SOLD!!

Yay! I am very pleased to announce the sale of my erotic vampire romance novel, Blood Will Tell, to Ellora's Cave!

I am so, so excited, because I love this book--I tend to look at all my projects with more love the further away from them I get, I've noticed. This one is where I really started to get my dialogue on, yo. I'm really, really proud of some of the dialogue in this one, and I'm offering this tiny teaser as an example:

The stew in her white china bowl looked and smelled fabulous, rich with beef and red wine, but Cecelia wasn’t about to dig in. Who knew what was in it? She’d seen enough movies to know that the heroine—in which category she firmly placed herself—never just blindly accepted food or drink given her. Especially by someone whose category—hero or villain—she didn’t know.
She watched Julian from under lowered eyelids, waiting for him to begin eating. He didn’t. He was watching her right back, smiling slightly.
“Is this where I take a bite myself, so you know I haven’t poisoned the food?”
“Would you?” she asked sweetly.
“They’re in separate bowls,” he pointed out. “I could easily have drugged yours and not mine.”
“Then switch—”
“Stop being ridiculous. I’m not going to sit here and play out scenes from The Princess Bride with you. Eat it or don’t. I don’t much care.”
She looked doubtfully at the bowl.
“Just ask yourself,” he said. “If I planned to kill you, would you have woken up at all after you passed out? Fun as our little conversation has been, I assure you I have other things to do than trade barbs with women who make it a habit to wander around alone at night.”
“I wasn’t wandering. I was coming out of the lab. Where I work. I’m a scientist. You make me sound like a hooker.”
“And you make me sound like a clumsy serial killer,” he said. “Poisoning your food, indeed.”
“Look, just what the hell is going on here?”
“We’re discussing which of us thinks the worse of the other. Not a pastime I usually—”
“Oh, shut up!” she said, louder than she’d intended. “What do you know about all of this vampire stuff, anyway? You can pretend you don’t, but you do. How are you involved in all of this? And why are you being so fucking mean to me? I was attacked, and you don’t even care.”
“Should I?”
“Go to hell,” she snapped, standing up. “I’m leaving.”
“Oh, and you’re welcome,” he replied.
“What?”
“I said you’re welcome. For saving you. You couldn’t be bothered to thank me before.”
She stopped hunting for her shoes and stared at him. “Is that why you’re being so nasty?”
“One of the reasons, yes.”
“And what, pray tell, are the others?”
He sighed. “It irritates me when people waste energy.”
She kept staring.
“You’re spending all of your time worrying about me. Am I a serial killer, am I going to poison you, what do I know about vampires. What do you know about vampires, Cecelia?”
“They have fangs and drink blood and catch fire in the sun. Crosses scare them. Holy water burns them. A group of them attacked me earlier. And…I know you saved me. Thank you,” she added, hoping she didn’t sound as begrudging as she felt.
He nodded an acknowledgement, managing to look in the process like a king bestowing favors. She hated him. And still, damn it, found him incredibly sexy. “A group of vampires,” he repeated. “Doesn’t that strike you as a bit odd?”
“Uh, the whole concept of vampires strikes me as a bit odd. What exactly is supposed to be standing out in the sea of weirdness here?”
“Don’t you usually think of vampires hunting alone? Stalking their prey on a lonely street or some fake-smoke filled nightclub?”
She sat back down. “I guess I do.”
“So, then, isn’t it odd that a whole group of them showed up-barely past sundown-and attacked you? Outside of a blood research facility?”
She was beginning to see his point, and fear flowed through her veins like a frozen cocktail. “But,” she said, a little desperately, “couldn’t they have just wanted to get in? We keep blood there…”
“Cold blood. Blood that’s being tampered with. You’re not a blood bank, you’re a research lab. I don’t think they wanted entrance to the building, Cecelia.”
“How do you know my name, anyway?”
He raised one eyebrow at her again. Bastard. “Do you think I would have brought you into my home without knowing something about you?”
“You searched my purse.”
He shrugged. “Of course.”
She wanted to be angry, but found she really couldn’t. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t that big of a deal. After all, he had saved her.
Although why, she had no idea. The image he seemed to be painting of himself as wandering Samaritan faded quickly when examined through the lens of his snide personality.
“And did you find out anything interesting?”
“I know you like MAC lipstick.”
“Ah. The secrets of my soul lie bare before you.”
“Sarcasm is so charming in a lady.”
“Just as charming as in a gentleman,” she retorted. “So what you’re saying is, I was attacked because of me. Not by chance, or at random. There’s something about me that made a big gang of vampires want to kill me. Which means…” her voice faltered. “Which means they’ll probably try again. And keep trying. Until they get me.”



I am also extremely pleased to announce our beloved Bam has made her first sale, to Samhain Publishing, for their upcoming "A Midsummer Night's Steam" Anthology. Her sure-to-be-amazing tale, called "Skin to Skin" (oooh!), releases August 17th, so make sure you save some cash this summer so you can get it, because Bam is a wonderful writer and I'm sure her story rocks hard.

The Calling Card

In more genteel days, there was a custom known as "Paying a call", wherein ladies of a certain social stature would travel around the town in the afternoons, stopping in to "call on" their various acquaintances. Calls had a very strict structure; jackets and gloves were left on, umbrella was not handed over to the butler. This signified the call would not last long, as a caller generally only stayed fifteen minutes or so. A lady would designate one day a week (sometimes two) when she was "At home" to receive her callers. (There are lots more calling customs, and they're pretty interesting, but I'm not going to describe them all, because that's not the point.)

Sometimes a lady would be at home, but not "at home". Sometimes a lady would be getting ready to go out of town. Sometimes a lady would genuinely have been called away.

In all of those cases, a card was left. A calling card. A small, business-card sized piece of card, on which was printed the lady's full name. (Actually, three cards were often left--two of the woman's, and one of her husband's. The lady's were for the lady and gentleman of the house, her husband's only for the gentleman.) Often, one corner of the card was bent down to convey a message--"I am leaving", "I have returned", etc.

But the cards were left. Because it was a way of building and maintaining a social network.

It was also a courtesy. If someone had a party, you called the next day, often just leaving a card (in fact, towards the end of the custom, many ladies simply hired someone to distribute their cards for them.) If someone did something nice for you, you left a card. If you were new in town, you waited patiently, hoping someone would call on you so you could pay them a return call and thus begin building up a network of friends.

We still have this custom online. Only instead of cards, we trade blog comments.

Which brings me to the point of my post today. When people take the time to comment on your blog, you should respond if possible. There are one or two blogs I've stopped reading because the blogger never acknowledges comments--and we're not talking about somebody like Miss Snark who gets dozens of comments, we're talking about someone just starting out in the blog world. When only one or two people are responding, you can answer them. And you should. Otherwise they start to feel used and ignored.

Also, if you've posted a link to your blog in your signature in a forum, and it specifically asks people to comment on your blog? If somebody does, you should comment back. You've asked them to begin network with you. You owe them something in return. Likewise, if you're asking people how to get people to comment on your blog, and someone explains to you about commenting back, and then comments...the link is right there. Click on it. Say hi to them. To refuse to do so is to rudely ignore your social obligations. It's to announce to everyone involved that you are a taker, not a giver.

I'm not talking about people like EE or Miss S, or any of the blogging agents I've come across and/or linked to. For many of them, to comment everyone back would not only take a huge amount of time, but might encourage relationships which may be rather awkward. Imagine having to reject someone whose blog you regularly visit. Do you keep commenting after? Maybe they hate you. It would be odd, so those people are excused.

But there is no excuse for most people to ask for other people's time, to read and comment on their blogs, and then not repay the visit. It's rude, and it makes me mad.

I may not comment on some people's blogs as often as they do on mine, but I do try. And of course some of you I consider friends to the point where we don't need to keep track of who's commenting where and when, right?

But in general...oooh it bugs me.

Cliche, Smiche

Okay, I'm not officially doing the Thursday Thirteen (yet), and I certainly don't want to detract from the strong "GO BUY IT" message below about The Rest Falls Away, but I had occasion last night to think about heroic cliches--in movies more than books, actually--that, no matter how many times I have seen them, still do it for me.

There are some I just love, that make me fall in love with a hero right away, that make me catch my breath. So, in no particular order, here are a few cliches I adore:

1. When the hero, faced with a gang of people who want to beat him or shoot him or whatever, pauses, gets himself ready, then gives them a "Come on" gesture with his hand. (This was especially awesome in Desperado, one of my favorite movies, which turns all the cliches around and is so much fun, plus Antonio Banderas was never sexier, plus the film features a .50-caliber Desert Eagle, a totally illegal firearm that looks cool as hell [it's listed as a "Destructive Device". Which, totally want one, because weapons are hot.] But the master of this, of course, is BRUCE LEE. Mmmmmm.)

2. When the hero has only one bullet and must hit a target head on, and he just does it. Example: Chow Yun-Fat in Hard Boiled.

3. Any sort of one-handed gun cocking.

4. Anyone cleaning wounds with whiskey. Especially if they drink the whiskey as well.

5. Two-handed shooting. This is cool whether it's cocking with one hand, pulling the trigger with the other (like in Westerns--I believe Val Kilmer did this in Tombstone, in which he was sooo hot) or if they're holding a gun in each hand.

6. Yeah, I still like guys who smoke. And drink.

7. The shot of men walking slowly. It's a classic for a reason.

8. When the guy grabs the girl and gives her a hard, passionate kiss before leaping into the fray.

9. Any sort of breaking glass.

...and I know there's more but I can't think of them right now, so I'll add them later.

And tomorrow or the next day, I'll do cliches that leave me cold.

But first tell me your cliches you love!

New Year's Resolution book

Yay! I love this one!

Here's the blurb:

In every generation, a Gardella is called to accept the family legacy of vampire slaying, and this time, Victoria Gardella Grantworth is chosen, on the eve of her debut, to carry the stake. But as she moves between the crush of ballrooms and dangerous, moonlit streets, Victoria's heart is torn between London's most eligible bachelor, the Marquess of Rockley, and her enigmatic ally, Sebastian Vioget. And when she comes face to face with the most powerful vampire in history, Victoria must ultimately make the choice between duty and love.

Okay. First, yes, while the idea is Buffy-like, the book's not like Buffy. After the first couple of chapters I forgot about the resemblance. Colleen Gleason has created a new and original vampire mythology which promises to be develop in a really unique way as the series goes on. I enjoyed Victoria's attempts to keep her activities secret in a world where keeping secrets was so difficult. And the characters are so alive and interesting. So alive and interesting, in fact, that...

the end made me cry a little.

I think you guys know me well enough by now to know that I am not the type of girl who cries at books very often. In fact, I can only think of a couple of books in my life that have made me cry: when Melanie dies in Gone With the Wind; the entire last few chapters and Epilogue of Sharon Kay Penman's The Reckoning; and sometimes I get a little emotional when Willie hears "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" on the radio in The Caine Mutiny (but then, who doesn't get emotional when they hear that song? It's like "Over There". Seriously. I dare you to listen to that and feel nothing at all.)

I didn't sob at the end of The Rest Falls Away, but I teared up. And that's a big deal.

The book started a little slowly for me--which very well might have been that I was snatching minutes here and there to read--but quickly absorbed me once I focused and the set-up was complete. I would have liked a little more "period" feel--not that the book didn't have that feel, but I was hoping for a little more velvet, smoke, fog, and blood.

Still, we had three handsome, sexy men to tempt our heroine--and I can't decide, so don't ask. That nipple ring and the slight pain fetish hinted at is awfully tempting (although I have never found men with nipple rings appealing, so don't ask me where that came from, I just know it did), but Mr. Kiss-Me-In-The-Coach-And-I-Might-Be-A-Bad-Guy is pretty hot too. And the other one...just...aaaw.

And I can't believe I have to wait until June to read the next one...but you don't have to, because Colleen Gleason is doing an ARC contest over at her website, so go enter!

Seriously. This is a keeper. Go get it.

Happy Valentine's Day

Yeah, it's that day, the one where everyone is expected to be all romantic and lovey-dovey. Am I the only one for whom this day tends to just suck?

For years I was always sick on Valentine's Day. Like, respiratory infecton or stomach flu sick. That ended when I got to Florida, but the day still basically stank. So much pressure, I think. Everyone wants to know what sorts of gifts your husband bought for you, or what special thing you're doing to celebrate.

Usually, the hubs and I end up fighting. We don't fight much. And the last couple of years have been fine, now that I think about it. But I know we're not alone--a lot of couple fight on Valentine's Day, and I think it's because of the raised expectations.

I don't even really advocate planning all sorts of wild sexy things. Chances are it will backfire. Silly lingerie covered in hearts? Nah, not for me. Why would you want to have sex with someone who looks like a float in a cheezy parade?

So this year do something extra special for your significant other--give them a break, order a pizza, and watch sitcoms. Save the romance for when it's spontaneous. That's what makes it special.

AWOL

I'm hoping to blog later today, but I don't know that I'll get the chance...a casual email to an important (and incredibly nice!) coontact about a newly formed idea has led to a request for more info, so I am frantically putting my notes in order to get an outline written up ASAP.

So I am a busy, busy beaver today. Think of me fondly!

Those Manly, Manly Mullets

I'm serious, y'all. Samson's manliness all existed in his hair, his long, sexy, shiny manly-man hair. (Which, okay. Probably a filthy rat's nest considering the lack of jojoba conditioners in Biblical times. Play along, okay? And shut your damn doubting piehole.) (Is there seriously a term for mouth more offensive yet humorous than "pie-hole"? Because its use implies that you eat pie on a regular basis. Who eats that much pie?)

Anway, so Samson was all tough and strong because of his hair. The 80's man, much like Samson, also wanted to show his testosterone-laced strength through his hair. But! He was no longer a construction worker or mechanic, who could tuck his long, luxurious 70's hair, probably cared for with a balsam shampoo and a creme rinse, into a ponytail when handling dangerous man-work equipment like axes or hydraulic things, and tuck it into the collar of his shirt. No, he needed to look businesslike. Clean-cut. Long hair was out, baby.

So what's a guy to do? His banker bosses want to see his ears. They want him to have bangs. But inside that suited body beats the heart of a rocker.

And so the mullet was born. Short on the top and sides, long in the back. The perfect mix of business and pleasure.

I had one, once. I was ten. I didn't know what it was called, but everyone I knew was getting one. So I got one. I hated it. It was puffy and I felt, frankly, like some creepy elementary-school butch lesbian. But that same haircut that made me feel too manly did the same for actual men. They exuded manly, like a scent peeking through the heavier smells of Aramis or Drakkar. (By the way, I still love Aramis.)

Yes, some men went too far. There was a trend in my high school for the guys to have the backs of their mullets permed. I ask you. There is nothing manly about getting a perm, not ever. I remember hearing a bunch of them discussing it one day. And one of them was a hockey player.

There were also the unfortunate souls for whom the short mullet front was a different (usually darker) color than the long back. The two tone-effect didn't really work in that instance.

But everybody had a mullet. Teachers had them. Every guy in my school had one. My brother had one. Various celebrities. More Random celebrities and sports stars (MacGyver!).Mel Gibson. (Curiously, Lethal Weapon-era photos of the mulleted Mel are exceedingly difficult to find online. Imdb doesn't have any. Conspiracy? You be the judge!)

Now, though, the mightly mullet has become passe. A mulleted man is the kind of man who drinks Busch beer out of a and wears super-tight stonewashed denim cut-off shorts beneath his faded Molly Hatchett t-shirt.

Sow hile we're mourning the passing of macho, and hoping for a resurgence, let's think of this. The mullet allowed men who be a little creative with their hair. Isn't it a shame they can't anymore? No moustaches, no muttonchops (yeah, I didn't get to them), no flowing hair in interesting shapes?

It's a sad time to be a man, my friends.

Happy Burt Reynolds Day!

Yes indeedy, folks. Burt Reynolds is 71 years old today.

And you know, he still looks pretty good, although I'm focusing on macho 70's Burt as a fitting end to Macho Week.

So I'm going to blog about mullets and muttonchops, then I'm going to watch Smokey and the Bandit and enjoy this special day.

Technorati tags:

burt reynolds
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Yeah...

I'm supposed to be blogging about the mullet and muttonchops today. But you know what? I just plain don't feel like it. I feel to chatty to focus, so here are some random thoughts:

Blah blah blah Anna Nicole Smith blah blah.

No, seriously. I think it is a tragedy. A baby just lost her big brother and her moth and she's only a few months old, and that is horrible. What I find most interesting is the internet "coverage". I haven't yet seen a man comment that this is tragic or sad, or that he hopes Anna Nicole has found peace. Most men seem to be either on the "shrug, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner" or "Hahaha!" sides. I haven't yet seen a woman who isn't saddened. A lot of women seemed to feel almost like AN was sort of a patron saint, beautiful and confused and doing her best in the world. I don't know if I would go that far--there was always something hard about her face that bothered me--but certainly I think she was vilified unecessarily. I think she honestly loved J. Howard Marshall and I think she deserved the money he promised her.
But the sex split over this really fascinates me, although I don't feel like analyzing it just now. You guys tell me what you think about it instead.


Speaking of fascination, I can no longer keep from telling you all to go read Lola London's 'L'Undone'. Start back at Chapter One. I am riveted.

The hubs is going out of town tomorrow so I will be all alone for the weekend. I expect you all to keep me company.

In my internet wanderings I stumbled on a story about a guy whose girlfriend was visiting him. She decided to go get a manicure. he warned her about dirty tools but she had her own for them to use anyway. I thought, wow. What a great "show don't tell" example of character. The kind of woman who not only owns her own set of manicure tools, but who takes them everywhere with her in case she needs a manicure. Masterful.

A Quick Note Re: Macho

Hey, I've said this in comments a few times now but it seems important enough that I want to mention it here too do nobody misses it:

I'm certainly not saying, in any way, that "macho" is the only type of man I like. I'm not implying only alphas will do for me, or that brawn is some important than brains, or anything of the sort.

I like clever, witty men. I like geeks with glasses who read comics. I like rich businessmen in crisp business shirts and shiny shoes. Just as much as I like men in scuffed boots with grease under their nails from handling engine parts. I like tall, skinny punk guys. I like shorter, slightly husky guys.

I just plain like men, and these posts are just me examining an archetype that seems to have disappeared. I think it's sad there's one less type of man out there, is all, or that a man once so popular has lost his place.

Okay?

What Is Macho?

So what exactly is macho? What was it, and what did it mean? Most importantly, what does it mean now?

It started as a way to identify a "manly" man. A macho guy was above all, testosterone filled. He could grow luxurious chest and facial hair. (I will be doing a post tomorrow specifically on mullets and mutton chops, so be ready!) He was strong and tough. He maybe got in fights. He pretty much had a constant, woman-pleasing erection.

The macho man lived hard. He drank. Maybe he smoked. He probably had, as we've mentioned, a manual labor-type job. He did something where he was outside all day, getting tan. He probably had squint lines around his eyes and tan lines, in fact. Since he was usually shirtless outside, though, he didn't have a farmer tan...his chest was bronzed. Only below the waist were the tan lines visible.

He hung in out real bars, not discos. He listened to rock or real country music, the kind about drinkin' and cryin' and going to jail and hopping trains with their lonesome whistles in the clear, starry night. He felt those lyrics deeply, but he would never discuss such feelings.

He played football on the weekends if he was the active type. If not maybe he worked on his car or watched sports on TV. He did not play soccer or golf. Maybe he fished, but only if the fishing involved copious amounts of beer. Maybe he and his fishing buddies camped out and cooked their catches for dinner, too. Manly cooking, which involved rocks, cast iron, and fire, and did not involve aprons or reducing anything.

The macho man was tender but gruff with his woman. He saw women as something to have fun with, but he respected women as well. And woe betide the man who did not, because the macho man was happy to let his fists do the talking if need be. He wanted a wife. He wanted children. He expected to support them and he did not shirk from the thought or the reality of his reponsibilities.

Somehwere along the line, this concept became bastardized. The macho man, instead of being desirable, became first an overblown caricature (big blow-dried hairdos, tons of gold chains, you know what I'm talking about). It became an excuse for men to behave abominably.

As a result, it became a derisive insult. The macho man, instead of being someone who did his best, became a neanderthal. A man who wouldn't let his woman live her life, who expected foot massages every night and sex every other night and didn't care what she wanted. As with so many other good concepts, people took the base but not the subtleties, and "macho" became synonymous for "sexist jerk".

I think this is a terrible shame. I think men have been turned into wimps. I think the modern man tends to be a little sad, a little needy, more than a little insecure.

And the men who are attemtping machismo are going to the very worst extremes, referring to women as bitches and hos and impregnating them willy-nilly.

All because this man, the macho man, who used to set an example for young men and who used to give young women something real to expect from the men in their lives, has disappeared.

Maybe if we bring him back in fiction...and women start looking for him again...we can bring him back in life?

Tags:

70's
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men

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

For a quickie, but I'll be posting more on macho later. (I didn't have time yesterday, the day flew away from me.)

Plus, honestly, I've noticed that when I post every day I seem to get less comments. What's up with that, guys?

I've been playing with the blog more, you'll notice on the sidebar now I have all sorts of nifty new tracking features. There's a site called My BlogLog that has some cool widgets and tracking charts and stuff. I guess it's for networking/blog community building. I just think it's got some neat info. It's worth a look if you blog a lot, anyway. Although it may be embarrassing for you all to see just how many times a day I'm actually popping onto your blogs.

And that's it. More macho later, and after Macho Week is over I have lots of writing-related questions for you and a New Year's Resolution book to discuss.

Also, do you guys think I should do Thursday Thirteen? It seems like a lot of people are doing it, and it might be a good way to attract readers, but at the same time, I don't know if anyone would actually read it. It is a meme, after all, and I think most people tend to just skim those. What do you guys think?

Macho, Part One

My ex-boyfriend Emil and I were talking one day about why the seventies was the last era of the real man. "Truck drivers could still be heroes in the seveties," he said.

And he was right.

Once that decade ended, we lost interest in men who make a living with their hands--except as villains or dolts, characters of fun or racist obstacles for the real heroes to get through. Occasionally we'll see some blue-collar guys in a sports movie, dealing with father issues.

But in the 70s...we lusted after those men. Tall, lean men with hairy chests and faces, with cowboy hats and cans of beer in their hands.

That man still has a huge pull for me, growing up a child of the 70s as I did. None of them more than the man above, Burt Reynolds.

When I was eight, Smokey and the Bandit was my abolsute favorite movie (I added Conan the Barbarian not long after.) Bandit was the handsomest, the most exciting, the smartest and coolest man who ever lived. He drove an awesome car, and he drove it well. He didn't play by anybody's rules--but he was still a traditional kind of man.

He was the kind of man we saw all over in films in the seventies.

When and why did that change? When did men just being men stop being good enough?

I'm guilty of this, in large part. My heroes--when they aren't medieval ass-kickers--tend to be businessmen. They're wealthy, they're powerful. They wear crisp white shirts and smell expensive.

They're complex men...but they aren't as complex as the seveties macho man. Yes, I do think they were complex. They were men facing a changing world, and their changing place in that world, the best way they could.

I wonder if a man like this might be too hard to write in a romance these days. If the compromises a 00's woman (hate that!) would need to make to be with the 70's man--or vice versa--might be too much for even the longest and most complex romances.

I wonder if readers would even buy a hero who worked in a factory or drove a truck anymore. The CB warrior is gone. The blue-collar guys living quiet lives don't attract anyone's attention anymore.

Even the concept of macho itself is ridiculed now, turned into a neanderthal stereotype only good for laughs.

But for one shining decade, Bandit and his resolute uncoolness, his Merle Haggard albums and his Coors and his cowboy hat and thick moustache, reigned supreme as the epitome of a man. When men didn't have to wear the right brand of jeans or listen to the right satellite radio station or live in a large, leather-decorated loft to be a hero, to be sexy and interesting.

I miss him.

(Tomorrow: What is macho? I'm doing macho all week.)

A Couple of Notes Before Bed

I have done it, my friends. I have officially started querying Personal Demons, after numerous stringent edits. If anyone else wants to give it a quick beta read, just in case I missed something or whatever, let me know.

This is the most nerve-wracking thing ever...but I think it's a good book, a solid and fun and sexy book, and damn it, I can't possibly be the only one, especially since every edit gets a better reaction from early readers.

So that's that. I have stepped on the merry-go-round.


Also, if anyone is ever interested, for whatever reason, in buying me a gift, here's the place to go: Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab. Seriously. (Well, not seriously, because none of you would ever be expected to buy me a gift of any kind and if you tried to I would refuse. But it sounded good, huh.) I think any one of these would make me happy. It is now my goal to try them all. At least, all the ones that sound good, which is basically all of them.

It actually ties in a bit with a whole long post I have planned on perfumes, but that will have to wait for later in the week. Why? Because I'm tired, that's why. I spent most of the day doing some beta reading for my cp and a new friend, doing more edits on PD, working on my synopsis and query for PD, and doing more edits. Also, I woke up dizzy this morning and stayed that way. I thik it's an inner-ear thing related to last week's horrible bronchitis and cold.

I also managed to eat a quarter of a peanut butter cake I made yesterday. Delicious. Always better the second day. I don't know why I even try to eat them the first day (well, okay, yes I do, and it's not flattering). This was the first one I made without chocolate chips, because the hubs is insane and so is not a fan of chocolate and peanut butter together, while I think it's the most yummy combo ever. Anyway, left the chocolate out, and the cake is still pretty good.

Only nine days left until Burt Reynolds Day! (The site is still showing last year's info, but the date doesn't change. This will tie in with my post(s) on...macho. Be ready.

Insert Clever Title

So this evening, while frying tortillas for dinner (bastardized Mexican. See, I'm allergic to peppers, and I don't really like spicy food, so fried tortillas are pretty much the only thing that makes my tacos Mexican at all. Otherwise they're just ground beef cooked with garlic, onion, Worcestershire, and soy [it really is tasty] and served with some cheese. Anyway.) I was frying the tortillas and somehow managed to dip the middle finger of my left hand into the boiling oil.

Now that was fun.

After I finally managed to get my finger out from under the cold tap, and after eating and it still hurt, and after I had some ice cream and it still hurt, I headed for the medicine cabinet. I could have taken some ibuprofin or paracetemol (because we don't have Advil or Tylenol here), but then I remembered. I still have some Percocet left over from when the Faery was born and I forced my doc to give me plenty. (See, when Princess was born he didn't give me enough, and I never let him forget it.)

Long story short? I am high as a kite right now, my friends. Not only does my finger not hurt, I seriously don't think I could feel pain if I tried. I'm awfully thirsty, though.

So I was going to do some real writing work tonight but in the mood I'm in, I don't think it's a good idea.

And, they finally announced the release date for the last Harry Potter book! Yay! July 21st! I'm of two minds about this. On the one hand, July 21st can not come fast enough. On the other, my husband turns 35 on the 16th of July and I am not looking forward to the weeks of "I'm so old" conversations. Even less am I loking forward to turning 34 on August 11th. No, not looking forward to that one at all. So I want July 21st to happen, then just stay the 21st for several more months. Like Groundhog Day, only...in July, and without Bill Murray. (Although I freaking adore Bill Murray, so he's certainly welcome to come along.) I can't wait for the book, though. I'm thinking of trying to convince hubs to take me to Edinburgh. Maybe JK Rowling will show up.

And I had a cigarette two days ago, because he was having one, but it was eh. And I haven't had any since. So look at me, being all tough and shit.

Oh, and also Molly Ivins died, and apparently she was much admired despite being a plagiarizer. Since she stole not only Florence King's words, but her whole "loveable curmudgeon" persona, I think she had a lot more to apologize for than she did, but it seems that, much like when Hunter S. Thompson died and I didn't care, I'm in the minority here as well. (BTW Florence King is one of my all-time favorite authors, so I've always had about as much use for Ivins as I have for pens with pink ink.)

The hubs and I were discussing art earlier (which actually has very little to do with Molly the Copycat but bear with me, because I think it's interesting.) We were discussing art, and what makes art cross the line between interesting and pretentious. There was more to it than that, but that was the gist. And we figured it out:

Pure art exists so the artist can make the viewer or audience or whatever see the world the way the artist does, or look at themselves in a different way, or make them think. Good or bad. It doesn't intrude, it opens a dialogue.

Pretentious art makes the audience look at the artist. It doesn't try to do anything but attract attention.

And those are my drug-addled thoughts for the evening.

Mrs. Giggles Likes Me

This is SO a huge deal...Mrs. Giggles review The Black Dragon.

Seriously, read some of her other reviews and you'll know why this is so huge.

Also FAR gave Prince of Death Four Angels.

So the reviews are going pretty well, and I am quite pleased!

Getting ready to start the query process, always terrifying. And, I finally managed to get some New Year's Resolution books!

Here's what I got:

The Rest Falls Away by Colleen Gleason, who used to stop by here every once in a while. I have no idea if she still does, but I grabbed her book anyway.

Blood Angel, by Justine Musk.

Touch the Dark by Karen Chance.

Sadly, I am still waiting for Amazon to bring me Jackie Kessler's Hell's Belles. Hurry up, Amazon!

So I am currently reading the beginning of Touch the Dark, and I shall let you know how it, and the others go. I would have started them all earlier but I was distracted, not just by the Mrs. Giggles love, but by another book I grabbed, "Call Me Elizabeth", the true story of a wife & mother who became an escort when her family hit serious financial trouble.

It was okay. Not great, but okay. Honestly, for books about sex workers/the sex industry, you cannot beat Mayflower Madam by Sydney Biddle Barrows (if you can find it. My Dad threw my copy out, apparently thinking reading such things would corrupt me, and I never managed to get another copy and it's now out of print. Which pisses me off, because it really was a good book. Anyway.) The author actually shares very little about her clients and her relationships with them, and a lot about her six kids and their schooling etc. All the male characters are, of course, basically cookie cut-outs. I wouldn't have believed before that men could be like her husband, who apparently does nothing but sit watching tv all day speaking to no one, but it turns out I actually sort of know a few women who claim their husbands do nothing else, as well. So there you go. Ladies, I guess if our husbands speak to us we should consider ourselves very lucky indeed.

And I am pretty lucky, despite getting a rejection this morning on an old project. Oh well.

Movies and Stuff and being sick

We watched a couple of movies. Miami Vice and Talladega Nights. Hated the first, loved the second. Miami Vice was a huge disappointment. First, the director (Michael Mann) seemed to go out of his way to make Colin Ferrell look bloated and pasty. He was about as sexy as one of my used tissues in this movie, and I gotta tell you, that whole crazy-irresponsible-drunken-Irishman-who'd-fuck-anything-that-moves thing he's got going? Yeah. I'm into it big-time. So major disappointment there. Second big problem is, the actual city of Miami--which, given the film is called Miami Vice, and given how much on-location stuff the TV show used to do, we rather expected to get really homesick from seeing so much of--is basically nonexistent in the film. They spend some time in Cuba, which is always exciting for South Floridians, among whom Cuba is sort of like Shangri-La: exciting and forbidden and dangerous. So that was kind of neat to see, but again, we might as well have been seeing a soundstage. All of the film was like that. With the exception of a couple of shots in the beginning of the downtown skyline and a few shots along I-95...nothing.

Plus the entire thing was shot in these very tight close-ups that gave the movie a claustrohpobic feel. And everyone muttered and looked very serious all the time, and the whole film was them muttering and looking serious. Hardly any action took place. No car chases, one shoot-em-up that lasted a few minutes and was filmed, like the rest of the movie, in such darkness we couldn't see what was happening. It was always cloudy, and when we saw the ocean out someone's windows it was hazy enough to obscure the horizon. Just blah. Dull and ugly.

Talladega Nights was fun, though. Mindless, but clever, if that makes any sense. The cast was stellar, including of course John C. Reilly who is always so damn funny (except when he's doing wonderful dramatic work, of course.) Every time I watch Boogie Nights he makes me giggle. And Gary Cole! And Michael Clarke Duncan, reading "Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret". Which is one of my favorite bits in the movie. (My favorite is the haunted house thing. "Get out..." Tee-hee-hee.) Anyway, since my Dad is a big Nascar fan, and he used to run quarter-miles all the time when I was a kid (he had a '67 Mustang fastback he used to work on), watching racing movies of any kind still has a nostaligc feel for me. So perhaps I enjoyed this one more than I might normally have, but I love the Frat Pack movies anyway, so I liked this one. It might become one of my "watch when sick" movies, along with The Godfather, A Room With A View, and lots of sitcoms on DVD.

What are your "comfort" films?

Bronchitis is fun!

Note: This isn't the most pleasant story in the world, so if you have a delicate stomach, don't read this post.

So I kept feeling worse and worse, all day Wednesday, and having a harder and harder time breathing. I went to bed around 7 pm. The coughing woke me up a few times, as did the horrible noises my lungs were making, but the best part was when I woke up around 2 am and coughed so hard I threw up all over myself and the bed. Yay!

Got myself cleaned up, changed the sheets (thanks to hubby's help, and luckily I got the brunt of it), attempted to go back to sleep. Hubs had decided to sleep in the bed with me at this point (he was going to stay on the couch both to give me some room and so my choking coughs didn't keep him awake all night, but apparently he decided I needed watching.) Every time I managed to drift off to sleep, he woke me up saying, "Honey, don't breathe so fast. Take slow, deep breaths." Which, if I was able to do that, um, I would be.

So I went to the doctor Thursday. Hubs came home from work early and off I went. I dozed off in the waiting room, unnoticed. When I got in to see the doc, she agreed my lungs did sound "a bit wheezy" (which is really an understatement, considering that the hubs could hear them across the room) and asked if I was allergic to any medications. Yes, Biaxin. But it isn't called Biaxin here, and I couldn't remember the "clinical" name (it's Clarithromycin, for future reference.) She named something and I didn't understand her so I said that was fine and there you go.

Cut to two hours later, when hubs has gone out to fill my script and buy me medicine and iced tea (no Gatorade here!) and some movies (see above post.) He brings me my antibiotics. I tear open the box (they come in boxes here, like free samples!), pop one down...guess what?

So while hubby is out getting me a new script and getting that one filled...I get to go make myself throw up. For the second time in 14 hours. Luckily I felt so awful I was basically able to just kind of think really hard about doing it and there you go, but it was not pleasant. No, not pleasant at all. And it's only today that I have actually been able to really move, except for the shower I made myself take on Friday.



I have not had a cigarette since Wednesday. And so I guess I went ahead and quit. Damn.

Ugh

Y'all, I am so sick. I have a horrible cold.

So no December chatty today. I just want to go to sleep. Being able to breathe without coughing would be nice, too. And thinking clearly is usually good.

It reminds me of one of the best lines from the Tom Hanks movie "The Money Pit":

A while ago I thought the Care Bears were here!


Hopefully this won't last long--of course, my Princess has had it for three days now--and I will be back to my cheerful self. Meanwhile, if you don't see me, it's because I decided no posts or responses were better than delerious ones, funny only to myself (c'mon, I just quoted "The Money Pit". Is that the act of a healthy woman?)

Bits and Pieces

As I lay awake last night in bed (I'm an insomniac, as I think most of you already know), I came up with a really great blog topic. I wrote like a third of a clever post in my head, but, of course, I don't remember it now. So here's some random observations and thoughts and we'll see what we can come up with, shall we?

First, since adding a hit counter back in August (it's at the very bottom), this blog has had over 5,000 hits! Which may not be much, but I'm awfully proud. PLUS, even better, it looks like traffic to my website might cross over a thousand hits this month! It's been hovering in the 7-800s for a few months now, but it's already at almost 700 and we still have several days to go. So let's keep our fingers crossed--and seriously, this isn't some winking hint. Don't go over there to up my hit count, please. I want to hit a real goal, not get my wonderful friends to inflate my numbers.

And speaking of the site...this blog is now officially part of it. The Deadjournal is no more. Nobody commented there, anyway, and I couldn't post pictures there, so...it's still there, it just isn't part of my site anymore. I really wish I could get this to look a little nicer (I hate those stupid corners) but I can't seem to make it look right and the template selection stinks, so I'm stuck with it for the moment.

It's gotten cold here now. Overnight the temp dropped from the 40s to freezing. My Princess has a cold, so luckily I don't have to walk her to school, but she's not gonna be out forever. Not looking forward to that.

Edits, edits, edits.

I was thinking about psuedonyms the other day, and pseudonymous vs. anonymous. I've never understood why it's so important to know people's real names. (I'm thinking of the Jennie Crusie/Miss Snark thing of a few months back.) We spend half our time warning each other that the internet isn't as safe as it seems, that we must be careful not to post pictures of our kids (and although I have posted one or two, I agree this is good advice--notice the pictures are usually a little blurry, and I don't give their names), not to give out our addresses or phone numbers, whatever. I managed to pick up a little internet stalker a few weeks back myself. The situation is now resolved, I believe (but hey, if you see somebody spreading crazy gossip about me out there, let me know, huh?) but imagine if DQ wasn't a pseudonym. Imagine if this person was able to find my address or phone number, or where I went to high school or where my parents live or any number of things.

So I just find it interesting, when someone posts under a pseudonym or anonymously, the number of people who are absolutely outraged because they do. Isn't the internet itself a sort of anonymity? There's no real "Come and say that to my face" about the internet, is there? There's still distance there. There's still some small lack of accountability there, whether you use your name or a pretty made-up one or none at all. I guess it's just a matter of opinion as to what that means.

Which probably doesn't make much sense but you know, I'm tired. :-) Three hours sleep and a day spent doing nothing but editing does muddle me a little, I'll admit.

What are your thoughts? Are anonymous comments worth the internet space they take up? How do you feel about cold weather? And why can't I ever sleep at night (I sleep just fine all morning)?

First (Great!) Review for Prince of Death!

Whee!


Romance Junkies Blue Ribbon Reviews has given Prince of Death FOUR Blue Ribbons!

From the review:

More than just an inferno of a book with enough sultry fire to burn up the pages, December Quinn gives an insightful glimpse into the complex personality and kinships of such intriguing characters like Cynwrig and Ayani. With an ultimate princely hero, scorching love scenes, and an unexpected twist to a well composed story, what is there not to love about December Quinn's PRINCE OF DEATH?



You can read the whole thing here.

Very gratifying.

Is it just me, or is this month the longest month ever in the world? Seriously. It feels like it's been January forever and it's only the 19th, we're just barely halfway done.

Trying to get edits done while working on the new project with Anna. Trying to make kiddies happy while keeping the house clean at the same time. Bleh! I want to go away for a weekend by myself, is what I want to do. Just me and my laptop. Sigh. What a lovely break that would be.

Bitches, man.

The promo rant is reaching critical mass, but I'm going with this one first. Why? Because I'm in a bad mood, and if I get started on the promo stuff I'm liable to say something career-ending. Before my career has really gone anywhere.

So I'm reading some Kim Harrison books lately.

Aside from the literal sick feeling in the pit of my stomach any time I hear about demon books, or urban fantasy sales involving demons--and believe me, I do feel like I'm going to throw up everywhere, then curl into a miserable litle ball and rock myself into a pit of despair--something bugs me about these books. Something of which these books are only the nearest example to mind, and is not meant to imply these books aren't good.

Why, oh why, do we as readers seem to accept behavior from female characters that we would never in a million years accept from a man? And is it only in books, or is it in life as well?

Here's the big example. Rachel, the heroine of the Harrison books (try saying that three times fast) has a rommate, a vampire named Ivy. Who is also apparently a lesbian of some kind.

Now, I didn't read the first book in the series. I thought I was but it turned out to be the second. So it's possible, I guess, that something happened in the first book to give us a reason why Rachel puts up with Ivy. Because I don't see it at all.

Rachel is a kick-ass heroine (It feels like I should start putting a TM after that, I swear.) In the world of KH, Rachel and Ivy run a bounty hunting business (or something. Yeah, I've only read one and a half of the books, okay? It's an example, the rant's not about these specific books.) There's a whole bunch of business with vampires that would take too long to explain, but basically they get off on scent, and so smelling Rachel's scent is a big deal to them, as is drinking blood, of course. Rachel starts dating Ivy's brother in the second book.

Every time Ivy sees her brother, she threatens him. She'll do this if he dares drink Rachel's blood, she'll do that. he better not touch her. he better not kiss her. She better not catch them actually having sex. Rachel and her boyfriend actually have to hide their intimacy, washing sheets and opening windows etc., so Ivy's widdoe feewings won't get huwt.

Now, let's pretend Ivy is Ivan. And we know Ivan has a big thing for Rachel, but we know Rachel isn't interested.

Would a reader still like Ivan if he were threatening Rachel's boyfriend? If he pulled him aside and said he'd tear him apart if he even touched Rachel? If he dared to actually forbid the boyfriend to drink Rachel's blood, as if it was any of his damned business? If he became furious after discovering their relationship had progressed and threw a little hissy fit?

No. We'd think Ivan was a dick. A creepy, stalkery, controlling kind of dick. We'd wonder who the hell he thinks he is, and why he seems to think his feelings for Rachel automatically mean she has to reciprocate.

So why does Ivy get a free ride? Because she doesn't have a penis?

This isn't the only place I've seen this. Female characters who betray their friends are forgiven in ways men never would be. A man who cheats on a woman is always bad. A woman who cheats on her husband is just misunderstood.

Now yes, there is that subset of female characters known as The Evil Ex. Or the Evil Seductress. They're the same woman, it's just one of them has already done the deed with the Hero and the other simply wants to. I know those women exist.

But let's face it, most of the time women--and, I'm beginning to notice, especially the kick-ass heroine(TM)--are allowed to be as miserable and bitchy as they want, and everyone just thinks that's fine and lets them get away with it. And it bugs me.

What do you think? Do you think fictional women are allowed more leeway? And do you think that has anything to do with the fact women buy more books?

Fangirl Squeee!

Hey, lookie!

Joss Whedon is doing a "Season 8" Buffy comic.


Am I the only one totally peeing-myself excited over this?!


Yeah, so the last season of Angel wasn't that great, and the ending to that show totally sucked. We can forgive him anything, because he is Joss Fucking Whedon.


Other news? Not much, I'm playing the waiting game. Waiting for news on two subs. Waiting for the hubs to finish reading my book so I can get to editing. Which will probably be like three months from now, if the fact that he's currently wasting valuable reading time by flicking through this month's Previews (it's a comics solicitation magazine) and cataloging his latest comics order instead of reading my stuff.

Finished season 4 of The Shield. Two episodes left on the Nip/Tuck season 4 disks I have. What will I watch? I guess I'll have to, you know, start another book or something.

Although my CP and I are over halfway done with another co-written project, a menage paranormal, which I think is even hotter and better than our first one (which was pretty damn hot and good, and we should be getting our first round of edits for next month.)

I had two ranty posts planned--one about the way we accept shit from female characters in books that we'd never in a million years accept from men; the other about promo and reviews. But I shall do them in the next couple of days, because I'm tired and I am stuffed full of homemade steak pie (mmmmmm!).

I will post tomorrow, though, because I've cheated you out of a decent post today.

Another great review!

Okay, y'all...this is a big deal. A huge deal.

Dear Author gave The Black Dragon a B-.

Any of you who read the Janes on even a semi-regular basis (which, you should read regularly, because they rock) knows that that's pretty good. I'm...honored.

*sob* They like me! They really like me!


Other bits:

I discovered a few days ago that I'm allergic to the new pillows we bought just before Christmas. I couldn't figure out why I was waking up in the middle of the night unable to breathe, like literally having to stick my head out the window and cough and wheeze for twenty minutes before my lungs stopped making horrible noises it was actually quite scary). Pillow allergy. Who knew? No sneezing or runny nose, just an almost total inability to inhale.

I so wish I wasn't as far behind on The Shield, because I'd love to discuss it but it's all old news now to anybody watching in the States.

I am waiting with bated breath for the announcement of the Harry Potter release date. I keep getting pre-order solicitations in my email, but I'm not pre-ordering until I know when it's coming out. I'm also trying to convince my husband to drive us up to Scotland so we can haunt some Edinburgh bookstores on Release Eve, but I doubt he'll do it.

Apparently it's National De-Lurking week. So do that. De-lurk here.

Savior and healer of the sick Madonna is "urging" more people to adopt babies from Africa. "...those children need to be rescued," she says.

Hey, Madonna? Maybe, instead of taking one kid away from his home and family, and thus taking one potential doctor or honest government worker or future leader away from those children who need rescuing, next time you'll think about donating maybe a tenth of your sizeable fortune to the orphanages and schools in that place. So *all* the children there--and gee! Maybe some adults too!--can benefit from your Lady Bountiful act. Grrrrrr.


In short: another great review for The Black Dragon, which pleases me immensely. Non-hypoallergenic pillows suck. Love The Shield. Want Harry Potter. Comment and say hi.

And Madonna is a stupid bitch.

The Black Dragon gets its first review!

And like a proud Mommy, I watch it trot off to get reviewed with a big fat tear on my cheek.

Check it out at Annie Dean's blog.

She liked it! Whee!


I'm still nervous about what everyone else will think, of course.


We've been watching Season 4 of The Shield the last few days, and getting totally obsessed and wrapped up in it again. Plus I have those lovely bootleg DVDs of Nip/Tuck Season 4--it just started airing here, but I have up to episode 12(?) in my kitchen. Yay again! Can't wait to watch. Between Vic Mackey and Christian Troy, I have pretty much everything I could ever want in a man.

What that says about me, I don't know.

Getting ready to start editing, I think...but my head is also swimming with a million different projects too. I swear I wish that Naturally Speaking software was worth a damn, because I'm a pretty fast typist but even I can't type much more than 2500 words per hour tops. The speaking program can triple that but it just doesn't work for me. I tried to "train it to my voice" but it wouldn't obey.

Just like me, to have the disobedient voice-recognition software. Maybe it's hard of hearing.

So go read my review, and hopefully I'll have more soon to post (fingers crossed!)

The First Resolution book & a big old RANT

Well, my first real Resolution book was a mistake. Not because it wasn't a good book-although we'll get to it in a minute--but because I didn't notice until I was paying for it that it was a Richard & Judy Book Club choice for last year. Which sucks.

Richard & Judy are TV presenters over here. Essentially, I bought a Today Bookclub choice, or an Oprah book. Which as you know, was NOT what I wanted. It sold big, it wasn't a first book...oh, what a mess.

Here's what really pisses me off about this R&J Book Club thing. I read an article, which I bookmarked and of course the bookmark didn't work and I can't find it again so you'll just have to take my word for it, where R&J talked about how pleased they were to have some "challenging" books on the list.

Fuck challenging. You're doing a book club and aiming it at couch potatoes who don't read. People who like to read don't need you to tell them what to read--they go to bookstores and lookthemselves. So you're trying to encourage people to read. To ENJOY reading. The way to do that isn't to pick "challenging" books about issues or ideas. It's to give them some good stories. Why not pick some genre fiction for your bookclubs, for once? Did Oprah ever do that? Did the Today show? Does anyone here know of a single romance, horror (not Stephen King), or fantasy novel EVER picked for a TV book club? Because I don't.

All these clubs are doing is enforcing the idea that reading is hard. That you need someone to help you understand a book and encouragement to actually finish a book. That you can't just pick a book because it sounds good, because the process is too confusing, so you need someone to tell you what's good. There's no pleasure in that. It doesn't encourage people to read--the book club choices are usually put in displays near the front of the store. The zombified R & J or Oprah viewer walks into the bookstore (or the shelves at their local grocery store) and grabs the book their Host said they should read. Nothing encourages them to browse the shelves, to wander around. They go from display to checkout without even having to see those other books.

It makes me sick. If you want to encourage people to read, encourage them to read. Try something new, dammit.

Anyway, on to the book, quickly because I'm on my way out the door. I bought The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets by Eva Rice. It's out in paperback here but not yet in the states, though I've linked to Amazon US.

It's not a bad book. I enjoyed it, I did. The story is a little...shall we say...facile. It's a cliche romance plot, to be honest: guy wants girl back, so he bribes another girl to pretend to date him to make first girl jealous. He and second girl fall in love, of course.

But tht doesn't make it bad. The setting, England just after WWII, made it interesting. The heroine, Penelope, has an obsession with pre-Elvis heartthrob Johnnie Ray that she shares with her friend Charlotte, a delightful character. All of the characters are at least interesting, and the story moves along quickly. (Hey, I never said I was good at writing reviews.)

But here's what pissed me off. Did anyone even edit this book? The whole thing is littered with continuity goofs. And not just little ones. I mean things like the age of Penelope's mother changing from 35 to 37 to 35 everal times. Penelope herself is nineteen, then seventeen, then almost twenty-one, then eighteen.

At the end of one chapter she tells us it was the next morning at breakfast, when Hero came down with a sleepy smile on his face, that she realized she might actually like him. The next chapter opens with her attempting to sneak out of the house before breakfast, gettig caught by the hero, and running off into the dawn (it wasn't so dramatic as that) without eating anything. Uh...I thought they had breakfast? You said they did, three pages ago.

Another scene has Girl #1 showing up at Penelope's house after a long walk. Penelope tells us the girl's skirt is crumpled. The next page, in the same scene, the girl is wearing trousers.

Did nobody notice any of this stuff? Come ON, people! How could you not notice that? If a character's eye color of the color of their shirt changes once, it doesn't bother me. Accidents happen, though they shouldn't. But when your people's ages and circumstances change every other page, you've got a problem.

So...it wasn't bad. I really loved the period setting. But there are better books out there.

I am a Terrible Pen Pal

I may have mentioned this before, but it's true no matter how many times I say it.

I am seriously the world's worst Pen Pal.

You'd think email would make it easier. I'm on the damn computer all the time, right?

But it doesn't. It actually makes things worse, because I forget emails. I don't want to; it's not that they're unimportant. But I think, "I don't have time to write back now, I'll do it later," and nine times out of ten I've forgotten by then.

And then I hate myself for it, but I get so many emails a day that I never remember who I owe emails to, and it seems the kids have some sort of radar for when I sit down to try and figure it out, and the bottom line is, if I owe you an email I'm sorry. Maybe you could email me again and remind me?

I promise I won't forget this time.


We watched "Munich" this weekend. Damn, that is a good movie. And damn, Eric Bana is HOT in it! He never really appealed to me, but the 70's-looking Bana, with stubble and longer hair ...oh yeah! Yeah! Not to mention our lovely new Bond, Daniel Craig, is in it too.
But no matter who was in it, it's an excellent film. Bana was freaking robbed when it comes to the Oscars. That was a performance worth a statue, and while I can't comment on the performances of last year's Best Actor nominees (because sad to say, I haven't seen any of the films)...they must have been truly amazing to top Bana.

I hadn't wanted to see the film, because I thought it was about the actual tragedy at the Olympics and I don't particularly like movies where everybody dies at the end (except The Dirty Dozen.) But it wasn't. It's about the aftermath, and it's about assassination, and if there's one thing I love to see movies about it's assassination. (Unless it's tacky "what-if" films about assassinations of actual living figures, in which case I do not watch. That's not a political statement, simply a matter of style.)

Anyway, go rent or buy "Munich".


And I almost forgot: Happy Elvis' Birthday, everyone!

Technorati Tag: munich
eric bana
bad pen pal

Those Boring Male Strippers

No, seriously--keep reading, even if you're a man.

(BTW, I've found one thing I actually like about Beta Blogger--the "New Post" button in the upper right-hand corner. It's nice not to have to go to my dashboard every time I want to do a new post. So, surprise surprise, there's one un-sucky thing about Beta Blogger.)


I planned to do a very different post today, but I realized that might step on a post I have planned for next month. So you get this instead, and you'll hear my thoughts on male archetypes of the 70's next month. Seriously. It'll be a lot of fun, too. I'm excited about it.

No, today I'm going to tell you why I have an aversion to male strippers. And trust me, it relates to writing too.

I've seen male strippers a few times. I went to a male strip club about, oh gosh, ten years ago now, for the first time. A friend of a friend was dating one of the guys and we all tagged along.

It was...okay. It wasn't quite as sleazy as I thought it might be, but it was pretty sleazy, and I have to admit, seeing Stripper's Girlfriend giggle and say "I wish he wouldn't look at me while he does that, it gets me too turned on" or whatever the exact phrase was, while Stripper humped the air and made his banana-hammock bounce in what I frankly thought was a revolting way, made me wonder what was wrong with me. Maybe there still is something, because I'm not really a fan of the Bouncing Peenie.

This feeling was confirmed when I went with a friend of my brother's to the "male dancing" half of a strip club on my brother's bachelor night. And was confirmed for the final time when my best friend Cori and I went to what was otherwise a pretty good ladies' night at a Ft. Lauderdale bar. (Actually, it was kind of a genius LN--$1 Cosmos, Sex and the City on the big-screen, and drinks served by male strippers. Pretty cool. Except the music was too loud, which defeated the purpose of having SATC on the TVs. Anyway.)

Every hour or so, one of the "waiters" would do his strip show. And here's my point, hidden though it may be:

Watching male strippers actually strip is pretty hot. Watching them hump the bar in a g-string? Isn't.

My favorite part of the male strip show was that first time, and always has been, watching them actually disrobe. At that first club there was a guy in a full Navy uniform. It was An Officer and a Gentleman right there in the club...until he tore it all off--even the hat, the moron--within about thirty seconds and proceeded to be Bouncing Peenie Man.

Why, oh why?

Why bother wearing this great costume--the Navy uniform, the police or mechanic uniform, the tuxedo (that was nice), if you're going to lose it all before the first chorus of whatever song you're using and just be Mr. Generic with your dangly bits flying around?

It's the unearthing part that's sexy. The rest isn't sexy. It's just graphic. It's the difference between a sex scene in Body Heat and a sex scene in Not Without my Dildo.

(I realize I write very explicit things, so this may seem a bit incongruous coming from me. But I don't think it is, and here's why. Because I try my best to allow my reader to form at least some kind of connection with the characters before the sex starts. Because although I use words like cock and cunt, I also try to focus on emotions. I try not to make it mechanical. In other words, I try to keep the male dancers' clothes on long enough for you to enjoy seeing them dance shirtless with their pants on for a while [am I the only one who thinks a guy in just pants is hot?]before you get to the good stuff.)

But that isn't even the point. It's not about my sex scenes, or any sex scenes. It's about character. It's about show, don't tell (really!)

You can rip that stripper's pants off in the first ten minutes by introducing a character like so:
Mollie was thirty-three and wore a long black dress covered with lace. Her hair was light brown and curly. She always wished she had straight hair. Her eyes were blue. She was an accountant and she liked numbers. She was lonely. She hadn't wanted to go to this party but she thought maybe she could meet somebody, a boyfriend even, so she let her friends talk her into going. Mollie wanted to get married soon and her friends said...blah blah blah...

Or you could keep things hidden, like so:

Mollie adjusted the skirt of her black lace dress and tried to look like she belonged here. When did people attending parties get so much younger? And when had she started thinking longingly of her empty bed, instead of wishing someone was in it with her?
Probably around the time she realized Tammy had lied, and her chances of meeting an eligible man here were about as good as her chances of falling down a well into another dimension. Sp, pretty much zero chance.

Now, neither of those are great examples, but you get the idea.

This works for plots, too. Let the reader guess things, let them wonder. Let them be intrigued by the little mysteries you've created around your characters as they get to know them.

Don't put it all upfront.

Don't turn your characters into Bouncing Peenies. Keep the stripper's pants on for a while.

Living in Terror

Okay, first of all, I am officially blonde again. After going fire-engine red last May, I switched to dark brown about two months ago because the red kept fading and looking rusty. Plus, as is always the case when I color, I get bored and was already feeling the re-blonde itch, so wanted to get rid of as much red as I could so I wouldn't turn brassy.

(Those of you who also have pinkish tones in your complexion know what I'm talking about--golden or yellowy blondes make us look like horrible tomato people.)

Anyway. I better finish or this whole post will be about hair, thus rendering the clever title ineffective. Last week I scoured the shops here to find a bleach that actually works--for some reason, blonde dyes here are really useless. They couldn't lift an empty paper bag. But I did find a 40-volume developer and bleaching kit which would have worked beautifully if I'd had time to really let it. I didn't. (See, I used to bleach my hair white. The way to do that is to leave the shit on until it dries. Seriously. I'd leave it on for like 6 hours.) This time I only had an hour and a half, so my hair ended up orangey-pink with white roots. It was, in a word, absolutely fucking hideous. I looked like some sort of creepy sugarplum doll turned evil. And also, tomato face. It didn't help that I had a stress-related spot on my chin, either (which is thankfully gone).

So hubby had to go to Tesco for me, because I didn't want to leave the house, at least not without piling my cotton-candy hair in a hat, and buy me some dye. Light ash blonde.

Sigh. I look like a normal, pretty girl again. I'm sure in photographs I'll still look like a fat-nosed moonface with piggy eyes and no chin, but trust me, I do actually look pretty in person. And that's probably the only time you'll ever hear me admit that.

I also chopped off about three and a half inches, so I have a chin-length bob. I prefer to think of it as sexy flapper hair, not dull suburban mom hair.

Anyway, on to the point of the post, if you're still with me.

I'm scaaaared.

Scared because my 750 will be up at Miss Snark this weekend, and I am more and more convinced that it will make me look like a hack. I rewrote it but thought I had to send it right away so didn;t give myself enough time to edit. I'm sure it's garbage. More to the point, I am sure every agent and/or editor I might ever want to query, or who might ever see it, will be reading the COM and will know I'm a terrible writer. They'll get my query and say, "Yeah, I remember this. Garbage. She sucks" without even looking at the new, improved pages I sent. I mean, c'mon, it's not like my hook is one people will forget, is it?

So that's Fear #1. But nipping at its stylish heels is Fear #2...because I have two lovely new releases, I will also soon be getting reviews. That's right. People who don't know me, or possibly know of me and think I'm an idiot bitch, will be telling other people if my books are worth reading or not.

You guys know how strongly I believe people have a right to their opinons. I am fully prepared to stand by my previous rants on the subject. If a review opens with, "December Quinn thought she could pass this shit off as a story people might want to read, but we know it's The Worst Book Ever Written and she's a talentless hack with ugly pinkish hair," I'll take it on the chin (where the stress spot thankfully no longer rests). I sent it to people for reviews. My publishers have sent it to people for reviews. It's the name of the game, and I've sent it to some places where I highly respect their opinions and ability to express those opinions but where, also, I'm quite aware they get snarky. I love the snark. If they snark me, I asked for it, and it won't mean I think any less of them for it.

But that doesn't mean I'm not terrified, and hope hope hoping they don't snark it (too much) and call me a crapbag who only thinks she can string a couple of words together. I hope they don't laugh at me. I hope they don't make fun of me. I hope they love the book(s). I hope they love the characters and are entertained. That's the point, isn't it? If I was writing just for myself and not to entertain people I'd be writing Mary Sue fantasies about me and various comic book heroes/actors/Sid Vicious.

But there's no guarantees...so I'm very, very scared.

Releases!

I had TWO new releases yesterday, from Whiskey Creek Press-Torrid!

First is my novel, Prince of Death. It's available both in ebook and print...and is very graphic, so be warned! Here's the blurb:

They called him the Prince of Death…

War is coming, and Prince Cynwrig's enemies the Cliothens will do anything to have victory. So when he finds Ayani Suntwister, a Cliothen warrior woman, lying beaten and near death in the road, he knows she's dangerous. When he allows her to seduce him, suspecting there is more to her sudden appearance in his lands than meets the eye, he knows he’s risking his life.

What he doesn't know is that the danger isn't just to his body, but to his heart as well. Will the Prince of Death find a reason to live in the arms of a woman he cannot trust-but cannot resist?


Next, I have a short story, The Ice House, in The Best of Torrid Teasers, Volume One. My Teaser (two erotic shorts in one book) was the debut book for the Teaser line--released in January 2006--so it's really exciting to have another Teaser release to start this year with! They're already up to Volume 20 with the Teasers--40 short stories--so being picked as one of the "Best of" is quite exciting. Not to mention my fellow Indulge Authors Anna J. Evans, Sherrill Quinn, and Kate Lang have stories in there as well! The Best of... is also available in ebook and print.

So go get those, and if you haven't already, go download your copy of The Black Dragon as well!

Greetings from the Future!

Yep. It's been 2007 here for a couple of hours already.

It looks pretty much the same.

I have to say, as much as I enjoy the whole "eat what you want, drink all day" holiday mentality, I'm kind of glad the season is over.

Why? Because I'm looonely. (And gaining weight, but that's a whole nother story.)

So many of my bloggy buddies are away for the holidays, or taking time off. My comments levels seem to have dropped. Hardly anyone is posting. It's depressing, especially when I have both kids home and a husband off at work, which means I don't have to get up early or, well, leave the house at all, and so can spend as much time as I want online in between making lemonade or pasta for the girls.

Jenny Rappaport posted about a different writer posting about how many words he wrote this year. His included blog posts. I have no idea how to even come close to guesstimating word count for my posts, so let's just look at actual written work:

approx. 2006 word count (first drafts only): 280,000k.

You can probably add another 20k or so for edits and second drafts, to bring me to an even 300,000 original fiction words written this year.

On the one hand, not bad. On the other, totally sucks. That's not even a clear thousand words a day. Yes, I was forced to take a lot of time off this year, with one thing and another--parental visits, a little writer's block, family who seemed to think I should actually pay attention to them, blah blah blah...and I did take some time off between projects, too.

But next year, dammit, I need to do better than that.

I think I've probably done at least another 100k in blog posts, when you consider how wordy I can be, and that this isn't my only blog.

My goal next year will be 500,000 written fiction words.

Oh, and to get an agent and a book deal, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

I am convinced my 750 for Miss S stink. I decided to rewrite my opening before sending it and I really don't think I let it sit long enough after the rewrite. For instance, there are some repeated words I would have caught if I hadn't thought I needed to submit right away. Just hoping A) I don't get roasted for that, and B) the actual opening scene is compelling enough to make people not think my writing sucks.

We shall see.

2007 looks just fine, folks. Come on over!

(Oh, and I have a couple of books releasing from Whiskey Creek Press-Torrid today! Links later.)

My Early New Year's Resolution

And I expect all of you to make it with me.

Seriously.


Here's my New Year's Resolution, and I'm making it a few days early so it doesn't get lost in all the other resolutions.

Every time I buy a book in 2007, I will buy a second book to go with it. Or rather, I will buy one extra book every time I go to the bookstore.

This "extra" book will be by an author I haven't read before. It may be a first book by a new author, or it may not. But the point is, whether the book was recommended to me or it just looked interesting, I'm not leaving the bookstore without at least one book by an author I haven't read before.

I'll try to focus on first books by new authors, but that isn't always possible here, because we tend not only to get books after their US release, but sometimes not at all, and stores here don't seem to carry back catalogs as much as they do in the states.

Anyway. I want all of you to do this with me. And spread it around. Those of us who are writers know how important it is to support new writers. Those of you who aren't writers--it's important. It's important to try new authors, to buy their first books (new, not used).

So. You know how I sometimes do "Recommend a book day"s? I'm going to do them more regularly, and we'll try specifically to recommend first books by new authors.

Anybody else want to participate?

And to all of You...

Have a very merry Christmas.

I've had an okay day. A litle lonely and homesick, because Christmas Eve was always the big celebration night when I was growing up. We had cold cuts and stuff for dinner, not a big meal but we snacked all night, then opened presents.

Now...we've compromised. So I get evening present opening on a different night and we open gifts Christmas morning. Which, sorry, but I hate. It's nowhere near as festive and intimate without the lights bright on the tree and the darkness outside. In the lonely gray light of morning, that holiday cheer is missing. Opening gifts feels mundane. Like a performance instead of an experience.

Also, I can't get my traditional nibbles here. No corned beef, no Havarti cheese...my Mom sent us scalloped potatoes, though, so at least I had something. (We had cold cuts but one hot dish, that was usually it. My Mom made meatballs when I was little but gave it up after a couple of years, when it became obvious all we really wanted was corned beef and cheese on Ritz.)

So I made a venison stew, which turned out pretty well.

I got the venison from our local butcher, where I also got tomorrow's goose. I ordered a goose no bigger than 5kg. I got one almost 7kg. I couldn't believe it when he appeared from the fridge with this...beast in a bag. I swear the thing was bigger than my Faery baby. He had to cut it up for me so I can fit it in the oven.

I really don't want or need 15 lbs. of goose, but by the time he found it in their fridge I'd been standing there for half an hour and just wanted to leave. "Oh, you Americans like big things," he said. "You always like to do everything bigger!"

"Oh, do we?" I said.

Which got a laugh. Which is good. I'm pretty sure the little crowd we'd attracted at this point was laughing with me, too, not something you can always assume here. Especially when you're staring ashen-faced at the goose Scrooge sent the Cratchits on Christmas morning (yes, I know it was a turkey, shut up. It was a big huge turkey, is my point.) The goose that swallowed Devon. The goose that scared the cows. The goose who played pro football.

One damn big goose, basically. And tomorrow I'm going to cook the "crown roast" of it, along with a host of accomapnying veg, after a bland morning present opening, and will likely spend most of the day slightly drunk, which is the best way to spend Christmas.

And thinking of al of you, of course. Big hugs to each and every one of you. You make my days fun, my nights interesting, and my heart light.

Stuff

Oh my, it's been a few days, huh? I've been trying to keep up with the COM (for those who don't know, it's a sort of writing exercise happening on Miss Snark's blog) and everyone's blogs but I confess I've been so busy. I know I owe some emails (one of you in particular, I'm sorry) but I swear, I've barely had a minute to myself.

And my email load has gone up sharply, too. I've been lucky enough to have several people email me to congratulate me on the COM, or to say thanks, or to say something nice about my comments in general, which was absolutely lovely. So despite the busyness I've had a really nice week!

Oh, and I have been anointed "Queen of Blow-Job Fiction". The anointer (someone I argued with at the AW forums) was trying to be rude and nasty, but I think it's a pretty cool compliment. Who wouldn't want to be Queen? And what's wrong with blow-job fiction?

I confess, though, I'm burning out on the COM. I don't know how Miss S, or any other agent, does it. This is the clearest look at a real agent's slushpile I think I've ever seen, and it's amazing they manage to slog through it all. Granted, I do think it's harder on a computer screen, but still. Wow. How many has she actually requested pages on, out of the 400 she's done? 25, maybe? 50 or 60 tops? Has anyone been counting?

It makes me a little sad, too, the number of entries that end up with no comments, or only one or two. People who've put their heart into those hooks, and not only does Miss S not find it interesting, nobody else does either.

And of course I'm terribly worried about my 750 words. I decided after getting the request that my opening needed to be rewritten, to get the "dead body" right in at the start. So I scrapped about the first 1000 words or so and made the fifth page or so the beginning, and I do hope it works. After the new year I need to redo the whole first chapter so I can get the essential backstory in.

And I'm rereading a bunch of Maeve Binchy books. I do love her books. They're very soothing, which is just what I need this time of year.

More tomorrow. Rants, plus an early New Year's Resolution that will be easy to keep. In fact, it will be part of a resolution challenge, where I'll try to force all of you to do it with me and we'll discuss it throughout the year. (It's to do with books, not weight loss or giving up fuckwords or anything dull like that.)

The Black Dragon is released!

The Black Dragon is released!!

You can go buy it here.

And of course you're all going to go buy it, right?

To celebrate, I'm doing a couple of contests.

1. Go join my forum. Then post something. A holiday wish, a book recommendation, anything to start a topic or join an existing one. That automatically enters you to win
these dragon earrings.

2. The first 50 people to email me, through here (my email address is in my profile) or the website, and answer the following question, will be eligible to win one of three Amazon gift cards! Here's the question:

What was the name of Gruffydd's sister?

(Yes, this requires you read the book.)



There you go! Go forth and enter!

Quickie

This is the only pic I have so far--that's the hubby and me, living it up baby. It was a wonderful party and we finally went to bed at about 4 am. I wasn't thrilled with my hair, though. I wanted it much taller. I'm into big hair.

And we weren't even too hungover yesterday. I switched to Coke around the time my eyes started swimming and so dragged myself back into moderate sobriety before bed.

It's a good thing, too, because my reaction when I got home and realized once again my promised book release did not occur...let's just say I was grumpy and a bit upset.

Which makes the fact Miss S requested pages from me an ever bigger, huger, deal! Lovely to see that right before bed. Makes me think perhaps all is not lost.

I'll do a better post soon, and I'll tell all about the party (the poor man on my right ended up having to be carried up the stairs) and the hotel which made us all feel as if Poirot was about to join us, and about seeing the Atlantic Ocean from the opposite coast and how that was kind of a big deal, and I'll probably rant and go on and on about something as well. But for now, I am basking in the glow of my COM joy.

Oh, the brain

The other night I had a very detailed, very realistic dream in which I explained the plot of Bye, Bye Birdie to someone. I don't know who the person was, but they were very interested and sat spellbound while I sang "One Last Kiss" complete with demonstrations of the proper hip-rolling motions. And discussed with enthusiasm what a clever publicity ploy it really was, having Conrad Birdie kiss a random girl goodbye.

I have no idea why I dreamt this. What deeper meaning was my brain searching for in the plot of Bye, Bye Birdie? And why do I now have various songs from the score floating around in my head?

Any ideas?

Another brain blip: this morning I was walking home from dropping my eldest off at school. As always when I don't have the Princess with me to chat, I had my iPod on. And I suddenly realized I was singing along. Out loud.

So anyone outside at that particular moment would have been treated to a very off-key (I'm a terrible singer) rendition of "Rudie Can't Fail."

What is up with my brain? I feel like after finishing my big WIP, my head is gone. My CP and I are starting another cowritten book, but since she has it at the moment I'm not actively working on or thinking about it. There's a big void where creative stuff should be, and like a black hole it's spreading to other parts of my head, like the vital bits that remind me not to sing along to my iPod because nobody hears the music but me, something so elementary I usually do not even have to remind myself.

So to recap: dreaming of fascinating strangers with the plot of musicals, and singing out loud in public. Yes indeedy.

What does your brain do when you're not working? Do you feel good, or uneasy? I'm letting the book sit until the new year before doing any rereading/editing, so I'm not even still working with it, and I'm trying not to think of it either.

I am leaving in a couple of hours to head down to the hotel for The Party. So I won't be back here pretty much until tomorrow.

The Black Dragon should be releasing today, but I'm not counting my chickens until I have a link. So I will post that and announce my contests and stuff tomorrow.

A Separate Industry?

This post by The Rejecter got me thinking (more) about ebooks, and erotica/erotic romance ebooks in particular.

The Rejecter says ebooks should be viewed as a completely different industry. While I'm not sure I entirely agree (although I see the sense of it and don't actively disagree), I do wonder if, as I said in the comments to Rejecter's post, if ero ebooks shouldn't be considered as different from ebooks in general.

The reason being, of course, that this is the only genre in which ebooks have really taken off on their own, apart from NY publishers choosing to release some of their titles in ebook on Fictionwise or similar sites.

As far as I know, only two ebook publishers have received recognition from professional writer's organizations (that would be RWA in this case, I don't think SFWA etc. have recognized any ebook publishers, so please let me know if they have and I'm wrong): Triskelion and Ellora's Cave. Both of which do erotic romance. (Trisk does regular romance as well, and EC does so now with their Cerridwen Press imprint, but for a long time EC was the only one.)

What interests me are the reason why, more than the wherefores. Personally, I think it's because these books are so different from anything out there before. I think it's because women were looking for something exciting, something very sexy (and very graphic). Something with unconventional heroes (you guys know I've railed against the "your hero must be a good man who doesn't really hurt anyone in the book, and your heroine must be kind and loving and care for the little children" conventions of traditional romance, and will continue to do so. They're not bad in themselves, and I like writing within them, but I also think we can branch out and give the readers something new. Maybe this should be another post), unconventional heroines. Heroes and heroines who don't wait until they're in love to fall into bed. Something where perhaps there are two heroes and one heroine. Basically, something that pushes the boundaries.

Not only were these books not available in most bookstores--at least, not if we still want our Happy Ending (a convention I do NOT rail against). Sure, there was erotica, at some stores. But a romance where sex is viewed not merely as the culmination of the H/h's feelings for each other, but an important part of the development of those feelings? Very hard to find.

Then you have to buy such a book. Take it to the counter, and feel like the bookseller is smirking at you (which they aren't, come on. But the feeling remains.) Or the people near you in line.

See now why erotic romance ebooks took off so well? Nobody knows you're reading it, nobody knows you're buying it. Just pick something, download it, done.

And I don't think the popularity will ease now that the NY pubs are doing erotic lines of their own. Ebooks in this category still offer a wider range of situations. More graphic laguage. M/M books, or F/F scenes, or BDSM, or whatever takes your fancy.

However...I am emphatically not one of those people who claims that publishing is dead, that now people can self-publish easily the real talented writers will do so, creating another seperate industry, and leave Random House holding the bag, or whatever. It's not going to happen. As someone (an Anonymous) said in the comments to that Rejecter post, self-publishing removes the filters which ought to be in place. You have no idea if you're buying the next To Kill A Mockingbird or the next book you'll throw across the room after two pages. (And am I the only one who's noticed how many self-pub writers don't post excerpts on their sites? And wonders why? Is that perhaps an indicator of the writer's feelings about their work--whether or not they're willing to share some for free, or is it simply most of them are farid to give any of it away for free because they see it as money lost? Or simply ignorance of the business?)

People buy books from publishers because they trust them. Bottom line.

Which has strayed a bit from my original topic, but so what. I think erotic romance in ebook form is a bigger industry than other ebooks. I think if you're writing erorom, the bar is higher in ebook and print than perhaps other forms of literature in ebook (which is just my feeling, as I haven't actually read many other ebooks aside from erorom, but the ones I've read I have noticed a difference [this excludes also books put out by Wild Child Publishing because I know how stringent they are] between the quality of eroroms and the quality of, say, mysteries. Hell, EC is so inundated with subs it takes longer to hear back on a query and first three from them than it does with Donald Maass--a year at least.)

So there you go. I think I'm done. Share your thoughts.

Oh, and who volunteers to send my hook to the COM for me? I'll be at the big party that night, and we're spending the night in the hotel, and while I should be back by 8 EST the next morning I can't be certain, so would rather have someone do it for me if you can and don't mind and won't forget and all that stuff.

But would it make a good movie?

(Yes! Two posts in a short period of time! Look at me, I'm creative!)

I'm sure you're all eager to hear my opinion on Britney's "womanly space" (as Furonda from America's Next Top Model so charmingly called it), but something else has taken my fickle fancy.

The book-as-movie, or the book-to-movie, or the "My book would make a great movie!"

It seems to me this is a question that really separates the men from the boys (yeah, I'm sexist that way), or the writers from those interested in playing the Published Author Role-Playing Game (TM).

I don't write movies. I don't ever sit and think, "Who would play my characters in the movie?" In fact, I don't model my characters on particular actors either (although I do have a hero who bears a slight resemblance to James Franco. Sheer coincidence, and the resemblance is only in my head--I didn't use that as a visual clue for the readers, because I consider that rather cheap--but there it is. Mmmm. James Franco. I digress.)

It always confuses me when people talk about their books as movies, or who would be in the movie, or "My book would make a great movie!" Because I just don't think that way. I write because I love to read and I love to write.

I love to read and write in all different sorts of formats. I love ebook and print books and comics and graphic novels--and I love the visual storytelling of comics and graphic novels, but I still don't read those as "If only this was a movie". Comics and graphic novels don't need to be movies (although they tend to translate well) because they're already visual. They're art. They can do things movies can't do.

I think what bothers me so much about the "movie fixation" is it implies a desire to lose ownership of one's work. It implies the book itself is not good enough, that a story must be on a movie screen for it to be legitimate--in the author's eyes. It's as if they don't think writing books is good enough, and that makes me sad.

(BTW, don't get me wrong. My theory on books-as-movies relating to my own books pretty much follows Stephen King's--give me the money and do what you like. The books are still out there, in the form the author intended. I wouldn't say no, believe me. I just don't see the desperate appeal of such a thing.)

I wonder, if you're writing with a movie in mind, are you really writing the book you should be writing? Or is some subconscious part of yourself thinking, "Don't put that, it wouldn't work onscreen"? Are you failing to commit to your book because somewhere in your mind it's really a film?

Perhaps this is why agents tend to list "My book would be a great movie" as one of their big turn-offs? Perhaps even if the book is good, that phrase implies the author is not committed to writing as a craft and an art form? That they view a book as a stepping stone, and not a finished product on its own.

Commit to your work. You're writing a story for people to read, whether it's a plain book or a picture book or a comic book. Stop worrying about the peripherals.

Thoughts?