Sunday, April 29, 2012

Chores are lame and Top Ten list ...

'Tis Sunday. I am feeling fearless. And caffeinated. As such, I am wearing THIS, thanks to my darling friend Heather Hildenbrand, who delighted me with a marvelous and unexpected package a few weeks back:

Honey badger's gonna strip your skin and dine on your flesh. Notice my very sweet tattoos.
Yesterday was Saturday. Saturday is chore day. Long-time habit that I have carried forward like a bad debt into this modern life. I friggin' hate chores. I throw temper tantrums. I storm around the house. I harrumph and whine and snivel and complain about stupid, nasty chores like Gollum on a bender (at which time I am reminded by the Voice in My Head that I am just lucky to have a house to clean when there are so many who do not. BLAH BLAH BLAH.) Suck it.

When I was a tween and teen, Mother Dear had very strict rules about chores. Hell, daily dishes took two people an hour each to do (beyond washing the dishes, we had to clean the fronts of the cupboards, wash down the appliances and stove hood, clean the inside of the fridge and microwave, sweep and mop the floor, garbage out, recycling sorted, every single night -- it took forever. You're playing your pity violin for me now, aren't you ... ). There were so many things to do, she wrote them on cue cards and had them secured safe and sound in a little wooden recipe box that we were to consult, and then wipe down, every night. Lame.

Told you it was lame.

Anyway, like I said, chores suck, which is contradictory to my love of clean. Clean feet, clean hands, clean floors, clean everything. My body parts have memory. Touch a dirty handle, a debit PIN pad, or the gas pump, my hands remember until I get can get them Purell'd. Walk around without socks, my feet remember every speck of slop until I can get them washed. (In sock-free months, I wash my feet multiple times in a day. Maybe I was Hindu in my last life.) 

However, I do like chores when I find fun things, like missing cell phone chargers, pencils with fresh erasers (awesome), money (even more awesome), my only belt that's been missing for weeks (hence my dragging pants), unmatched socks ... Yesterday, there was a bonus in the pile: I found a list of possible topics for blog posts that I made a few years ago. I think I may have written it while drunk because I found it funny sober. And yes, you Judgey McJudgers, I have cleaned more than once in the last few years -- EVERY SATURDAY, REMEMBER? This list just happened to be stuffed in the pages of a journal that is perpetually untouched--I have a therapist; why do I need a journal?--under the leaning tower of books on my nightstand. You guys have those, too, right? Stacks of books that you're GOING to read when you get a spare few years? I had three such stacks in my room. They were toppling. Time to cut the cord and add them to the shelves in the living room. I promise I won't forget to read you, books ... Don't be sad. Mommy still loves you.

This sideways pile is on my desk, but there are others. Everywhere.
For one of these topics on the list, I actually wrote down more than just the idea. Bullet points, actually. (Again, likely drunk.) I will now share these with you as you might find them helpful. And I want nothing more in this life than to say that I helped someone, even if it means they have to lie through their teeth and steal money from their kids' piggy banks. I give you the tools; you design the execution. 

But I should preface this list, Top Ten Ways to Rid Yourself of Company, In No Particular Order with a little honesty: we never have company. It's been a long time. I guess no one likes us. Which is fine. I get very antsy when folks are in my space. I can't check e-mail obsessively or create genius when there are folks wanting to talk about the failed Canucks season or if it's ever going to warm up. (No, it's never going to warm up. We live in BC. Deal.)

So without further ado, I give you, Top Ten Ways, etc., inspired by true-life events.


10. "Don't mind the roaches. Just leave the light on. They hate light."

9. "I've got this weird rash. The doctor said the smear was positive, but he's pretty sure it's not the flesh-eating variety."

8. "That noise? That's just the teen gangs at the juvenile hall dance tonight. Don't worry -- they only slash tires on street-parked cars on Fridays."

7. "That's the neighbor with the massive crossbow collection. Don't make eye contact!"

6. "You thought we had running water? No, I said we had water running through the yard! It's from the septic. Backed up again."

5. "You want to see our cat skull collection?"

4. Look at your company and ask: "What's for dinner? I could make hamburgers, but I told you about that rash ..."

3. "Check out this porn site -- it's free! And all those animals are legal. They have a rep from the ASPCA on set."

2. "Ever made a snuff film?"

1. "Your timing is perfect. My Star Trek club meets here in half an hour!"

And a bonus, just in case these don't work: "You guys swing, right?"

You. Are. Welcome.

Xs and Os ...

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

WENDIG! In which I review AND interview ... is this real life?

Morning, lovelies.

Yes, yes, I know. Two posts in under a week. I AM ON A ROLL. (Speaking of rolls, wanna go for donuts ...? I'm freakin' starving. What -- donuts and rolls are related. Right? Hell, in my world, everything's related to donuts.)

So, YEAH -- about a year ago, I stumbled upon a blog that is an equal ratio of awesome and paint thinner, and I became a rabid-bordering-on-stalkerish follower of everything the blog's owner had to say. As you may or may not know, I occasionally review books for LitStack.com, a fine site for all things bookish. I'd review more books, but book reviews take a lot out of me. Like, a lot. I can't eat the donuts fast enough or maintain my coffee-to-blood quotient, even with a straw, to compensate for the energy I lose when I write a book review. 

"But, Jenn, that's so lame -- I write a book review every single day on my blog."

Well, that's because you're better at it than me. Or at the very least, faster. Because my book reviews are pretty awesome, I must say. (Aaaaaaand I think I just pulled a muscle patting myself on the back. Just put a donut on it. Maple eases cramps. Ahhhhh, perfect, thanks.)

No, what I mean is, I try to review awesome books. I've read a lot of books in the last few years that I never mentioned another word about. Why? 'Cuz they sucked. I'm a hypocrite, I know -- a reviewer is supposed to provide positive AND negative feedback so that book buyers know what to grab and what to slide past. But ... I'm also a writer, and I don't need to piss off other writers by coming out and saying, "Well, yeah, this and that and this other thing really sucked about this book." Can you imagine the lynching? It's bad enough that I've made such fun of a certain writer of sparkling vampires. (Dude, I totally can't help it.) Maybe when I have a real career behind me, I can rip and shred without impunity. But for now, I provide what are more aptly called "recommendations" as I don't want you to waste time nor pennies on suckage. Life's too short. Pennies are too hard to come by. And I am super hard to please. I just am. I was born that way.

THE POINT IS (God, this used to piss my ex-husband off, how I ramble circuitously -- of course, the fact that he didn't know what the word "circuitous" meant is one of the reasons we're divorced. Well, that and the fact that he cheated on me ... oopsie!), is that the Amazing Blog Dude I mentioned above wrote a BOOK, and his publicist sent LitStack a review copy with the option of an interview on the side. Then my editor, a charmer named Tee, e-mailed and said, "Hey, who wants this?" And I jumped up and down in my chair, arm almost reaching the cobwebs on the ceiling light fixture (I have long arms), bouncing so hard one of the screws fell out of the bottom of said chair and I tumbled to the ground and chipped a tooth and impaled my cheek on the dislodged screw. But it didn't MATTER because I wanted Tee to pick ME.

And she did! Yay, me!

So, CHUCK WENDIG wrote a book, called Blackbirds. Here's the summary from his publisher Angry Robot

Miriam Black knows when you will die. She’s foreseen hundreds of car crashes, heart attacks, strokes, and suicides.

But when Miriam hitches a ride with Louis Darling and shakes his hand, she sees that in thirty days Louis will be murdered while he calls her name. Louis will die because he met her, and she will be the next victim.

No matter what she does she can’t save Louis. But if she wants to stay alive, she’ll have to try.

And in response to this book, I wrote a REVIEW, found on LitStack.com. 

When you're done with the review, done with sprinting to Amazon to buy the book, then you can read the INTERVIEW. Why? Because I ask really important, mind-blowing questions and Chuck is, well, fabulous. (Although, I must admit, the guy from LitReactor did a better job with his interview. GAWD! SUCKS! I NEED CHAPSTICK! Aaaaand, scene. Thank you, Napoleon Dynamite!)

Guys, DISCLAIMER (if you need more warning than what the review provides for you): Chuck Wendig sees the world through a rather twisted lens, and his comedy is not for those of you who blush and say, "Oh my, that boy is so rude" whilst cooling yourself with your Delta Burke-inspired, Georgia-peach, articulated fan. That is why I think he is my long-lost brother and I am his long-forgotten, not-nearly-as-funny, slightly-older sister who was left at the Orphanage of Funny-looking Babies. Hey, we all have idols, right? Even though it's against God's law? Admit it. You want your ass to look as good as Beyonce's, your wife to look at you like I look at Mark Strong, your words to flow like [insert favorite author here]. IDOLS. YOU'VE GOT THEM. You're stronger for confessing. Here, have a donut.

So, yeah ... there you have it. PROOF that I do indeed work. There is other proof, but I can't show it to you yet because a proper girl never shares her secrets. You're just going to have to take my word for it.

Xs and Os ...

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

New novel by comrade Heather Hildenbrand: WHISPER

Howdy, friends ... 

So I don't ordinarily do this, simply because I don't have time and I don't think of it until it's too late and 'cuz mostly I just don't like to pimp books on the blog as not all my friends are book junkies.

HOWEVER: My dear, darling friend Heather has a new book out. It's called Whisper, and it's a very special story about a girl named, uh, Whisper, who is learning to live again in the face of overwhelming, life-altering tragedy. It's sad, but heartfelt and real.

"But, Jenn, there are lots of stories like that. If I want to read something that will make me cry, I'll pick up The Notebook or any other sapfest by Nicholas Sparks. Besides, crying is overrated. It makes mascara run and noses swell and turn red."

Sometimes it's necessary, though. My girl Heather--she's cool. We met online last year when I started out with Sleight, and became fast friends. We're a threesome--Heather Hildenbrand, Angeline Kace, and me--who've become buddies, dare I say "book sisters," and they're the first gals I turn to when I'm in between therapy appointments. Yes, they're that lovely.

Last year, Heather announced she was pregnant, due in December. Naturally Ang and I were thrilled for Heather and her family, and for the duration of 2011, we eagerly awaited updates from prenatal visits and news of a kicking baby and photos of Heather's swollen feet and the nursery preparations and even received an invite to the baby shower, though it was held in Virginia, a long ways from me.

In December Heather was scheduled for a C-section. We were ecstatic as the days closed in on Herman's birthday ... and then it was upon us. We waited for news, stalked Facebook and Twitter, e-mailed back and forth: "Have you heard anything?" "No. Have you?" "Not yet." After hours of no news, Ang and I started to get nervous.

And then we found out why.

Known as Herman throughout the pregnancy, Tyler was born chubby and with a head full of black hair and the sweetest face ... and a massive heart problem.

He died five days later.

Heather has not been shy about this tragedy. She has handled it with grace and aplomb and the biggest balls I have ever seen on a woman who just lost her child. She has good days and bad days, but the most impressive thing is, she makes it through every single one of them and is stronger at the other end, even on days when she's not. It's truly remarkable that she is able to put one foot in front of the other, that she has not caved to her despair, that she cries when she's sad and yells when she's mad and hugs her kids and makes dinner and writes BOOKS ... all for Tyler. Because, as she says so eloquently on her blog, she wants to be the mom that Tyler would've wanted her to be.

In the few months since Tyler passed, Heather has been writing. Call it her salvation, if you want. I think she might be so bold as to refer to it as such. The product is Whisper, and it is unique in its depth and the very real way that the character deals with her own tragedy. It is a story for young adults--it's clean, i.e., no excessive swearing, no drinking/drugs/issues. It has supernatural elements, a genre that Heather is best known for, but underneath the magic and the legend is a girl who is in pain, who finds her way out of the shadows so that she may once again find peace. Boil this down, and the sugar left in the bottom of the pot is about moving forward. Just as Heather is doing every single day. Not forgetting, but adapting. Being the best Heather she can be.

We could all be so smart.

Whisper goes on sale April 19 for your e-reading devices. Heather's blog is HERE, or you can grab a copy via Amazon US or Amazon UK. Barnes & Noble is taking a little longer but I will add an edit at the bottom of this post when that link is available.


ADDENDUM: Barnes & Noble buyers can get Whisper HERE. Thank you!!!

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Bloggity blog blog ...

Gahhhh ... blogging ... I'm lying on the floor, writhing in agony. Can you see me? Look harder. See now? I know, right? And my shirt has a coffee stain on it, despite the fact that my coffee cup is empty, and dog hair is sticking to my sweater even though I JUST EFFING VACUUMED. Wait -- it's cat hair. I stand corrected. Though I'm not standing at all. I'm here, on the floor, writhing, twisting, dust-mopping with my man jeans and stained shirt (dammit, now I have a wedgie). This is so hard. God, what a whiny cow. Shut up, already. Digging ditches for my massacred family in a war-torn land is hard. Not being able to leave my apartment to get fresh water and medicine for my sick child for fear of being shot by government snipers is hard. What a damn baby. Get some perspective, woman. Sheesh.

Okay, FINE.

So ... The teachers in BC are on STRIKE. Yes, strike. As in, not in the classroom, carrying signs, protesting in front of our schools. As in, my kids are home, NOT in school where they should be learning stuff and burning energy and making/breaking important alliances that will carry them on to the next grade. Instead, they're home. Bored out of their ragged minds. Oh, and just in time for the two-week spring break that starts next Monday. Yes! Two weeks! Two weeks of "I'm bored," and "What are we doing today?" and "Can't we go do something outside? It's not raining ..." Two weeks of me getting shit-all done, unless I leave the house at night, which I did last night and it felt so good. Two weeks of making too many dumb meals in a day and the constant threat of playdates, which means all the cookies have to be hidden so that the friends don't eat said cookies. ("MINE!" Slap, slap. "GET AWAY, you little brat! You smell like cabbage!")

Don't hate on the teachers. It's a two-way street. Takes two to tango. Can't have one without the other. Two peas in a cash-strapped pod. Pick your cliche -- bottom line is, the government doesn't have (won't give up) the money to do what they should do to keep the classroom numbers manageable, to give special needs kids their, well, special needs, and to give the teachers the 15 percent raises they want over the next three years. I am not going to get political on this because, while I have my opinions, they are mine alone and sadly uninformed. Plus, I'm friends with a number of the teachers at my sons' school, and they're awesome folks. Just lovely.

The thing that SUCKS ROCKS, though, is the job action. My kids are a bit manic, like their mom. Stimulation is good. Learning is good. Routine is good. Yesterday, Pretty Princess taught the Young lads grammar and math; today, she's asleep on my bed because she magically caught a cold overnight, Kendon's on the computer designing Mario levels, and Brennan's killing something on the XBox. I am a terrible mother. Shut up and stop judging me. I made them read last night (The People of Sparks and Fablehaven). AND we're going to work on Bren's personal history project later that will include information about my family in Indiana (!!!) who had a house where they sheltered SLAVES! Awesome, right? Not the slave part -- that part's yucky -- but the part about my family who sheltered runaway slaves and helped them get to freedom. What refreshing news. I thought my family was all nuts and loose screws and hoarded empty wine bottles.

[Interruption: Must let dog out because none of the other three souls in this house are aware that she needs to make pee-pee.]

Aaaaaaaand we're back. What other news? The oldest of my beloved children is coming home from Afghanistan this week -- THAT is fabulous. He's not coming home home, but definitely back to the U-S-of-A. This is good news. Think happy thoughts. That was a long year of holding my breath. Although now he's returning to the base in Missouri (and soon commencing on a much-deserved vacation to look at fish and boobies in spring-break-infested Florida), and Missouri has tornadoes, so the worrying shall begin anew.

MOVIES: If you haven't seen Anonymous yet, you must. Stupid Academy didn't recognize the script, acting (RHYS IFANS ... Luna Lovegood's father in HP? Yeah, HIM!), or visual effects (though they nominated Bridesmaids???). Don't miss this. 


And don't fall asleep or else you'll lose your place. Alas, I have not converted. I remain committed to Shakespeare, though the argument for Edward de Vere is fiercely riveting, almost convincing.

The Hunger Games releases soon -- duh -- but before that, I will likely see John Carter, not because Taylor Kitsch is hot but because my Other Lover, MARK STRONG, is the bad guy. See:

Hi, honey. I like your ear cuff.
So, I know this other bad guy you'd be perfect for ...

READING LIST (yes, concurrently -- I like to multitask): Juliet (Anne Fortier); Half Brother (Kenneth Oppel); The Fault in Our Stars (John Green); This World We Live In (Susan Beth Pfeffer); Blackbirds (Chuck Wendig -- just finished and LOVED it -- review and possible interview forthcoming for LitStack.com); and Arctic Rising (Tobias S. Buckell, also just finished -- 3.5/5 stars).

BOOKS I'M WRITING: Secrets, secrets. Sorry, guys. I suck, I know. But I'm wildly superstitious. I don't write and tell. Geezus, Jennifer, what about BOOK 2? Can I get back to you? I should totally have some info by the end of THIS month. I swear. Seriously. No, I mean it. If you give up on me, you might miss something epic. And awesome. Or at the very least, cool.

WHAT CONFOUNDS ME TODAY: 

#1: Why Vagisil and maxipad commercials always come on when my sons are watching TV with me. Do I really want to explain what those things are for? No. I do not. Especially because I'm not sure I can. Sure, I can form words and give the scientific answer for maxipads and tampons. That's easy enough, I guess. I mean, not really. I get stupid embarrassed about talking to my sons about these things, simply because they're little-ish, and I don't want them to look at me funny and because they know that the OB tampons in the bathroom every month are "mommy things," and ... yeah. I'm not very good at this sex-ed stuff. (I'm better with commas and parts of speech.) Brennan made a comment the other day about how baby animals are made, something he's learned at school, that "the parents do You Know What, and then there are babies, and it's totally gross." 

And you wonder why I have a complex about this stuff? It's not enough that God and the Nuns are watching because everyone knows that God and the Nuns can see through the curtains, just like the satellites that are floating in that hazy layer between the atmosphere and deep space -- now my 10-year-old is figuring out where he came from, too? Oh, I am so embarrassed. 

But Vagisil -- this is the best I can do: "Son, when girls have stinky girl parts, they use this special soap to make their stinky girl parts smell like roses and linen and a fresh rainfall." That should be enough. Right? Sarah Silverman says that cleansing products of this nature are for the neurotic. Apparently, she's never been in the change room at our local pool. Um, EWWW. And speaking of, when you go to your local pool (which I apparently committed to doing today ... *sigh*), do you ever move the bottle of Vagisil that someone left behind on the counter or on the shower shelf? Or are you, like, "Uh, gross, SO not touching that." I'd have to put on my Purell gloves before sliding it across the counter and depositing it into the trash bin. Sorry. I, Queen Recycle, cannot recycle that. And if you do use said products, do you recycle the plastic bottle in the Blue Bin so all your neighbors can see that you have stinky girl parts? I mean, there are all these ISSUES with this product. Right?

And speaking of public pools, especially those in suburbia (we have those here in O Canada), have you ever noticed how they are gathering places for those who've given up? Who've added 40 lb. to their physique but still wear two-piece bathing suits or Speedos to show off their midlife-crisis tattoos? Who have that lost look of "Omigod this is all I'm worth, chasing my bratty 2-year-old around this cesspool of human soup"? Men who're balding and paunched out who now drive minivans and dole out goldfish crackers and warm juice boxes when just 20 years ago, they were driving Mustangs and smokin' Marlboros and giving the finger to The Man? Women who have so many dimples on their thighs, I swear said thighs are smiling and winking at me when she shuffles by to the snack bar to get another donut and whole-milk latte because nothing says swimming like donuts and lattes?

Gratuitous donut shot. You're welcome.
It's sad. Seriously sad. (For the record: I do not swim when we go. I sit and observe. And my bathing suit consists of board shorts and a tank top. Hardly any exposed flesh with which to scare the little children, with which to give the other judge-y moms, like me, fodder to nosh on. Suck it!)

#2: Why is the Department of Defense spending millions on developing a robotic "cheetah"? Pretty sure the bad guys will just blow it up before its robotic ass reaches the summit. Just curious.

#3: PINTEREST. No. I'm not pinning. I do not need anything else to distract me from being awesome.

Any questions?

Xs and Os ...

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Top 10 Reasons I Will Never Be Good at Writing Erotica

Damn, now I'm gonna get a bunch of stupid crap mail because I said erotica.

Anyone who knows me for more than a few days will know that I get stupid when the topic of sex comes up. I'm stuck as that 12-year-old prepubescent girl at that party where all the kids were making out, and I freaked and called my mom to come get me. First, because it was gross to be listening to the slurping and groaning of a bunch of hormone-crazed 12- and 13-year-olds; second, because I was the only one who didn't have a partner staring at her un-chest (I didn't wear a bra until high school, and even that was only because the boys made it a game to run their hands down girls' backs and then make fun of them when there was no bra in place--that shit would NOT fly today. Can you IMAGINE? Do you know how many boys I could've sued--AND BEAT--for sexual harassment, starting in, like, fifth grade? YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. By the way, I have BOOBS now. They ain't huge, but they also don't sag to my knees like YOUR wife's 'cuz she's pushing 40 and those plump little fun pillows were great when you guys first got together, you rubbing your face in between 'em like they were kittens, and now she's pumped out a few kids, and HA! Her boobs sag. And I don't have neck and shoulder problems because of my size Z boobies, and they're not disgustingly wrinkled or stretchmarked like your wife's. Who gets the last laugh now, hey, bitches? *ahem* Sorry. Digression.); and third, no smoochy-smoochy for me because I was scared shitless that someone would look at my un-chest and then, out of desperation because all the best girls were already liplocked, he'd try to slip me the tongue or something. Boys that age wear braces. Braces attract food particles and bacteria. French kissing means tongues. Ergo, I'd be sucking that kid's lunch and dinner out of the metal patchwork in his mouth. I'm nothing if not a germaphobe. It makes me gag a little just to think about it, in fact.

Your future is poking you in the face. And elsewhere.
So, as a grown-up, miraculous as their conceptions may be, I have four children. Hence, I had sex four times. (That's the story we've given the kids, so let's just go with it, in case they ask you.) It's not that I don't like the S Word ... I just have other things I could be doing. Like laundry. Or writing. Or reading. Or writing. Or organizing my book collection. Or writing. Or answering one of Kendon's 4128 daily questions. (He's very clever, that boy. And he loves his penis. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm trying not to pass my neuroses onto him, so relax.) Last year, when I was clawing my way through the 18th draft of my book, one of my critique readers came back with the comment that there wasn't enough mushy love between the characters. Uh, they're teenagers who just met. I don't want them getting friggin' pregnant at 18. Been there, done that, screws everything up. (Love you, my boy. It's not your fault your dad said he only had one working testicle. Omigod, I smell a defamation lawsuit coming on.) ANYWAY, I did what every self-respecting young adult novelist would do: I put on my warmest coat and my fingerless gloves, took myself to the local Tim Horton's coffee shop parking lot (hey, Americans, Tim Horton's is Canada's answer to Starbucks + Dunkin Donuts ... DOUGHNUTS!!!), and I blushed through two pages of my main characters making out. I used the requisite love scene words--"warm, soft, full"--and Gemma and Henry macked on each other for a few minutes. I felt so NAUGHTY watching them, writing down their smoochy, touchy-gropey antics. It was, like, so voyeuristic. 

That's why I don't write erotica. I can't. I'm not one of those gals who watches porn, not for any particular moral reason -- it just grosses me out. I've pretty much giggled through every example I've ever seen, always watching between squished fingers, laughing loudest in time with their groans and screeches. Yeah, real mature, I know, but ewww. No one has boobs that big, a wiener that long, or does It for so many unprotected, unfinished hours. Really? Really? It's almost as bad as telling girls they can have a stalker, bloodsucking boyfriend who will love and protect them for all eternity and all they have to do is act weak and pathetic, and then their futures will be full of fancy yellow Porsches and tuition to Dartmouth. ICK.

This doll's mouth looks like a cervix. Seriously. It does.

So, the Top Ten Reasons, beyond the ones I've already given you, that I will never be any good at writing a bona fide love scene:

10. I cannot say the "M" word. Say it in my presence, and I turn four shades of red and cram my fists into my ears. Don't tell me I've done it, and I'm just being immature because self-pleasure is the ideal form of safe sex. That's my business, not yours. But I can tell you, the amount of Purell involved will negate all the fun. (Besides, if God wanted me to pleasure myself, he would've made me a hermaphrodite.)

9. The church people when I was 8 told us that kissing and touching was very, very bad, and that God will always be watching. As such, my entire sexual life, I've envisioned a creepy, pervert God sitting in the corner of the room, flanked by nuns as they cluck their tongues at me. Yeah. Real romantic. THANKS, God.

8. I can't think of other words to use in place of the scientifically correct terminology. Nothing says romance like writing a hot, steamy love scene and then plugging science into it. That's why romance writers come up with words like "manhood" and "joy stick" and the aforementioned "fun pillows." (No serious writers really use that one. It's just funny.)

7. Again with the giggling. I don't know where it comes from, or why I giggle. But I do.

6. I have a hard time lying to readers, telling them something other than the absolute truth. And penises are funny looking, no matter what size/shape they're in. Omigod, I'm giggling again.

5. In line with the truth mentioned in #5, nothing spoils a love scene faster than the characters being interrupted by their 6-year-old who is thirstier than a Bedouin and who just had a dream the Reeks from Geonosis are invading his bedroom. (That reference will be useless unless you live with Star Wars geeks. Reeks are scary creatures with horns and slobber.) Talk about a buzz kill ...

4. You'll notice that romance writers never talk about the post-coital clean-up process. My love scenes would be so clinical: She rose from the bed, stuffed an Egyptian cotton towel between her finely shaved but moderately cellulite-puckered legs, and made her way into the rose-scented bathroom to tidy her girlie bits, to be sure to pee for at least ten seconds like the gynecologist advised so that she was sure to sterilize the area to avoid a bladder or yeast infection. ROMANTIC, huh? Yeah, you're hot now, aren't ya?

3. My DAUGHTER reads my work (and someday, my sons might, too). Think of your parents having sex. Once you're done retching, think about writing a sex scene and then handing the book to one of your kids and saying, "Here, honey, enjoy." Can't. Do. It.

2. I don't care how many times you say that "those shops" sell "marital aids," and "marital aids" are meant to spice up your love life, that "it's normal and indicative of a normal, healthy, loving relationship." Omigod, we are NOT spending money on THAT when there are plenty of good books I don't have yet. You were just kidding, right? Yeah, that's what I thought. Now get me to the bookstore.

1. Cynics make the worst lovers. "That's it? You want me to get excited about that? Oh, baby, baby, do me. Yeah, just like that. Okay, good. Satisfied? Now can I go have some ice cream cake?"

Save your comments about how I've obviously not met the right lover -- I've had my share, thanks (WHORE!) -- or that it's not the size of the hat but the magic in the rabbit. I know for a FACT that rabbits possess no magical abilities whatsoever. Neither do cats, dogs, llamas, goats, sheep, or bears, just for the record.

And don't feel too sorry for my husband. Remember ... I'm a writer. I earn money by making shit up. :o)


Sunday, November 20, 2011

Get Punc'd: Get to Know the ELLIPSIS!

Dots, dots, everywhere. A writer in my Facebook feed the other day was going off on how much she hates the ellipsis, suggesting that writers who rely on them are somehow inferior or deficient. Sort of how I feel about folks who rely on adverbs to make their writing more interesting. Adverbs do not make your writing more interesting. Adverbs make you sound like a fart head. But, I didn't disagree with Miss Anti-ellipsis on the FB wall. What's the point? Opinions about the mechanics of grammar and writing are as varied as facial hair counts between an Asian and a Greek boy in the throes of puberty. It's not something to get your knickers in a knot over (the grammar, not the hairy--or unhairy--boys). And omigod, before you get all up in my grill about me being a racist because I pointed out the obvious (stereotypical) hair count disparities among two separate races of human being, STOP. I'm not a racist. I make fun of all races equally, including my own. Which is, uh, white? A sad mix of blood stemming from stereotypically drunk, cheap, and cold-hearted bastards? (SEE--now you know where my family is from. You're a RACIST!) Yeah, something like that. Save your hate for when I say something truly offensive. Because I might. I've been known to do it, especially while driving.

So, back to the dots. The ELLIPSIS, ellipses plural. Let's start simple. According to Wikipedia:

The most common form of an ellipsis is a row of three periods or full stops (...) or a pre-composed triple-dot glyph (). The usage of the em dash (—) can overlap the usage of the ellipsis.
The triple-dot punctuation mark is also called a suspension point, points of ellipsis, periods of ellipsis, or colloquially, dot-dot-dot.

For those of you who are not grammar geeks or writers in need of a more solid answer to this dotty conundrum, scan forward. From the Chicago Manual of Style, 16th Edition, an ellipsis is defined as such:

An ellipsis is the omission of a word, phrase, line, paragraph, or more from a quoted passage. Such omissions are made of material that is considered irrelevant to the discussion at hand (or, occasionally, to adjust for the grammar of the surrounding text. Chicago style is to indicate such omissions by the use of three spaced periods (but see 13.51) rather than by another device such as asterisks. These points (or dots) are called ellipsis points when they indicate an ellipsis and suspension points when they indicate suspended or interrupted thought (see 13.39). They must always appear together on the same line (through the use of nonbreaking spaes, available in most software applications), along with any following punctuation; if an ellipsis appears at the beginning of a line, any preceding punctuation (including a period) will appear at the end of the line above. If they prefer, authors may prepare their manuscripts using the single-glyph three-dot ellipsis character on their word processors, . . . usually with a space on either side; editors following Chicago will replace these with spaced periods.

CLEAR AS MUD, right? You guys wouldn't believe how much debate happens around this pesky grammatical beaut. (Need proof? Here's a comment stream on Typophile.) But hark -- wait -- what is that fascinating little note about the suspension points? Perhaps I'm just splitting hairs (again with the HAIR references!), but lads and lassies, THAT IS WHAT WE DIALOGUE SCRIBES USE MOST OFTEN. Suspension points, NOT the almighty ellipsis. So stop hating on it. It's mean and makes you look evil and sinister. Hatin' on innocent little grammar marks. I mean, seriously, what did they ever do to YOU? Someone's got some mommy issues. (I can give you the number to my therapist. Email me separately.)

Seems we writers are using suspension points, and not the ellipsis, when our characters are stumbling over their tongues. (I know Bella has a lot of stumbling abbity abbity doh! moments -- am I the only one annoyed by that scene in Twilight in the hospital where she sounds like she's about to stroke out when Edward says he's bailing? Yeah. I thought not.)

Let's see if this helps -- and I will quote the section I think is closest to what we all tend to use. If you want specific info about how to use the ellipsis in a formal document, to represent missing quoted material, spend the $65 and get your own Chicago Manual. You know you spent at least that getting a subpar mani-pedi last month (which has now totally grown out and you're looking all Sasquatchy again with that hair growing out of the tops of your toes). It's high time you invest in your grammatical future. I mean, at least get the Associated Press style guide, at the very least -- but hiss hiss, scratch scratch -- AP doesn't espouse the serial comma. I heart the serial comma, and unless you tell me otherwise, I will edit all your crap with serial commas intact. 

(Sections referenced for your viewing ease.)

FIRST AND FOREMOST: Section 13.39 addresses most closely what we writerly types are faced with, so much so that it may serve to answer our most pressing dialogue/quotation issues (I wonder if the mother of certain sparkly vampires referenced this section . . . likely not. She didn't have to. That's what a team of editors is for. *envious sigh*):

Faltering or interrupted speech: Suspension points--also used to indicate an ellipsis--may be used to suggest faltering or fragmented speech accompanied by confusion or insecurity. In the examples below, note the relative position of the suspension points and other punctuation. (For the use of suspension points to indicate ellipses, see 13.48-56.)

Examples: 
"I . . . I . . . that is, we . . . yes, we have made an awful blunder!"
"The ship . . . oh my God! . . . it's sinking!" cried Henrietta.
"But . . . but . . .," said Tom.

Interruptions or abrupt changes in thought are usually indicated by em dashes. See 6.84. (Let me know if you need to know what the hell an em dash is.)

Notice how there is a space after the last word, between it and the first dot, as well as before the first letter of the subsequent word. It's a confusing place to be because I inserted the spaces between dots here manually (Blogger doesn't modify them for me), but Word does. When you type three periods next to one another, Word modifies it into a proper ellipsis. But then to add a space after that third dot makes the sentence realllllly spaced out. It looks weird, especially if you click on the little button that shows you all the nonprinting typographical markings (you can do this by clicking on the "" icon in your Word menu. Turning this on shows you the markup in your document and is helpful to avoid double spaces or unnecessary hard returns). What do you guys think about the spacing and the way it looks, rules be damned?

IF THIS SCRATCHES YOUR ITCH, scan down. Skip the next really boring part. I'm nothing if not thorough.
Jovie, ready for action. Coffee, check. CMoS, check. Great hair, check!


Thus, more rules to cross your eyes:

13.50: When not to use ellipsis points: Ellipsis points are normally not used (1) before the first word of a quotation, even if the beginning of the original sentence has been omitted; or (2) after the last word of a quotation, even if the end of the original sentence has been omitted, unless the sentence is quoted as deliberately incomplete (see 13.53).

(*Interestingly, I had this situation come up in a recent edit when one character walks into a room where another is engaged in a heated conversation on the phone. The author had used an ellipsis at the front of the dialogue to indicate that the conversation was in progress and ongoing. As a matter of style choice, I left it intact. I liked what it suggested to the reader.)

13.51: Ellipses with periods: A period is added before an ellipsis to indicate the omission of the end of a sentence, unless the sentence is deliberately incomplete (see 13.53). . . . (<----Here, the period comes first, and THEN the ellipsis happens to indicate missing text.)

13.52: Ellipses with other punctuation: Other punctuation appearing in the original text--a comma, a colon, a semicolon, a question mark, or an exclamation point--may precede or follow three (but never four) ellipsis points. Whether to include the additional mark of punctuation depends on whether keeping it aids comprehension or is required for the grammar of the sentence. . . .

Example: 
It does not build, . . . nor cherish the arts, nor foster religion. (<---- See how the comma happens according to the actual quoted material, and then the ellipsis follows?)

As to Endymion, was it a poem . . . to be treated contemptuously by those who had celebrated, with various degrees of complacency and panegyric, Paris, and Woman, and Syrian Tale . . . ? Are these the men who . . . presumed to draw a parallel between the Rev. Mr. Milman and Lord Byron?

(That's a super-long example, but notice where the punctuation is placed according to the needs of the writer.) 

13.53: Deliberately incomplete sentence: Three dots are used at the end of a quoted sentence that is deliberately left grammatically incomplete.

Example: 
Everyone knows that the Declaration of Independence begins with the sentence "When, in the course of human events . . ." But how many people can recite more than the first few lines of the document? 

********

There are MORE rules. Oh, so many more. What YOU have to decide, O Writerly One: Are you using an ellipsis, or suspension points? Hmmmm? I think I'm using suspension points. (Likely too often. DAMN! Adverb alert. Whatev . . . ) I'm gonna stick with that and hence follow said rules. Oh, I feel so happy and smug now. Miss Anti-ellipsis was hatin' on the wrong punc all along.

THE MOST IMPORTANT THING TO DO: No matter what style you are using -- Chicago, AP, MLA -- be consistent. Throughout. Don't flake on yourself halfway through the document. Find what works for you and COMMIT. Oh, and communicate your needs/wants/desires with your editor (because you ARE paying a professional editor, aren't you? I mean, if you are, then he/she/it should be able to follow up on this stuff for you. If you're not hiring someone to look over your stuff, then you're a boob who is going to make us all look like retards. OMIGOD, she used the "R" Word. Someone call Becky from Glee!).

A few other wee bites:

~FYI: The word "copy editor" is often spelled "copyeditor." I prefer the first. Either is fine. I think Chicago uses "copyeditor," but I don't like the "y" and the "e" squished together like that. It makes my palms sorta itchy. Bill Walsh, likely the World's Most Amazing Copy Editor (author of Lapsing Into a Comma, Elephants of Style, long-time copy editor for The Washington Post -- check out TheSlot.com), uses the two-word method. Even though he's a newspaper man, and thus doesn't use Chicago but likely AP, I adore him. Thus I will use the same two-word method. Just to clarify, you know, for you purists trying to trip me up with your "copyeditor" rhetoric. Blah, blah, blah, go bark at someone else.

~When you find yourself unsure of something really basic, USE A DICTIONARY. Dictionaries are amazing sources of information. I recommend Webster's New World College. Pretty much any Webster's product is awesome and is considered an industry standard.

~When using the word "awhile" vs. "a while" (copied from Webster's on my Mac for simplification) -- READ THIS CAREFULLY:

awhile: adverb
Means "for a short time": stand here awhile. ORIGIN Old English āne hwīle "(for) a while."
Usage: The adverb awhile, meaning "for a short time," should be written as one word (we paused awhile). The noun phrase, meaning "a period of time," especially when preceded by a preposition, should be written as two words (Margaret rested for a while; we'll be there in a while).

Is it an adverb or a noun phrase you seek?

~Check your use/overuse of the word "half." Do it. I dare you. Do a word count in your document and see how many times you've used it. Now go back and figure out if it's necessary (unless you're writing a cookbook, and then, disregard). It's not. Change it. You sound ineffectual and your character sounds wishy-washy.

*********

Enough boring grammar shit. I'm totally snoring on my keyboard. (Okay, I'm so not, but that's because I'm into this stuff, like some people are into Star Wars or Dr. Who (I've never even watched a single episode of Dr. Who, despite the fact that I live in Canada and folks here are sorta rabid about it).)

I write/edit for LitStack. Check us out and feel FREE to recommend topics. 

I'll have a review coming up for The Maid by Kimberly Cutter. BEAUTIFUL BOOK, guys. Seriously. And I'm not just saying that because I have Joan (Jehanne) of Arc's autograph tattooed on my left forearm. Cutter's book is beautiful, haunting, and inspiring. I don't typically read historicals, but this one pulled me right in.

I don't know what else to talk about. I could complain about not having adequate uninterrupted time to get anything of import accomplished secondary to the needs of my family, as evidenced by the fact that my last blog entry was almost two months ago . . . But then someone will whine at me and tell me that I should be grateful that I have kids/a family because there are lots of folks in the world who don't have either who wish they could. Yeah, I know. Thanks for making me feel like an asshole. Like I don't spend enough time every day flailing the cat-o-nine tails into my squishy flesh.

I read other folks' blogs about how they have time to write and work out and volunteer at Various Social Events, and it floors me. You people have clones, right? That's it. You're cloned. There are at least two of you being wonderful, losing your post-baby fat (especially since said baby is now seven), serving peanut-free cupcakes at the Halloween party and doing community crafting sessions ahead of the school's annual Christmas craft fair and delivering Meals on Wheels to the elderly and infirm and sitting in as treasurer for the PTA and organizing a team for the Cancer Walk/Global Cleanup/Food Drive. It's awesome that there are folks who have the ability to do all this shit lovely stuff, but maybe, could you just develop a little crack dependency or vodka-for-breakfast problem so that the rest of us don't look so damn lazy and uninvolved? Wait. You're a hoarder, aren't you. That's IT! I knew it! Oh, I feel so much better now. Instead of growling at you when you walk by tomorrow, I'm going to paste on that self-satisfied smile I'm so good at, knowing that you have to crawl over mountains of hamster poop and old magazines to get to your half-buried crockpot. VICTORY!

One last thing: Sleight's sequel, Stratagem, has obviously been delayed. Remember your manners, kids. I had some bad mojo happen this summer and thus have run into a few issues getting the book done, especially once September hit and I was faced with the piano/acting/soccer/work schedules of the four other members of my household. Just for an example, it has taken me three and a half hours, with about 412 interruptions to break up fights, clean up messes, make breakfast, reload a stapler, find someone an eraser, help someone find warm socks without holes, change laundry, give the cat treats so he'd stop yanking on my sweater, and deal with iPod issues to write THIS post alone. Imagine how effing frustrating it is to find more than 32 seconds strung together to finish a 120,000-word book. (I curse a lot.) Oh, and I've been working, too. I'm a copy editor, remember? SO, look for an early 2012 release for Stratagem. I'll let you know if anything changes. And yeah, I'll get a cover soon. I just am sorta particular about what I want, and I have to find a graphic designer who isn't going to cost the equivalent of my daughter's first year in college. But thanks for asking. Sorry I'm not like other indie writers who release books every 27.2 days. (Then again, my books are always over 100K words. Many writers hover in the 50-60K range. I wish I knew their secrets. Oh, right. Write less.)

Now someone tell me a joke.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

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