away $20 winners. (See, we’re not candidates for Gamblers Anonymous, I promise.)

We reach The Seahorse Motel before sunset and take a nap (our flight left at 8:15 a.m. and if y’all remember, I’d been to a concert the night before). Check out the view from the hotel.





Oh, and here's a sign you like to see next to your door:

That night we go to the The Chinook Casino and learn, to our dismay, that Oregon casinos forbid mixing alcohol with gambling. I never understand this rule. (Okay, I’m aware that not everyone in the world is a drinker, but hey—the two just GO TOGETHER, don’t they?) Anyway, Ann and I opt for a couple cocktails in the nightclub while Marty hits the poker room.

An interesting crowd populates the old upstairs meat market…we have a hard time sorting out the genders. Do the girls like the girls? Or, do they like the guys? And vice versa. The puzzle makes for good people watching.

Finally, we decide we’ve imbibed enough fortification (two glasses of wine a piece) to try the gaming tables. That’s when IT happens (and, come to think of it, thank God we haven’t had more to drink).

You know that sign in front of escalators? The one that says something about baby strollers, sandals and…yeah, I’ve never read the whole thing either. Turns out there’s a reason for that sign.

As I place my foot on the first step, I hear a shriek beside me.

Ann.

Uh-oh.

We peer down at her foot and see a cut, a slice, a HUGE GASH, in her heel. No blood, though. Just a deceptive flap…the kind that makes you think, cool. It’s not gonna bleed…right before it starts to GUSH.

So, Ann bleeds all the way down the escalator, across the lobby, and to the information desk. There, she asks for napkins and a bandaid (she’s a trooper, our Ann) but the attendant says, “Do you want an ambulance?”

Hell, no.

A medic arrives in seconds and leads us into the bowels of the building (well, down a floor anyway) and to a small office. That’s when the legal mumbo jumbo starts. Does she need an ambulance? Does she want to go the hospital? Blah, blah, blah. They send for a digital camera and take photos. They have Ann fill out a mountain of forms. (Meanwhile, I’m dying to document the episode with photos off my cell phone but figure the idea will get an ix-nay from Medic Guy.)

After refusing anything but a bandage and icky ointment (even when Medic Guy recommends stitches—and don’t you just KNOW the whole thing is probably being recorded, if not on videotape, certainly audio??) we finally leave. Ann has no trouble walking and we take the elevator from then on.

Later, when we see Marty, I announce he’s this close to OWNING the Chinook (wink, wink).

The next day we went sightseeing down the Oregon coast (yes, I kow I just changed tenses). Oh, and we learned some new terminology: Senior Hiking. You see, senior hiking is identical to regular hiking, minus the foot movement and arm swinging. Oh yeah, and you do it from inside the car. Trust me, it’s almost the same.

The highlight of the day was our stop at a lighthouse and its accompanying interpretive center. Wish I had the name (which I do, I really do—only it’s on the videotape and I’m too lazy to haul it out to check and the still pictures are waiting to be developed). Maybe in a later post.

All I can tell ya is the Oregon coast is magnificent…majestic…a bunch of those ‘m’ superlatives. It puts the southern California coast to shame with its countless panoramic vistas of long, wide beaches and multiple sets of rolling waves.

‘Course we reminded ourselves that our visit probably coincided with the only three good days of weather they had all year.

On Sunday, we checked out early to leave enough time for a quick trip to the Columbia Gorge before heading to the airport. On the way, we discovered Shari’s. Ah, Shari’s--truly a find. I ask you, where in California can you go to a Denny’s style restaurant, sit in the bar and eat Denny’s style food, smoke cigarettes, drink beer, and PLAY LOTTO SLOT MACHINES? Not that this was a lucrative exercise, by any stretch. Still, it was a whole lot of fun.

I’d been to the Columbia Gorge before so I should have known better about how important the proper directions were. Long story short, we ended up driving along the river instead of the top. Oh, well. Multnomah Falls was pretty.

But not, according to the squeals coming from Ann and Marty, as exciting as our trip to Washington. Yes, we made the extra-special effort to make it a tri-state weekend by racing across the bridge and setting foot in Vancouver, WA before turning the car in.

Amazing how much you can cram into three days, huh?

And how expensive two free airline tickets can turn out to be?

!*?@& Words

I’m this close (pinching thumb and index finger together) to shoving my requested manuscript in the mail. It’s been a long, tough, haul—punctuated by birthday celebrations, weekend getaways, and a two-week bout with bronchitis.

But I’m almost there!!!!

Now, as a public service to my fellow writers, today I thought I’d offer this handy tip sheet of word substitutions for anyone submitting to a publisher that doesn’t allow the good stuff. Caution: some are contextually sensitive.

Instead of “Shit”…use…“No way” (I refuse to use “shoot”)
Instead of “Bitch”…use…“obnoxious”
Instead of “Crap”…use…“crud” or “stuff”
Instead of “Screw it”…use…“Forget it”
Instead of “Hell”…use… “heck”
Instead of “Damn”…use…“darn” (or delete altogether because who actually says darn?)
Instead of “Bastard”…use… “louse” or “pig”

As for body parts during sex…ha, no problem. The house I’m submitting to doesn’t allow premarital sex, so delete, delete, delete.

So, here’s an example:

Ava surveyed the room littered with Jess’s crap.
Shit. What a bastard.
Well, screw it. He could clean the goddamn mess himself.

Ava surveyed the room littered with Jess’s stuff.
No way. What a pig.
Well, forget it. He could clean up the mess himself.

Voila! Squeaky clean prose! (Although personally, I prefer the original version)

The Birthday Season

Boy, do I know how to milk a birthday, or what?

Officially, this year my birthday season kicked off a day early when Jovonna decorated my office and we had cake at work. Then I left the next day to celebrate in Ensenada and returned on the 19th. On the 22nd, I feted myself with the single ticket to Luis Miguel’s concert. Got home after midnight, rose at four the next morning and flew to Oregon for the weekend with Marty and Ann. The following Friday (this brings us to September 30th) a bunch of friends showed up with presents and cake at a nearby nightclub.

Here’s what I have left: dinner with Joe sometime this week; presents and cake with family on the 9th when we do a combo celebration for my dad, my brother, and myself; and last but not least, a party in Laguna with my college girlfriends. More presents, more cake.

Um, d’ya think I’m a little old for this?

Nah, me either.

The Winds Of Autumn

It’s always a bad sign when you wake up and your bedroom smells like the inside of a fireplace. Not an ashtray, mind you. A fireplace.

I switch on the TV and the first thing I hear is that the neighborhood next to mine is being evacuated. Hm. Not good.

For some reason, I don’t rush to get dressed. My only explanation for this is that I’m a native Californian. Wildfires happen more often than rainstorms. Or maybe I just don’t trust the media anymore.

Anyway, I decide to do a little reconnaissance mission of my own. As the garage door rolls up, I see the odd glow in the morning sky and the grey snowflakes fluttering to the ground. (Note to self: another reason not to wear white after Labor Day.)

By the time I get a half-mile from my house, a panorama of clouds and smoke obscure the rocky peaks I should be able to see. Still, like I say, I’m a veteran so I know fires are deceptive. What looks like it’s about to burn your house down can be miles and miles away.

When I get to my local grocery store, I pull into the parking lot. It’s then I notice flames on the hillside across the intersection. Now see, I interpret flames as indisputable proof the fire is close. Satisfied, I return to my house.

My next-door-neighbor is standing at the end of our cul-de-sac and I inform her you can see flames from Lindero and Kanan. She tells me she can see flames from where she’s standing. I suffer a moment of quiet embarrassment, as though I’ve let down native Californians everywhere for misjudging the distance.

While I video the fire, she disappears to pack up and another neighbor takes her place. Then a third woman emerges. This poor lady is totally freaking. Turns out, she’s been at UCLA Med Center all night where her husband is waiting for a friggin’ LUNG TRANSPLANT, so she hasn’t had time to pay attention to the fire. He’s scheduled to begin surgery in two hours and she doesn’t know if she should evacuate or get back to the hospital. We calm her down, help her to think rationally, and offer assistance. Oddly, the three of us agree we don’t care about the one thing people always take: namely, pictures. I venture the opinion it’s because we’re vain—we don’t want remembrances of when we were young and pretty. We laugh.

I go back inside, trying to decide whether to go to work or wait to be evacuated. In the process, I mull over what to take. My computer had crashed the night before so it’s already in the car anyway. I don’t have children so there are no precious photos that only I would have. Packing jewelry seems too materialistic. I settle for tossing a change of clothes in the car. In the event I can’t get home later, I don’t wanna have to shop in a dress and heels.

So, I take off for work, and I pass about ten giant bulldozers being ferried into my neighborhood from the opposite direction. Fire trucks stalk the cul-de-sacs nearest the hillside, taking up defensive positions. Low-flying helicopters plot, plan, and map ahead of the advancing flames.

Some might find these sights alarming—but remember, I’m no rookie. If you wanna see bureaucracy work for a change, check out the way a California wildfire is fought.

At the office, I keep an eye on the constant coverage being provided by local TV news. Once in a while, based on their reports, I almost jump in my car to go home, but then I call my friend Shari who lives closer to the fire than I do, and she assures me she hasn’t been evacuated.

I talk with my parents who live fifteen miles from me on the east flank of the fire. They’ve been on voluntary evacuation alert since having received an recorded phone call at two in the morning. (How cool is that?)

At the end of the day, I trot on home and find things have quieted down in my neck of the woods. No more flames. Fewer fire trucks. A lot less smoke. Turns out the onshore winds have kicked up, sending the fire back against itself which is lucky for me, unlucky for the eastern flank. At six-thirty, I hear on the news that residents in the western half of my parents’ neighborhood have been told to GET OUT NOW. But an hour later, the order is rescinded.

The only thing predictable about wild fires is their unpredictability.

P.S. Cool picture, huh? Snapped it on the way to work.

Only in L.A….and probably NY, Chicago…

What’s a person gotta do to get a good concert seat in this town?

Last week, I learned paying beaucoup bucks on Ebay isn’t the answer. See, as a birthday present to myself, I bought a FRONT ROW ticket to see Luis Miguel at the Universal Amphitheater. Only, when I arrived, it was not the “front row seat” of my dreams. Oh, sure. It was in the front row of the PERMANENT seats. But there was a wide aisle plus eight rows of FOLDING CHAIRS in FRONT of my FRONT ROW seat.

How many ways did this suck? Let me count them for you.

1. Constant traffic passing to and fro. (Where are these people going? Why are they so busy? Didn’t they pay money to see a concert too?) Naïve me. I truly thought by buying a FRONT ROW seat, I’d be er, close to the friggin’ STAGE, not at the edge of the cattle pen.

2. After a rousing opener, Luis slowed things down with about twenty minutes of ballads which he chose to sing from a seated position onstage. Better to bond with the FRONT ROWS, I guess. Me? I had to watch the big screen TV in order to see anything at all. (Did I mention I spent an obscene amount of money for this seat???)

3. My seat was also an aisle seat, and because I was in the FRONT ROW, a security guard was stationed inches away to prevent the hoi polloi from rubbing elbows with the elite. He stood, squatted, stood, squatted, stood, squatted…sometimes having lengthy conversations with scantily clad tartlets trying to brazen their way closer to the stage. Can you spell d-i-s-t-r-a-c-t-I-o-n??

Grrrrr. Never again. Lesson learned.

Let's Play "Name That Wine Region"

Napa? Nope.



Tuscany? Tsk tsk.



Guadeloupe Valley? Gold stars for you!

Yep, Mexico has it’s very own wine country about 20 miles northeast of Ensenada. You reach it by turning away from the ocean onto the Ruta de Vino (also known as Highway No. 3) and traveling inland. Along the way, “vinacolas” (vineyards) are clearly marked, but be prepared to pull off onto the shoulder to let the constant big-rigs pass on this narrow, two-lane road sometimes bordered by steep cliffs. Then, once you leave the main road, it’s a long, dusty haul to your destination. This wouldn’t be so bad, but if you’re suffering the aftereffects of the previous night in Ensenada…well, you get my drift.

Because of said aftereffects, we arrived in the valley late—which means after noon (most of the public tours and tastings shut down around 1:00 p.m.) and ended up at L.A. Cetto (pronounced shetto). Turns out these Italian settlers have been brewing up the vino since 1926, and they’ve got a pretty decent international reputation. In fact, much of Mexico’s wine (85% is produced in the Guadeloupe Valley) is beginning to get a good name. A couple of barriers have worked against them: 1) an indigenous culture who, when they drink at all, are more focused on tequila (I can hardly blame them); and 2) barriers to exporting. Apparently, that’s why the new push to spruce up the valley as a tourist destination.

When we arrived at L.A. Cetto, we went (where else?) straight to the tasting room. Unfortunately, it was clogged with tourists (predominantly Mexican), and short of knocking over sweet little old ladies and small children, we couldn’t edge our way to the bar. Although most Mexicans speak English way better than I speak Spanish, I kept getting misinformation about how the place “worked.” At one point, we traipsed after a tour, only to discover it was the “tour en Espagnol”. Thank goodness we figured it out--I can’t think of anything less fascinating than hearing how wine is made in a language I don’t understand. Then, while tracking down the “tour en Inglese,” we realized the tasting room had cleared out, so we ditched the tour idea and made a beeline for the bar.

An adorable, young Italian-looking man served us. I’m ashamed to admit the writer in me didn’t get his name, but I could swear he was a descendant of the original guy from Italy. Anyway, he oozed charm and even brought out “the big guns,” prefacing the presentation with, “I’m not supposed to do this, but I thought you’d like…” (fill in the exotic grape). I’m no wine connoisseur (can’t even spell it without spellcheck) but I liked what I tried, so I bought a bottle of Nebbiolo. When I Googled the word, I learned nebbiolo is a very closely held grape from Italy, and that few countries grow it successfully because it’s sort of the diva of wine grapes. Can’t wait to see if it’s as good as I remember!

Sigh. So many vineyards, so little time. We didn’t even scratch the surface. Plus, there are a couple of highly recommended restaurants to try.

Oh, well. Maybe next trip.

Man + Boat + Foreign Country = Opportunity for Single Ladies

As a public service to Southern California’s unattached females, I offer the following advice: get thee to the Hotel Coral y Marina in Ensenada, Mexico. Here’s why:

Buying an expensive boat involves a hefty luxury tax but, as usual, Uncle Sam has left a loophole. In this case, if you take possession offshore and dock it in a foreign country for a year (the law just changed—it WAS 90 days), you get to skip the tax.

The downside is that you have to visit your newly purchased pride and joy. Sorta like a weekend custody arrangement.

The result is a bonanza for hotel guests of the female (and single) persuasion. Nothing but rich guys visiting their boats! Now, when it comes to their marital status, you’re on your own--I can’t vouch for whether they’ve slipped that ring to another finger or stashed it with the life preservers--but it’s worth investigating.



View from hotel looking south (morning)


View from hotel looking north (afternoon)

(Sorry for the poor quality pix; I’m too lazy to buy a digital camera so these are off my cell phone—can’t seem to find a setting that prevents the mushroom cloud in the background.)

Let’s get one thing straight. This is NOT a milestone birthday!

But you wouldn’t have known it, judging by the way my office looked this morning. The girl pictured at right is the guilty party. You know the type: 22-years old, tiny, gorgeous, and DECEPTIVELY sweet?

Here are a few pix of her decorating prowess.





Okay, Jovonna. Paybacks are a bitch. Your day will come. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

OUCH

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

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

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

Here’s my Progress Report:

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

You do the math.

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

The First Cut Is The Deepest....

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

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

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

I thought yeah, right. Impossible.

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

So where am I gonna find the other fifty?

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

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

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

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

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

Another Katrina Screw-Up

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

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

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

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

You see my dilemma.

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

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

Remembering September

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

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

Yes, I loved everything about September.

I loved the thrill of anticipating the unknown.

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, yes. I LOVE September.

Life As A Plotter--Progress Report

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

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

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

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

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

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

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