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I have fallen into the doldrums when it comes to reading. Swell and I have discussed this. I am suffering from eveything-I-pick-up-is-the-sameitis. I'm after fresh, edgy, smart, but what I find is stale, crusted with old blood, yellowing lace, serial killers, and brooding alphas who need to lighten up. Yes, I'm sure it's just me, but I am BORED with what's on offer. Of course I want that happily ever after, but can it get there in a NEW or clever way?
Indeed, it's probably my own fault for reading too fast. I inhale my books. Out of ten books I get one gem. Then I expect the next nine to be just a glittery, but eight is a rehash of nine, seven is a rehash of a rehash of eight and so on...
Please, pardon me while I cover my gaping yawn. Sameness. Is that the fault of the author or the publisher who's out to make money off whatever the current trend happens to be? For me, the trends in paranormal, historical, urban fantasy, contemporary and suspense are wearing thin. They have become predictable, too predictable. Am I the only one tired of vampires, supes, super-spies, black ops, SEALs, rogue FBI agents, serial killers, new gals in town and chefs following the same A to Z format? Is there any original element left out there?
Yes, there are plot formats we all know and love. I have to cop to the fact I adore heroes and heroines who hate each other at the start, as well as rogue FBI agents, and southern gentleman Vampire Bill. This admissio
As a result of my big yawn fest, I'm saving my new Susan Donovan (Ain't Too Proud To Beg), for an upcoming trip, which isn't fair, because that means I'm expecting BIG THINGS from SD. But here's the thing. She surprised me with her last outing, where she turned the secret baby on its ear. I detest secret baby plots, but SD pulled it off. That fact Susan managed to putt that off for me gets to the heart of what I mean. She took week-old stale bread and transformed it into a delicious panzanella (Tuscan Bread salad), and who doesn’t love a good panzanella?
Will Susan Donovan do it again? Can she bring something original to Identicalville? Or am I trapped in the doldrums, doomed to float on a flat sea until Suzanne Brockmann's next book comes out?
And your thoughts on the matter? Surely you have some.
- Mood:
bored - Music:Bonnie Pointer: Heaven Must Have Sent You
I've got Diana Gabaldon's latest Historical novel An Echo In the Bone. It's a fair chunk of book, 814 pages, I am eager to gobble up in a day an a half. Besides being a fan of reading acknowledgement pages, I
adore when an author makes a note about the book being set in such and such typeface. It's a special thing when the history of the typeface is given. No, really it is! Where would books be without the orginal heavy Gothic typeface like Bastarda and Schwabacher? Sure, they were challenging to read--have any of you ever read Gutenberg--but they gave way to the Latin-styled to Roman types and those babies were way easier on the eyes. Any time you pick up a book to read, it's been set in a font that had it's roots back in ancient times.Yes, that's right! Reading a book, your favourite way to escape or relax, whether you like it or not, whether you believe studying anything based in the Humanities is a waste of time, you have to understand It's all about HISTORY people!
You know me. I'm gadget happy. But guess what? I am such a massive fan of typeface on paper, that I don't know if I'll ever cross that line to e-books. I've read a few, but I found them difficult to... watch? It's the screen you see, as well as the font. My eyes burn and dry out looking at an LCD the same way they do when I I sit in front of a computer all day. When I read a novel, I prefer to touch history as opposed to a touch-screen. I want my, I want my, I want my typeface.
Bring on the Galliard based on the sixteenth-century typefaces of Frenchman Robert Granjon!
- Mood:
artistic - Music:Cannonball: The Breeders
The songs? Well, they were all drawn from a Rhino Records 70s compilation with the 70s yellow smiley face title Have a Nice Day.
There was Vickie Lawrence's The Night The Lights Went Out In Georgia, Life is a Rock (but the Radio Rolled me) by Reunion, Loudon Wainwright III's Dead Skunk, the supremely bad Run Joey Run, as well as Billy Don't Be a Hero--the US version by Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods, not the UK's Paper Lace, who did the Night Chicago Died. You can still buy a few volumes of the collection on CD www.rhino.com/store/SearchResults.lasso , but what I'm after is to recreate the mix tape Sheepman gave me. Exactly. Because the the soundtrack of my life becomes the soundtrack to a character's, a guy who has a thing for cheesy one hit wonders, which you know mirror his love life with his one hit wonder girlfriends.
A result of trying to recreate Sheepman's mix tape, I've been singing the best of the worst 70s tunes all day. Honk if you know this one: My name is Michael, I've got a nickel. I've got a nickel shiny and new. I'm gonna buy me all kinds of candy that's what I'm gonna do...
Or maybe you know this one: Big bear this here's Rubber Duck and I'm about to put the hammer down...
If I've managed to get you humming Candy Man or Chicka Boom (Don't Ya 'jes Love It?), then my job here today is done.
- Mood:
accomplished - Music:Love Grows (where My Rosemary Goes): Edison Lighthouse
In the Oldbitey & Shrinky world, the division of labour was clear, the boundaries agreed upon before entrance into the marital contract was made. That traditional 50's life meant Shrinky brought home t
he bacon (or fakon in this vegetarian household) and Oldbitey cooked it up in the proverbial pan. Things haven't changed. Deep down, I'm very much that anal chick who got down on hands and knees to scrub the floor of her dorm room and I always, ALWAYS wear an apron when I cook. Yet...Yet...
Yet, I admit to something of a slackening in my duties. Instead of cleaning EVERY DAY (as I once did) I find I clean three to four times a week. Colonies of dust bunnies have formed beneath the fridge. A layer of dirt has settled on the dining room sideboard. Laundry tends to grow into an expanding-like-flowing-lava mountain.
Shrinky blames my writing for this. I blame our location. Ten months out of the year the windows are open. Prevailing winds blast crud into my house. I swiffer the dust, scrub the polished wood floors, make sure the pillows are fluffed, and wear lipstick and a ribbon in my perfect hair. In fact, I'm wearing lipstick and a ribbon as I write this. I'm also wearing polka-dot jammies, a pink chenille bathrobe, and Keds--what I like to think of as my cleaning uniform because why would I scrub a toilet BEFORE I have a shower? Of course my cleaning uniform is strikingly similar to my writing outfit, but that's beside the point. I know now I have been fighting a futile battle because fifteen minutes after I swiffer, scrub, and fluff, the dirt is back. It took me a few years, but I finally worked out my constant housework was in vain.
I know now, filthy evil can never be conquered, but it can be controlled. It can be monitored on a bi-weekely rather than daily basis. I can write while the washer runs. I can mop the floor to stretch out legs that have become stiff from sitting and writing all day. We had that drought, and with global warming and all, waiting to do the washing, waiting until I have a Mt Kilauea, makes good ecological sense. A slackening of housewifely duty? Hardly. As a female, I can multitask. I can wear apron, get the clothes washed, and write. I can save the world.
Besides, a little dirt keeps us all healthy.
.
- Mood: accomplished
- Music:Cake: Never There
Then there's anonymity. For example, everyone knows you as Miss Cutie, the Kindergarten teacher and parents would be shocked, shocked, to discover that the pixie-like woman who teaches little Dakota and little Paris the ch sound also writes Erotica as well as BDS&M novels. You like your day job and you want to keep it. That's why you write as Pandora Boxx.
Of course, there are those who use the name they were given. My author friend wanted to use her OWN name. She wanted to set up a domain name and web site using her real life name because, dammit she worked hard to get published and she wanted (and rightfully deserved) recognition. Unfortunately, she's not the only Darcy Heathcliff (a totally made up name) in the world. She discovered that another Darcy Heathcliff had already snagged the domain and website name. Dear Darcy had to scramble to find a name she could call herself, one that meant something to her.
Shrinky expects me to publish as myself. He just EXPECTS that will happen, but I'm not really certain I want to be Oldbitey Shrinky. I like the idea of initials and I'm pretty sure that's all because of ee cummings, A. E. Hotchner and E. B White. Darcy asked me what name I'd choose and I told her about the initial idea, but for some reason, when I said it out loud, it felt ersatz. Now, you and I both know I can dig the whole faker thing, but a fake name? Hmmm. I'm still out on this kind of fak-i-tude.
There are already a few Olbitey Shrinkys out there. Dare I be one of them, should I come up with something nearer and dearer to my heart, or stick with being O. B. Shrinky? I put it to you. Yes, YOU, biteyites! Tell me what you think.
- Mood:
contemplative - Music:21 Guns Green Day
2. Balls (dance, not anatomy);
3. Virgin Heroines;
4. Gaming Halls;
5. The oops, 'why the hell didn't you tell me you're a virgin' sex scene;
6. Upperclass twits and social climbers with Virgin daughters they want to marry off to a duke;
7. Everyone has a title;
8. Virgin Heroines;
9. Maidenheads;
10. Virgin Heroines;
Oh, all right. I'm messing witchu. Sort of. I can do Victorian romance. I can do Westerns, American Revolution and Civil War romance, but clearly, there's something about Regency romance that makes me groan. Regency romance novels are incredibly popular and I'm not knocking them. Really, I'm not. There are some really fabuloso ones out there that I have enjoyed. Unfortunately, this moan stems from the last few Regency-set romances I've read because they were very nearly traced and cut from the same cloth. I was disappointed. Greatly disappointed. I'm damn tired of the same elements appearing over and over, right down to the cookie-cut-out hero and heroine. If you read regency romance maybe you know what I mean. If you don't, refer to the list above and insert a BIG YAWN.
Allow me to explain my list. So what is it about those things on the list that stick 'em way down there in my gullet? Gee. I'm trying to figure that out. Perhaps it's because I know my history or because I've read Defoe's Moll Flanders and Burnley's Evelina as well as Jane Austen and I know what I liked better. Family secrets, bastard children and sexual escapades weren't limited to the Aristocracy. The Regency era wasn't only filled with the gentry and not every female was an eighteen year old virgin who had no idea about sex. The 18th and pre-Victorian 19th century were randy times full o' lusty sex and excess like the 1980's. Common folk were not excluded from par-taying like it were 1999, however in Regency romance, they are. Really. Think about it. Can you come up with of a Regency that features a romance between a blacksmith and the baker's daughter? Or one where the tenant farmer has a thing for the groundskeeper's eldest? The housemaid and the valet? It just breaks my heart. Regency cooks and footmen needed to get down too, didn't they?
Indeed this comes down to being a matter of taste. I know many readers like the Regency era for, as Anna Campbell put it at yesterday''s Brisbane Writer's Festival, the fairy tale. I like fairy tales. I'm living a freakin' fairy tale! I'll agree that the Regency lends itself well to fairy tales what with the clothes and the colours and the estates and the wealth an all, but there are fairy tales like Hansel and Gretel and The Fisherman and his Wife where there's not a ball, a baron, or a sexually ignorant virgin in sight. For some reason, that's the kind of fairy tale that appeals to me. It's dirty. It's dark. It's poor. It's the kind of fairy tale I'd like to see applied to more Historical romance, to more Regency set romance.
What? What did you say? I should quit my belly-achin' and write one?
Are you kidding?
Oh, no. Oh, no, no no. I'm not about to write historical romance. Uh-uh. Nope. I'll let Jo Goodman do that. Or Lorretta Chase. Or Laura Kinsale. Or Lisa Barry. Maybe, if I beg her hard enough, I can get Christine Wells,or Anna Campbell, the Godmother of Regency Noir, to write a duke-n-virgin-free Regency just FOR me.
And in the meantime, I'll stick with my contemporary romantic comedy fairy tales.
- Location:desky wesky
- Mood:
amused - Music:O Sole Mio: Bryan Adams & Pavarotti
Dear Mrs Bitey,
"Your name has been selected at random and you may be summoned for jury duty....failing to return this letter by its due date would leave you liable for a penalty."
The Sheriff of Doyourcivicdutyland
"Your name has been selected at random and you may be summoned for jury duty....failing to return this letter by its due date would leave you liable for a penalty."
The Sheriff of Doyourcivicdutyland
Yes, the letter really and truly comes from the Sheriff of my state (the name has been changed to protect the innocent).
All righty now, it's only the preliminary round. I may not be called up at all, but the mere idea, the possibility that I could be one of 12 angry men (or women,) well, quite frankly, makes my lower gastro-intestinal tract seize up. Why is that Oldbitey? Why are you reaching for the Pepto-Bismol?
This ain't some kind of contest. There are no novels involved. There are no scores. There is no winner. There's just me (and the other jurors chosen at random) to decide the fate of some sorry individual who's had the misfortune or dumbassed idiocy to wind up in court. I'm one of those who hesitates to cast the first stone kinda people, and in terms of court cases I know it boils down to which legal counsel presents the best argument. It's not all about evidence. It's about who's better at arguing.
Shrinky is so jealous. He'd love to be in my shoes.He's always wanted to be on a jury. As twisted as my insides are, I can see why he's envious. A little. He's fascinated by the whole psychological side of things. Me, and this is me trying to see the positive side, thinking 'wow, what an opportunity for a character study. What a place to mine for potential storylines. What a great way to...to...to...' Um, little help?
The bottom line is, it is my civic duty to serve. For $30 a day. Plus travel expenses. I just have to get used to the idea, bring along a strip of chewable Pepto-Bismol, and a notebook to scribble details that I'll later turn into a feature film starring Cher and Dennis Quaid.
No, wait. I write romantic comedies, not thrillers with a mute Liam Neeson.
- Mood:
distressed - Music:Lawnmowers!
Yes, that's what I said. Another post grad degree. I finished off the masters 8 months ago and now I'm thinking, hmmm what sort of thing would keep me from ironing, eat up all my free time, my writing time AND possibly damage my relationship with Shrinky? I know, I'll do a PhD!
I lived though Shrinky's and he survived my MA. I know I can do it, don't I? I know he could do it (even if he kicked and screamed and pouted and whinged the entire time), right? It's part time. I could do part time, right?
This is where you, dear Bitey-ites, come into play. I'm asking you to show me the error of my contemplation. Point out the insanity or HUGE things that haven't crossed my mind. Or not. Say, well, gosh durn it OB, You shore as sheet can do a PhD and I'll be thrilled to call you Dr Oldbitey (Thanks, Little Bitey). You'll get better service in Hotels. Flight attendants will mistakenly ask if you can tend to the ill passenger in seat 71A.
Please. It's your turn. Yea or nay? Let's discuss this because I don't know what to do. I'm poised on the edge of the garage roof. Sure, the umbrella is heavy, mighty heavy, but I've got a good grip on it and honestly, it doesn't look that far to the ground to me. Are the odds against me? Will I break my leg or worse, my hands, my stumpy little hands, and never be able to use my keyboard skills to write a well-loved novel again?
Hmm. Maybe I simply need a manicure.
- Location:la cucina
- Mood: contemplative
- Music:Squeeze: Is That Love
I could blame my forgetfulness on the the recent successful IASPR conference (where I was most impressive fakir extraordinaire) and the whirlwind RWA conference that bookended this past week
I could even say my inability to acknowl
Did you know that most weekend ER cases a
Anyhow, back to my pathetic self-recrimination. The sad truth of the matter is that I forgot about my brother.
So here is where I state, on a world-wide forum, that I am a bad sister, a bad aunt, and a bad godparent. I routinely forget about my nieces, nephews, godchildren, brother & sister-in-laws as well as my dearest only OLDER bother. Christmas, Birthdays, Christenings (even ones I've been present for), graduations, you name it, I've neglected it.
Yeah. I know I'm going straight to hell for it.
No wait. Hell would be in my future if I forgot Big and Little Bitey's birthdays. Or any day of commemoration related to Shrinky (yes, he's feeling molto bene now). or Glenn Tilbrook's birthday, which happens to be the same day as M-bitey's birthday, and being sooo Glenn fixated so you'd THINK I'd remember M-bitey. Sorry M.
All righty then. Happy Birthday to my Big Bitey Brother, and to SLIBitey who's BD is also this week, and an early birth-o-rama shout out to Mbitey and of course, Glenn Tilbrook.
Your lovin' sister-aunt-groupie,
Oldbitey
- Location:nowheresville
- Mood: distressed
- Music:ELO: Evil Woman
You know Walter, don't you? He's a classic in American literature. Walter, As in The Secret Life of, is a creation of the genius James Thurber. Mr Mitty spends his day deep in daydreams. One moment he's a Navy Pilot, the next he's a brillant surgeon, an assassin, an RAF Pilot, and a man facing a Firing Squad, which, if you ask me, is really on par with presenting a paper at the upcoming IASPR conference.
Being a faker is like daydreaming too, and it's got me wondering about something. How old is the average person when they stop daydreaming? When was the last time YOU stood in front of a mirror and pretended to be Madonna/Beyonce/Iggy Pop? Me? I haven't stopped. I still pretend I'm beside Glenn Tilbrook, singing, and since that's one Walter Mitty daydream that came to fruition, who says my other fantasies won't too?
And get your mind out of the gutter. The kind of fantasy I mean is not about sex.
Shrinky says fantasies are healthy. It's OK to think about ways to murdering your co-worker--the one who has 9 heads, fetid BO, and chews with her mouth open so food falls out--but it's not healthy to actually do her in. So, if acting like you know what you're doing is the key to success, then so is Walter Mitty-style daydreaming because you have to picture yourself pretending to know it all (which, as many of you out there who have played Oldbitey in Trivial Pursuit know I do know it all). I'm picturing myself all right. I'm daydreaming my ass off. Look at me. There's is nothing I can't do! See this big fat smile? I'm about to step out onto the tightrope. I'm perfectly balanced with my notes and head full of knowledge. I can do this act without a net.
Or is that a blindfold?
- Location:the other hemisphere
- Mood:
determined - Music:My snoring dog.
Waiting. I don't think about it until someone asks about my writing, then it seems all I do IS think about how long I've been waiting. And waiting. Waiting to hear if an agent wants to represent me, waiting to hear of a publisher wants to offer me a contract, as Vizzini said to Fezzik, I'm waiting.
And as I wait, there's part of me that worries that there must be something wrong with my email address. Sometimes I believe my reply is trapped in the junk mail filter. Other times I think my ISP is on some kind of spammers list so whatever reply I sent was simply bounced back to the sender. Then reality hits and I remember waiting is the nature of the game. Once I waited nine months. The next time I waited eleven. There was one instance a rejection letter was sent out to me in May, but it took until October for me to receive.
Waiting. I hate waiting.
Patience, you and Yoda say. Ok Fine. I'll be patient. I'll learn to move the rock with my mind raise the X-Wing from the Fireswamp, but an ROUS
is nibbling away at my resolve. Yes, I'm mixing up my genres and the only word I can think of t
- Location:On an office chair
- Music:Don't Tell Me: Madonna
A recent study published in The Journal of Personality and Social Psychology shows that pretending you know your stuff is the way charismatic individuals, world leaders, Alpha males/females, and your boss appear to be competent to the rest of the world. it seems those more likely to speak
up are more likely to be considered intelligent, dependable and trustworthy. In other words, your doctor might not really know what that thing is growing on the left side of your cheek, but he/she pretends to, and you'll probably believe the diagnosis. Granted, the doctor has some training to fall back on, but for us common folk, this means if you talk the talk, even if you've never walked the walked, no one will care. All that matters is that you appear to be capable of taking those giant steps, that you look like you're doing it and making appropriate noises. This news (not news at all to Shrinky and his shrink pals) is rich chocolately comfort for me because I'm have an attack of impostor syndrome. Maybe you devotees of Oldbitey will remember OB felt like a big fat fraud when she was writing her thesis. Who was she kidding? Who did she think she was fooling? She's no academic.
I got passed all that, but now my fraudlent, crappy little masters study will be presented at the inaugural IASPR conference (iaspr.org/conferences/brisbane/ ) next month (in 2 1/2 more weeks) and that feelings of fakerdom have risen up to stick in my craw once again. Yet according to the article in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology it's not a bad thing that I feel like an academic faker. In fact, if I want to be successful at this conference, with all these PhD's, I merely have to go on faking it. Odds are, they're probabaly faking it too--even the men.
- Location:Earth
- Mood:
scared - Music:Midnight Confession: The Grass Roots
Sigh. I’m one of those writers who does stuff in big chunks of a show already in progress, I don’t plot. I have the A and the Z (with Z equaling the Happily Ever After/emotionally satisfying ending), but not much of the alphabet in between. Every opening sentence I came up with was too freakin’ long. I got to thinking what it might have been like if Hemmingway had written a romance, one that adhered to the RWA’s code of the Happily Ever After.
Then I just got to wondering if the 140 frugality was something I could actually do.
I’ve got to finish rewriting my IASPR (International Association for the Study of Popular Romance) presentation so I don’t look like an eed-yet when I pubic-I-mean public-speak (again, thanks for that memory Brobitey). Did I mention I was presenting my masters crap at a conference? Yeah. I’m surprised about that too and since that’s the case, an endeavor such as Hemmingwaying my way into Twitter is not the most efficient way to spend my time. I mean, writing And She Was and facebook take up enough of my precious time as it is. Do I truly need to add Twitter to my time suck?
You just know I’m gonna give it the old college try.
For all you non-twits out there, here’s what I’ve got so far:
The way Colin drank should have been her first clue the evening wasn’t going well. The meteorite should have been her second. The chunk of blistering space crud punched a hole through the roof, blew a fissure in the ceiling and set the dining room table alight. Nonna’s hand-embroidered tablecloth, the one that traveled from Linguaglossa, Ellis island, Athens (Ohio, not Greece) to Santa Fe went up in a flare of red-orange.(yep, that there's my tricky sentence) The scotch Colin threw turned the flames blue. The bowl of pasta Ness upended transformed the fire into a thick, garlic-scented pool of tomato sauce that bubbled and smothered the blaze with a hiss.
Gosh, OB, that's not very romantic or Hemmingwayesque.
Cheese and bacon, give me a chance! This is my first try at field dressing an animal of any sort.
- Location:Michael Stipe's lap
- Music:Begin The Begin: REM
Don't ask me why I did it. I can't tell you much beyond the fact I have a love for technology, especially stuff that's essentially useless and doesn't cure famine or bring peace to earth. No iPod is ever gonna bring peace to the Middle East or eradicate Malaria and AIDS, but I sure love mine.
Will I love Twitter?
I suppose the fact that last night was spent doing Author stuff with Swell the wonder Web Designer had something to do with my following others off the Virtual Golden Gate. I can swear my Twitterdom is all in the name of getting MY name out there, of creating buzz before I'm even published, of not wanting this fast paced technological world to pass me by.
Shrinky doesn't think much of social networking. He says it prevents people from connecting in meaningful ways. Humans are social creatures. We need contact to survive. We need a social support system to survive. To some extent, he has a point, but social networks are a community, albeit not a hands-on community. It's not likely one of your facebooks friends or Twitter followers is going to run over and bring you a box of Kleenex and chicken soup when you have a cold. Microblogging on Twitter isn't going to get me a box of Snyders of Hanover Sourdough Pretzels. It hasn't happened yet here on Oldbitey (BIG HINT HERE, PEOPLE!!) so why should I expect it to when I tweet?
Will I love Twitter?
I suppose the fact that last night was spent doing Author stuff with Swell the wonder Web Designer had something to do with my following others off the Virtual Golden Gate. I can swear my Twitterdom is all in the name of getting MY name out there, of creating buzz before I'm even published, of not wanting this fast paced technological world to pass me by.
Shrinky doesn't think much of social networking. He says it prevents people from connecting in meaningful ways. Humans are social creatures. We need contact to survive. We need a social support system to survive. To some extent, he has a point, but social networks are a community, albeit not a hands-on community. It's not likely one of your facebooks friends or Twitter followers is going to run over and bring you a box of Kleenex and chicken soup when you have a cold. Microblogging on Twitter isn't going to get me a box of Snyders of Hanover Sourdough Pretzels. It hasn't happened yet here on Oldbitey (BIG HINT HERE, PEOPLE!!) so why should I expect it to when I tweet?
So what potential uses to I see for Twitter? I have an idea, one that will create a community of followers, for a while anyway, and yep, you guessed it, it involves writing. All right. I sort of stole the idea from a contest on another author's website, and a TXT novel written in Japan, but trust me, this is something you can see it play out better on a social network like Twitter in LIVE TIME, which is supposed to be the point.
So tell us more about the idea you ripped off, Old.
All righty. I see "A romance novel written in tweets."
Yes indeedy-doo, this can go several ways (besides down in flames). I can write it all myself and hope to garner a following, or I can ask YOU and others of the Twitterati to add their tweets to the story.
I'll get started on it now. You add on by going to what else? http://twitter.com/Oldbitey
Oh, come on. It could happen, and besides, all your friends are doing it.
- Location:absorbing sunlight
- Mood: contemplative
- Music:Small Town: John Mellancamp
Yes, that's right, The US Commander-in-Chief threw out the first pitch at a Chicago White Sox baseball game (which we all know is THE Fashion Event of the US Summer Season), and he did it wearing a pair of classic, figure-unflattering, buy-em'-at-JNo offe
nse to JCP. They're a fine store with a lI would never call Obama's denim choice Mom Jeans. They are no way near Satanic. They're not even close to Purgatory. I'd call them baggy ass jeans or saggy-ass jeans, but mostly I'd just call them ugly.
And now I bet you're wondering how I'm going to tie al
Eddie Bauer, an outdoor outfitter, uses cool words like "broken-in" and "well-worn" and has m
And Obama could have worn different pants at the baseball game. He could have worn shorts, like the Heritage Cargo shorts on page 133, but he has better things to do than be a fashion icon. He's The Prez, he's got a huge mess to clean up, and in my book (not the one I'm writing) he can wear a freakin' comfy pair of pants if he wants to.
As for me, I want to keep a sense of realism in my r
And now I bet you're wondering how I'm going to tie al
Eddie Bauer, an outdoor outfitter, uses cool words like "broken-in" and "well-worn" and has m
And Obama could have worn different pants at the baseball game. He could have worn shorts, like the Heritage Cargo shorts on page 133, but he has better things to do than be a fashion icon. He's The Prez, he's got a huge mess to clean up, and in my book (not the one I'm writing) he can wear a freakin' comfy pair of pants if he wants to.
As for me, I want to keep a sense of realism in my r
- Location:The green kitchen
- Mood:
bouncy - Music:Birdhouse In Your Soul: They Might Be Giants
Yes, Biteyites, that's right. She's stretched her legs, had some breakfast and is lounging macside in a modest-yet-sexy tankini. She tossed on some Andy Gibb and made suggestions for writing sex scenes, and while the littlest Gibb told me, in his clear falsetto, he just wants to be my everything, she whispered 'explorer' in my ear.
And I was off, off and writing. About Vasco de Gama and Ferdinand Magellan and Men who explore things. With their hands. All for their Queen.
All right. So it's only a page. It was a very important page. It LIVES, much like the juicy Muse I squeezed this afternoon.
Today, I get my bathroom back and breathe a sex life back into And She Was, and tomorrow, the plumber comes back to replace my toilet, install my sink and hook up the drainpipe on my tub. Then, not only will I have my Muse back and my characters doing it, I'll be able to have a bubble bath.
- Location:Mah desk
- Music:Andy Gibb: Shadow Dancing
In a romance novel, a hero can be a Beast (as in Beauty and the), scarred both physically and emotionally. He can be a hit man the likes of Anne Stuart's Ice Blue. He can be a soldier, a vampire, a werewolf and spy. He can be a cop, an Ad man, a guy who paints in his spare time when he's not being a a billionaire who collects art and runs his family's casino. This isn't to say there aren't any real guys here. There's the bad boy Fireman and the charmer investment banker, followed by the hot nerdy professor who's only pretending to be a nerd. The bartender at the corner pub used to be a marine, the boy next-door is a public defender, the jock is the high school football coach, and his buddy the comedian is the local mayor. Of course there's also the recently divorced Vet who looks after the widower rancher's livestock. These are all respectable everyday positions available to the average hero. Nice, solid, guy's work, but Mike Rowe makes me want something beyond The Beast, beyond the billionaire, marine, coach, Indiana Jones type.
Dirty Jobs makes me want a Dirty Hero.
And I don't mean x-rated dirty.
Call it a yen for some realism, but I want a hero who's an undertaker. Or, like Mike shows us, a man who cleans out giant wind turbines that generate electricity. Or a guy who crawls under houses to replace insulation. Or a guy who tidies up sinkholes where people dump their trash. Because really, are these dirty men not worthy of romance, of love?
If the crux of a romance novel is built upon a central love story with a optimistic emotionally satisfying ending, not the job the hero has, who are we to say, "Sorry Dr Sebastian Morris DDS, but cleaning teeth and fixing fillings just isn't as sexy as a Assistant DA cleaning crime outta the Big Apple?"
Why do we get fixated upon rules, upon what is and isn't allowed within the frame of romance fiction? A heroine can't be over the of 40. A heroine can't be a bitch. A hero cant have an unappealing job like undertaker, butcher or dentist. Who's to say a dentist can't be hot? If you put Mike Rowe to work as in a dental office, you better believe he's gonna make a scale and filling look incredibly sexy.
I'm making my appointment for a checkup today!
- Location:far away from the renovation noise
- Mood: amused
- Music:A tile saw
You and I both know how one day that will change. When the contract is signed and the royalty cheques start rolling in--all $18.75, which is no way near close enough to fund a direct supply of Snyders of Hanover beauties--I'll get that super-tax number. When that happens I'll be able to claim the cost of my postage, as well as the computer I use to be creative. Best of all, I'll be able to call myself a professional, and yes Ms E, that sounds so much better than word whore.
There's just one small, teesy-weensy, itty-bitty detail that's stuck in my craw about all this lately. The title Hobbyist seems to have lulled me into a near coma. In the last month I've written absolutely nada.
That's right Bitey-ites, the muse is sleeping.
Or maybe she's on vacation. I hear South America is lovely at this time of the year.
Wherever she is, it's plain I'm not getting any writing done.
You say, "That's because you're spending so much time dicking around on facebook."
I'd be inclined to agree with you, but the reason I'm dicking around on facebook chatting with Marv and Fritz is directly related to the snoozin' muse. I'm pretty certain if I force it to wake up whatever comes out on the page will most likely be total crap.
You say, "Sounds like writer's block to me."
That's a big fat nega-tory good buddy. I know what happens next. I know what goes where. I know who does what to whom. I simply can't o get the muse out of bed. Could be the nip in the morning air. Could be the lack of afternoon sunshine as we shift into autumn. Could be the fact I've been sharing a bathroom with Shrinky while my bathroom undergoes a major overhaul.
Nope. I'm not worried. I've noticed, that's all. So has Shrinky, who you just know wants to read something head-shrinky into it.
This has happened before. Kinda. I once lost my reading mojo. It came back and I'm certain The slumbering muse will yawn and stretch and come to life (thank you Dolly Parton). When she does you can bet I'll have the coffee waiting. But, before that happens, I think I'll take up tiling and grouting because everybitey needs a hobby.
- Location:not in the bathroom
- Mood:
sleepy - Music:Finger Eleven: One Thing
Romance is timeless--space and timeless, that is.I love engagement parties, bridal showers, weddings and honeymoons, and I have great respect for those who plan their fairytale fantasy wedding—this includes the folks who have the Klingon-themed nuptial-mass and those who say their vows while bungee jumping.
Oh all right. Maybe I’m telling a big fat one there about the Klingon wedding, but who am I to judge? Oldbitey walked down the aisle to ELO’s Do Ya. (come on, they’re the Electric Light Orchestra!) and my wedding photos have me perched on the edge of an old English Sports car. Not what you’d call Star Trek memorable. A Triumph Herald isn’t quite the bridge of the starship Enterprise, but it’s pretty cheesy just the same.
Katie-Sue is getting married. Her lovely sisters suggested a Vegas-style wedding dress for her. One can take that to mean a dress like this one, which comes from The House of Winnie. And that’s Winnie, not whinny. Nor is it, as I first thought, Haus von Skank, it's Casa La Winnie, who clearly is THE Dressmaker to the Skanks, Ho's, and your basic tramps who want to impress all the right people (for more on tacky weddings, visit tackyweddings.com) on the high-class, social circle, street corner down in The Valley.
Having slightly better, less skanky taste than her evil sisters, I suggested a woolen dress. So what if it looks like a giant hand-knit-by-grandma-condom? It’s ribbed, you know, "for her pleasure."
Of course it’s joke, and needless to say Katie-Sue has chosen something lovely for herself and her bridesmaids, but this joking ‘round has led to me to wonder about wedding planners who handle Vampire, Zombie, and White-trash style weddings.
Admittedly, since I am a geek, you all know I could take this way-out wedding thing pretty far. Oh the idea is brewing away. I can see a tower of beer cans, and a cake that resembles roadkill—or Deep Space Nine.
Set phasers to impress!
- Location:La Cucina
- Mood: amused
- Music:Dvid Essex: Rock On
Which is probably why we disagree on an individual's reasons for having a pen name or getting a nose job.
An old friend, one who's had a mustache since I met him back in 9th grade, recently asked me what my pen name was going to be. I've kicked around a couple of ideas. I don't think publishers would be pleased if I went with Old Bitey, but it would put me at the beginning of the alphabet on bookshelves. So how does one go about choosing a name to be plastered on a book cover? How did Nora Roberts choose JD Robb? I dig the initial thing, but could I go with a one-name nome de plume a la Madonna or Homer (and I don't mean The Simpsons)?
I'm sure my old 9th grade buddy. who we'll call "Fritz," would suggest Freda. Swell would tell me to go with my initials. And Shrinky would suggest therapy.
Then he'd expect I'd want to have my nose done, but he'd be wrong. I'd have a chin implant.
- Location:the kitchen
- Mood:
busy - Music:hammering of a bathroom renovation
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