Why I Did Nothing on My Summer Vacation ... and Stuff

Busy.

Busy as a damn bee. Busy as that damn bee's mother with her swarm of bee babies that always need honey and nectar and their little larval backs scratched because their wings are popping through and they're outgrowing that octagonal cubby where they live. And they all need damn bee shoes because they've outgrown the pair from last year. And one of the bees can't tie his shoes so he needs Velcro, but please, don't tell the other bees. They'll point and laugh and buzz buzz buzz all the way home. (The mommy bee tries to reassure him that Einstein couldn't tie his shoes, either, and he was a super smart bee. It will all work out, little bee.)

So, yeah. Busy. There's a misconception floating around that if you're a writer, you're rich. Guys, like 0.1% of writers are rich. The rest? We're working jobs. We're driving carpool. We're answering to The Man because, until our Great American/_________ Novel hits the shit, until we have That Magical Dream and write the Novel of the Decade, or until we steal an idea from someone who had That Magical Dream and write bestselling Magical Dream Fanfiction, we gotta make rent, just like the rest of y'all. (Okay, I'm super uncomfortable using the word "y'all." I'm from Oregon. It just doesn't fit. Maybe I should put on a wool sweater and ride my bike around the block in my Birkenstocks and sip coffee or maybe a beer, and then it will feel right. Nahhhh ... never mind. I take it back. "You all." Phew. Better.)

But I digress. I work sort of a lot. Usually seven days a week, and while those aren't all 10-hour days, something is being done all the time. I have a difficult time sitting still. As such, I don't leave the house unless I absolutely have to or unless I'm going out to the coffee shop parking lot to write. People don't get this. They get mad at me. Some stop calling, which makes me sad. But I got stuff I have to do, and it's like when you're a little kid and you've only got a few bucks, and you know you want baseball cards and ice cream, but you gotta make decisions -- Mike Schmidt or daiquiri ice? I gotta make decisions. I have X amount of time, and Y number of things to do. I'm not good with math, so let's just forget X and Y variables and agree that I wear a lot of working hats.

Here's a duck that my friend Sue sent me, picked up during her recent trip to England (because Sue leaves her house all the time):

One of these days, I will leave the house and go to England and see All the Pretty Things.

Sometimes I don't like venturing out into the world because I get nervous. If I leave the house, someone might break in. There's been a rash of B&Es in our neighborhood. We have nothing of interest to steal (the bad guys can take our LCD TV, the one Husband bought at the Smallville set sale, but then they'll get it home and realize that the back of it is melted from being placed too close to some lights while on set and shortly after will learn that the sound doesn't work and that's why it was cheap. Suckas! Even though it must be noted that we were the first suckers because we didn't know this about it until we got it home ourselves, soooo ...), but the idea of leaving and someone touching my underwear freaks me out. Oh, and then there's parking. I hate parking lots. If you guys lived around here, you'd see why. People do not know how to drive. And Canadians -- my dear, dear Canadians -- PLEASE, learn four-way stops. Before I pop an aneurysm waiting for you to figure that shit out. And crowds. Lots of people in a single place? I'm sorta fussy about dance space. While I'm a natural people person and I've been known to bust into a stand-up routine waiting in line at Walmart (I'm Scotch Irish -- I can bullshit with the best of 'em), generally speaking, people confound me. Especially mean people. 

Which brings us to this: I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY PEOPLE ARE SO MEAN TO EACH OTHER. I was raised to be considerate, kind, give the guy behind you, the fella with only a jug of milk and some prunes, your place in line because you have two carts full. Smile and say hello to folks. When you ask someone how their day is, mean it. Give a shit about what they have to say. Give up your plastic chair on the pool deck to the pregnant lady. Don't stand so close to someone or barge in front of them, simply because you're you and thus more important than the rest of us. And please, hold the door for the folks walking in behind you. I cannot tell you how many times I have been almost slammed in the head with a heavy door because the people in front of me were SO inconsiderate and absolutely oblivious to the world around them.

And you folks who think all Canadians are nice? Ummm, Canadians are people. That means they're just as crotchety and snarky and impatient as all the other people in all the other countries. Except maybe Saudi Arabia. I hear they get extra points for being particularly crotchety.

Now these people weren't mean to me. My girls Angeline Kace and Heather Hildenbrand sent me a present from their recent adventure at the UtopYA convention in Nashville:

I have really nice friends. :)

Anyway, does being a homebody sorta suck? Yeah. I watch all my online friends taking their kids to Disneyland and hiking mountains and visiting the Louvre and swimming the Nile (you guys do realize that the Nile is dirty, dirty, dirty ... you could die from swimming in that shit, I'm telling you), while I continue to plug away and search and hustle for pennies. Writers are not rich. It's important you know that so that when your favorite up-and-coming author has a new book come out, you understand that she likely doesn't have tons of free books to send to you. (I'm not talking about ARCs, or advance reader's copies. That's a different beast altogether. But as for the finished product, her publisher makes her buy those books, albeit at a discount, but still ...) When you hear that So-n-So got an advance for $100,000, that doesn't mean she got a check for $100K. That means the money is promised to her over the span of a couple of years, in pieces, minus taxes and agent fees, chopped into bits that probably look something like 50/25/25, spread over 18+ months until the book comes out. Likely you already know that (most) writers aren't rich. That's why your parents told you to get a real job and pull your head out of the clouds because writers are losers and, sure, go ahead, if you wanna eat ramen for the rest of your life and shop at Goodwill and wear knickers that belonged to someone with cooties.

Go ahead. Knock yourself out.

Or maybe that was just my parents. Whatever. It's not important. That's what therapists are for.

So yesterday, I left the house. For a few hours. My children needed fresh air. I stopped working and took them to the local pool. Canada's big on recreational facilities in, like, every town. We have pools. We have ice rinks. We have curling rinks and hockey arenas and weight rooms and yeah ... it's pretty cool. (For the record, I have never curled. I likely will never curl nor will I watch a curling match. Unless I'm drunk. I might do it if I'm not aware that it's actually happening.) We went to the wave pool, which is indoors. Which was okay, because it was 36 C outside (96.8 F for my Yankee friends), and my sons have pasty white-boy skin that will burn like back bacon. We avoid outdoor pools to protect from harmful UV rays. Well, that, and I refuse to get into a bathing suit, and the outdoor pools are too deep for one of my wee swimmers, and so, we go indoors. No one drowns. No one gets burned. Win-win. Oh, and they have coffee. Coffee's good.

Another reason public spaces challenge my balance? I see everything. I am hyperobservant. I notice it all. I notice the 13-year-old girl who walked by in a cute tween-style bikini in which the top was about to sproing free because the little plastic clasp that holds it together between her shoulder blades was mere millimeters from slipping out of its loop. (I would've told her but I didn't want to come off as creepy. Because who notices shit like that? Oh. Me.) I notice the guy who shaves circles in his very hairy pecs so we can see the tattooed portraits of his children (okay, so a blind person would notice that one -- it was hilarious -- but he should shave his back while he's at it. FUR COAT, guys, no joke). I notice the people with Band-Aids on baby toes because they think that will prevent the spread of their plantar warts. And the guy who didn't think I just saw him wipe a booger into the water.  

Social phobias aside, the pool is an awesome place to notice All The Things. Bored housewives who don't know what else to do with their time, so they spend day after day poolside, reading mommy porn or playing Words with Friends on their iPads because letting Little Mary splash in the waves is way better than having to answer her unrelenting questions or chase her around with juice boxes and Goldfish crackers or, God forbid, listen to that freakshow from Yo Gabba Gabba one more time. Or the  little rich kids whose disinterested nannies would obliterate standing World Records for Fastest Texting Thumbs. Or the new immigrants, lined up along the wall waiting for lessons to finish, who've enrolled their offspring in every available swim course secondary to their own fear of water and the fact that BC has lots of water so we should all know how to swim, damn it. (This just makes me feel like shit because my kids aren't in swim lessons. I'm a bad mother. But, we never leave the house to go on boats, so even if the kitchen does flood, no one's going to drown today.)

Or how about the big guy in the mauve polo shirt and designer dark-wash jeans with fancy-pants tablet in hand and cyborg Bluetooth plugged into his closely coifed head, talking WAY too loudly so that everyone would be Oh So Impressed with his wheeling and dealing -- "HA ha ha, that's a good one, Bob, but let me tell you how I can sweeten that deal" -- and the woman standing next to him who was tolerating his banter because she didn't have the balls to tell him to get stuffed, likely because she's exhausted from around-the-clock breastfeeding for the chubby bald baby strapped into forest green Baby Bjorn across her chest. He had the chubbiest feet. (The baby, not the cyborg guy.) I really wanted to touch those chunky little toes. 

Or how about the woman next to him practically screaming into her cell phone in a language I couldn't understand as she blocked the crowded walkway with her giant overstuffed stroller while her toddler opened her wallet and dumped coins all over the floor (all small coins--nothing worth fighting over or I woulda been in there like a fly on stink), which she ignored or didn't notice because she wouldn't stop yammering into her phone, completely oblivious to the fact that there were other people in the space near her, some of whom were trying to get through to the changing rooms. 

Or the pasty white guy in the pool, the one with the thinning gray hair, goggles at the ready -- the guy who didn't seem to have any kids with him but was sitting against the wall in the wave pool nonetheless, surrounded by children, and then he decided to hold his breath and go underwater for a spell ... PERVERT. 

Or the morbidly obese, heavily tattooed woman in the teeny tiny bathing suit, her boobs flopping all over the place and more than a little nipple showing because the top is way too stretched out. Oh, that poor elastic. THINK OF THE CHILDREN. Babe, I applaud you for flaunting your junk like that. I won't wear a bathing suit in public. But seriously, maybe you shouldn't, either. (Oh, and you should see an aesthetician about the, uh, hair. They have ways to take care of that, uh, hair.) 

Or the kids whose mothers bring chips and cheeseburgers, or foreign foods that smell like dead sea life, and they spill it all over -- the table, the floor, the chairs -- and then they go into the pool too soon after eating and they BARF, like the kid did in the shallow end of the big pool, so all the lesson classes had to move into the wave pool until the chunks were filtered and the water was shocked with enough chlorine to make a respectable bomb.

When headed to the pool, I take work with me. I try to read. But I can't stop watching. All of this life going on around me. Writers watch. All of it.

If you're a writer, I challenge you to do this very thing: go to a public place and then write down EVERYTHING YOU SEE. If you're a reader, I ask you to appreciate that while you're walking through the mall picking your underwear out of your butt, I'll probably see it and add it to a character some day.

And now that you are lost up this stream of consciousness without a paddle, I will share THIS:

Duckies from London Sarah. She sent me presents. I loves her. The little gold one is lip balm.

I was planning on talking about superstitions and why there are certain topics I will never write about, but while sitting atop this ladder to replace a broken mirror, a black cat strolled through with the remnants of my lucky rabbit's foot.

Share your summer stories. Go watch some people and report back. It's all grist for the mill, friends. Share, share, share.

Xs and Os ...

I'm Talking About Batman. I Know Not Why.

Any Batman fans out there? Who's anxiously awaiting the release of Dark Knight Rises?

I kind of am, I have to admit. That makes me a geek, right? Christian Bale's hot, though. Like, smokin'. And I had a dream a few months ago that I would be allowed to marry another husband, but ONLY if he's got the same name as my current husband, so I chose Gary Oldman, simply because I adore him, as well, AND he's Sirius Black (in the Harry Potter films for the uninitiated). In the dream, Husband #2, Mr. Oldman, was charming and very polite. Excited to meet my kids and Husband #1. Nothing kinky happened (bummer) but we did have a beer. That was nice. I do like beer now and again.

Brother husband. Yeah, right. Have you seen his WIFE? She's breathtaking.

Thing is, Husband #1 doesn't giggle so much when I tell him his Brother Husband is delightful. He sort of snorts and looks at me like I'm not quite right. (I get that a lot.) HEY, if that creepy blond dude from Utah can have sister wives -- wives, as in plural -- what's wrong with me wanting to have brother husbands? (No matter how you look at it. It's gross. One man. Four vajayjays. COOTIES!!!!!!)

Oh, and don't tell Mark Strong about Gary Oldman. I don't want him to get jealous or anything. *sigh* Le problems.

So back to Batman: who doesn't love Michael Caine? (Is he a sir yet? He should be.) Hans Zimmer, of course, is back behind the composer's podium -- DUDE IS A GENIUS AND I AM A SOUNDTRACK WHORE -- and Christopher Nolan has pulled out all the stops for this go-round with the rubber-suited protector of All the People. There's a great 13-minute featurette on YouTube HERE (11,000 extras at the Steelers stadium for the Gotham Rogues football scene? EPIC!). You're welcome. 

It does make my heart hurt a little to watch The Dark Knight because I am a huge Heath Ledger fan and he was so fantastic as the Joker. No, really, I feel pain. Chest pain. I think of his darling daughter Matilda and GOD HE WAS SO TALENTED and when I see Maggie Gyllenhaal's turn as Rachel Dawes, I can't help but wonder if her adorable brother Jakey (teamed up -- literally -- with Ledger in Brokeback Mountain, in case you forgot) visited and Jake and Heath had some raucous laughs between takes and it just sucks. Young people shouldn't die. It's not right.

The only thing -- Bale's throaty interpretation of Batman's voice makes me giggle every time I hear it (although I finally did get around to watching Terminator Salvation and he growled his way through that, too, so maybe that's just the thing that makes him so incendiary, despite the fact that TS sucked -- really? A digital Arnold Schwarzzenwhatever? Spare me. But OMG, Sam Worthington, how I adore thee. Hims adorable. Those eyes. He just looks like the sweetest child. He can do the dumbest films and I will still like him. I'll even forgive him for Clash of the Titans. Harry Hamlin forever!). Come on, right? Bale does sound sorta funny. "It's not a car." Really, Batman? You're growling again.

THE POINT HERE (yes, I'm nothing if not circuitous): The Batman trailer running every twelve minutes on network TV, the one with Catwoman/Selina Kyle, aka Anne Hathaway, hiding behind her masquerade decor, whispering in Bruce Wayne's ear?

She sounds like she's starving.

Hathaway reportedly has been shedding pounds in the last little while for this role and for her turn as Fantine in the upcoming cinematic reboot of Les Miserables (although the 1998 version with Liam Neeson, Claire Danes, Geoffrey Rush, and Uma Thurman was grand). Whenever I see the ad with Hathaway, and I hear her whispering, all I can think is:

SOMEONE GET THAT GIRL A CHEESEBURGER.

Here. Cheeseburger. Eat.

She's hungry. Can't you hear it? She's so WEAK from hunger, she can hardly speak! Seriously! I think she's going for sexy, but it ain't working -- it comes off as timid and lethargic and anemic. It screams to me, I haven't had a meal of more than a pea pod and some teardrops in weeks. Someone help me.

Hollywood, stop depriving your starlets of food! Anne, darling, that's what craft services is for. AT LEAST go get some Red Vines. They're free! No, really! Craft services is part of the film's budget! Come on, Anne, come to my house. We'll get some burgers, chocolate milkshakes, and cake, just so you don't disintegrate into dusty particles and float away while waiting for your next film to release. I'll go ahead and have some of those things for you, because I'm nice that way. Nom nom nom. That bite was for YOU, Anne Hathaway.

Enough about Batman. Although if you guys get to see it when it opens, leave a comment and tell me how epic it is. It will likely be weeks before I'm allowed out of my own Bat Cave to go to the ci-ne-ma. *sad face*

WHAT ARE YOU PEOPLE READING RIGHT NOW?

Xs and Os ...

In Which I Toe the Crazy Cat Lady Line ... and Stuff

First off, CONGRATULATIONS to my dear friend Angeline Kace for winning the Best Editing award at the first-ever utopYA Convention in Nashville, Tennessee.

Know why this is cool, beyond the fact that Angeline is a terrific human being worthy of All Things Great? Because I'm her editor. So, yeah. Sweet. 

**********

THIS lustrous Brown Lazy Domestic (Felis Brownus Lazyus Domesticus) almost died this weekend:

Damn, isn't he gorgeous? Even if you're not a cat person (loser), you have to temporarily suspend your anti-feline sentiment and understand how friggin' awesome this cat is. He's going to be 14 in October. And he STILL LOOKS THIS GOOD. Forget nine lives -- Kovu has some special deal with the gods because he has been through the shit and still manages to come out sparkly and brown and oh-so-soft on the other end. He's California born, suffered through his share of LA summers, and has since lived in Southern Oregon and British Columbia. (You can imagine his first introduction to snow. And go figure how the hell he's dodged the coyotes who regularly pick off lesser neighborhood cats.) His adventures with us started on a shaky foot -- the weird whistling neighbor lady who gifted a mewling bundle of eight-week-old brown fluff didn't bother to tell us that he had ringworm (Tinea corporis), which, for the record, is NOT a worm. It's a fungus. And people can get it. Because we did. THANKS, PSYCHO WHISTLING NEIGHBOR LADY, for giving us a cat with a communicable disease.

After a month of quarantine in a tiny room in the garage, twice-daily pills shoved down his little kitten throat, and regular application of the stinkiest antifungal "lotion," he was cured. (If you spend any time in our house, you know that one of Kovu's many nicknames is Stinky. From this dark time in his wee life. Poor cat.) 

And then, once recovered ... we learned The Truth. Kovu was meaner than hell. We had a tall IKEA cabinet in our bedroom, atop which I'd stored a few of my young daughter's oversized stuffed animals (stuffies, for our Canadian readers). Kovu would hide in between them, camouflaged, and wait for us to walk in, at which time he would launch himself from the 10' tall cabinet and embed his tiny kitten nails into your head. And then he'd eat whatever hair he could sink his milk teeth into. BASTARDO, seriously!

When Yaunna was ten, she heard Kovu fighting with a neighbor cat. Not thinking, she ran out to rescue him. Upon picking him up, he flayed her arm. Should've gotten stitches but the doc said no. Sweet little Yaunna still has nerve damage in the back of her hand from the holes rendered by Kovu's very adult fangs. (Dumb kid for picking up a warring cat, but we've had that lecture.) I tried to find the photo from that fateful day, but maybe it's best I can't. It's pretty gory.

Alas, he's all grown up now. No longer ventures out of doors, except on sunny days. Pretty sure he sees ghosts, and he will randomly start talking in the hallway and chasing his own tail, so I'm constantly asking him if he senses zombies or Republicans. (Same thing.) He is OBSESSED with those Temptations cookies and will sometimes come to me, while I sit at my desk, and embed his razor-sharp claws that he won't let me trim into the meat of my fleshy calf to say, "You. Woman. It's time for my cookies. Get thee to the cookie drawer." When he's not shredding my fat in pursuit of wholesome treats, he is otherwise known as the Ovary Warmer. Sometimes the Spleen Warmer. Because he effing SLEEPS ON ME. I've got a snoring husband on the left, and a freakish cat on my torso. It's safe for you to therefore assume that I am a woeful insomniac. But him's soooooo cute, how can I move hims? 

This sums up the hierarchy. Fat Beagle, YOU SHALL NOT PASS. Merrowww.

I'm sorry for talking so much about my cat. I point and laugh at people who do this. But Kovu had a stomach thing that started last week, and by Friday night, as I was force-feeding him water through a dosing syringe. I thought he was on his last legs.

As of this morning, he is alive and taunting his much-larger Maine Coon brother, Eskimo. When I say, "Kovu, get the kitty," and he gets that glint in his eye, his whiskers twitch, and he goes in search of some kitty ass to kick, I know he's on the mend. Meee-owwww.

Thanks, Kovu, for living to see another day. You rock. Mommy loves you. Now come over here and keep my spleen warm.

*********

In other news, I've started writing for this site:

They cover cool art/artists and designers, hot architecture, and stuff that inspires. Check it out when you get a chance. (I'm even on the About page now! So legit!)

For my other gig, LitStack, come August I'm going to be reviewing Chuck Wendig's NEWEST BOOK, Mockingbird, and interviewing him. AGAIN! OMIGOD SO STOKED. Total fangirl moment here. Only I have to think of shit to ask him. He's, like, a million times funnier than me. I can't even think of anything funny to say at this exact moment because I am awed by the mere thought of his funny. My funny has frozen, like a deer in the headlights. A drunk deer. Or maybe it's a deer on bath salts (so by default, he's from Florida), but if that were the case, the deer would chase you down and eat you. That would be weird. NO BATH SALTS FOR THE DEER.

**********

My kids start summer school tomorrow. Well, the Young Lads do. Mean Mommy. But it's a cool option that the school district offers -- a 17-day preview of the coming grade. One's doing 6th grade math, the other 3rd grade reading/writing (because he's going to be a better writer than me very soon). And that means I GET THREE WHOLE HOURS A DAY without children whining at me about the fact that we're out of Froot Loops and chocolate milk again. Hey, I get hungry. Sue me.

**********

The baby turned eight on Saturday. Which means I am getting old (because it's all about me). Here is a birthday collage Big Sister did to honor the little fella's special day. 

Omigod, he's eight. That means I'm 29.

Happy birthday, PianoMan. We heart you.

Now someone write to me and tell me what they're doing this summer besides working. I need to live vicariously.

Xs and Os, lovelies ...

Cupcakes and Commanauts. And a PRESENT for ME!

Something is afoot. Though I know not what. My page views have been putt-putt-putting along and then today? Out of the park! What did I do to make people stop by? Did I fart in public and someone posted it on YouTube? Not possible ... I rarely go out in public. The light -- it burns us! Nor do I fart. (Okay, sometimes I fart. But I never take the fall.) So ... not sure what's happening, but THANK YOU for stopping by. Now I should say something entertaining.

This is not original. Stolen from Facebook. But it's damn funny. And if you're a writer, there is no greater release than killing someone or something, as long as you hug your cat or eat an Oreo after you're done. It's what you do after the fact that maintains the distinction between fantasy and fiction. (At least that's what my therapist said.)

So ... busy week. Oldest daughter graduated from high school last weekend; the two Young Lads had a packed calendar that included a teddy bear picnic, a year-end-5th-graders-are-bouncing-this-baby-school leaving party (for which I totally made cupcakes AND frosted the little bastards -- Mother of the Year over here -- if you knew how rarely I cook anything, you'd understand what a selfless feat this was), and a bout of a stomach bug on Friday night. We decided that our long week of heavy lifting should be duly rewarded with a dessert of film, so at a rather late hour, we ordered up Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows -- which was a fun romp except for the fact that Lord Blackwood (Mark Strong) was not in it and that made me So Sad -- when the vomit Olympics commenced. Forever more, Holmes will have "bleeeeeeeeeeahhhhh *splash* Mommmmmmy!" as part of its soundtrack, embedded in my mind for all eternity. (That, by the way, is the sound of someone vomiting, the subsequent splash into the toilet, and the tearful cry for me. Being the mom is AWESOME.)

Mmmmm, cupcakes. 

AND -- speaking of awesome, undying gratitude for Most Deliriously Fantastic Present of the Week goes to Heidi at The Readiacs. THIS is what she sent me:

JOHN GREEN SIGNED THIS BOOK. *swoons*
He's my hero. Dude can make words, I'm telling you ...

The REASON this is so cool -- Heidi is a blogger who is always doing something cool and related to either books or movies. She went to Book Expo America '12 and saw that Green was signing, so she waited in line and scored THIS PRIZE for me. Not only is she endlessly thoughtful and shiny, but she has great taste in friends. *wink* (Last week her exploits took her to LA to watch edits of Breaking Dawn Pt. 2. As they were happening. She stayed in Hollywood and dined with vampires. I'm telling you -- she gets to do the funnest most fun stuff!)


So this signed book -- it goes without saying that I am a HUGE John Green fan. If you haven't read his work, time's a'wastin'. He's a masterful fellow, a genius with dialogue, super smart (so much so that some folks call him pretentious, but I say, if you have a brain that big and wrinkly, use it!), and he writes characters with an unrivaled depth. THIS book, The Fault In Our Stars, will likely make you cry, so beware. It's brilliant. Rumor has it, it's in development for a film (gossip here) as Fox 2000 snatched up the rights months ago, although I wasn't able to find anything on IMDB Pro. Who knows what's happening with it. It should at least have an in-development listing, but these Hollywood types ... SO fickle. REGARDLESS, get thee to a bookery. You can thank me later.

In addition to working like the good little bee I am -- two manuscripts finished, two more on the table -- I did this:

Actually, I decided to try out the freebie Wix.com software to see if I could put together a proper Website for my editing stuff (mostly because I'm cheap and super tired of paying for shit that doesn't live up to its promises. iWeb? Lookin' at you, dude ...). Pretty easy to use, especially if you're not familiar with coding and all that nerd speak that developers throw around. (I swear they do it to make me feel like a jackass.) Then I asked my Facebook lovelies for help with a title, and my girl Adrienne Crezo, a fantabulous writer of All Things Brilliant (she writes for friggin' Mental Floss, yo!), gave me the title. It was way catchier than my lame attempts at clever irreverence. Once the name was settled upon, I employed Husband the Artiste to draw me a "commanaut" with his spaceship, and then Photoshop and I had a pissing match for a few hours until I got what I wanted. I think it's cute. Whatever. It'll get the job done. And it was way more fun than pacing the floor or rearranging the sock drawers, two pastimes pursued when I inevitably get stuck on yet another unfinished scene and I fall, head first, onto the keyboard and dream of unicorns and Mark Strong. Often, Mark Strong on the unicorn. Not a bad way to pass the time. He's pretty. *pets the Mark Strong*

Oh, and I finished this:

Good book. Jordan is a talented scribe. Heady stuff, though -- this isn't light, feel-good reading. It addresses a lot of deep-seated issues about identity and a person's place within society, the danger of extreme fundamentalism within an otherwise civilized society, and posits a very clever way to deal with criminals, one I think the government should look into. LOL ... Overall, fascinating concept, terrifying reality. Nathaniel Hawthorne would be proud of Jordan's homage to his work.


THIS WEEK, I also received an awesome "fan" message from a talented Oahu artist named Jamie Lynne Swim -- she totally said so much nice stuff. About me. I KNOW, right? Poor deluded child. Anyway, seeing that she has such terrific taste in books and writers, you guys should totally go check out her art: www.jamieswimart.com. And then go like her on Facebook. Art is GOOD! And I love her stuff!

Beyond that: no news that I can share yet. Will be heading into the revision cave in about four weeks. In the meantime, I'm ever on the lookout for things we can make fun of. OH, and starting daring new projects that likely will never be finished. I'm nothing if not consistent with my inconsistency.

The children are out of school in three-point-five days. You GUYS -- SEND HELP.

Xs and Os ...

Prom -- or grad -- or commencement -- GAH!

How was your weekend?

This was what mine looked like (even though it's not yet over -- I cannot post a photo of what today looks like because there might be small children in the room, and I'm not into scaring small children. "Mommy! Who IS that scary monster? Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!"). We're tired around these parts. For good reason.

THIS ... is my daughter. Not at all a scary monster.

Yes. She's gorgeous. Thank you.

Yesterday was prom. Or grad. See, in Canada, they do it differently than in the U.S. Grad = prom. Commencement = grad. Ergo, I am totally confused. 

They don't call it prom here. Well, some folks do, but I am handily corrected every time I use the wrong word. (The youngsters tend to use "prom"; their parents say, "It's grad!" And those parents are not shy about correcting my misnomer. SHEESH! The pressure! When I moved to Canada, I thought I spoke the language. I was so wrong. "Toque" (sounds like tewk) = "winter hat." "Gaunch" = "men's underwear." "Grade 1" = "first grade." They don't call them "freshman/sophomore/junior/senior"; high school students are called "grade 9s, grade 10s, grade 11s, grade 12s." They know I'm a Yankee the minute I open my mouth, and no it's not because I tend to be louder and more aggressive than everyone else. It's not my fault that some people think and speak slower than I do. Maybe they should start the day with more sugar, and then they'd be able to keep UP.)

So, now that we're all speaking Canadian, this weekend was grad, with the after-grad party (that was supposed to be dry but, uh, yeah, sure no one showed up drunk), and next weekend is commencement. That's where the cap and gowns come in. It's official graduation, or commencement, even though the Wee Lassie has to go back to school for two exams the week following commencement. That's lame. When they give you the diploma, you should be done. Growed up. Movin' on. Sayonara, suckas. 

Now time for more photos, because it was just that much fun:

The dress.

The corsage. Pretty orchids.

The mommy and the baby. Please excuse my lion hair. I was running around like a crazy person,
setting up photography equipment, trying to capture Every Single Moment. And it was muggy. Thus, frizz.

This is the question we get a lot. "What grade are you in, sweetheart?" People always bend over when they ask her this question, as though bending over will make sure she can hear them. 

My kid is short, not deaf. And if she were deaf, she can't read your lips because you have onion breath. (Her sense of smell would be heightened by the loss of hearing. They say that happens -- other senses improve to compensate for the lack. Thus, she can smell that you had onions for lunch. Here, have a breath mint.)

The question she hates even more than that? "Would you like a kids' menu?" Or how about "Would you like some crayons to keep you busy before dinner comes?" I love that question the most, especially when it's asked by hostesses younger than Yaunna. Uh-huh. I giggle. Then Yaunna punches me. She's mightier than she looks. 

Oh, and when she wears eye makeup? That's awesome. You should SEE some of the looks I get from Judgey McJudgersons who look at her and then look at me, like I'm some shit mother because my young/tween-aged daughter is wearing eye makeup. SHE'S ALMOST NINETEEN. GET OVER YOURSELVES. And before you get all nasty with your condescension, look at your own 15-year-old who is posting photos on Facebook of her chubbily-wubbily boobs smooshed against the Webcam with her duck lips and wine cooler she stole from your fridge because you took the blue-smoke-wheezing Camaro out for a joyride and ended up at the casino to play the one-armed bandits. Yeah. JUDGEY. (And seriously? Wine coolers? Is this 1987?)

My daughter has a growth condition (I have her permission to chat about this) called Turner syndrome. As such, she's tiny -- 4'8-1/2" is where she's at now, and that's where she'll stay. THAT is why we call her the House Elf, the Gnome, Mini-Honey, Mighty Mouse. It's not because we're being mean. It's because she's little, and she owns it. Rarely do you find a personality so big in a package so small. (Oh, and she blogs about all things entertainment.)

What does this mean? It means that I am NEUROTIC about her going anywhere alone. If I could afford to hire a full-time bodyguard/chauffeur, I so would. If I could convince her older Army brother to move to BC with his crazy muscles and mean streak and killer skills with hand-to-hand combat and weaponry, just so he could be her shadow, I would. Because the world is a mean place. And she's very little. Even though she's the oldest in her HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATING CLASS. In four months, she'll be old enough to walk into any Canadian bar and order a drink (drinking age here is 19). With alcohol. Yeah, that's going to be fun to watch. We're probably going to have to take her birth certificate and passport with us.

I'll take pictures of the waitress's face.

So, Yaunna, cheers to you, from me and all my bloggity-blogging friends, and YES, on June 16th, you are officially a grown-up; yes, you have to get a job; yes, you have to go to college; and yes, we promise to be there for you every step of the way. Unless you buy a Camaro and start drinking wine coolers and going to the casino and shoving your boobs into the Webcam. Then you're on your own.

Senior, er, grad photos. Fuzzy as it's a picture of a picture. To buy this CD of images? $300. Not gonna happen.

More photos next week. At grad. I mean, commencement. WHATEVER.

Xs and Os ...

 

On MEMORY Glands and How I Got an Agent

So we start today's edition with a little story. If you don't want a story, scan down to the bold title BOOK NEWS, OR HOW I GOT AN AGENT.

As you may or may not be aware, depending on how invested you are in this blog and if we're friends in real life or on Facebook (which is real life to me, full of coworkers and water coolers and all those awesome pictures of cats), I have kids. And with kids comes all those inevitable questions because kids are curious little buggers. They like to know stuff, some more than others. Some are quiet observers, content to learn handy facts by watching and soaking it all in like a little sponge of imminent genius, while others want to know everything. Right. Now.

That would be my youngest kid. Kendon. Oh, the questions!

Cute kid, no?

As happens in a busy household with too few square feet to accommodate all the stuff and people, a then-3-year-old Kendi walked in on his dad in the bathroom. "Oh, my God, you have a furry wiener!" That day, Kendon learned about pubic hair. Of course, this was the ignition for a spate of uproarious laughter that spread like wildfire through the house, and soon his then-6-year-old brother was in on the game. "Dad has a furry wiener! Dad has a furry wiener!" Like good, mature, reasonable parents should do, we explained, "Yes, boys, one day you too will have furry wieners." No, I did not launch into a mini-lecture in which I used all the scientifically approved nomenclature because saying penis out loud still makes me giggle. Although I am becoming less sensitized as my sons grow older and they use penis like another person might say hello. Boys like their junk. They like to talk about their junk. I am dreading the day where I will be changing their sheets and find stiffened wads of Kleenex haphazardly shoved between the bedspread and the wall, because apparently that is what I am to expect from teenage boys, if the friends of mine who are mothers to now-adult boys are correct. They're warning me. I'm scared. La-la-la-la, I can't hear you! Gahhhhhh!

Bodily functions aside, I was changing yesterday and Kendon burst into my room when I was, uh, au naturel. This is how it went down:

Me: "Kendi, go out before you see my furry wiener!"

K: "Mom, you don't have a furry wiener. You have intestines, otherwise known as a vagina."

Me: [laughing, gulping for air, cannot speak] "Um, no. Not the same thing."

K: "And I can see your boobies."

Me: [seeing an opportunity to educate as I quickly cover up and try to scramble into a bra because we have to be at school in, like, eight minutes] "Kendi, these are also called mammary glands. All mammals have them. They're meant to feed babies. Like when you were a baby."

K: "They're called MEMORY glands? Does that mean you store all your memories there?" [runs out of room] "Brennan! Brennan! Mom keeps all her memories in her boobs!"

Yeah. That's how the morning went. SEE why I don't use big-girl words? SEE what happens when I try to be clever and mature and sound intelligent? Thank you very much!

Mommy, where did I come from?
Well, first there's a mommy duck and a daddy duck ...

Onward.

BOOK NEWS, OR HOW I GOT AN AGENT

Book news first: For those of you who want to know what's happening with Book 2, I posted a note on FB yesterday that explains it all. To recap:

Hey, lovelies! Thank you to my friends who've e-mailed and waited SO patiently for me to give you updates about Book 2. A few weeks ago on That Magical Day, I posted a comment about my exciting news, but I wanted to post here again in case some folks missed it. I am now working with an agent, and there are some fantastic developments happening to both SLEIGHT (there's a NEW VERSION!) and the second book, which has been given a name that I can't tell you yet. I know that's sort of good and yucky news all at once, but I think you'll like what's happening. I can’t wait to share more exciting news with you soon, so bear with me! ♥

Which leads me to the next segment, How I Got an Agent. That Magical Day, for me, was May 14. But that date in itself is totally misleading. Here's why, and some of this will be a rehash of events from a long-ago post about why I decided to self-publish, but whatever:

On Easter Sunday 2010--yes, 2010--I started querying Sleight, or a version of what would become Sleight. The very first agent I queried, one Daniel Lazar at Writers House--my DREAM agent--came back within a few hours and asked for a full. Suzie Townsend (then still at FinePrint, now at Nancy Coffey) came back either that night or the next morning, also asking for a full. I WAS SO EXCITED.

By Monday of the following week (so, eight days later), I had two very polite rejections, about four million more to go. (Daniel's actually came in on the prior Friday, five days after sending him the full. He is amazingly expeditious, always courteous, and consummately professional.)

So I rewrote the book, tweaked the areas that I was hearing feedback about, and sent it to Daniel again in April, because he said I could. Again, he said thanks but not quite right.

I rewrote again, found some critique partners and beta readers, made more changes.

In September, I sent the book to Random House Canada because a former mentor of mine is the director of publishing, and I was feeling very brave so I asked her if she would look at it.

Three months later, on/around December 12, 2010, she sent me the sweetest rejection anyone could ask for. Devastated, I hid under my blankets for about a week and swore I would never, ever write anything again.

When that Eeyore state wore off, I started considering publishing it myself, which I did, and you can find much about that grand adventure by scouring earlier posts, if you should care to do so.


SO -- here's the meat: Last summer, I just wasn't ready to let go of The Dream of being an agented writer. I should note: This is NOT A COMMENTARY on traditional vs. self-publishing. This is my own personal thing, based on what was right for me. I tried self-publishing and found it extremely challenging. I am not a marketer, not a natural-born salesperson. Spending all that time on Facebook and Twitter was wearing me out, and absolutely no writing was happening. Besides, no one wants to hear 45 tweets a day about your book. They just don't. Some writers are naturals when it comes to establishing a brand and self-promotion. I am NOT one of those people, which sucks for me. I still have a lot to learn.


As such, I e-mailed Dan Lazar again, and said, Hey, look, I did this myself, lots of good reviews, folks are very positive, steady sales over the first three months of release, blah blah blah, and he sent me a response that would change everything: 


"Raise the bar, Jenn."


He referred me to a few freelance editors. I picked the one he said he "adored" and a killer friendship was born. We started rewriting on August 1, and by rewriting, I mean 

I started with a blank page and rewrote the entire book from scratch. 

Yes. It pretty much looked like this.

I had a "finished" draft by my kids' last day of school in December. Revisions continued into 2012, January through May, with editorial input from Dan and his incredible assistant and my darling editor. We fixed and tweaked and completely reworked the story to the point where there was nothing more we could do and we felt we had the shiniest, most beautiful draft we could imagine. In short, I've worked my ass off.


And THAT was the day when Dan sent me the e-mail that said, "Let's make this official."


I hyperventilated, bouncing like a freak in my chair. My sons thought I was going into cardiac arrest. I might have but instead I needed to get them to school. I didn't have time for a heart attack, only to pull my hair into a sloppy ponytail and race to the school turnaround so the boys wouldn't be late. (Kendon turns into that creature pictured above when he's late. Single-handedly, the child cured me of my lifelong chronic tardiness. My former bosses would be so pleased!)


Then the folly started. Uh, who knew that the phone line in my house was dead? NOT ME. We don't use the house phone (although we still pay for it because we're stupid like that), but no one knew that the line is actually NOT FUNCTIONING until I had this Very Important Document I needed to fax to New York City. OMIGOD! After a serious freak-out that involved sending multiple texts to my husband, each with increasing evidence that I was going to lose my mind, and considering all my local friends who might have functioning fax machines and/or phone lines in their homes, I connected my daughter's laptop to my printer because -- duh, my Mac and my printer hate each other so forget about scanning anything -- I scanned the document and sent it off. PHEW! Crisis averted!


The next step? Likely more revisions, and then submission. And that, my friends, will be a whole new story all unto itself. Stay tuned.

This. Because it's pretty. Thanks,
Catherine Dumont, for coffee.

The LESSON YOU SHOULD TAKE FROM THIS:

If tenacity is not part of your genetic makeup, it's time to rethink being a writer.

Of course, that doesn't mean that you should be the "I won't take no for an answer" bunghole who doesn't get it when agents and editors and readers are telling you that your book sucks. If it sucks, FIX IT. Don't keep beating a dead horse. Don't become so enamored with your own ego that you are unwilling to take the advice of professionals in the industry, or more importantly, FROM READERS. If your collection of 1- and 2-star reviews on Goodreads and Amazon outnumbers the 3-, 4-, and 5-stars, you might want to rethink things a tiny bit. Just because your mom liked your book doesn't mean the rest of the world will. Your mom LOVES you. She's going to see you through her fuzzy Mom glasses. Truth. (I have several pairs.)


There's a lot of stuff floating around the Web about people who hate agents, people who hate the Big Six, people who hate self-publishers, authors attacking reviewers, reviewers attacking authors, ALL THAT JAZZ. It doesn't matter. None of that shit matters. Tune it out. 

Do what feels best for you, regardless of what the masses are screaming about.

What DOES matter is your book, your story, how you want the world to perceive you as a writer and as a human being. Write a good book. Know when your good book needs work so it can become a great book. Be nice. Don't be douchey to other writers or to the bloggers and reviewers, WHO YOU NEED LIKE YOU NEED AIR. (Remember: lose the ego. The world doesn't hate you.)


Will I self-publish again? Absolutely. Many successful writers have their feet in both pools. I don't need to provide you with a list because you likely already know who they are. It's a business model that is very attractive, especially if you're a fast writer with lots of material. While I am not one of those souls (*sighs with envy*) for a variety of reasons, as evidenced by the fact that it has taken four years of my life to birth Sleight, it does work for a lot of folks. A lot of writers are making great livings off of their self- or independently published work. Don't knock it till you try it.


But Jenn, we LIKED the first book. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO US? What about the sequel?


Because I wanted more, for you and for the story and for me as a writer. When initial feedback started to flow in, I felt I could do better. Did I publish prematurely? No. I published when I felt I had a strong book. Did publishing that version lead me to an amazing opportunity? YES. For me, it was a major help to work with someone with the credentials and the experience to show me what was wrong, and where I could do better. I will forever be indebted to Daniel and my editor for showing me the err of my ways, and proud of myself for losing the ego and recognizing that I COULD DO BETTER. Had I met my editor before March 2011, I would've published a completely different book. Alas, that's not how things worked out. 


As for Book 2, the sequel has been renamed, but it's a seeeeeekret. (I have several of those! OMIGOD! KILLING ME!) I can't tell you yet. But I will. PROMISE.


For those of you worried about how different Sleight 2.0 will be, don't. Worry, that is. Yes, there are changes. It's a whole new book. Some folks who died in the original version don't die in this one, and vice versa. The circus plays a much bigger role (NO SCARY CLOWNS, I PROMISE!), and all the usual suspects are still very much present: Gemma and Henry and LUCIAN (mmm-mmm-good) and Ash and Junie and Summer and Gertrude and Jiminy and Othello and Ted and Marlene and Irwin. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.


When will we get to see it?


I'm gonna have to get back to you on that. In the meantime, eat an Oreo. Oreos make everything better.

Brought to you courtesy of my lovelies, Angeline and Heather.
AMERICAN OREOS!!!

Until next time ...

Xs and Os