October. That means Thanksgiving is almost here. Yes it is. Don't argue with me.

Look what BLOGGER went and done did...they made themselves SPIFFY! So spiffy, in fact, I'm a little lost. And right when I was about to go and get me some WordPress action. Just in the nick of time, Blogger, in the NICK of time. (Jury might still be out. This is sort of a ridiculous layout. Feedback, please!) Wait -- I need a photo here, to make this entry look visually appealing and to catch your attention. QUICK! What picture shall I use? Omigod omigod omigod, I'm sorta panicking. I got nothin'. I might have to Google more images of Mark Strong to give you something to stare at. I know I enjoy staring at him VERY much. You're welcome in advance. WAIT! I found one! THIS was my birthday breakfast. 

I turned FORTY on September 19. We went to a fabulous new joint here in town where everything is francais (that's FRENCH, for you hillbilly types). This photo, snapped on my cell phone, doesn't do justice to what is happening to my taste buds at this very second, but yes, that is a crepe, filled with fresh fruit (banana, pineapple, kiwi, strawberry, honeydew, cantaloupe...what am I forgetting?) on a thin layer of very fresh, light custard. It was awesome. Best breakfast EVER. Or at least so far. I didn't feel like dying after we left. No post-meal regret or tear-inducing stomach spasms. I call that a win-win! The morning prior to this caloric funfest started with a very lovely $40 Chapters gift card stuck through the mail slot (thanks, Bobbie!) and a gift card for the movies from my darling Janey-O. I got me a new cardigan to carry on with the slovenly writer look I am so good at. And it's RED. Saucy, I know. Kids made me some cards. Husband made butter chicken for dinner. All in all, I made it to forty, and the day wasn't so bad after all. 

RE: I mentioned Thanksgiving in the post title ~ Remember, lovies, I am in CANADA. That means Thanksgiving is in October. As in, a week from tomorrow. On a Monday. MONDAY?!? No, I have not adjusted to eating turkey before the Halloween costumes have been sewn. CanNOT. Not even after ten years. Thanksgiving is four days in November when the Macy's Parade is on, when the National Dog Show trots across the screen, when I put on the fat pants Wednesday night late and don't look back until I'm nursing a vicious tryptophan hangover on Monday morning when I'm lying on the floor, flailing about in mashed potato and gravy leftovers, begging the children to just bring me some cranberry sauce and that will make it all better. Mommy needs cranberries...please, have mercy on my bloated soul...

Whisper one word about how I didn't blog the entire month of September, and I'm outta here. If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm not good with blogging. In fact, I sort of avoid it, sort of how I avoid Pap smears until at least the third reminder follow-up call. Then I finally shave everything nice and purty, go in and throw on the paper gown, put my feet up in the stirrups, scoot my ass to the edge of the table, and PRAY that she's warmed up the speculum. (Boys are so lucky that they don't have to do this. Speaking of, it's time to start nagging Husband again about having his prostate checked. Spread 'em, boy!) That's sort of how I feel about blogging. I have to warm up the speculum before I get going. Plus, who the hell CARES what I have to say? Shit, I usually can't stand the sound of my own voice, and I'm am certainly not going to give you advice about anything useful. Unless you have a dirtbag ex and you need someone to remind you how much of a dirtbag he (or she) is/was. I'm super good at that. If nothing else, I will steal your angst, bottle it, and channel it into some written fantasy about torturing dirtbag spouses.

And tonight, all I really want to do is make fun of the people over 30 who are getting their patronus and house assignments on Pottermore. But that would be rude. And I think a lot of my friends over 30 are on Pottermore, so I shouldn't giggle. (But I still will. Nerds.) I'm sure Evelyn Hussy Lafont will sic her patronus on me now that I've mentioned this, but whatever. (Nerds.) I'm still giggling. You guys...really? Okay, I collect rubber ducks. I guess we're even. (Okay, we're totally not. Nerds.)

I'm sort of addicted to that new TLC show, "Long Island Medium." I mean, I don't get the whole Jersey thing with the long nails and the frosted hair and the ginormous personality, but that's because she's from Jersey, and I'm from Oregon. She (her name is Theresa) likely wouldn't understand why I like wool sweaters, Levis, and combat boots and how I've only ever been for a manicure twice, once when I got a job as a hand model (YES, a hand model) and another time when this psychotic ex-friend of mine insisted that it would change my life when all it really did was make my cuticles hurt and make me feel like there was shit on my fingernails. Because there was. THING IS, I want to meet Theresa. I totally want her to do a reading for me. I think I will put that on my to-do list for the future. Go to medium. Connect with important dead people in my life. I don't believe in ghosts, and I really want to. Although, it must be said, I don't want to be like certain OTHER people in my life who are convinced they can commune with the dead. Those aren't dead people whispering to you in the middle of the night. It's wine. Less wine = fewer dead people visiting your room. Just sayin'...

I think it's time for another picture. Hang on...let me see what I've got. <<<<<------ Okay, there you go. That's visually interesting, right? A fat beagle and a glorious Lazy Brown Cat, sharing a moment in the dying hours of summer? Fine. Whatever. I have to migrate iPhoto from the old computer but it won't stay on long enough to make this happen. Cut me some slack. And while you're at it, wish Boyfriend, proper name Kovu, a Very Happy Birthday on October 5. He will be 13, which in cat years, is hella older than you. Show some respect. (He bites, so you might want to just play along.)

Updates real quick like, and then I gotta go put the spawn to bed:

a. My eldest child came home in September for his two-week leave from Afghanistan. Much fun was had by him, his first return stateside since turning 21, and we were able to spend some precious hours in his presence. He's back in the 'Stan, not to return to US soil until March 2012, so keep thinking happy thoughts for him. Please. He's a good boy.

b. I've had some amazing, terrific, fantastic lovies inquire about the status of the follow-up to Sleight. Book 2 is called Stratagem, and because I am working on several projects at once, because I am a meticulous re-writer, and because I'm just now getting back into the swing of things after a rather disastrous summer (in terms of writing), Stratagem will not be released this fall, as I'd hoped. Don't be pissed. Remember, you love me. We're friends. I just can't shit it out, guys. I can't. It's like Mr. Reiland's seventh grade algebra class all over again. I wasn't understanding the material, so I wasn't turning in the assignments. Eventually, my grade bottomed out and my mother and stepfather had to come in for a conference. I was diagnosed by the school counselor with perfectionism, and as a result of said affliction, I refuse to turn anything in until it's PERFECT. I don't want to give you half-assed work. I know I'm not fast and awesome like some of the other writers in the Realm, but I'm me. They're them. And I'm writing. For those of you who are friends of mine on Facebook: every time you see me post something ridiculous or irreverent, it's because I've been interrupted by one of the many members of this household (animals included), OR because I'm struggling with a transient case of writer's block (some writers claim this so-called ailment never haunts their doorstep, and those writers are what I like to call arrogant fartyheads whose time's a'comin') that requires some sort of visual stimulation OR it might be because I am in a trough in the creative cycle and, well, I just can't write for shit. I'm not perfect, but my words have to be as close to such as possible. FOR THE RECORD: The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern debuted week before last, to rave reviews and an impressive showing on the NYT bestseller list. It's supposed to be fantastic. I have not purchased it yet, but shall. Soon. At Portland's Powell's books on September 17, I picked up said book and opened to a random chapter. The chapter was called STRATAGEM. Yes, I almost cried. Instead I started rambling to the stranger next to me, until he inched away quietly, tiptoeing so I wouldn't lash out and knock off his John Lennon glasses. Let it be noted that it was MY WORD FIRST. I did not copy her. Gahhhhhhh...

c. Check out LitStack, an awesome site for READER-CENTRIC news and reviews and even some occasional short fiction. Don't go to LitStack if you're looking for advice on publishing or writing. Go HERE for that: Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds. (Caution: Not for those who are easily offended by the use of the F Word or who don't want to risk shooting coffee out their noses during a mid-drink guffaw.) Otherwise, check it: LITSTACK, baby! It rocks.

That's all the updates I have tonight. I think. There are likely more. I will blog again soon with said updates. If I can find a paper gown to put on first...

Xs and Os

On word repetition, stuff that makes your ass go funny, and tattoos

My focus needs focusing.

You know why? Because I'm drinking a diet Coke that has been sitting on my desk for three days. I can't stop checking Twitter to see if anyone's mentioned me for #WW (Writer Wednesday) because I am just that needy, and because I used the word "focus" or some variant of it thirty-four times in my manuscript. Freaking THIRTY-FOUR times. (Granted, there are 119,000 words, so it's a frequency of only 0.000285%, but still. Thirty-four? Annoying as hell.) It's a sign. I need some focus.

My best friend is from South Africa. She says funny things, with her funny accent that for the life of me I cannot replicate, and she paints beautiful paintings. One of the more notable things she says: "Ohhh, that just made my ass go funny." She might say it if I tell her I just saw a cat get run over by a car (which I did), or if I tell her about smashing my finger in the door (done that), or if I tell her about these photos I saw online of this guy's leg after he had most of the flesh of his calf removed due to a terrible bout of flesh-eating Strep. You get what she's saying -- and your ass really does go funny when those images, those thoughts of "omigod" enter your brain. Right? (Maybe you're tougher than we are. My best friend is sorta squeamish, and it is rather like a party trick to say things that will make her blurt out, "Oooh, you just made my ahss go funneh." That's what her accent sounds like.)

There is definitely something making my ass go funny today: my manuscript is due at the formatter bright and early tomorrow morning. Omigod, you mean all this talk about turning this into a book is really going to happen? You mean, I'm going to be like the folks who have literally taken me under their wings in the last two weeks and pushed my Twitter followers into the triple digits, like Heather Hildenbrand and Megg Jensen and Angelina Kace and Tiffany King and Angela Carlie and Ashley Bray and Kara Helen, writers who have crossed over and are now called authors? Did you know there's a difference? Writers write. Authors publish. I'm freaking out a little, hence the lack of focus, and every time I think about the MS coming back to me in its finished form--yup, you guessed it. My ahss goes funneh.

So...yeah...after I wrote the post the other day about being afraid of stuff, I started to obsess (I do that) about another big milestone happening this year. I'm sorta turning...40. When I was in my twenties, I went through a divorce. I moved in with my parents, my then-3-month-old daughter in tow, until I could get my bearings, go back to school, get a job, all that. The woman across the street (super weirdo lady) had a bumper sticker on her crappy car that read "39 Forever." And guess what? She died. At 39. So she really was going to be 39 forever. I'm careful not to say stuff about not wanting to turn 40, because then I might jinx it and maybe I really won't make it to 40.

For my 37th birthday, I got a tattoo--William Shakespeare's autograph on my right forearm.

It's bad-ass. You can say it. The neighbor said I was having a midlife crisis and wanted to know if my husband was offended that I had another man's name inked forever into my flesh. Considering he paid for it and held my other hand while the needle scraped its way into my tender cells, I'm guessing he wasn't offended.

For my 39th birthday, I got another tattoo. This time, it's Joan of Arc's signature:

(Her name in French = Jehanne.) I'm fully protected now. I have creativity flowing through my writing arm, and courage streaming through my punching arm. (Okay, that's a lie. I punch right-handed. And I'm a weenie, so it's usually me getting punched. If there's a fight. Which there hasn't been since I was, like, 12, when Scott T. turned my sister's wheelchair off mid-ramp and she tipped backwards and struck her head on the asphalt. I punched him then. But I'm prepared nevertheless...oh! There was that one time when my step-sister chased me through the house with a rolling pin because I wouldn't stop making fun of her boobies, but let's leave that one alone. In case she's reading. Shout out to Sandi and her boobies!)

Maybe the tattoos are part of some lame midlife crisis. Maybe the desire to publish my book fits in there, too. I'm not getting any younger. And waiting for NYC to validate my existence is not helping the cause. I have to remind myself that this last year in the query trenches has not necessarily been a waste. I started querying a year ago Easter. Easter Sunday, in fact. The first one went out to Daniel Lazar at Writer's House. He answered me back in two hours and asked for the full. He read it, passed on it, told me to rewrite a few things, and then he'd reconsider. So I did just that, but I rushed it. I should've waited a month and brought in more beta readers/critique partners, but I didn't. I was panicking. I gave the MS another go-through, changed a ton of stuff, and then resubmitted. And he shook his head no again. Devastating. I think that one cost me two days hiding under the covers.

Things went on like this for the whole year. Suzie Townsend asked for a full (and I love her, so that was big). Then she said no. It sat at Random House Canada for three months, and I had high hopes because some important decision makers were reading it, one of whom told me that they liked it so far and were going to take it to the editorial committee. Then the rejection came in on December 12, and it stopped my life. Catastrophic is the best way to describe what it did to me. The kids tiptoed around me. Husband made pancakes. My youngest (6) wrote me a note that said I was the "best writer in the whole wide wrold," typo included.

A few other agents have asked for fulls, and partials, but most haven't bothered responding with even a thanks-but-no-thanks, the last of whom was just in February, an agent from Toronto. I was getting better at hearing no--not great at it, but better--when I started to consider the unthinkable: publishing it myself.

I don't know if you guys do this -- tell me if you do so I don't feel like the last kicker to be chosen for the dodgeball team, as per usual -- but writing anything can be very difficult if you slip into the mindset of No one's ever going to read this, so what's the point? My artist friends tell me that you write/paint/sculpt because you have to, because not doing it will eat you alive. Okay, so fine, yeah, writing keeps my Prozac dose lower, but moving forward with a project that is dead in the water? It sucks. NOW I feel energized, like there is something to write for, that I have to finish Book Two (and Three?) because someone might want it. Maybe. The point is, there now exists "hope" where before there was only "no."

I've stopped shopping for that perfect pen to use at book signings, stopped worrying about dyeing those new gray-ish hairs so people won't snicker at me being almost 40, and that energy has been redirected into where it should've been all along: in the words. Oh, and on Twitter.

I won't go on ad nauseum, but the thought of having the work out there is definitely making my ass go funny. And yet, I'm confident that the new contacts, dare I call them friends, I've made in this incredible community of writers and authors will make the transition easier, even if the book tanks.

And that, my friends, is enough to pull any sorry suck outta bed every morning. Now I'm going to go finish this flat diet Coke so I can hack at the word "focus" and send my baby for its day at the formatter. Tweep me: @JennSommersby.

Demotivation for a Saturday morning

To get things started off with a chuckle, check out http://despair.com/viewall.html. Shit's funny. And considering I always try to write positive crap on my Facebook status (inspirational quotes, etc.), I figured a little swing in the opposite direction was necessary. Keepin' it real. I'm not an idealist; I'm a realist. Or something like that.

I wanted to apologize to all the drivers in the local area/into Burnaby last Thursday for giving you a fright when you drove past the gold Dodge van with a crazy woman wearing a Santa hat. Princess is in an acting class, and as part of it, they're doing a film. A 34-minute undertaking, no small feat, written by the guy who runs the Young Actors Project (youngactorsproject.ca). Cool program. Princess has had a ton of fun and she's enjoying the role as the film's lead, Caroline. All in all, it's been a terrific experience. I recommend. (If you click on the link, that's Princess, front and center, in the movie poster for Thirteen. Yeah, she's cute. Doesn't look a thing like her mom.)

In my desire to recapture the glory of my youthful, medication-free twenties, I volunteered to help out with the class film (Thirteen) because, as you likely don't realize, I am a trained ack-tor. Yes, I spent a lot of money and time in the '90s trying to be the next Meg Ryan. Goes without saying that my big dreams didn't quite work out. (That's where the realist thing comes in.) So, the director, believing that I'm not a liar and that maybe I have had some training that would make me more credible than, perhaps, a depressed, bored housewife trying to seize some of that lost glory, said, Okay, sure, yeah, you can play the role of Mom. 

We shot my amazing scenes a few months ago when the weather was sucky--after all, the scene is supposed to happen at Christmastime--but due to a problem with a wide-angle lens adapter (or something), the scenes didn't work. We had to reshoot. In May. Not Christmasy at all. We chased patches of shade like addicts looking for heroin on Thursday,  in the director's minivan, me at the wheel with my ridiculously embarrassing Christmas sweater (thanks, Mom!) and a red and white furry Santa hat, and we drove around, trying to shoot this scene with my ONE line.

You do realize that when people are driving in the movies, they're not really driving. They're on a flatbed truck so they can concentrate on their line(s) and not on the road, not worrying about wrecking someone else's family car. (Just for the record, I navigated home, van intact, the gas tank a little lighter but sans scratches, dents, or damaged drive trains.)

So, I'm thinking this will likely be one of those decisions I live to regret, me and my big mouth, in my big screen debut where the HD camera will show all the lines and flaws in my skin. In my twenties, those lines and flaws were fewer, and the camera technology was more forgiving. But none of that changes the fact that I can't act for shit...and that is why the Meg Ryan thing never worked out.

Reality sucks.

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. Shout out to all of you who gave up the pristine, unstretched condition of your most intimate parts to grant passage to the next generation. Thanks, Ma. 


Tomorrow is also Day 30. She said to wait thirty days before contacting her again (via email), but when I sent the rewrite, did that start the clock over? Man, I need a vacation from the tempest raging in my brain.


If you're looking for a fun rom-com, check out my review for Leap Day at ChicMomMagazine.com. Yeah, it was mushy. Yeah, it was predictable. But that doesn't mean it wasn't fun. And Matthew Goode is hot. I heart Ireland.


Sun's out. Finally. Time to pull weeds.

Rejection sucks, like a leech, bleeding me out...

Rejection means rewrites. Rewrites mean reworking. Dismantling. Reconstruction. Confusion. Despair. A day lost hiding under my pillow, in my room, questioning my existence, wishing I were Faulkner or Hemingway or Parker or Salinger, someone who wrote important crap and stayed drunk the entire time to make it even more meaningful.


I've been told that the story takes too long to get started. I constructed it with the framework of Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings" as underlayment. Familiar with it? It's a slow, romantic, heartbreaking build until the ultimate climax two-thirds of the way through the piece, at 6:08 or so in the 9:03 version. I'm going to stand by that slow build. The payoff is too rich to make it happen any sooner.

But alas, rewrites will continue. Never say die.