MaryJanice Davidson's Blog, page 4
January 16, 2014
UNDEAD AND UNWARY, subtitled: Everyone Betsy Knows Has Lost Their Damn Minds
Since Mother Nature is trying to kill everyone north of the Mason-Dixon line this month, I've been holed up with my laptop and various cups of hot chocolate, doing what any writer does when hiding from the elements: goofing off. Oh, and writing, too, I guess? Anyhoo, thought I'd post a chapter from the upcoming UNDEAD AND UNWARY. Jessica's acting weird, Sinclair wants to buy a tanning bed, Betsy doesn't want to have anything to do with Hell, and the AntiChrist is pissed. Minor spoiler about the end of UNDEAD AND UNSURE...
(minor spoiler)
...Marc delivered Nick and Jessica's twins. In the mansion. Betsy was appropriately appalled. Also: warnings for severe pottymouth.
CHAPTER FOUR
A flight of stairs and several hallways and doors later, and I found Jessica in her room up to no good. Not ‘are you hiding up here because it’s your turn to change a poopy diaper’? no good. ‘Clandestine research followed by hurriedly shoving papers under the bed when she saw me’ no good. “Betsy!” She finished shoving papers around and glared up at me from her spot on the floor beside her and DadDick’s* bed. “Scared the hell out of me.”“Uh-huh, and that’s not futive at all. Jess, what’s going on?”“What? I’m just sorting. And thinking. And then more sorting. Yes.” She got to her feet and began prowling around the room. She’d stuck a clipping in her back pocket, but I couldn’t think of a subtle way to grab it other than tripping her, sitting on her, and emptying her pockets. For which I would pay and pay and pay. I was stronger and faster; Jess was smarter and cherished grudges like diabetics cherished insulin. Just the thought of all the terrible things she could do to me was enough to make me feel guilty for even thinking of assault as a way to get to the bottom of this, however careful I would have been. And even though she’d made her view on being turned into a vampire mucho clear before I cured her cancer (long story), I could absolutely see her nagging a vamp into turning her just so she could keep punishing me through the centuries. Also, the tripping and sitting and pocket-rifling wasn’t a nice thing to do to a best pal. It’s very wrong that I thought of that one last.She looked startled, but that could have been the ‘do—she kept her black hair pulled back so tightly her eyebrows were always arched. Her manicure (lime green, urrgghh) was chipping, something pre-twins/not-insane Jess would never have allowed, and her t-shirt had splotches on it that, luckily, were only spit-up formula. (I hadn’t given one thought to Enhanced Vampire Senses + Newborns = Gross while she was pregnant, and really, I should have. Ohhhhh, I should have.) Her jeans were so faded they were nearly white, and she was annoyed that skinny jeans were out again. She was so painfully thin (when carrying Thing One and Thing Two**, she’d looked like a tent pole someone had hung a bag of volleyballs on), any jeans she pulled on were skinny jeans, even just a few weeks after popping twins.“Why are you in here?” she barked. “Because I’m lonesome?”Jess snorted but didn’t kick me out. I sidled closer to the bed but knew I was no match for Jessica’s chaotic ‘pile everything into a box beneath the bed’ filing system. For a modern businesswoman, she was a Luddite when it came to paperwork. A big fan of old-fashioned wooden file cabinets and long plastic containers which she stuffed with newspaper and mag clippings, she still shopped at Hallmark, for God’s sake. Unless I was willing to sneak in here when she and DadDick were out, or sleeping the sleep of the deeply sleep-deprived, and then rummage endlessly through decades of clippings while trying to figure out which story had grabbed her interest, or worse, which story was missing and now riding in her back pocket, I’d have to finesse it out of her. Subtlety, that was key.“Tell me what’s wrong or I’ll sit on you!”“What?”My finesse sucked. Time for a new tactic. “So how’s my mom?”“Huh?” Jess had at least ten I.Q. points on me, which anyone overhearing this would assume was a testing error. “What?”“My mom. Who you went to see.” Wait. Whom? Whom she went to see? Gah, Sinclair was rubbing off me in all the wrong ways. “With the babies you forgot.”“Oh. I didn’t...” She waved vaguely at me. “You know.”“I don’tknow, Jess, you post-natal weirdo. What’s going on? You look like someone clipped you with a brick.” Sighing at the effort this was taking (vampire queen/best friend’s work was never done), I plunked down on the queen-sized bed she’d had for a decade. Jess was indifferent to her riches (the wealth was impressive, but her shitpoke father earned it all, making it much less awesome in her eyes) and formed deep emotional attachments to restaurants, pals (we’ve been friends since junior high), and beds. (Also, DadDick and the babies, I assumed. Before you accuse me of vanity, I listed myself second on that list.) So the bed didn’t so much sag as suck me in, like a quicksand quilt. But I was used to its ways and kept both feet on the floor.I really liked Jessica’s room; this wasn't the first time I'd come looking for her and stayed to yak. It was the most modern in terms of set-up and decoration, the carpet a deep caramel, the walls tan, the furniture all light wood (blonde wood?). The wallpaper was red and tan and there were red accents all over the place, including the quilt and several picture frames. And gawd, when would she stop displaying the one of us on my 21stbirthday? Drunk was not a good look for me. Jess looked cutely rumpled and was grinning into the camera while hoisting a daiquiri-filled plastic cup, her arm slung around my shoulders in what looked like camaderie, but in fact she was keeping me from pitching face-first into the floor. I was so much more than rumpled, sweaty, and my face was so flushed I looked like I’d sworn off sunscreen before napping in a tanning bed. My t-shirt was more stained than a new mom’s, making it difficult to make out the logo (Step Aside, Coffee, This Is A Job For Alcohol), but worst of all was the expression on my face. One eye was half-closed, my mouth was hanging open like a dying trout, I was giving Jess the side-eye stinkeye (she had just cut me off, which unfortunately did not prevent the vomiting that started an hour later), and basically looked like a crazy cat lady in her youth, before the cats. And it had pride of place on the wall! I could only pray that once the twins were sleeping more, Jess would update their walls with baby pics, a new parent phase I was actually looking forward to. I wriggled on the bed, trying to get more comfortable without actually getting slurped in. Sinclair and I slept on a—wait for it—superking. Yeah. I know. But the thing was doomed; we went through half a dozen a year. Was there such a bed as a superduperking?“Did somebody come up to you and say something? Are—nnf! Stop it, bed, I know all your tricks...are you getting audited? Were you meeting a new boyfriend?” The last was completely out of character, but Jess was a sleep-deprived mom now, and they were crazy. “Yes. But it’ll be fine.”“Wait, yes?” Oh God! In a moment of carelessness one of my feet had left the floor! I shifted my weight until I had them both planted again. Might be time to make a break for it. “Which yes?”“I’ve got to go,” she replied, laying off the pacing in favor of darting to the door. Her fingers went to the clipping barely peeking out of her pocket, double-checking to see if it was still there. “I’ll take the babies to see your mom.”I was so startled I shifted my weight and both feet left the floor. “Good God, woman, you are losing it! You’ve got to tell me what’s wrong. Okay? Jess?” Her hand was on the knob, her bod was through the door. “You get back here, young lady!” Normally I could have crossed the room and blocked the door before she got anywhere near it, but normally I wasn’t being inexorably devoured by Bedzilla. I was reduced to wrenching myself upright with superhuman strength to escape, finally reaching the door only to almost knock the vampire king on his ass.“Aw, fuck!”Sinclair beamed. His vampire reflexes had saved him from my vampire klutziness. “Darling! You missed me.”
* Betsy's current nickname for Det. Nicholas Berry, Jessica's boyfriend. Don't try to make it make sense.** The twins haven't been named yet. Betsy has also referred to them as Salt and Pepper, Frick and Frack, and Super and Duper. She also thinks the babies are lazy.
(minor spoiler)
...Marc delivered Nick and Jessica's twins. In the mansion. Betsy was appropriately appalled. Also: warnings for severe pottymouth.
CHAPTER FOUR
A flight of stairs and several hallways and doors later, and I found Jessica in her room up to no good. Not ‘are you hiding up here because it’s your turn to change a poopy diaper’? no good. ‘Clandestine research followed by hurriedly shoving papers under the bed when she saw me’ no good. “Betsy!” She finished shoving papers around and glared up at me from her spot on the floor beside her and DadDick’s* bed. “Scared the hell out of me.”“Uh-huh, and that’s not futive at all. Jess, what’s going on?”“What? I’m just sorting. And thinking. And then more sorting. Yes.” She got to her feet and began prowling around the room. She’d stuck a clipping in her back pocket, but I couldn’t think of a subtle way to grab it other than tripping her, sitting on her, and emptying her pockets. For which I would pay and pay and pay. I was stronger and faster; Jess was smarter and cherished grudges like diabetics cherished insulin. Just the thought of all the terrible things she could do to me was enough to make me feel guilty for even thinking of assault as a way to get to the bottom of this, however careful I would have been. And even though she’d made her view on being turned into a vampire mucho clear before I cured her cancer (long story), I could absolutely see her nagging a vamp into turning her just so she could keep punishing me through the centuries. Also, the tripping and sitting and pocket-rifling wasn’t a nice thing to do to a best pal. It’s very wrong that I thought of that one last.She looked startled, but that could have been the ‘do—she kept her black hair pulled back so tightly her eyebrows were always arched. Her manicure (lime green, urrgghh) was chipping, something pre-twins/not-insane Jess would never have allowed, and her t-shirt had splotches on it that, luckily, were only spit-up formula. (I hadn’t given one thought to Enhanced Vampire Senses + Newborns = Gross while she was pregnant, and really, I should have. Ohhhhh, I should have.) Her jeans were so faded they were nearly white, and she was annoyed that skinny jeans were out again. She was so painfully thin (when carrying Thing One and Thing Two**, she’d looked like a tent pole someone had hung a bag of volleyballs on), any jeans she pulled on were skinny jeans, even just a few weeks after popping twins.“Why are you in here?” she barked. “Because I’m lonesome?”Jess snorted but didn’t kick me out. I sidled closer to the bed but knew I was no match for Jessica’s chaotic ‘pile everything into a box beneath the bed’ filing system. For a modern businesswoman, she was a Luddite when it came to paperwork. A big fan of old-fashioned wooden file cabinets and long plastic containers which she stuffed with newspaper and mag clippings, she still shopped at Hallmark, for God’s sake. Unless I was willing to sneak in here when she and DadDick were out, or sleeping the sleep of the deeply sleep-deprived, and then rummage endlessly through decades of clippings while trying to figure out which story had grabbed her interest, or worse, which story was missing and now riding in her back pocket, I’d have to finesse it out of her. Subtlety, that was key.“Tell me what’s wrong or I’ll sit on you!”“What?”My finesse sucked. Time for a new tactic. “So how’s my mom?”“Huh?” Jess had at least ten I.Q. points on me, which anyone overhearing this would assume was a testing error. “What?”“My mom. Who you went to see.” Wait. Whom? Whom she went to see? Gah, Sinclair was rubbing off me in all the wrong ways. “With the babies you forgot.”“Oh. I didn’t...” She waved vaguely at me. “You know.”“I don’tknow, Jess, you post-natal weirdo. What’s going on? You look like someone clipped you with a brick.” Sighing at the effort this was taking (vampire queen/best friend’s work was never done), I plunked down on the queen-sized bed she’d had for a decade. Jess was indifferent to her riches (the wealth was impressive, but her shitpoke father earned it all, making it much less awesome in her eyes) and formed deep emotional attachments to restaurants, pals (we’ve been friends since junior high), and beds. (Also, DadDick and the babies, I assumed. Before you accuse me of vanity, I listed myself second on that list.) So the bed didn’t so much sag as suck me in, like a quicksand quilt. But I was used to its ways and kept both feet on the floor.I really liked Jessica’s room; this wasn't the first time I'd come looking for her and stayed to yak. It was the most modern in terms of set-up and decoration, the carpet a deep caramel, the walls tan, the furniture all light wood (blonde wood?). The wallpaper was red and tan and there were red accents all over the place, including the quilt and several picture frames. And gawd, when would she stop displaying the one of us on my 21stbirthday? Drunk was not a good look for me. Jess looked cutely rumpled and was grinning into the camera while hoisting a daiquiri-filled plastic cup, her arm slung around my shoulders in what looked like camaderie, but in fact she was keeping me from pitching face-first into the floor. I was so much more than rumpled, sweaty, and my face was so flushed I looked like I’d sworn off sunscreen before napping in a tanning bed. My t-shirt was more stained than a new mom’s, making it difficult to make out the logo (Step Aside, Coffee, This Is A Job For Alcohol), but worst of all was the expression on my face. One eye was half-closed, my mouth was hanging open like a dying trout, I was giving Jess the side-eye stinkeye (she had just cut me off, which unfortunately did not prevent the vomiting that started an hour later), and basically looked like a crazy cat lady in her youth, before the cats. And it had pride of place on the wall! I could only pray that once the twins were sleeping more, Jess would update their walls with baby pics, a new parent phase I was actually looking forward to. I wriggled on the bed, trying to get more comfortable without actually getting slurped in. Sinclair and I slept on a—wait for it—superking. Yeah. I know. But the thing was doomed; we went through half a dozen a year. Was there such a bed as a superduperking?“Did somebody come up to you and say something? Are—nnf! Stop it, bed, I know all your tricks...are you getting audited? Were you meeting a new boyfriend?” The last was completely out of character, but Jess was a sleep-deprived mom now, and they were crazy. “Yes. But it’ll be fine.”“Wait, yes?” Oh God! In a moment of carelessness one of my feet had left the floor! I shifted my weight until I had them both planted again. Might be time to make a break for it. “Which yes?”“I’ve got to go,” she replied, laying off the pacing in favor of darting to the door. Her fingers went to the clipping barely peeking out of her pocket, double-checking to see if it was still there. “I’ll take the babies to see your mom.”I was so startled I shifted my weight and both feet left the floor. “Good God, woman, you are losing it! You’ve got to tell me what’s wrong. Okay? Jess?” Her hand was on the knob, her bod was through the door. “You get back here, young lady!” Normally I could have crossed the room and blocked the door before she got anywhere near it, but normally I wasn’t being inexorably devoured by Bedzilla. I was reduced to wrenching myself upright with superhuman strength to escape, finally reaching the door only to almost knock the vampire king on his ass.“Aw, fuck!”Sinclair beamed. His vampire reflexes had saved him from my vampire klutziness. “Darling! You missed me.”
* Betsy's current nickname for Det. Nicholas Berry, Jessica's boyfriend. Don't try to make it make sense.** The twins haven't been named yet. Betsy has also referred to them as Salt and Pepper, Frick and Frack, and Super and Duper. She also thinks the babies are lazy.
January 3, 2014
Abraham Lincoln: A Demon in the Sack
WARNING: This blog is less family-friendly than usual. I still swear and overshare like always, but there's a lot of sexual speculation coming up. Chris, William, if you're reading this, you're about to find out a lot you never ever wanted to know about what Mommy looks for in a long-dead sexual partner.
* * *
I got to do a really fun interview a few weeks ago over at International Heat right here. Among the questions: MJ, which historical figure would you bang? (I might be paraphrasing.)
I didn't even have to think about it. (That's an attitude I tend to bring to every interview question; it works for me.) It was so obvious. JFK? No chance; rich guys never have to try, and rich guys who've had Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, and Brenda Starr? I'm not following those acts. Patton? Ugh, never sleep with a power-mad perfectionist. Napoleon? Sorry, I'm six feet tall and shallow. I did the dating a guy way shorter thing and ugh. (I can see all the posts that comment will rain upon me and let me just say again: shallow! What about any of my blogs, ever, made you think I was a good person?)
Let's see, who else? Thomas Jefferson? Sorry, I like my shags to be a little less rape-ey. (Don't tell me Sally Hemmings probably loved him. Lack of consent because you're his property = rape. Also: he was a ginormous hypocrite. And there's only room in my bed for one hypocrite.) Henry VIII? No, afterglow should not include beheading. And he was kind of a shit to his mistresses, being all about the slut-shaming (he had the gall to reprimand Mary Boleyn for sleeping around while he was courting her sister/cheating on his wife with same), and who wants to be slut shamed by the guy who just banged you? Even if he brought some yummy turkey legs to bed?
Roget? As in Roget's Thesaurus? Hereditary insanity, a tendency toward humorlessness, and he loved making lists. I do not need to be in bed with a guy who won't get my jokes and makes lists while we bang. Mozart? Huge pervert and way too into poop jokes. First off, the biggest pervert in the bed needs to be me, and second, poop jokes are the worst.
Ramses II? Sure, he was a cocksman who fathered over a hundred children, but he banged his daughters so just NO. (Don't tell me that was a thing in Egypt back in the day. Here it is again: just NO.)
Einstein? The hair is cool, but he cheated on both his wives. Pass. Elvis? If I passed on Einstein, do I even have to explain why I wouldn't touch The King with a ten foot penis? No. I do not. Pass.
(You're thinking, "For a woman who made her name writing about bitchy annoying heroines while pondering which dead guy she'd like to bang, you're being weirdly judgemental." To which I reply: yep.)
(Hmm. I should probably warn my assistant about the deluge of "you suck!" doubtless headed our way. "More than usual?" she'll gasp, unbelieving. "I...that's really hard to picture. Because...you know. You're awful." Yes I am. She probably doesn't need to be warned at all.)
Anyhoo. The name that leaped to the front of my teeny tiny brain was Abraham Lincoln, for which I blame cable television, because Lincoln has been playing about four times a day for a month, and it stars Daniel Day-Lewis whom I have been crushing on since Last Of The Mohicans. Remember that scene where he and Madeline Stowe were making out and you couldn't tell where he ended and she began because they both had all that long dark hair flying around? Oofta. Also, his vow to (eventually) return and save her (but not her kid sister), sooo hot. My instant re-write: "Stay alive, MJ, no matter what occurs. I will find you and bring you Cinnabon!" "You got it, Daniel...no, wait, what's your name in this movie again? Something to do with the show MASH, right?"
Lincoln was a BAMF and judge me if ye will, but you'd bang him, too. Okay, maybe not, but here's the quick and dirty version of why I'd take him to bed and show him the nine thousand names of God: smart, self-educated, progressive, great writer, great speaker, ended slavery, BAMF.
What more do you need? If you're me, not one damn thing. And let's talk about his less-than-movie-star looks: lanky, skinny, not a contender for male model of the year and historians are now pretty sure he had some genetic defects. You know what that tells me? That he would try really hard between the sheets. That he would not take his partner for granted. That he'd be glad to be in my bed and would set about emancipating me, so to speak. Also, I'm very into the gangly as anyone who has seen my husband knows. Love the gangly. Bring on the gangly.
So there it is and I am not ashamed and I am standing by my (dead) man. The best part of this is that not only did the interview above print my answer in full, they ran a picture of Lincoln right next to it. Most of my readers know I'm cracked and probably took that in stride, but I love the idea of someone who's never read me checking out the interview: promo pic? Check. Book cover gif? Check. Picture of a dead lawyer...wait, what?
There was a question the good people at International Heat didn't ask, for which I remain grateful: MJ, what the hell is wrong with you? To which I would have replied, some things shall never be told.
* * *
I got to do a really fun interview a few weeks ago over at International Heat right here. Among the questions: MJ, which historical figure would you bang? (I might be paraphrasing.)
I didn't even have to think about it. (That's an attitude I tend to bring to every interview question; it works for me.) It was so obvious. JFK? No chance; rich guys never have to try, and rich guys who've had Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, and Brenda Starr? I'm not following those acts. Patton? Ugh, never sleep with a power-mad perfectionist. Napoleon? Sorry, I'm six feet tall and shallow. I did the dating a guy way shorter thing and ugh. (I can see all the posts that comment will rain upon me and let me just say again: shallow! What about any of my blogs, ever, made you think I was a good person?)
Let's see, who else? Thomas Jefferson? Sorry, I like my shags to be a little less rape-ey. (Don't tell me Sally Hemmings probably loved him. Lack of consent because you're his property = rape. Also: he was a ginormous hypocrite. And there's only room in my bed for one hypocrite.) Henry VIII? No, afterglow should not include beheading. And he was kind of a shit to his mistresses, being all about the slut-shaming (he had the gall to reprimand Mary Boleyn for sleeping around while he was courting her sister/cheating on his wife with same), and who wants to be slut shamed by the guy who just banged you? Even if he brought some yummy turkey legs to bed?
Roget? As in Roget's Thesaurus? Hereditary insanity, a tendency toward humorlessness, and he loved making lists. I do not need to be in bed with a guy who won't get my jokes and makes lists while we bang. Mozart? Huge pervert and way too into poop jokes. First off, the biggest pervert in the bed needs to be me, and second, poop jokes are the worst.
Ramses II? Sure, he was a cocksman who fathered over a hundred children, but he banged his daughters so just NO. (Don't tell me that was a thing in Egypt back in the day. Here it is again: just NO.)
Einstein? The hair is cool, but he cheated on both his wives. Pass. Elvis? If I passed on Einstein, do I even have to explain why I wouldn't touch The King with a ten foot penis? No. I do not. Pass.
(You're thinking, "For a woman who made her name writing about bitchy annoying heroines while pondering which dead guy she'd like to bang, you're being weirdly judgemental." To which I reply: yep.)
(Hmm. I should probably warn my assistant about the deluge of "you suck!" doubtless headed our way. "More than usual?" she'll gasp, unbelieving. "I...that's really hard to picture. Because...you know. You're awful." Yes I am. She probably doesn't need to be warned at all.)
Anyhoo. The name that leaped to the front of my teeny tiny brain was Abraham Lincoln, for which I blame cable television, because Lincoln has been playing about four times a day for a month, and it stars Daniel Day-Lewis whom I have been crushing on since Last Of The Mohicans. Remember that scene where he and Madeline Stowe were making out and you couldn't tell where he ended and she began because they both had all that long dark hair flying around? Oofta. Also, his vow to (eventually) return and save her (but not her kid sister), sooo hot. My instant re-write: "Stay alive, MJ, no matter what occurs. I will find you and bring you Cinnabon!" "You got it, Daniel...no, wait, what's your name in this movie again? Something to do with the show MASH, right?"
Lincoln was a BAMF and judge me if ye will, but you'd bang him, too. Okay, maybe not, but here's the quick and dirty version of why I'd take him to bed and show him the nine thousand names of God: smart, self-educated, progressive, great writer, great speaker, ended slavery, BAMF.
What more do you need? If you're me, not one damn thing. And let's talk about his less-than-movie-star looks: lanky, skinny, not a contender for male model of the year and historians are now pretty sure he had some genetic defects. You know what that tells me? That he would try really hard between the sheets. That he would not take his partner for granted. That he'd be glad to be in my bed and would set about emancipating me, so to speak. Also, I'm very into the gangly as anyone who has seen my husband knows. Love the gangly. Bring on the gangly.
So there it is and I am not ashamed and I am standing by my (dead) man. The best part of this is that not only did the interview above print my answer in full, they ran a picture of Lincoln right next to it. Most of my readers know I'm cracked and probably took that in stride, but I love the idea of someone who's never read me checking out the interview: promo pic? Check. Book cover gif? Check. Picture of a dead lawyer...wait, what?
There was a question the good people at International Heat didn't ask, for which I remain grateful: MJ, what the hell is wrong with you? To which I would have replied, some things shall never be told.
September 1, 2013
I Shove My Chick Out of the Nest and Resent the Whole Thing
In early August, my oldest child turned 18, and today we dropped her off at college. And my state of mind between these two events has been this: what. The. Hell?
(This isn't going to be a syrupy blog post about watching children grow up while "Landslide" plays in the background as I look on fondly. If that's what you're expecting, you've been following the wrong blog what with me being a bitch and all. Which, if you're okay with that, will work out fine for all of us.)
Frankly I'm annoyed at the whole growing up thing, because my daughter blatantly ignored explicit parental direction, to wit: knock that shit off. Also, it proved King Al right, which is just annoying. (King Al = my father.) Rewind 18 years, my husband and I were living in Quincy, MA, our daughter Christina was three weeks old and that was also as long as I'd gone without a shower. Also my boobs hurt, my feet hurt, my face hurt, my brain hurt, my wrists hurt, my spinal cord hurt, my elbows hurt, my appendix hurt, my adrenal gland hurt, and my ankles hurt. (I had no idea that sleep deprivation, among other things, made everything sore. Because there was no reason for my wrists and appendix and spinal cord to hurt. I don't think. That period in my life is pretty fuzzy, and in later years when I asked Christina about it she wasn't much help. She was a lazy and forgetful baby.)
My parents were visiting, which was awesome, because it meant that while they were in town I didn't have to change a diaper, cook a meal, run an errand, or bang a husband. Not that much of the latter was happening anyway (see above: 3 week old baby, boobs hurt, brain hurt, and nothing kills the mood faster than my dad pounding on the other side of the wall with his bowling ball sized fist: "Can you two either hurry it up or keep it down? Amateurs!").
But my folks were leaving the next morning, which I handled with trademark maturity ("No, no, no, no, no! Don't leave me alone with it! Her, I mean! I'll hold my breath until I turn blue or my brain stops hurting! Ow, stupid brain."). (It must be said, Tony wasn't quite as upset as I was.) Also with trademark maturity, I was bitching about what a pain in the ass it was to be trapped in an apartment with a tiny precious blessing from the angels. "I wish she could walk and talk," I bitched (warned you!), "and I wish she could wipe her own ass and drive and read and also, I wish my brain didn't hurt. And I wish she could give feedback, ANY FEEDBACK, that isn't negative. It's like living with a tiny, jerky boss who only tells me when I fuck up and wants me to carry her everywhere and make food for her with my body, and gives me a negative performance review every ten minutes. If I'm so bad at this shit, why doesn't she just fire me already? Huh? Why?"
"You wait," my dad said as my mom pried my fingers from her ankles (throwing myself full-length on the floor kicking and screaming hadn't worked, so I'd just sort of clutched at them and they'd dragged me to the door). "She's gonna be doing all that stuff so fast you won't believe it. Subjectively speaking, in about two weeks? She's gonna be getting married. And you'll wonder what happened. And you'll want to turn the clock back, and won't be able to." My response to this incredibly stupid inaccurate prediction was to fling myself back into another tantrum so I wouldn't say, "Shut. UP! Before I put my fist down your throat!" to the man who gave me the gift of life. (And don't think he doesn't STILL hold that over my head. Like the gift of life was soooo tricky. Give me the gift of forever having a balanced checkbook, give me something I can use, dammit.)
My daughter isn't getting married, but ignoring my instructions to stop growing up and going to college is just as defiant. Because a funny thing started happening when she started to talk and walk and read and drive: I got really, really attached to her. She was still a tiny jerky boss, but not all the feedback was negative once she left the newborn stage behind. Some of the feedback was...kind of...what's the word? Dazzling.
The toothless grins, for example. As a baby, Chris went apeshit for strained peaches and pudding of all kinds, and had plenty of non-verbal praise for the silly bitch in the stained t-shirt who kept buying jars of the good stuff. Later, when she was verbal, there was a lot of, "Good Mommy! Goooooood Mommy!" when I'd done something that particularly pleased the teeny tyrant. There was the way she'd chortle and kick the bars of her crib so hard the whole thing would shake when I'd come to pluck her out of her crib after a nap. The way she'd rock out in her car seat when I'd crank Madonna's "Ray of Light". The way she'd run my errands for me once she got her driver's license.
Her brother came along a couple of years later, mostly because I'd lost a bet with my husband (long story, in which I come off pretty drunk), and when the baby would snuggle against my chest and toddler-Chris would drape herself across my shoulders while we'd watch The Little Mermaid and I'd wonder where the bitchy mermaids were, I'd feel surrounded, but in a good way. As with his sister, the newborn stage was weird, fuzzy upon recollection, and stressful. Stressful because when baby Liam would cry, Chris would sprint to wherever I was and holler, "Mommy, the BABY is CRYING!", as if I'd gone selectively deaf. That was always my sleep-deprived cue to also burst into tears, and more than once my hapless husband would walk through the front door to find all three of us sobbing. Chris would tattle on me ("The BABY is CRYING and Mom won't FIX IT!"), I would tattle on her ("The BABY is CRYING and Chris won't SHUT UP about it!") and Liam would just wail and turn purple. Not as purple as me, though. Amateur.
Soon enough there were two short people who were as generous with the positive feedback as they were with the negative, and also, they knew words my husband and I didn't. Things weren't spooky, they were smooky. The whirlpool tub wasn't a Jacuzzi, it was a Maguzzi. I was still the woman in the stained t-shirt (laundry never being a high priority in the household), but they were always pleased to see me. It was pretty impossible to not be charmed. Not that I didn't try.
When Chris started kindergarten, I realized with stark dread that they were going to keep growing, that one day they'd be out of the house and living their own lives. So I forbade them to grow up. I don't put a lot of demands on my family, just that they eat and sleep and be as happy as possible under whatever circumstances, and in return I don't kill them, so I felt this was a perfectly reasonable request. One both kids cruelly ignored. And it doesn't help that their father didn't enforce the rule. He thought it was fine that the children were getting older and taking on responsibilities. What can I say? I sleep with a monster.
Proof that the monster didn't enforce and the l'il monsters didn't listen is Exhibit A: college! Blatant defiance, I thought as I gave her a good-bye hug. Might have been a little too hard, since she groaned like a python was hugging her goodbye, a python wearing a "The book was better." t-shirt. That's all it was, blatant defiance. And look at the baby! He's fourteen and has hairy legs! He'll be getting a learner's permit in less than a year! This...is unacceptable.
Unfortunately, when I called Social Services to demand they FIX IT I got a whole lot of "this request is weird and also, she's 18, so please stop calling about this, okay?" nonsense. Not only are the rotten brats blatantly disobeying, they've got Social Services on their side! Is there no end to their evil empire?
All this to say King Al was right (so difficult to type those words; my fingers want to type "s;dgihaesg;h" instead). Chris did learn to walk and talk and read and drive, she graduated high school and started college and yep. It took about two weeks.
I hate when that happens.
(This isn't going to be a syrupy blog post about watching children grow up while "Landslide" plays in the background as I look on fondly. If that's what you're expecting, you've been following the wrong blog what with me being a bitch and all. Which, if you're okay with that, will work out fine for all of us.)
Frankly I'm annoyed at the whole growing up thing, because my daughter blatantly ignored explicit parental direction, to wit: knock that shit off. Also, it proved King Al right, which is just annoying. (King Al = my father.) Rewind 18 years, my husband and I were living in Quincy, MA, our daughter Christina was three weeks old and that was also as long as I'd gone without a shower. Also my boobs hurt, my feet hurt, my face hurt, my brain hurt, my wrists hurt, my spinal cord hurt, my elbows hurt, my appendix hurt, my adrenal gland hurt, and my ankles hurt. (I had no idea that sleep deprivation, among other things, made everything sore. Because there was no reason for my wrists and appendix and spinal cord to hurt. I don't think. That period in my life is pretty fuzzy, and in later years when I asked Christina about it she wasn't much help. She was a lazy and forgetful baby.)
My parents were visiting, which was awesome, because it meant that while they were in town I didn't have to change a diaper, cook a meal, run an errand, or bang a husband. Not that much of the latter was happening anyway (see above: 3 week old baby, boobs hurt, brain hurt, and nothing kills the mood faster than my dad pounding on the other side of the wall with his bowling ball sized fist: "Can you two either hurry it up or keep it down? Amateurs!").
But my folks were leaving the next morning, which I handled with trademark maturity ("No, no, no, no, no! Don't leave me alone with it! Her, I mean! I'll hold my breath until I turn blue or my brain stops hurting! Ow, stupid brain."). (It must be said, Tony wasn't quite as upset as I was.) Also with trademark maturity, I was bitching about what a pain in the ass it was to be trapped in an apartment with a tiny precious blessing from the angels. "I wish she could walk and talk," I bitched (warned you!), "and I wish she could wipe her own ass and drive and read and also, I wish my brain didn't hurt. And I wish she could give feedback, ANY FEEDBACK, that isn't negative. It's like living with a tiny, jerky boss who only tells me when I fuck up and wants me to carry her everywhere and make food for her with my body, and gives me a negative performance review every ten minutes. If I'm so bad at this shit, why doesn't she just fire me already? Huh? Why?"
"You wait," my dad said as my mom pried my fingers from her ankles (throwing myself full-length on the floor kicking and screaming hadn't worked, so I'd just sort of clutched at them and they'd dragged me to the door). "She's gonna be doing all that stuff so fast you won't believe it. Subjectively speaking, in about two weeks? She's gonna be getting married. And you'll wonder what happened. And you'll want to turn the clock back, and won't be able to." My response to this incredibly stupid inaccurate prediction was to fling myself back into another tantrum so I wouldn't say, "Shut. UP! Before I put my fist down your throat!" to the man who gave me the gift of life. (And don't think he doesn't STILL hold that over my head. Like the gift of life was soooo tricky. Give me the gift of forever having a balanced checkbook, give me something I can use, dammit.)
My daughter isn't getting married, but ignoring my instructions to stop growing up and going to college is just as defiant. Because a funny thing started happening when she started to talk and walk and read and drive: I got really, really attached to her. She was still a tiny jerky boss, but not all the feedback was negative once she left the newborn stage behind. Some of the feedback was...kind of...what's the word? Dazzling.
The toothless grins, for example. As a baby, Chris went apeshit for strained peaches and pudding of all kinds, and had plenty of non-verbal praise for the silly bitch in the stained t-shirt who kept buying jars of the good stuff. Later, when she was verbal, there was a lot of, "Good Mommy! Goooooood Mommy!" when I'd done something that particularly pleased the teeny tyrant. There was the way she'd chortle and kick the bars of her crib so hard the whole thing would shake when I'd come to pluck her out of her crib after a nap. The way she'd rock out in her car seat when I'd crank Madonna's "Ray of Light". The way she'd run my errands for me once she got her driver's license.
Her brother came along a couple of years later, mostly because I'd lost a bet with my husband (long story, in which I come off pretty drunk), and when the baby would snuggle against my chest and toddler-Chris would drape herself across my shoulders while we'd watch The Little Mermaid and I'd wonder where the bitchy mermaids were, I'd feel surrounded, but in a good way. As with his sister, the newborn stage was weird, fuzzy upon recollection, and stressful. Stressful because when baby Liam would cry, Chris would sprint to wherever I was and holler, "Mommy, the BABY is CRYING!", as if I'd gone selectively deaf. That was always my sleep-deprived cue to also burst into tears, and more than once my hapless husband would walk through the front door to find all three of us sobbing. Chris would tattle on me ("The BABY is CRYING and Mom won't FIX IT!"), I would tattle on her ("The BABY is CRYING and Chris won't SHUT UP about it!") and Liam would just wail and turn purple. Not as purple as me, though. Amateur.
Soon enough there were two short people who were as generous with the positive feedback as they were with the negative, and also, they knew words my husband and I didn't. Things weren't spooky, they were smooky. The whirlpool tub wasn't a Jacuzzi, it was a Maguzzi. I was still the woman in the stained t-shirt (laundry never being a high priority in the household), but they were always pleased to see me. It was pretty impossible to not be charmed. Not that I didn't try.
When Chris started kindergarten, I realized with stark dread that they were going to keep growing, that one day they'd be out of the house and living their own lives. So I forbade them to grow up. I don't put a lot of demands on my family, just that they eat and sleep and be as happy as possible under whatever circumstances, and in return I don't kill them, so I felt this was a perfectly reasonable request. One both kids cruelly ignored. And it doesn't help that their father didn't enforce the rule. He thought it was fine that the children were getting older and taking on responsibilities. What can I say? I sleep with a monster.
Proof that the monster didn't enforce and the l'il monsters didn't listen is Exhibit A: college! Blatant defiance, I thought as I gave her a good-bye hug. Might have been a little too hard, since she groaned like a python was hugging her goodbye, a python wearing a "The book was better." t-shirt. That's all it was, blatant defiance. And look at the baby! He's fourteen and has hairy legs! He'll be getting a learner's permit in less than a year! This...is unacceptable.
Unfortunately, when I called Social Services to demand they FIX IT I got a whole lot of "this request is weird and also, she's 18, so please stop calling about this, okay?" nonsense. Not only are the rotten brats blatantly disobeying, they've got Social Services on their side! Is there no end to their evil empire?
All this to say King Al was right (so difficult to type those words; my fingers want to type "s;dgihaesg;h" instead). Chris did learn to walk and talk and read and drive, she graduated high school and started college and yep. It took about two weeks.
I hate when that happens.
June 12, 2013
I Explain How Marching Band Is Ruining My Life And Also My Hair
Because of the trauma, I rarely talk about Marching Band. It's come up in a book review and, worse, it's come up in my life, and now I've got to address it before things get worse. Normally, I try to keep personal stuff out of book stuff, but this time they've gotten together behind my back. Also, because Marching Band is scary to me, I write it like it's a proper noun. It's not. It's an incredibly weird terrifying improper noun.
I had gotten past the first Marching Band trauma (more on that below) only to be hit with the second trauma courtesy of a book reviewer who really, really would have rather worked in a hair salon. "Davidson's latest offering is proof she should get out of the house more...as if more proof was needed when you check out the soccer mom bangs on her author photo."
Naturally, my reply was measured and swift: "Hey, asshat! These are Marching Band mom bangs!" (Also, his mama dresses him funny.) Normally I would recall John Scalzi's wisdom ("I am not under the impression that, alone among all writers who have ever existed, I will be the one whose work is universally acclaimed."), but coming on the heels of earlier Marching Band trauma it was almost too much.
But I managed to put it all behind me, until my son also decided to join Marching Band, so the trauma was back and in my face and didn't care how scared I was. I'm talking, of course, about getting a Marching Band form notarized.
No, wait! I know I tend toward the shrill, but the whole thing is just...awful. Everything about it is awful. And the most awful of all is that people don't get how awful it is. It's like they don't understand I'm a victim!
For those of you who have avoided Marching Band trauma, getting a document notarized is a pretty big deal. Notaries are defined as "a lawyer or person with legal training who is licensed by the state to perform acts in legal affairs, in particular witnessing signatures on documents".
Things I have not had to get notarized:
any one of more than 30 writing contracts for work published in America *
any one of more than 15 writing contracts for work published overseas *
tax documents
permission for a doctor I met five days ago to operate on me
permission for a doctor I met five minutes ago to stitch me up
permission for my 16 year-old to donate blood
permission for a third party agent to shop my books around Hollywood
tax documents for foreign royalties
my living will
my death will
my passport
my marriage certificate
my birth certificate
any incredibly important government identification ever
a contract with the Disney corporation for the movie rights to my mermaid trilogy *
copies of my immunization records
anything in any of my medical charts anywhere including...
paperwork at the infertility clinic where I donated eggs * *
* I wouldn't have whined much, because some of the parties sign the contract in New York (my publisher) and some sign it days later in Minnesota (Whiney McWhineypants, or as the contract refers to me, The Writer) and it would be inconvenient but understandable if they required a legal witness to my signature. But they don't. None of my book publishers, here and abroad, felt it was necessary. The Walt Disney Company (NYSE:DIS) didn't feel it was necessary. My third party agent didn't feel it was necessary. Publishers handling foreign royalties from Thailand, Germany, Italy, Japan, France, Australia, and Great Britain, among others, didn't feel it was necessary. Marching Band feels it's necessary.
* * Yeah, let's mull that last one over for a minute, please. I was giving away PIECES OF MY BODY, not to mention DNA blueprints to make any number of horrible MJ clones, and the clinic did not need anything notarized.
Things I have had to get notarized:
power of attorney
Marching Band student code of conduct form
I won't explain what the power of attorney is because a POA is something so incredibly important, most people know what it is.
The Marching Band student code of conduct form basically states that if my kid starts acting like a l'il asshat on a Marching Band field trip, Marching Band can call me and tell me to pick up the l'il asshat. They didn't just need my l'il asshat's signature, and they didn't just need mine. Marching Band required my signature be witnessed and stamped by "a lawyer or person with legal training who is licensed by the state to perform acts in legal affairs, in particular witnessing signatures on documents". And so it was. Eventually. Kinda.
I'd been through this with my oldest child, and even though the trauma was four years old, it still rankled (much like childbirth which, seventeen years after the fact, still rankles). I actually laughed at first, thinking it was a joke. "Sure, I'll run off and get the Marching Band form notarized and also my grocery list, because that's important, too. Nobody eats until I notarize my grocery--wait, you're serious?" Boy, was my face red, and not from shame. From the rage stroke. Because I have stuff to do, you know? No one was going to lie around for me and think up weird stuff to write about while contemplating getting something pierced because bored bored BORED. No one was going to buy the ingredients so I could master the perfect chocolate egg cream, and my highlights and lowlights were not going to maintain themselves...that was all on me, baby. D'you think Marching Band cared about my lowlights? DO YOU?
But I truly did think I'd put it behind me until my youngest walked in with The Dreaded Marching Band Form. I snatched it from his startled grasp ("Hey! You haven't moved that fast since you thought Hammock was chasing you."), muttering to myself "it can't be the same one, enough parents complained about the unnecessary-ness of notarizing anything Marching Band related so it's just a standard parental form like the kind every school in the country uses every week for any activity including Marching Band and oh my God it's the same form".
"Notarized? Again?"
"I don't know what that means."
"Someone has to watch me sign it! And stamp it! After I sign it! Again!"
"Is this about food? Normally you only scream like this when it's food-related."
"I'm stopping at DQ before I go to City Hall, I'll tell you that right now!"
"Ah."
"I've got to build up my strength for this stupid ordeal!"
"Is Dad home? Maybe I should talk to Dad about this."
"I! Hate! Everything!"
"Even DQ?"
"No, of course not." I instantly calmed down. Hate DQ? Crazy talk. Not even Marching Band could do that to me. DQ, I love you I love you I love you. I won't let Marching Band tear us apart.
Look, I promise I get it. We're lucky my kid's school even has a marching band--lots don't. And we're lucky it's a really good marching band--they win stuff. And we're lucky we've got good music teachers--who want to make me go to City Hall so I miss the last ten minutes of a Simpsons I've only seen forty times. (Shut about about that's what the DVR is for, mine's stuffed with 30 Rock reruns, episodes of The Americans from March, episodes of The Following from February, and season 8 Seinfeld because I love man hands and the little kicks.) I understand this is a pretty good "problem" to have. Which didn't make it any easier to drive four blocks to City Hall, easily find an awesome spot right in front, walk fifteen feet and burst in on an unsuspecting clerk who had just slung her coat over one arm and taken out her keys.
I screeched to a halt, or tried (stupid really good custodial team! one of these days I'm gonna break my neck). "I thought you guys closed at five."
"Nope. Four-thirty."
She eyed me eyeing my watch: 4:31. "Oh. This is awkward."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, because I don't even want to be here. Just being inside City Hall with you is making my skin crawl. No offense."
"????" (She didn't actually say anything, but her eyebrows spoke volumes.)
"I just think it's dumb that I need this notarized." I flapped the forms at her. "It's a total waste of my time. And yours!" I belatedly realized. "We're sisters in solidarity! We should fight the power. Sisterhood rules, Marching Band drools. Anyway, will you please notarize this stupid thing for me so I can get out of here and never return?"
"Sure." (God bless public servants, who put up with way too much from me, and probably others.)
"Do you need my drivers license? You do, right? Of course you need it because ugh."
"And..." Six seconds passed with the speed of a hemorrhoidal snail. "There."
"Thanks. Sorry to keep you late."
"Sorry Marching Band did this to you again."
"Oh! You remember me from four years--"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I'll go."
"Thanks."
See? See how victimized I was by that whole encounter? And the notary wasn't having much fun, either. All that so if my l'il asshat acts up on a field trip, I have to come and get him. Which is...what's the word? Oh, yeah: standard. As in, not really needing a notary, her legal training, her stamp, or her overtime.
But at least it was over. I made the harrowing ninety-second journey back home and thrust the papers at my son. "There. Ugh. It's done. Get them out of my sight, out, out, damned Marching Band forms."
He held up one of the three pieces of paper I'd brought to City Hall. "You forgot to have her do this one."
"Maybe you didn't hear me: OUT, OUT, DAMNED MARCHING BAND FORMS."
He fled. And now we're at an impasse. Not me and him. Me and Marching Band. (Me write good.) And I'm not unaware it's a win/win for Marching Band. They'll either get their stupid forms notarized, or I'll be forced to spend more time with my son. Will the nightmare never end? Cue my Wrath of Khan roar: "Marching Baaaaaaaaand!"
I had gotten past the first Marching Band trauma (more on that below) only to be hit with the second trauma courtesy of a book reviewer who really, really would have rather worked in a hair salon. "Davidson's latest offering is proof she should get out of the house more...as if more proof was needed when you check out the soccer mom bangs on her author photo."
Naturally, my reply was measured and swift: "Hey, asshat! These are Marching Band mom bangs!" (Also, his mama dresses him funny.) Normally I would recall John Scalzi's wisdom ("I am not under the impression that, alone among all writers who have ever existed, I will be the one whose work is universally acclaimed."), but coming on the heels of earlier Marching Band trauma it was almost too much.
But I managed to put it all behind me, until my son also decided to join Marching Band, so the trauma was back and in my face and didn't care how scared I was. I'm talking, of course, about getting a Marching Band form notarized.
No, wait! I know I tend toward the shrill, but the whole thing is just...awful. Everything about it is awful. And the most awful of all is that people don't get how awful it is. It's like they don't understand I'm a victim!
For those of you who have avoided Marching Band trauma, getting a document notarized is a pretty big deal. Notaries are defined as "a lawyer or person with legal training who is licensed by the state to perform acts in legal affairs, in particular witnessing signatures on documents".
Things I have not had to get notarized:
any one of more than 30 writing contracts for work published in America *
any one of more than 15 writing contracts for work published overseas *
tax documents
permission for a doctor I met five days ago to operate on me
permission for a doctor I met five minutes ago to stitch me up
permission for my 16 year-old to donate blood
permission for a third party agent to shop my books around Hollywood
tax documents for foreign royalties
my living will
my death will
my passport
my marriage certificate
my birth certificate
any incredibly important government identification ever
a contract with the Disney corporation for the movie rights to my mermaid trilogy *
copies of my immunization records
anything in any of my medical charts anywhere including...
paperwork at the infertility clinic where I donated eggs * *
* I wouldn't have whined much, because some of the parties sign the contract in New York (my publisher) and some sign it days later in Minnesota (Whiney McWhineypants, or as the contract refers to me, The Writer) and it would be inconvenient but understandable if they required a legal witness to my signature. But they don't. None of my book publishers, here and abroad, felt it was necessary. The Walt Disney Company (NYSE:DIS) didn't feel it was necessary. My third party agent didn't feel it was necessary. Publishers handling foreign royalties from Thailand, Germany, Italy, Japan, France, Australia, and Great Britain, among others, didn't feel it was necessary. Marching Band feels it's necessary.
* * Yeah, let's mull that last one over for a minute, please. I was giving away PIECES OF MY BODY, not to mention DNA blueprints to make any number of horrible MJ clones, and the clinic did not need anything notarized.
Things I have had to get notarized:
power of attorney
Marching Band student code of conduct form
I won't explain what the power of attorney is because a POA is something so incredibly important, most people know what it is.
The Marching Band student code of conduct form basically states that if my kid starts acting like a l'il asshat on a Marching Band field trip, Marching Band can call me and tell me to pick up the l'il asshat. They didn't just need my l'il asshat's signature, and they didn't just need mine. Marching Band required my signature be witnessed and stamped by "a lawyer or person with legal training who is licensed by the state to perform acts in legal affairs, in particular witnessing signatures on documents". And so it was. Eventually. Kinda.
I'd been through this with my oldest child, and even though the trauma was four years old, it still rankled (much like childbirth which, seventeen years after the fact, still rankles). I actually laughed at first, thinking it was a joke. "Sure, I'll run off and get the Marching Band form notarized and also my grocery list, because that's important, too. Nobody eats until I notarize my grocery--wait, you're serious?" Boy, was my face red, and not from shame. From the rage stroke. Because I have stuff to do, you know? No one was going to lie around for me and think up weird stuff to write about while contemplating getting something pierced because bored bored BORED. No one was going to buy the ingredients so I could master the perfect chocolate egg cream, and my highlights and lowlights were not going to maintain themselves...that was all on me, baby. D'you think Marching Band cared about my lowlights? DO YOU?
But I truly did think I'd put it behind me until my youngest walked in with The Dreaded Marching Band Form. I snatched it from his startled grasp ("Hey! You haven't moved that fast since you thought Hammock was chasing you."), muttering to myself "it can't be the same one, enough parents complained about the unnecessary-ness of notarizing anything Marching Band related so it's just a standard parental form like the kind every school in the country uses every week for any activity including Marching Band and oh my God it's the same form".
"Notarized? Again?"
"I don't know what that means."
"Someone has to watch me sign it! And stamp it! After I sign it! Again!"
"Is this about food? Normally you only scream like this when it's food-related."
"I'm stopping at DQ before I go to City Hall, I'll tell you that right now!"
"Ah."
"I've got to build up my strength for this stupid ordeal!"
"Is Dad home? Maybe I should talk to Dad about this."
"I! Hate! Everything!"
"Even DQ?"
"No, of course not." I instantly calmed down. Hate DQ? Crazy talk. Not even Marching Band could do that to me. DQ, I love you I love you I love you. I won't let Marching Band tear us apart.
Look, I promise I get it. We're lucky my kid's school even has a marching band--lots don't. And we're lucky it's a really good marching band--they win stuff. And we're lucky we've got good music teachers--who want to make me go to City Hall so I miss the last ten minutes of a Simpsons I've only seen forty times. (Shut about about that's what the DVR is for, mine's stuffed with 30 Rock reruns, episodes of The Americans from March, episodes of The Following from February, and season 8 Seinfeld because I love man hands and the little kicks.) I understand this is a pretty good "problem" to have. Which didn't make it any easier to drive four blocks to City Hall, easily find an awesome spot right in front, walk fifteen feet and burst in on an unsuspecting clerk who had just slung her coat over one arm and taken out her keys.
I screeched to a halt, or tried (stupid really good custodial team! one of these days I'm gonna break my neck). "I thought you guys closed at five."
"Nope. Four-thirty."
She eyed me eyeing my watch: 4:31. "Oh. This is awkward."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, because I don't even want to be here. Just being inside City Hall with you is making my skin crawl. No offense."
"????" (She didn't actually say anything, but her eyebrows spoke volumes.)
"I just think it's dumb that I need this notarized." I flapped the forms at her. "It's a total waste of my time. And yours!" I belatedly realized. "We're sisters in solidarity! We should fight the power. Sisterhood rules, Marching Band drools. Anyway, will you please notarize this stupid thing for me so I can get out of here and never return?"
"Sure." (God bless public servants, who put up with way too much from me, and probably others.)
"Do you need my drivers license? You do, right? Of course you need it because ugh."
"And..." Six seconds passed with the speed of a hemorrhoidal snail. "There."
"Thanks. Sorry to keep you late."
"Sorry Marching Band did this to you again."
"Oh! You remember me from four years--"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I'll go."
"Thanks."
See? See how victimized I was by that whole encounter? And the notary wasn't having much fun, either. All that so if my l'il asshat acts up on a field trip, I have to come and get him. Which is...what's the word? Oh, yeah: standard. As in, not really needing a notary, her legal training, her stamp, or her overtime.
But at least it was over. I made the harrowing ninety-second journey back home and thrust the papers at my son. "There. Ugh. It's done. Get them out of my sight, out, out, damned Marching Band forms."
He held up one of the three pieces of paper I'd brought to City Hall. "You forgot to have her do this one."
"Maybe you didn't hear me: OUT, OUT, DAMNED MARCHING BAND FORMS."
He fled. And now we're at an impasse. Not me and him. Me and Marching Band. (Me write good.) And I'm not unaware it's a win/win for Marching Band. They'll either get their stupid forms notarized, or I'll be forced to spend more time with my son. Will the nightmare never end? Cue my Wrath of Khan roar: "Marching Baaaaaaaaand!"
June 7, 2013
Barnes and Noble Will Keep Trying to Sell Me To The Program
An update to my "Barnes & Noble, you're killing my will to live!" rant from earlier this week. I got lots of wonderful feedback from readers and, even better, Barnes & Noble employees (no one at Corporate, of course, no one who actually has to try to sell customers to The Program, which is exactly what I expected, and more on that below).
I want to emphasize that although none of my feelings about my inevitable enslavement to The Program have changed, I do NOT hold the poor sales associates responsible. I know their bosses are riding their asses like managerial demons. I know they don't want to be responsible for killing the part of my soul that loves books. Do I think some of them could use a little judgement and stop bugging me around the, I dunno, seventh or eighth time I say "No thank you, arrgghhh, you're killing meeeee!" Yeah. Do I know that if they don't bug me they'll get in trouble? Yeah. There's gotta be a happy medium in there somewhere.
In addition to posting the below to my blog, Yahoo group, FB page, Twitter, etc., I e-mailed it directly to Barnes and Noble corporate. Maybe. See, it wasn't easy to find any kind of e-mail addy for people who actually make policy. And I asked around, I searched the web, I even asked a couple of B&N sales associates here in the Twin Cities. The closest I could come is customer service, but that e-mail addy is for customers with specific complaints ("My Kindle self-destructed and might be trying to kill me...oh, wait, that's not you guys", "Why doesn't George R.R. Martin write faster?", "The gift card I bought in 1991 doesn't work"...like that), with no category for "did Barnes & Noble lose a bet with God and so has to sell customers to The Program?".
I did the best I could, sending an e-mail explaining that I had a problem with The Program, I wasn't alone in that even remotely, and I'd appreciate anything they could do to address my concerns. If Program complaints were out of their jurisdiction, could they please give me the name and e-mail address of the person in charge of that stuff, thank you, go Minnesota Twins, this is your year, dawgs!!!!
I get this back almost immediately:
Dear Customer: Thanks for contacting us. You should receive a response within 12 to 24 hours, and we appreciate your patience
-- The Customer Service Team at Barnes & Noble
It's perfect if you love automatic messages no human being at B&N has to think about or be involved with in any way. Luckily, I love those kinds of messages! And wow, a TEAM. A whole cadre of people dedicated to solving my woes. Excellent! I definitely feel taken care of. None of this has been a huge waste of time. At all.
Even better, B&N kept their word, and 24 hours later I got this:
Dear MaryJanice Davidson, Thank you for contacting Barnes & Noble. Unfortunately, we were unable to open the link you sent with your email. Please resend your email without the link at your earliest convenience.
Okay, fair enough. I think. It's a customer service e-mail address on the web, where presumably customer service reps abide now and again, but they can't click on links. Not one member of the famed TEAM can click on links...uh, okay. I must re-send, but with no link of any kind anywhere or they're paralyzed. Yikes. So I pasted the entirety of my blog into the e-mail address and sent it again, totally link-less. It had to go back to them with nary a link. Nobody on the TEAM would have to click a link; they could read my complaint from the comforts of their wherever-the-TEAM-abides. And hey, I did receive a response within 12 to 24 hours, even though the response was, "Yeah, we can't help you with this. At all. Unless you do more stuff." But now they had all the info, so someone could get back to me.
And someone did!
Dear MaryJaniceDavidson,
At Barnes & Noble, our number one priority is to provide you with excellent customer service.
Hey, that's great news! Not just customer service. Excellent customer service. Mama like.
Would you please take a few minutes to tell us about your recent experience with Barnes & Noble Customer Service?
What?
You can access the survey by clicking here, or by cutting and pasting the following link into your browser:
https://www.customersat3.com/e.asp?IID=E03DBF7358EB327756AAA2E273716A6D
WHAT? Wait, is that a link you guys can click on? Because I was under the impression the TEAM couldn't click. But you want me to? How will you be able to see what I wrote? You can't click!
Please do not reply to this email.
Yeah, God friggin' forbid I respond to the e-mail YOU SENT ME.
We are unable to respond to email sent to this address.
I'll bet. It's because the TEAM can't click, right?
If you need Customer Service assistance, please call us at 1-800-THE-BOOK or email to service@barnesandnoble.com
In other words, if you want Customer Service, do more stuff. Again.
Your responses will be used to help us improve Barnes & Noble products and services in the future.
You know, I doubt it. The response I'd send will not help you. It'll melt your server and give you intermittent night terrors for the rest of your days, but it's not gonna help B&N improve products and services in the future. Unless it's a zombie-wasteland future, maybe.
Thank you in advance for your time, your feedback, and your business.
Oh, no, Bill. Thank YOU. No. Really.
Sincerely,
Bill Higdon
VP Customer Care NOOK Media
Well, a first and last name, and a title, which is nice. I'm not sure the VP of Customer Care for the NOOK can help me evade The Program, especially as I haven't heard from my new best friend Bill Higdon since, but a name, glory be, a name! Wait, do they name the drone robots at NOOK Media? Because that's awful. I'm sure naming the drone robots is supposed to make me feel like someone human is involved, but it actually makes me sad. Bill Higdon deserves better than a fake name!
So, to sum up, Barnes & Noble "helped" me by asking me, again, to do more stuff. For them. So they can...NOT...help me.
Anyhoo. All the above went out on May 30, I got their first response on May 31, and their last "help us help you by doing more stuff while we don't actually address your problem" e-mail was June 3. It's the 7th. And that's been it.
B&N, I love you, but what the hell?
(For those who missed it the first time, below is the rant from earlier in the week. And Bill Higdon, if you're out there, MJ loves you and knows that if you wish hard enough, someday you'll be a REAL boy!
* * * * *
I have no idea how I'll make this happen, but I've got to get B&N to stop with the harassment already, which will be tricky since I love how they sell my books. I've gotta be subtle and delicate and classy n'stuff. No problemo! (Yeah, I should abandon the whole thing right now. Like my attempts to plan laundry around Law & Order: Criminal Intent marathons, this is doomed to failure.)
But I can't! Because Barnes & Noble will not. Let. UP! I'm speaking, of course, about The Program. For some reason, it's really, really important to the Fortune 500 company that is Barnes & Noble, Inc. (NYSE:BKS) to shove their B&N Member Program down my throat until I'm coughing up Member Program points.
But first, a recap of The Program for the uninitiated, which I would really like to be. But because of all The Program harassment, I know all about it.
So here it is: if you enroll in The Barnes & Noble Member Program, you get a discount on some of the things you buy. Not all the things you buy; just some of them. But hey! All you have to do to get a discount on some of the things you buy is spend money to (eventually) save money (on some of the things you buy). Also, provide your name, marital status, address, country of residence, phone number, and e-mail, none of which will ever ever ever come back to haunt you. Oh, and your children's names if you want them to join their B&N Kids' Club. And their birthdays. And their genders. And when you first sign up, they'll send you coupons! Which may be discontinued without notice. But the important thing is, if they wanted they can now hunt you down and kill you. But your kids will get coupons, too! Also, The Program has a peculiar definition of kid: 12 and under. In B&N's eyes, 13 year olds unable to legally vote or drink are actually short adults. No Kids' Club for them! Which might not be terrible, because the Kids' Club discounts only apply to certain products. Don't worry, though; there's a complete list of exclusions in minuscule print on their website somewhere. Welcome to adulthood, young teens!
But hey, B&N devised The Program to help customers save money on some things, so they tell customers about The Program in the hopes that they'll sign on and save money. And if the customer says hell to the yeah, sign me up, great. And if they don't, no big deal. Just drop it.
It would be awesome if that's how B&N was training their employees.
I'm in a B&N about once a week. Sometimes it's for business; I'll swing by and sign any of my books they have in stock. They're always pleased to see me, even when I need a shower, and they're always happy to let me deface their merchandise with a Sharpie. More often I'm in a B&N for pleasure--I love love love books. If this writing gig doesn't work out, I'm setting up a cot in the back room of the Woodbury Barnes and Noble and living there like a book goblin. A six foot tall blonde book goblin. (Grotesque, right?)
Anyway, I rarely leave without buying something, even if it's just the latest BITCH magazine or the new John Sandford (I have a long-standing crush on that hound, Lucas Davenport). So I wouldn't mind (probably) if while ringing up my purchase they brought up The Program once, heard my polite (no, really, the first three times I say 'no thanks', I swear it's politely) TBNT, and dropped the subject forevermore. Or at least, until the end of that particular transaction.
Alas.
"Have you heard about our member program?"
"Yes, I have, and no thanks."
"But you can get discounts!"
"Yeah, I know. No thanks."
"But if you join right now--"
"No thanks."
"--you'd save $14.95."
"No. Thank. You."
"And you'll get coupons."
"I know."
"Which will help you save even more."
"I know."
"Here's a brochure."
"I have fifty at home."
The above is a condensed version of what usually happens. It often goes on longer. Out of pure self defense in an attempt to stave off Program sanctioned bullying, now I say straight out, before they start ringing up my purchase: "I know all about the Member Program." Unspoken: So you don't need to tell me about it. "I'm not interested." Unspoken: So you don't need to tell me about it. "But thanks anyway." Unspoken: So you don't need to tell me about it.
Alas.
"But you'll save money."
"No thanks."
"And it's only $25 to join and you'll get discounts right away."
"No thanks."
"Because you're spending a lot of money today and you could really save a lot."
"No thanks."
"You don't like saving money?"
"I hate saving money."
I don't, is the thing. So why not join The Program? Because by now I'm invested in my pissiness. It's a matter of pride after all this time and yeah, it's stupid and stubborn and I know that. More to the point: why the hell should I have to join at all? Some of the youngsters reading this blog won't know this, but once upon a time you could buy a product and not have to hand the clerk a notarized copy of your birth certificate. You could buy something and walk out without coughing up your phone number or e-mail address or street addresses. (Picture me rocking on a porch smoking a corncob pipe, if that helps any of this sound like wisdom.) I'm not paranoid about Big Brother; I just think I should be able to buy the latest issue of Bark without having a long conversation about a program I repeatedly say I'm not interested in.
Sometimes I plead with the sales associates, but either The Program has devoured their souls or the generation gap between us yawns.
"Remember when Radio Shack used to ask for your zip code, and everyone thought that was weird?" I'd cry. "It's true! It was weird and people called them on it! Because of all the weird! Why don't people take a stand on that stuff anymore? Why can't I buy something without having to hand over my resume and a notarized copy of my credit report and a deposit of $25? Why do I have to spend money to spend money here? Can you understand my frustration at all?"
"Sure!" the associate assures me brightly. Then, "What's a Radio Shack?"
"You will eventually age." I'm now resting my forehead on the counter. "Just so you know."
I guess the easy answer is to quit shopping there. But I love it. I love Barnes & Noble sooo much, which is what makes this so difficult (for me). I love the shelves and shelves of books, some of which I wrote. I love the big soft easy chairs and the low tables you can plop down in and rest graphic novels on, for hours, and nobody cares. I love how I can suck down Green Tea Frappuccinos in said easy chairs while reading said books, some of which I wrote. (It's weird that I read those. I know how they all end.) When I was a struggling...well, a struggling everything: when I was a new wife putting my husband through Harvard, a Midwestern stranger in the biggest city in New England, a girl who'd driven herself everywhere for years needing a crash course on the fourth biggest public transit system in the country, missing my family and getting at least two rejection slips a month from agents and publishing houses...when I was that kid Boston was scary and exhilarating, and some days skewed closer to scary than the other.
The one thing that would cheer me up and give me the strength to keep going (besides newlywed sex) was the Barnes & Noble in Copley Square. I'd hop a bus to a T station, hop a train to Copley Square, hop off (I have strong ankles), hop into B&N (okay, not really) and browse through the books. I'd read books I considered to be dreadful and tell myself if crapola like that could be on the shelves, there was a place for my crapola, too. Lots of my crapola! Years later, after my crapola was published and we were visiting Boston, I popped into that same store and saw my new book prominently placed. I made my husband take a picture in which I look like the Before in a Tums ad since I was crying/laughing like a woman with acute Crazypants. One of the greatest moments of my life. Honest to God. Barnes & Noble was and is my everything.
But now our relationship has skewed into the unpleasant harassment stage. And I'm not sure what to do. I'm not willing to summon up the nastiness to shut down sales associates while they're trying to do their jobs. But I hate when they won't abandon The Program propaganda. So I'm going to have to get raw.
Here it is, Barnes & Noble, from my keyboard to your ears--wait, that'd be eyes, I think--you know that girl/guy in high school who was always desperate for you to be their friend? And it wasn't that the girl/guy was all that objectionable, you just had enough friends? Barnes & Noble, you were in charge of the yearbook, you had lots of pics to take for the online newsletter, and you had practice twice a week. Plus your parents would get pissy if you weren't home by five on school days. You didn't need any more friends; you knew you had caught your limit. Taking on another pal would have been greedy. Nothing personal, right?
But the guy/girl in question is too dense or desperate to take a hint. "C'mon, Barnes & Noble," they'd whine, making you totally late for second hour which sucked because Ms. Johnson was a huge stickler for that stuff and who needed anther lecture? "C'mon, just come over to my house after school just this one time." Except you were wise to shut them down, Barnes & Noble, because even then you knew it was never just one time. You knew if you let them into your life even a little bit, they dig in like wood ticks and it's even harder to keep your distance. Remember how pathetic you started to find that person, Barnes & Noble? How you'd cringe whenever you accidentally made eye contact in the hall? Remember how you'd totally re-do your route to Chem so you wouldn't have to go past their locker? Remember that when they'd manage to corner you and you had to talk to them it was so lame and awkward? Remember?
Yeah.
So! Instead of pushing your "Pleeeeeease be my friend!" club, you should push my books instead. Wait! It makes sense if you think about it. (To me.) This way, I won't feel continually harassed, and I'll make money. Everybody wins!
Okay, maybe not. But come on, Barnes & Noble. You used to be one of the cool kids. I'll bet you still remember how. You can get back there. You don't have to be THAT kid. Okay?
Well, just promise me you'll think about it. Meanwhile, see you at gym class tomorrow, B&N. I'll be the one feigning leprosy to get out of doing the quarter mile. It's not like I'll ever have to use running in real life.
I want to emphasize that although none of my feelings about my inevitable enslavement to The Program have changed, I do NOT hold the poor sales associates responsible. I know their bosses are riding their asses like managerial demons. I know they don't want to be responsible for killing the part of my soul that loves books. Do I think some of them could use a little judgement and stop bugging me around the, I dunno, seventh or eighth time I say "No thank you, arrgghhh, you're killing meeeee!" Yeah. Do I know that if they don't bug me they'll get in trouble? Yeah. There's gotta be a happy medium in there somewhere.
In addition to posting the below to my blog, Yahoo group, FB page, Twitter, etc., I e-mailed it directly to Barnes and Noble corporate. Maybe. See, it wasn't easy to find any kind of e-mail addy for people who actually make policy. And I asked around, I searched the web, I even asked a couple of B&N sales associates here in the Twin Cities. The closest I could come is customer service, but that e-mail addy is for customers with specific complaints ("My Kindle self-destructed and might be trying to kill me...oh, wait, that's not you guys", "Why doesn't George R.R. Martin write faster?", "The gift card I bought in 1991 doesn't work"...like that), with no category for "did Barnes & Noble lose a bet with God and so has to sell customers to The Program?".
I did the best I could, sending an e-mail explaining that I had a problem with The Program, I wasn't alone in that even remotely, and I'd appreciate anything they could do to address my concerns. If Program complaints were out of their jurisdiction, could they please give me the name and e-mail address of the person in charge of that stuff, thank you, go Minnesota Twins, this is your year, dawgs!!!!
I get this back almost immediately:
Dear Customer: Thanks for contacting us. You should receive a response within 12 to 24 hours, and we appreciate your patience
-- The Customer Service Team at Barnes & Noble
It's perfect if you love automatic messages no human being at B&N has to think about or be involved with in any way. Luckily, I love those kinds of messages! And wow, a TEAM. A whole cadre of people dedicated to solving my woes. Excellent! I definitely feel taken care of. None of this has been a huge waste of time. At all.
Even better, B&N kept their word, and 24 hours later I got this:
Dear MaryJanice Davidson, Thank you for contacting Barnes & Noble. Unfortunately, we were unable to open the link you sent with your email. Please resend your email without the link at your earliest convenience.
Okay, fair enough. I think. It's a customer service e-mail address on the web, where presumably customer service reps abide now and again, but they can't click on links. Not one member of the famed TEAM can click on links...uh, okay. I must re-send, but with no link of any kind anywhere or they're paralyzed. Yikes. So I pasted the entirety of my blog into the e-mail address and sent it again, totally link-less. It had to go back to them with nary a link. Nobody on the TEAM would have to click a link; they could read my complaint from the comforts of their wherever-the-TEAM-abides. And hey, I did receive a response within 12 to 24 hours, even though the response was, "Yeah, we can't help you with this. At all. Unless you do more stuff." But now they had all the info, so someone could get back to me.
And someone did!
Dear MaryJaniceDavidson,
At Barnes & Noble, our number one priority is to provide you with excellent customer service.
Hey, that's great news! Not just customer service. Excellent customer service. Mama like.
Would you please take a few minutes to tell us about your recent experience with Barnes & Noble Customer Service?
What?
You can access the survey by clicking here, or by cutting and pasting the following link into your browser:
https://www.customersat3.com/e.asp?IID=E03DBF7358EB327756AAA2E273716A6D
WHAT? Wait, is that a link you guys can click on? Because I was under the impression the TEAM couldn't click. But you want me to? How will you be able to see what I wrote? You can't click!
Please do not reply to this email.
Yeah, God friggin' forbid I respond to the e-mail YOU SENT ME.
We are unable to respond to email sent to this address.
I'll bet. It's because the TEAM can't click, right?
If you need Customer Service assistance, please call us at 1-800-THE-BOOK or email to service@barnesandnoble.com
In other words, if you want Customer Service, do more stuff. Again.
Your responses will be used to help us improve Barnes & Noble products and services in the future.
You know, I doubt it. The response I'd send will not help you. It'll melt your server and give you intermittent night terrors for the rest of your days, but it's not gonna help B&N improve products and services in the future. Unless it's a zombie-wasteland future, maybe.
Thank you in advance for your time, your feedback, and your business.
Oh, no, Bill. Thank YOU. No. Really.
Sincerely,
Bill Higdon
VP Customer Care NOOK Media
Well, a first and last name, and a title, which is nice. I'm not sure the VP of Customer Care for the NOOK can help me evade The Program, especially as I haven't heard from my new best friend Bill Higdon since, but a name, glory be, a name! Wait, do they name the drone robots at NOOK Media? Because that's awful. I'm sure naming the drone robots is supposed to make me feel like someone human is involved, but it actually makes me sad. Bill Higdon deserves better than a fake name!
So, to sum up, Barnes & Noble "helped" me by asking me, again, to do more stuff. For them. So they can...NOT...help me.
Anyhoo. All the above went out on May 30, I got their first response on May 31, and their last "help us help you by doing more stuff while we don't actually address your problem" e-mail was June 3. It's the 7th. And that's been it.
B&N, I love you, but what the hell?
(For those who missed it the first time, below is the rant from earlier in the week. And Bill Higdon, if you're out there, MJ loves you and knows that if you wish hard enough, someday you'll be a REAL boy!
* * * * *
I have no idea how I'll make this happen, but I've got to get B&N to stop with the harassment already, which will be tricky since I love how they sell my books. I've gotta be subtle and delicate and classy n'stuff. No problemo! (Yeah, I should abandon the whole thing right now. Like my attempts to plan laundry around Law & Order: Criminal Intent marathons, this is doomed to failure.)
But I can't! Because Barnes & Noble will not. Let. UP! I'm speaking, of course, about The Program. For some reason, it's really, really important to the Fortune 500 company that is Barnes & Noble, Inc. (NYSE:BKS) to shove their B&N Member Program down my throat until I'm coughing up Member Program points.
But first, a recap of The Program for the uninitiated, which I would really like to be. But because of all The Program harassment, I know all about it.
So here it is: if you enroll in The Barnes & Noble Member Program, you get a discount on some of the things you buy. Not all the things you buy; just some of them. But hey! All you have to do to get a discount on some of the things you buy is spend money to (eventually) save money (on some of the things you buy). Also, provide your name, marital status, address, country of residence, phone number, and e-mail, none of which will ever ever ever come back to haunt you. Oh, and your children's names if you want them to join their B&N Kids' Club. And their birthdays. And their genders. And when you first sign up, they'll send you coupons! Which may be discontinued without notice. But the important thing is, if they wanted they can now hunt you down and kill you. But your kids will get coupons, too! Also, The Program has a peculiar definition of kid: 12 and under. In B&N's eyes, 13 year olds unable to legally vote or drink are actually short adults. No Kids' Club for them! Which might not be terrible, because the Kids' Club discounts only apply to certain products. Don't worry, though; there's a complete list of exclusions in minuscule print on their website somewhere. Welcome to adulthood, young teens!
But hey, B&N devised The Program to help customers save money on some things, so they tell customers about The Program in the hopes that they'll sign on and save money. And if the customer says hell to the yeah, sign me up, great. And if they don't, no big deal. Just drop it.
It would be awesome if that's how B&N was training their employees.
I'm in a B&N about once a week. Sometimes it's for business; I'll swing by and sign any of my books they have in stock. They're always pleased to see me, even when I need a shower, and they're always happy to let me deface their merchandise with a Sharpie. More often I'm in a B&N for pleasure--I love love love books. If this writing gig doesn't work out, I'm setting up a cot in the back room of the Woodbury Barnes and Noble and living there like a book goblin. A six foot tall blonde book goblin. (Grotesque, right?)
Anyway, I rarely leave without buying something, even if it's just the latest BITCH magazine or the new John Sandford (I have a long-standing crush on that hound, Lucas Davenport). So I wouldn't mind (probably) if while ringing up my purchase they brought up The Program once, heard my polite (no, really, the first three times I say 'no thanks', I swear it's politely) TBNT, and dropped the subject forevermore. Or at least, until the end of that particular transaction.
Alas.
"Have you heard about our member program?"
"Yes, I have, and no thanks."
"But you can get discounts!"
"Yeah, I know. No thanks."
"But if you join right now--"
"No thanks."
"--you'd save $14.95."
"No. Thank. You."
"And you'll get coupons."
"I know."
"Which will help you save even more."
"I know."
"Here's a brochure."
"I have fifty at home."
The above is a condensed version of what usually happens. It often goes on longer. Out of pure self defense in an attempt to stave off Program sanctioned bullying, now I say straight out, before they start ringing up my purchase: "I know all about the Member Program." Unspoken: So you don't need to tell me about it. "I'm not interested." Unspoken: So you don't need to tell me about it. "But thanks anyway." Unspoken: So you don't need to tell me about it.
Alas.
"But you'll save money."
"No thanks."
"And it's only $25 to join and you'll get discounts right away."
"No thanks."
"Because you're spending a lot of money today and you could really save a lot."
"No thanks."
"You don't like saving money?"
"I hate saving money."
I don't, is the thing. So why not join The Program? Because by now I'm invested in my pissiness. It's a matter of pride after all this time and yeah, it's stupid and stubborn and I know that. More to the point: why the hell should I have to join at all? Some of the youngsters reading this blog won't know this, but once upon a time you could buy a product and not have to hand the clerk a notarized copy of your birth certificate. You could buy something and walk out without coughing up your phone number or e-mail address or street addresses. (Picture me rocking on a porch smoking a corncob pipe, if that helps any of this sound like wisdom.) I'm not paranoid about Big Brother; I just think I should be able to buy the latest issue of Bark without having a long conversation about a program I repeatedly say I'm not interested in.
Sometimes I plead with the sales associates, but either The Program has devoured their souls or the generation gap between us yawns.
"Remember when Radio Shack used to ask for your zip code, and everyone thought that was weird?" I'd cry. "It's true! It was weird and people called them on it! Because of all the weird! Why don't people take a stand on that stuff anymore? Why can't I buy something without having to hand over my resume and a notarized copy of my credit report and a deposit of $25? Why do I have to spend money to spend money here? Can you understand my frustration at all?"
"Sure!" the associate assures me brightly. Then, "What's a Radio Shack?"
"You will eventually age." I'm now resting my forehead on the counter. "Just so you know."
I guess the easy answer is to quit shopping there. But I love it. I love Barnes & Noble sooo much, which is what makes this so difficult (for me). I love the shelves and shelves of books, some of which I wrote. I love the big soft easy chairs and the low tables you can plop down in and rest graphic novels on, for hours, and nobody cares. I love how I can suck down Green Tea Frappuccinos in said easy chairs while reading said books, some of which I wrote. (It's weird that I read those. I know how they all end.) When I was a struggling...well, a struggling everything: when I was a new wife putting my husband through Harvard, a Midwestern stranger in the biggest city in New England, a girl who'd driven herself everywhere for years needing a crash course on the fourth biggest public transit system in the country, missing my family and getting at least two rejection slips a month from agents and publishing houses...when I was that kid Boston was scary and exhilarating, and some days skewed closer to scary than the other.
The one thing that would cheer me up and give me the strength to keep going (besides newlywed sex) was the Barnes & Noble in Copley Square. I'd hop a bus to a T station, hop a train to Copley Square, hop off (I have strong ankles), hop into B&N (okay, not really) and browse through the books. I'd read books I considered to be dreadful and tell myself if crapola like that could be on the shelves, there was a place for my crapola, too. Lots of my crapola! Years later, after my crapola was published and we were visiting Boston, I popped into that same store and saw my new book prominently placed. I made my husband take a picture in which I look like the Before in a Tums ad since I was crying/laughing like a woman with acute Crazypants. One of the greatest moments of my life. Honest to God. Barnes & Noble was and is my everything.
But now our relationship has skewed into the unpleasant harassment stage. And I'm not sure what to do. I'm not willing to summon up the nastiness to shut down sales associates while they're trying to do their jobs. But I hate when they won't abandon The Program propaganda. So I'm going to have to get raw.
Here it is, Barnes & Noble, from my keyboard to your ears--wait, that'd be eyes, I think--you know that girl/guy in high school who was always desperate for you to be their friend? And it wasn't that the girl/guy was all that objectionable, you just had enough friends? Barnes & Noble, you were in charge of the yearbook, you had lots of pics to take for the online newsletter, and you had practice twice a week. Plus your parents would get pissy if you weren't home by five on school days. You didn't need any more friends; you knew you had caught your limit. Taking on another pal would have been greedy. Nothing personal, right?
But the guy/girl in question is too dense or desperate to take a hint. "C'mon, Barnes & Noble," they'd whine, making you totally late for second hour which sucked because Ms. Johnson was a huge stickler for that stuff and who needed anther lecture? "C'mon, just come over to my house after school just this one time." Except you were wise to shut them down, Barnes & Noble, because even then you knew it was never just one time. You knew if you let them into your life even a little bit, they dig in like wood ticks and it's even harder to keep your distance. Remember how pathetic you started to find that person, Barnes & Noble? How you'd cringe whenever you accidentally made eye contact in the hall? Remember how you'd totally re-do your route to Chem so you wouldn't have to go past their locker? Remember that when they'd manage to corner you and you had to talk to them it was so lame and awkward? Remember?
Yeah.
So! Instead of pushing your "Pleeeeeease be my friend!" club, you should push my books instead. Wait! It makes sense if you think about it. (To me.) This way, I won't feel continually harassed, and I'll make money. Everybody wins!
Okay, maybe not. But come on, Barnes & Noble. You used to be one of the cool kids. I'll bet you still remember how. You can get back there. You don't have to be THAT kid. Okay?
Well, just promise me you'll think about it. Meanwhile, see you at gym class tomorrow, B&N. I'll be the one feigning leprosy to get out of doing the quarter mile. It's not like I'll ever have to use running in real life.
June 4, 2013
UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE in paperback! Flee while you can.
UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE is in paperback, which I forgot about until I literally stumbled (stupid untied tennis shoe) over it at the Woodbury Barnes and Noble. (Whose sales associates don't make me scream "no thank you, arrgghh!" nine times before giving up on selling me to The Program. They give up before it comes to blows, in other wors.)
Anyhoo, snapped a pic to remind myself: duh, MJ, last year's hard cover is this year's paperback. And this year's hard cover is out in two months!
Also, no response from B&N yet on my dislike of selling customers to The Program except the standard "thank you for sharing your concern; someone will be in touch within 24 hours" 5 days ago. But I live in hope.
Anyhoo, snapped a pic to remind myself: duh, MJ, last year's hard cover is this year's paperback. And this year's hard cover is out in two months!
Also, no response from B&N yet on my dislike of selling customers to The Program except the standard "thank you for sharing your concern; someone will be in touch within 24 hours" 5 days ago. But I live in hope.
May 30, 2013
Barnes and Noble Must Stop Bullying Me But Also Keep Selling My Books
I have no idea how I'll make this happen, but I've got to get B&N to stop with the harassment already, which will be tricky since I love how they sell my books. I've gotta be subtle and delicate and classy n'stuff. No problemo! (Yeah, I should abandon the whole thing right now. Like my attempts to plan laundry around Law & Order: Criminal Intent marathons, this is doomed to failure.)
But I can't! Because Barnes & Noble will not. Let. UP! I'm speaking, of course, about The Program. For some reason, it's really, really important to the Fortune 500 company that is Barnes & Noble, Inc. (NYSE:BKS) to shove their B&N Member Program down my throat until I'm coughing up Member Program points.
But first, a recap of The Program for the uninitiated, which I would really like to be. But because of all The Program harassment, I know all about it.
So here it is: if you enroll in The Barnes & Noble Member Program, you get a discount on some of the things you buy. Not all the things you buy; just some of them. But hey! All you have to do to get a discount on some of the things you buy is spend money to (eventually) save money (on some of the things you buy). Also, provide your name, marital status, address, country of residence, phone number, and e-mail, none of which will ever ever ever come back to haunt you. Oh, and your children's names if you want them to join their B&N Kids' Club. And their birthdays. And their genders. And when you first sign up, they'll send you coupons! Which may be discontinued without notice. But the important thing is, if they wanted they can now hunt you down and kill you. But your kids will get coupons, too! Also, The Program has a peculiar definition of kid: 12 and under. In B&N's eyes, 13 year olds unable to legally vote or drink are actually short adults. No Kids' Club for them! Which might not be terrible, because the Kids' Club discounts only apply to certain products. Don't worry, though; there's a complete list of exclusions in minuscule print on their website somewhere. Welcome to adulthood, young teens!
But hey, B&N devised The Program to help customers save money on some things, so they tell customers about The Program in the hopes that they'll sign on and save money. And if the customer says hell to the yeah, sign me up, great. And if they don't, no big deal. Just drop it.
It would be awesome if that's how B&N was training their employees.
I'm in a B&N about once a week. Sometimes it's for business; I'll swing by and sign any of my books they have in stock. They're always pleased to see me, even when I need a shower, and they're always happy to let me deface their merchandise with a Sharpie. More often I'm in a B&N for pleasure--I love love love books. If this writing gig doesn't work out, I'm setting up a cot in the back room of the Woodbury Barnes and Noble and living there like a book goblin. A six foot tall blonde book goblin. (Grotesque, right?)
Anyway, I rarely leave without buying something, even if it's just the latest BITCH magazine or the new John Sandford (I have a long-standing crush on that hound, Lucas Davenport). So I wouldn't mind (probably) if while ringing up my purchase they brought up The Program once, heard my polite (no, really, the first three times I say 'no thanks', I swear it's politely) TBNT, and dropped the subject forevermore. Or at least, until the end of that particular transaction.
Alas.
"Have you heard about our member program?"
"Yes, I have, and no thanks."
"But you can get discounts!"
"Yeah, I know. No thanks."
"But if you join right now--"
"No thanks."
"--you'd save $14.95."
"No. Thank. You."
"And you'll get coupons."
"I know."
"Which will help you save even more."
"I know."
"Here's a brochure."
"I have fifty at home."
The above is a condensed version of what usually happens. It often goes on longer. Out of pure self defense in an attempt to stave off Program sanctioned bullying, now I say straight out, before they start ringing up my purchase: "I know all about the Member Program." Unspoken: So you don't need to tell me about it. "I'm not interested." Unspoken: So you don't need to tell me about it. "But thanks anyway." Unspoken: So you don't need to tell me about it.
Alas.
"But you'll save money."
"No thanks."
"And it's only $25 to join and you'll get discounts right away."
"No thanks."
"Because you're spending a lot of money today and you could really save a lot."
"No thanks."
"You don't like saving money?"
"I hate saving money."
I don't, is the thing. So why not join The Program? Because by now I'm invested in my pissiness. It's a matter of pride after all this time and yeah, it's stupid and stubborn and I know that. More to the point: why the hell should I have to join at all? Some of the youngsters reading this blog won't know this, but once upon a time you could buy a product and not have to hand the clerk a notarized copy of your birth certificate. You could buy something and walk out without coughing up your phone number or e-mail address or street addresses. (Picture me rocking on a porch smoking a corncob pipe, if that helps any of this sound like wisdom.) I'm not paranoid about Big Brother; I just think I should be able to buy the latest issue of Bark without having a long conversation about a program I repeatedly say I'm not interested in.
Sometimes I plead with the sales associates, but either The Program has devoured their souls or the generation gap between us yawns.
"Remember when Radio Shack used to ask for your zip code, and everyone thought that was weird?" I'd cry. "It's true! It was weird and people called them on it! Because of all the weird! Why don't people take a stand on that stuff anymore? Why can't I buy something without having to hand over my resume and a notarized copy of my credit report and a deposit of $25? Why do I have to spend money to spend money here? Can you understand my frustration at all?"
"Sure!" the associate assures me brightly. Then, "What's a Radio Shack?"
"You will eventually age." I'm now resting my forehead on the counter. "Just so you know."
I guess the easy answer is to quit shopping there. But I love it. I love Barnes & Noble sooo much, which is what makes this so difficult (for me). I love the shelves and shelves of books, some of which I wrote. I love the big soft easy chairs and the low tables you can plop down in and rest graphic novels on, for hours, and nobody cares. I love how I can suck down Green Tea Frappuccinos in said easy chairs while reading said books, some of which I wrote. (It's weird that I read those. I know how they all end.) When I was a struggling...well, a struggling everything: when I was a new wife putting my husband through Harvard, a Midwestern stranger in the biggest city in New England, a girl who'd driven herself everywhere for years needing a crash course on the fourth biggest public transit system in the country, missing my family and getting at least two rejection slips a month from agents and publishing houses...when I was that kid Boston was scary and exhilarating, and some days skewed closer to scary than the other.
The one thing that would cheer me up and give me the strength to keep going (besides newlywed sex) was the Barnes & Noble in Copley Square. I'd hop a bus to a T station, hop a train to Copley Square, hop off (I have strong ankles), hop into B&N (okay, not really) and browse through the books. I'd read books I considered to be dreadful and tell myself if crapola like that could be on the shelves, there was a place for my crapola, too. Lots of my crapola! Years later, after my crapola was published and we were visiting Boston, I popped into that same store and saw my new book prominently placed. I made my husband take a picture in which I look like the Before in a Tums ad since I was crying/laughing like a woman with acute Crazypants. One of the greatest moments of my life. Honest to God. Barnes & Noble was and is my everything.
But now our relationship has skewed into the unpleasant harassment stage. And I'm not sure what to do. I'm not willing to summon up the nastiness to shut down sales associates while they're trying to do their jobs. But I hate when they won't abandon The Program propaganda. So I'm going to have to get raw.
Here it is, Barnes & Noble, from my keyboard to your ears--wait, that'd be eyes, I think--you know that girl/guy in high school who was always desperate for you to be their friend? And it wasn't that the girl/guy was all that objectionable, you just had enough friends? Barnes & Noble, you were in charge of the yearbook, you had lots of pics to take for the online newsletter, and you had practice twice a week. Plus your parents would get pissy if you weren't home by five on school days. You didn't need any more friends; you knew you had caught your limit. Taking on another pal would have been greedy. Nothing personal, right?
But the guy/girl in question is too dense or desperate to take a hint. "C'mon, Barnes & Noble," they'd whine, making you totally late for second hour which sucked because Ms. Johnson was a huge stickler for that stuff and who needed anther lecture? "C'mon, just come over to my house after school just this one time." Except you were wise to shut them down, Barnes & Noble, because even then you knew it was never just one time. You knew if you let them into your life even a little bit, they dig in like wood ticks and it's even harder to keep your distance. Remember how pathetic you started to find that person, Barnes & Noble? How you'd cringe whenever you accidentally made eye contact in the hall? Remember how you'd totally re-do your route to Chem so you wouldn't have to go past their locker? Remember that when they'd manage to corner you and you had to talk to them it was so lame and awkward? Remember?
Yeah.
So! Instead of pushing your "Pleeeeeease be my friend!" club, you should push my books instead. Wait! It makes sense if you think about it. (To me.) This way, I won't feel continually harassed, and I'll make money. Everybody wins!
Okay, maybe not. But come on, Barnes & Noble. You used to be one of the cool kids. I'll bet you still remember how. You can get back there. You don't have to be THAT kid. Okay?
Well, just promise me you'll think about it. Meanwhile, see you at gym class tomorrow, B&N. I'll be the one feigning leprosy to get out of doing the quarter mile. It's not like I'll ever have to use running in real life.
But I can't! Because Barnes & Noble will not. Let. UP! I'm speaking, of course, about The Program. For some reason, it's really, really important to the Fortune 500 company that is Barnes & Noble, Inc. (NYSE:BKS) to shove their B&N Member Program down my throat until I'm coughing up Member Program points.
But first, a recap of The Program for the uninitiated, which I would really like to be. But because of all The Program harassment, I know all about it.
So here it is: if you enroll in The Barnes & Noble Member Program, you get a discount on some of the things you buy. Not all the things you buy; just some of them. But hey! All you have to do to get a discount on some of the things you buy is spend money to (eventually) save money (on some of the things you buy). Also, provide your name, marital status, address, country of residence, phone number, and e-mail, none of which will ever ever ever come back to haunt you. Oh, and your children's names if you want them to join their B&N Kids' Club. And their birthdays. And their genders. And when you first sign up, they'll send you coupons! Which may be discontinued without notice. But the important thing is, if they wanted they can now hunt you down and kill you. But your kids will get coupons, too! Also, The Program has a peculiar definition of kid: 12 and under. In B&N's eyes, 13 year olds unable to legally vote or drink are actually short adults. No Kids' Club for them! Which might not be terrible, because the Kids' Club discounts only apply to certain products. Don't worry, though; there's a complete list of exclusions in minuscule print on their website somewhere. Welcome to adulthood, young teens!
But hey, B&N devised The Program to help customers save money on some things, so they tell customers about The Program in the hopes that they'll sign on and save money. And if the customer says hell to the yeah, sign me up, great. And if they don't, no big deal. Just drop it.
It would be awesome if that's how B&N was training their employees.
I'm in a B&N about once a week. Sometimes it's for business; I'll swing by and sign any of my books they have in stock. They're always pleased to see me, even when I need a shower, and they're always happy to let me deface their merchandise with a Sharpie. More often I'm in a B&N for pleasure--I love love love books. If this writing gig doesn't work out, I'm setting up a cot in the back room of the Woodbury Barnes and Noble and living there like a book goblin. A six foot tall blonde book goblin. (Grotesque, right?)
Anyway, I rarely leave without buying something, even if it's just the latest BITCH magazine or the new John Sandford (I have a long-standing crush on that hound, Lucas Davenport). So I wouldn't mind (probably) if while ringing up my purchase they brought up The Program once, heard my polite (no, really, the first three times I say 'no thanks', I swear it's politely) TBNT, and dropped the subject forevermore. Or at least, until the end of that particular transaction.
Alas.
"Have you heard about our member program?"
"Yes, I have, and no thanks."
"But you can get discounts!"
"Yeah, I know. No thanks."
"But if you join right now--"
"No thanks."
"--you'd save $14.95."
"No. Thank. You."
"And you'll get coupons."
"I know."
"Which will help you save even more."
"I know."
"Here's a brochure."
"I have fifty at home."
The above is a condensed version of what usually happens. It often goes on longer. Out of pure self defense in an attempt to stave off Program sanctioned bullying, now I say straight out, before they start ringing up my purchase: "I know all about the Member Program." Unspoken: So you don't need to tell me about it. "I'm not interested." Unspoken: So you don't need to tell me about it. "But thanks anyway." Unspoken: So you don't need to tell me about it.
Alas.
"But you'll save money."
"No thanks."
"And it's only $25 to join and you'll get discounts right away."
"No thanks."
"Because you're spending a lot of money today and you could really save a lot."
"No thanks."
"You don't like saving money?"
"I hate saving money."
I don't, is the thing. So why not join The Program? Because by now I'm invested in my pissiness. It's a matter of pride after all this time and yeah, it's stupid and stubborn and I know that. More to the point: why the hell should I have to join at all? Some of the youngsters reading this blog won't know this, but once upon a time you could buy a product and not have to hand the clerk a notarized copy of your birth certificate. You could buy something and walk out without coughing up your phone number or e-mail address or street addresses. (Picture me rocking on a porch smoking a corncob pipe, if that helps any of this sound like wisdom.) I'm not paranoid about Big Brother; I just think I should be able to buy the latest issue of Bark without having a long conversation about a program I repeatedly say I'm not interested in.
Sometimes I plead with the sales associates, but either The Program has devoured their souls or the generation gap between us yawns.
"Remember when Radio Shack used to ask for your zip code, and everyone thought that was weird?" I'd cry. "It's true! It was weird and people called them on it! Because of all the weird! Why don't people take a stand on that stuff anymore? Why can't I buy something without having to hand over my resume and a notarized copy of my credit report and a deposit of $25? Why do I have to spend money to spend money here? Can you understand my frustration at all?"
"Sure!" the associate assures me brightly. Then, "What's a Radio Shack?"
"You will eventually age." I'm now resting my forehead on the counter. "Just so you know."
I guess the easy answer is to quit shopping there. But I love it. I love Barnes & Noble sooo much, which is what makes this so difficult (for me). I love the shelves and shelves of books, some of which I wrote. I love the big soft easy chairs and the low tables you can plop down in and rest graphic novels on, for hours, and nobody cares. I love how I can suck down Green Tea Frappuccinos in said easy chairs while reading said books, some of which I wrote. (It's weird that I read those. I know how they all end.) When I was a struggling...well, a struggling everything: when I was a new wife putting my husband through Harvard, a Midwestern stranger in the biggest city in New England, a girl who'd driven herself everywhere for years needing a crash course on the fourth biggest public transit system in the country, missing my family and getting at least two rejection slips a month from agents and publishing houses...when I was that kid Boston was scary and exhilarating, and some days skewed closer to scary than the other.
The one thing that would cheer me up and give me the strength to keep going (besides newlywed sex) was the Barnes & Noble in Copley Square. I'd hop a bus to a T station, hop a train to Copley Square, hop off (I have strong ankles), hop into B&N (okay, not really) and browse through the books. I'd read books I considered to be dreadful and tell myself if crapola like that could be on the shelves, there was a place for my crapola, too. Lots of my crapola! Years later, after my crapola was published and we were visiting Boston, I popped into that same store and saw my new book prominently placed. I made my husband take a picture in which I look like the Before in a Tums ad since I was crying/laughing like a woman with acute Crazypants. One of the greatest moments of my life. Honest to God. Barnes & Noble was and is my everything.
But now our relationship has skewed into the unpleasant harassment stage. And I'm not sure what to do. I'm not willing to summon up the nastiness to shut down sales associates while they're trying to do their jobs. But I hate when they won't abandon The Program propaganda. So I'm going to have to get raw.
Here it is, Barnes & Noble, from my keyboard to your ears--wait, that'd be eyes, I think--you know that girl/guy in high school who was always desperate for you to be their friend? And it wasn't that the girl/guy was all that objectionable, you just had enough friends? Barnes & Noble, you were in charge of the yearbook, you had lots of pics to take for the online newsletter, and you had practice twice a week. Plus your parents would get pissy if you weren't home by five on school days. You didn't need any more friends; you knew you had caught your limit. Taking on another pal would have been greedy. Nothing personal, right?
But the guy/girl in question is too dense or desperate to take a hint. "C'mon, Barnes & Noble," they'd whine, making you totally late for second hour which sucked because Ms. Johnson was a huge stickler for that stuff and who needed anther lecture? "C'mon, just come over to my house after school just this one time." Except you were wise to shut them down, Barnes & Noble, because even then you knew it was never just one time. You knew if you let them into your life even a little bit, they dig in like wood ticks and it's even harder to keep your distance. Remember how pathetic you started to find that person, Barnes & Noble? How you'd cringe whenever you accidentally made eye contact in the hall? Remember how you'd totally re-do your route to Chem so you wouldn't have to go past their locker? Remember that when they'd manage to corner you and you had to talk to them it was so lame and awkward? Remember?
Yeah.
So! Instead of pushing your "Pleeeeeease be my friend!" club, you should push my books instead. Wait! It makes sense if you think about it. (To me.) This way, I won't feel continually harassed, and I'll make money. Everybody wins!
Okay, maybe not. But come on, Barnes & Noble. You used to be one of the cool kids. I'll bet you still remember how. You can get back there. You don't have to be THAT kid. Okay?
Well, just promise me you'll think about it. Meanwhile, see you at gym class tomorrow, B&N. I'll be the one feigning leprosy to get out of doing the quarter mile. It's not like I'll ever have to use running in real life.
May 23, 2013
Entertainment Weekly Likes Half Of What I Have To Say About Charlaine Harris
While Spoilergate was raging (see last two blog posts for deets), I read an interview with Charlaine Harris in Entertainment Weekly. I'll admit at first I merely stared at the picture of the yummilicious True Blood cast, enchanted and slobbering. Half an hour later, having mopped up almost all of the drool, I finally realized Charlaine was there, too. The accompanying interview was interesting and unintentionally funny since it had been conducted before Spoilergate.
Normally a shy, retiring person, I hesitate to express an opinion of any sort as I'm unwilling to take even the smallest chance of accidentally offending anyone. But I finally summoned the courage to write to the editor. Millions must be told what Charlaine Harris has endured! And also I really want to see my writing in Entertainment Weekly! Dammit, it was the right thing to do! Then, because I'm working on being the youngest person ever diagnosed with Alzheimer's, I promptly forgot...uh...what was I talking about?
Fast forward a few weeks, I'm chewing gum, eating cashews, and reading the EW with the lovely Bruno Mars gracing the cover...and there's my letter! Well, some of my letter. Part of my letter. Woo-hoo! (All silliness aside, I'm still amazed when I see my name in famous pubs like that, especially when it lacks the "person of interest" caption.)
I mentioned this on FB and soon had several requests for the entire letter. So because I live for pleasing my readers, and because it rained all week and the sun is finally out--I can be warm again!--I'm going to copy and paste as opposed to, I dunno, giving much thought to this post.
Enjoy! Or don't. Either way I'm outside, coaxing the mud in my pots to, I dunno, turn green and produce plants or something. Plants: nature's quitters.
* * *
The uncut version (enjoy the unusual lack of expletives):
It was unintentionally hilarious to read about Charlaine Harris ("Sookie Stackhouse's Final Chapter") especially after Dalton Ross' column about spoilers a few weeks back. Though DEAD EVER AFTER, the final Sookie book, is a May release, a bookstore carelessly sold it early to a reader ("What legally binding contract not to sell before the release date?") and the controversial ending was quickly posted to the web. Cue eighty zillion readers losing their minds. EW always asks what I want to know, but questions like "There's been so much buildup to this final book. Have you been getting lots of mail?" took on a whole new meaning given the online furor. A week in, the issue is no longer about spoilers, bookstores blowing off legal agreements with zero repercussions unless Stephen King or J.K. Rowling is the author, or even Harris' polarizing ending...it's about reader entitlement ("I read something you wrote so you owe me the ending I wanted!") and author attacks ("Harris isn't just lazy, with this book she disrespects her readers.") From debating the morality of posting spoilers ("I'm glad the reader did it; she saved me twenty bucks.") to victim blaming ("Really, this is partly Charlaine's fault for not having a plan to deal with early spoilers.") in less than a week...doncha love progress?
Entertainment Weekly's version:
It was unintentionally hilarious to read the interview with Charlaine Harris about "Sookie Stackhouse's Final Chapter", especially after Dalton Ross' column about spoilers a few weeks back. Though Harris' DEAD EVER AFTER was released on May 7, an online seller carelessly sold it early to a reader and the controversial ending was posted on the Web. Cue 80 zillion readers losing their minds. EW always asks what I want to know, but questions like "There's been so much buildup to this final book. Have you been getting lots of mail?" took on a whole new meaning given the online furor.
I thought it was interesting that they changed "bookstore" to "online bookstore". Ooh, were those sneaky petes in on it???? What are they up to over there? Further proof that you can never, ever turn your back on Entertainment Weekly. Now if I could only decide if Bruno Mars is prettier than Beyonce...
Normally a shy, retiring person, I hesitate to express an opinion of any sort as I'm unwilling to take even the smallest chance of accidentally offending anyone. But I finally summoned the courage to write to the editor. Millions must be told what Charlaine Harris has endured! And also I really want to see my writing in Entertainment Weekly! Dammit, it was the right thing to do! Then, because I'm working on being the youngest person ever diagnosed with Alzheimer's, I promptly forgot...uh...what was I talking about?
Fast forward a few weeks, I'm chewing gum, eating cashews, and reading the EW with the lovely Bruno Mars gracing the cover...and there's my letter! Well, some of my letter. Part of my letter. Woo-hoo! (All silliness aside, I'm still amazed when I see my name in famous pubs like that, especially when it lacks the "person of interest" caption.)
I mentioned this on FB and soon had several requests for the entire letter. So because I live for pleasing my readers, and because it rained all week and the sun is finally out--I can be warm again!--I'm going to copy and paste as opposed to, I dunno, giving much thought to this post.
Enjoy! Or don't. Either way I'm outside, coaxing the mud in my pots to, I dunno, turn green and produce plants or something. Plants: nature's quitters.
* * *
The uncut version (enjoy the unusual lack of expletives):
It was unintentionally hilarious to read about Charlaine Harris ("Sookie Stackhouse's Final Chapter") especially after Dalton Ross' column about spoilers a few weeks back. Though DEAD EVER AFTER, the final Sookie book, is a May release, a bookstore carelessly sold it early to a reader ("What legally binding contract not to sell before the release date?") and the controversial ending was quickly posted to the web. Cue eighty zillion readers losing their minds. EW always asks what I want to know, but questions like "There's been so much buildup to this final book. Have you been getting lots of mail?" took on a whole new meaning given the online furor. A week in, the issue is no longer about spoilers, bookstores blowing off legal agreements with zero repercussions unless Stephen King or J.K. Rowling is the author, or even Harris' polarizing ending...it's about reader entitlement ("I read something you wrote so you owe me the ending I wanted!") and author attacks ("Harris isn't just lazy, with this book she disrespects her readers.") From debating the morality of posting spoilers ("I'm glad the reader did it; she saved me twenty bucks.") to victim blaming ("Really, this is partly Charlaine's fault for not having a plan to deal with early spoilers.") in less than a week...doncha love progress?
Entertainment Weekly's version:
It was unintentionally hilarious to read the interview with Charlaine Harris about "Sookie Stackhouse's Final Chapter", especially after Dalton Ross' column about spoilers a few weeks back. Though Harris' DEAD EVER AFTER was released on May 7, an online seller carelessly sold it early to a reader and the controversial ending was posted on the Web. Cue 80 zillion readers losing their minds. EW always asks what I want to know, but questions like "There's been so much buildup to this final book. Have you been getting lots of mail?" took on a whole new meaning given the online furor.
I thought it was interesting that they changed "bookstore" to "online bookstore". Ooh, were those sneaky petes in on it???? What are they up to over there? Further proof that you can never, ever turn your back on Entertainment Weekly. Now if I could only decide if Bruno Mars is prettier than Beyonce...
May 5, 2013
Charlaine Harris: Still Bullied, With A Dash of Victim Blaming
This is an addendum to my last blog, The Bullying Of Charlaine Harris And The Wisdom of Neil Gaiman. I wrote that blog in response to what I felt was unfair treatment of a colleague and also because I really get off on "Charlaine Harris" "Neil Gaiman" and "MJ Davidson" being in the same blog post. Before if you Googled "Charlaine Harris" and moi, the only thing that happened was some of our awesome anthologies came up. Bo-ring! But now if you Google the three of us...ahhhh. Smell that spicy Neil/Charlaine/MJ three way goodness. Mmmm...I can sense Neil a little more every day, you know. My courageous bitchy blogs are making him love me though he has never met me and has no idea I exist. Ah, Neil...embrace this newer blog and come to Mama.
I am so sorry for any mental images I might have just slammed into your brain.
Anyhoo, the "debate" (that would be the polite word, which I owe to all of you after what I did to your brain a few seconds ago) rages on. Everyone's got something to say and because there's this thing called the Interwebs (is that the technical word?) we're all saying it. "So stop blogging about it, MJ". Hey! Don't tell me what to do. Neil Gaiman won't stand for you bossing me around! He will be all up in your shit before you can say "I thought the Other Mother in CORALINE was a perfectly viable alternative". You do not want to bring the wrath of Neil upon your cringing head, trust me.
Now where...? Right. Spoilergate still blazes. Almost literally, but I'll get to that below. To recap: a reader was able to buy a copy of DEAD EVER AFTER because the bookstore either a) wasn't paying attention, or b) said, "what legally binding contract?" Mysteriously (except not) the spoilery ending was posted on the web. Cue everybody losing their shit for various reasons. I blogged about the shenanigans last week, and since then have found out a few things I didn't know at the time. The "should Charlaine Harris be beaten to death and then scolded for hours?" debates have been all over Amazon, Goodreads, FaceBook, and my blog. Plenty of readers found my snarking hilarious; plenty more are starting "should MJ be beaten to death and then given Godiva chocolates?" threads, and plenty more are honestly concerned with my mental health. ("You're annoying beyond belief but I really think you should see someone.") Not to worry, gang, I switched out all my meds for Flintstone's Chewables because they're prettier and cheaper, and I'm getting saner by the millisecond. Does anyone else hear a high-pitched constant whistling but only when they're drinking a ton of alcohol?
Anyhoo. Below is my post in response to other posts about my post on Goodreads re-posted here with some edits for your posting pleasure. And mine! But that goes without saying.
* * *
I'd like to thank readers for taking the time to read my post and comment. We don't all agree, but how dull would the world be if we did?
First, Charlaine Harris isn't hiding behind me. Although she could, since I'm still at my winter weight ("But we're almost two months into spri--" "Shut up."), and have yet to finish losing the baby weight ("But the baby is starting high school in--" "Shut UP!"). She didn't ask me to weigh in on Spoilergate. Charlaine Harris has never asked me for anything.
But part of the reason I was so interested in jumping in is because something like Spoilergate happened to me when UNDEAD AND UNFINISHED came out. The spoiler-free version is, readers of my series found out something completely shocking about the hero and heroine that was a huuuuge game changer, that I'd never so much as hinted about in earlier books, and reactions were everything from, "Whoa, way to shake up the series and leave me on the edge of my seat!" to "You vapid whore, I told you not to go off your meds."
What was startling was the intensity of the reactions and how out-and-out horrible some readers got, the mildest of which was "f*ck you, you'll never get another penny out of me, you cant" (Except, ahem, it wasn't cant.)
Even more startling: many readers thought that I'd ended the series that way. This blind-sided me, for several reasons: 1) at no time had I ever said UNDEAD AND UNFINISHED was the last book, 2) I told every reporter (blogger, newspaper, magazines, radio) the exact opposite: not not NOT the last book, and 3) I titled the book UNFINISHED. As in the opposite of FINISHED. In really really big letters on the front of the book as well the spine. Shiny big letters: UNFINISHED (ta-dah!). And at the end of the day it came down to how some readers were hurt ("How could you do this to me?") and my bewildered reaction ("How could you think I'd string you along for ten books only to screw you in the end?").
[This is MJ, breaking into this post to address the readers of the Betsy series: seriously, how could so many of you leap (ka-sproing!) to the conclusion that UNFINISHED was the last Betsy book? Everyone's calmed down now, but nobody ever explained that to me and it always puzzled me. Did you read about it somewhere? Did someone tell you? Did you just assume that a shocking ending meant...ffftt! No more Undead books. Did you not notice the big shiny letters spelling UNFINISHED on the cover and the spine? My editor and I knew this would shake things up and did everything we could to make sure people knew there were more books to come. As above I bogged and told every blogger, radio, TV, and newspaper reporter that more were coming. And, I feel obliged to again mention, there was the title: UNFINISHED. In all seriousness, all snark aside, what else could my publisher and I have done to reassure readers?
Back to the GR post.]
So, for me, the DEAD OVER EASY fracas wasn't just that some readers willfully made Spoilergate happen. My problem was that several readers were/are raining down all kinds of holy hell on the author based on the ending of a book they haven't read, which continues today, and the book *still* isn't out. They don't care what she's done in past books; they don't care that there may be a method to her alleged madness. In the case of UNFINISHED, readers completely discounted the several thousand pages they'd loved after reading the last paragraph on the last page of a book that wasn't the last in the series and was helpfully titled UNFINISHED. As we all agree, the readers were 100% entitled to feel any way they wished about any book I wrote at any time, as I was to write the book I wanted. But I was startled at how some readers made up their mind on the spot: boom, done, see ya.
So, yeah: the DEAD EVER AFTER furor is all about me. (I know how it sounds. Admitting you have a problem is the first step and perhaps some day I will take that step.) Anyway, Charlaine knows this. Most authors writing a series know this: some readers will be thrilled ("OMG, just how I figured!"), some will be satisfied ("Not the way I thought it would go, but okay."), and some will be pissed ("I have read your books thus you owe me happiness and also, I demand a romantic HEA for the last book in a mystery series."). But it doesn't make it easier to understand.
As to the perception that I think the onus of Spoilergate is on the reader who got DEAD EVER AFTER early, I'd respectfully ask that you re-read my original post, where I wrote that, in fact, it is not up to the reader to call the bookstore out on their breach of contract. I owned my hypocrisy by saying if THE WINDS OF WINTER (pub date unknown because George R.R. Martin enjoys torturing me) was on the shelf tomorrow, I would buy the HELL out of that book. And then I would...NOT...post "OMG Sansa ends up on the Iron Throne and has triplets with Tyrion!" on the web, but that's a whooooole other thread. Spoilergate is not about the lone reader getting the book early; it's about what the reader did after they read it. And what happened after that. And what happened after that.
When Charlaine mentioned "malicious readers" she wasn't referring to the reader who got the book first; she was referring to the readers who have been...well...malicious (which the dictionary defines as malevolent or spiteful). "I hate the ending" isn't spiteful; "Charlaine is stupid and lazy" is. And while the person who started the "here's the spoilered ending to DEAD EVER AFTER but watch out 'cuz it's spoilery with spoils!" thread on Amazon might not have intended the uproar that followed, the bottom line is that it's a brush fire of bitchiness over there and has been for days. Saying "but I didn't know people were gonna come to my thread that I started and say nasty things in response to my thread that I started" is up there with "I only started the brush fire; it's not my fault it's still burning." This strikes me as, at the least, naive. The person who started the spoiler thread seems like a nice enough person (we've been courteously going back and forth a bit on Amazon), but she also seems completely unconcerned about her part in Spoilergate. She feels the blame for the personal attacks on Charlaine lies with Charlaine, for not having some sort of DefCon 3 lockdown plan for spoilers.
Regarding the readers who suggested Charlaine should have disabled all comments on her FaceBook page, limiting reader exposure to spoilers and her own exposure to the virulently negative posts: there was no way Charlaine was gonna win this one. Her choices:
1) Charlaine doesn't restrict any comments from anyone: nearly 200,000 readers get spoiled and understandably enraged. "What is wrong with you? How could you not delete those out of respect for the rest of us? Manage your social media, dammit!"
2) Charlaine only deleted posts with spoilers: readers instantly assume she's only deleting negative posts. I saw many "you're only deleting negative posts!" comments posted after negative posts that had not been deleted. In other words, I had to read through several negative posts to get to a post complaining that negative posts were being deleted. So not only are some readers enraged, they're not paying attention. If Charlaine is slow to delete the spoilery ones, she must not be paying attention, either. If she's quick to delete the spoilery ones, she's OMG only deleting negative ones, what a jack-booted bitch!
[Me again, with an aside to my readers: that? Was hilarious. "You're deleting negative posts just like BiteMeHarris said in her post about how hateful and shitty you are to us she totes proved how you're deleting only neg posts and if u don't believe me just scroll down and read their negative posts about how you're being shitty and only deleting neg posts plus they were so right to call you shitty because you are so shitty Charlaine you shitty shit!!!!" Me: "Holy hell. I think I'm having a stroke. So much snarking and so little...yes, the nosebleed confirms I'm definitely having a sarcasm stroke. Worth it. I regret nothing except having a Twix for breakfast which I washed down with a V-8."]
3) Charlaine disables all posts: this had the potential to be at once the most all-encompassing but also the most damning. "Are you that afraid of getting negative feedback, you Paula Deen-sounding fascist? We demand to be heard! GUYS, GUYS, HARRIS ISN'T LETTING ANYBODY COMMENT SHE'S PRACTICALLY RE-WRITING "DEUTSCHLANDLIED" OVER THERE!"
So, again: no way to win. Just like she couldn't write an ending that would please everyone. Or deal with Spoilergate in a manner that would please everyone and offend no one. I also don't see how Spoilergate can in any way be "partly Charlaine's fault". Because she wrote the book? Because she knew the ending would polarize readers? Because she was wearing a miniskirt at night in a bad part of town? I don't...what? WHAT?
All that to say, I think several readers were dead on when they pointed out that there's not a chance in hell we're all going to agree. They're right, of course; we probably all know that. But disagreeing doesn't have to be a synonym for disrespecting. I appreciate reading others' viewpoint and I've learned a lot from the other posts here. I think at the end of the day if we can come away with that, it's not a bad thing.
I am so sorry for any mental images I might have just slammed into your brain.
Anyhoo, the "debate" (that would be the polite word, which I owe to all of you after what I did to your brain a few seconds ago) rages on. Everyone's got something to say and because there's this thing called the Interwebs (is that the technical word?) we're all saying it. "So stop blogging about it, MJ". Hey! Don't tell me what to do. Neil Gaiman won't stand for you bossing me around! He will be all up in your shit before you can say "I thought the Other Mother in CORALINE was a perfectly viable alternative". You do not want to bring the wrath of Neil upon your cringing head, trust me.
Now where...? Right. Spoilergate still blazes. Almost literally, but I'll get to that below. To recap: a reader was able to buy a copy of DEAD EVER AFTER because the bookstore either a) wasn't paying attention, or b) said, "what legally binding contract?" Mysteriously (except not) the spoilery ending was posted on the web. Cue everybody losing their shit for various reasons. I blogged about the shenanigans last week, and since then have found out a few things I didn't know at the time. The "should Charlaine Harris be beaten to death and then scolded for hours?" debates have been all over Amazon, Goodreads, FaceBook, and my blog. Plenty of readers found my snarking hilarious; plenty more are starting "should MJ be beaten to death and then given Godiva chocolates?" threads, and plenty more are honestly concerned with my mental health. ("You're annoying beyond belief but I really think you should see someone.") Not to worry, gang, I switched out all my meds for Flintstone's Chewables because they're prettier and cheaper, and I'm getting saner by the millisecond. Does anyone else hear a high-pitched constant whistling but only when they're drinking a ton of alcohol?
Anyhoo. Below is my post in response to other posts about my post on Goodreads re-posted here with some edits for your posting pleasure. And mine! But that goes without saying.
* * *
I'd like to thank readers for taking the time to read my post and comment. We don't all agree, but how dull would the world be if we did?
First, Charlaine Harris isn't hiding behind me. Although she could, since I'm still at my winter weight ("But we're almost two months into spri--" "Shut up."), and have yet to finish losing the baby weight ("But the baby is starting high school in--" "Shut UP!"). She didn't ask me to weigh in on Spoilergate. Charlaine Harris has never asked me for anything.
But part of the reason I was so interested in jumping in is because something like Spoilergate happened to me when UNDEAD AND UNFINISHED came out. The spoiler-free version is, readers of my series found out something completely shocking about the hero and heroine that was a huuuuge game changer, that I'd never so much as hinted about in earlier books, and reactions were everything from, "Whoa, way to shake up the series and leave me on the edge of my seat!" to "You vapid whore, I told you not to go off your meds."
What was startling was the intensity of the reactions and how out-and-out horrible some readers got, the mildest of which was "f*ck you, you'll never get another penny out of me, you cant" (Except, ahem, it wasn't cant.)
Even more startling: many readers thought that I'd ended the series that way. This blind-sided me, for several reasons: 1) at no time had I ever said UNDEAD AND UNFINISHED was the last book, 2) I told every reporter (blogger, newspaper, magazines, radio) the exact opposite: not not NOT the last book, and 3) I titled the book UNFINISHED. As in the opposite of FINISHED. In really really big letters on the front of the book as well the spine. Shiny big letters: UNFINISHED (ta-dah!). And at the end of the day it came down to how some readers were hurt ("How could you do this to me?") and my bewildered reaction ("How could you think I'd string you along for ten books only to screw you in the end?").
[This is MJ, breaking into this post to address the readers of the Betsy series: seriously, how could so many of you leap (ka-sproing!) to the conclusion that UNFINISHED was the last Betsy book? Everyone's calmed down now, but nobody ever explained that to me and it always puzzled me. Did you read about it somewhere? Did someone tell you? Did you just assume that a shocking ending meant...ffftt! No more Undead books. Did you not notice the big shiny letters spelling UNFINISHED on the cover and the spine? My editor and I knew this would shake things up and did everything we could to make sure people knew there were more books to come. As above I bogged and told every blogger, radio, TV, and newspaper reporter that more were coming. And, I feel obliged to again mention, there was the title: UNFINISHED. In all seriousness, all snark aside, what else could my publisher and I have done to reassure readers?
Back to the GR post.]
So, for me, the DEAD OVER EASY fracas wasn't just that some readers willfully made Spoilergate happen. My problem was that several readers were/are raining down all kinds of holy hell on the author based on the ending of a book they haven't read, which continues today, and the book *still* isn't out. They don't care what she's done in past books; they don't care that there may be a method to her alleged madness. In the case of UNFINISHED, readers completely discounted the several thousand pages they'd loved after reading the last paragraph on the last page of a book that wasn't the last in the series and was helpfully titled UNFINISHED. As we all agree, the readers were 100% entitled to feel any way they wished about any book I wrote at any time, as I was to write the book I wanted. But I was startled at how some readers made up their mind on the spot: boom, done, see ya.
So, yeah: the DEAD EVER AFTER furor is all about me. (I know how it sounds. Admitting you have a problem is the first step and perhaps some day I will take that step.) Anyway, Charlaine knows this. Most authors writing a series know this: some readers will be thrilled ("OMG, just how I figured!"), some will be satisfied ("Not the way I thought it would go, but okay."), and some will be pissed ("I have read your books thus you owe me happiness and also, I demand a romantic HEA for the last book in a mystery series."). But it doesn't make it easier to understand.
As to the perception that I think the onus of Spoilergate is on the reader who got DEAD EVER AFTER early, I'd respectfully ask that you re-read my original post, where I wrote that, in fact, it is not up to the reader to call the bookstore out on their breach of contract. I owned my hypocrisy by saying if THE WINDS OF WINTER (pub date unknown because George R.R. Martin enjoys torturing me) was on the shelf tomorrow, I would buy the HELL out of that book. And then I would...NOT...post "OMG Sansa ends up on the Iron Throne and has triplets with Tyrion!" on the web, but that's a whooooole other thread. Spoilergate is not about the lone reader getting the book early; it's about what the reader did after they read it. And what happened after that. And what happened after that.
When Charlaine mentioned "malicious readers" she wasn't referring to the reader who got the book first; she was referring to the readers who have been...well...malicious (which the dictionary defines as malevolent or spiteful). "I hate the ending" isn't spiteful; "Charlaine is stupid and lazy" is. And while the person who started the "here's the spoilered ending to DEAD EVER AFTER but watch out 'cuz it's spoilery with spoils!" thread on Amazon might not have intended the uproar that followed, the bottom line is that it's a brush fire of bitchiness over there and has been for days. Saying "but I didn't know people were gonna come to my thread that I started and say nasty things in response to my thread that I started" is up there with "I only started the brush fire; it's not my fault it's still burning." This strikes me as, at the least, naive. The person who started the spoiler thread seems like a nice enough person (we've been courteously going back and forth a bit on Amazon), but she also seems completely unconcerned about her part in Spoilergate. She feels the blame for the personal attacks on Charlaine lies with Charlaine, for not having some sort of DefCon 3 lockdown plan for spoilers.
Regarding the readers who suggested Charlaine should have disabled all comments on her FaceBook page, limiting reader exposure to spoilers and her own exposure to the virulently negative posts: there was no way Charlaine was gonna win this one. Her choices:
1) Charlaine doesn't restrict any comments from anyone: nearly 200,000 readers get spoiled and understandably enraged. "What is wrong with you? How could you not delete those out of respect for the rest of us? Manage your social media, dammit!"
2) Charlaine only deleted posts with spoilers: readers instantly assume she's only deleting negative posts. I saw many "you're only deleting negative posts!" comments posted after negative posts that had not been deleted. In other words, I had to read through several negative posts to get to a post complaining that negative posts were being deleted. So not only are some readers enraged, they're not paying attention. If Charlaine is slow to delete the spoilery ones, she must not be paying attention, either. If she's quick to delete the spoilery ones, she's OMG only deleting negative ones, what a jack-booted bitch!
[Me again, with an aside to my readers: that? Was hilarious. "You're deleting negative posts just like BiteMeHarris said in her post about how hateful and shitty you are to us she totes proved how you're deleting only neg posts and if u don't believe me just scroll down and read their negative posts about how you're being shitty and only deleting neg posts plus they were so right to call you shitty because you are so shitty Charlaine you shitty shit!!!!" Me: "Holy hell. I think I'm having a stroke. So much snarking and so little...yes, the nosebleed confirms I'm definitely having a sarcasm stroke. Worth it. I regret nothing except having a Twix for breakfast which I washed down with a V-8."]
3) Charlaine disables all posts: this had the potential to be at once the most all-encompassing but also the most damning. "Are you that afraid of getting negative feedback, you Paula Deen-sounding fascist? We demand to be heard! GUYS, GUYS, HARRIS ISN'T LETTING ANYBODY COMMENT SHE'S PRACTICALLY RE-WRITING "DEUTSCHLANDLIED" OVER THERE!"
So, again: no way to win. Just like she couldn't write an ending that would please everyone. Or deal with Spoilergate in a manner that would please everyone and offend no one. I also don't see how Spoilergate can in any way be "partly Charlaine's fault". Because she wrote the book? Because she knew the ending would polarize readers? Because she was wearing a miniskirt at night in a bad part of town? I don't...what? WHAT?
All that to say, I think several readers were dead on when they pointed out that there's not a chance in hell we're all going to agree. They're right, of course; we probably all know that. But disagreeing doesn't have to be a synonym for disrespecting. I appreciate reading others' viewpoint and I've learned a lot from the other posts here. I think at the end of the day if we can come away with that, it's not a bad thing.
April 26, 2013
The Bullying Of Charlaine Harris And The Wisdom Of Neil Gaiman
Reader entitlement. Yeah, it's gonna be one of those blogs, so be ready. At my best, I'm only annoying, and I'm not at my best right now. I am in a froth of outrage on a colleague's behalf and also, one of my rotten teenagers snaked the last DQ Buster Bar from under my nose. I had to have cereal for breakfast instead, which is making me feel all Cruella deVille-ey. Picture me channeling Hayden Christianson yowling the Darth Vader, "Noooooooooo!" except mine would be better because Hayden sucked.
So Charlaine Harris' last Southern Vampires book, DEAD EVER AFTER, is out May 7. Except it's kind of out now, which is why the interwebs are exploding. Some random asshat got their claws on an early copy, which is sneaky enough, but then posted the ending online, which is borderline sociopathic.
But first, a word about release dates, contracts, and asshats. Publisher release dates aren't just random dates they pick out of a hat for funsies. Marketing revolves around release dates, and so do book tours (not to mention author deadlines), and ads, and reviews. Because industry pros take that shit seriously, stores that want to sell a book must sign a contract agreeing NOT to sell a book before the release date. So right out of the gate, if a store sells a book before the pub date, they're in breach of contract and could get fined and/or blacklisted, and the clerk who sold it could end up jobless.
(This leads into the Charlaine Harris mess, I promise.)
Let me emphasize that it's not on the reader to make sure a book store isn't in breach. Also, I'm a gaping hypocrite in that if THE WINDS OF WINTER was on the shelf three days early, you bet your ass I'd buy it. I'd knock over the two little old ladies and the shivering orphan standing in front of me to yank that thing off the shelf and buy it. That's because I'm a hypocrite and also, the store is the one who should be paying attention to little things like honoring a legal document. This happens to me all the time...I'll start seeing customer reviews of one of my book days before the book is actually out, or a reader will mention they were able to buy it at their local bookstore and can't wait to go home to read it and how cool because they didn't think the book was even out until next week! I'll be, "Thanks for the nice e-mail, I hope you love the book and arrggghhhhh! Sorry, I'm fine now, and I do appreciate that you bought the book and what bookstore sold it to you early? Can I have their phone number? And possibly their alarm code?" Social contract: it's not cool to burn down bookstores. Actual contract: it's not cool to ignore contract clauses and sell books whenever. If they blow off theirs, I'm willing to consider blowing off mine.
One of the reasons ignoring release dates drives the publishing industry nuts is because the best seller lists only count books sold on and after the release date. Future contracts depend on how the last book sold. Future everything depends on how the book sold. Sure, the author will eventually get the royalties, but marketing pros and agents and editors don't look at royalties; they look at sales, they look at best-seller rankings. Any sale made prior to the release date falls into the black hole of contract breach, never to return. There have been times my books haven't made a best-seller list, and there have been times when they have, and I've clung to my spot by my ragged fingernails. A thousand books sold the week before the release date can make all the difference between me hanging onto the list, panting, for another week, or falling down and down, screaming all the way ("I regret noooothing!").
Anyhoo, that's why books released pre-release date cause problems for the writer/publisher. Whoever the spoileriffic asshat who started all the trouble is, they either bought the book because a store wasn't paying attention, shoplifted same, got their hands on an ARC (Advanced Reviewer Copy, printed early for the media/reviewers), stole same, bought one off Ebay (This has happened to me! And I feel guilty every time: "Please don't buy my book a week early for $100. No one knows better than I that it's not worth $100. Wait a week and spend $24.99."), or broke into a book warehouse, robbed it, then burned it down because what social contract? However they got it, they probably weren't supposed to have it at all, so bad enough, right? But posting the spoiler wasn't just wrong; it was pure meanness.
Things got yuckier from there. That was partly my fault, because when I found out what happened I literally said to myself, "That's awful, poor Charlaine! I can't see how this could get any worse--hey, what now?" Because yep. It got worse. Charlaine, if you're reading this, it's my fault. I dared the gods. I won't be able to make eye contact with you at RT next year. My shame is great.
To explain the awfulness of the worse, I'll have to talk vaguely about DEAD EVER AFTER. I don't think I'm revealing anything a reader of any of the Sookie books wouldn't have already guessed but if I'm wrong, I apologize, and I'm apologizing because I experience human emotion because I'm not a sociopath. So here comes a minor spoiler about a book I haven't read early and spoiled, on purpose, online, because I'm not a sociopath:
(minor spoiler)
The Sookie books are a love triangle, and apparently Sookie makes her choice by the end of DEAD EVER AFTER.
Okay, so, the nature of triangles means that, because it's a triangle and not a rhombus or a parallelogram, not everybody is going to be thrilled, because it's a triangle. (See: the TWILIGHT books, PRETTY IN PINK, MY BEST FRIEND'S WEDDING, GONE WITH THE WIND, REALITY BITES, every X-MEN movie, TITANIC, THE HUNGER GAMES, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, THE GREAT GATSBY, EMMA, WATER FOR ELEPHANTS, THE AGE OF INNOCENCE, ONE FOR THE MONEY, NORTH AND SOUTH, OUTLANDER, and every single book or story or movie or play about a triangle in the history of everything.) So, natch, when the asshat spoiled the ending, some readers were fine with the author's choice and some lost their minds.
And are still losing them. When Charlaine realized what the spoilery asshat was up to, she posted to her FaceBook page: "By now some of you know that a reader in Germany obtained a copy of DEAD EVER AFTER and decided to post the ending online. While this is unfortunate, I wanted to say this to all of you: Even if you *personally* are unhappy with the ending, please don’t spoil it for other readers. DEAD EVER AFTER goes on sale on May 7th; after that date, you are more that welcome to come here and tell me how much you like - or don’t like - the choices I’ve made for Sookie. But from one Sookie fan to another, I’m asking you all to please not spoil the book for other readers. Thank you so much for your continued support."
Short and classy...like Charlaine! Heh. Anyhoo, that seemed a sensible and even restrained reaction to the online reaming the unnamed asshat was bringing down on her. Except. The very first comment under that was essentially, "I hated your stupid book; it was basically an EXPLETIVE to all your readers, how could you (SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER) you numb EXPLETIVE?", and some of the ones that followed were worse.
Oh no she dih-unt! (Yeah, I know. We don't say that anymore but sometimes I still do because it was a total 'oh no she dih-unt' moment.) So: ending spoiled, on purpose, before the release date. Charlaine discovers this, and does the classy restrained thing. The result: still more online reaming, more spoiling, more raging sociopathy.
Almost more astonishing is the speculation flying all over the interwebs, absurd conspiracy theories and ideas that some readers seem to think are really and truly true. So I figured I'd address a few of them.
1) The publisher knew readers would HATE the ending which is why they tried so hard to keep the spoilers quiet so HA HA, their little plan FAILED, free speech for evah and Charlaine's publisher nevah!
Uh, no. Publishers keep spoilers quiet so ENDINGS DON'T GET SPOILED. This applies to pretty much any book with a spoiler. They weren't sitting around in a board room saying, "This is the worst book ever. We must keep the ending a secret! For sales!" They were sitting around in a board room saying, "This is the last Sookie book. We must keep the ending a secret! For sales!" Remember: any copies sold before May 7 do not count toward best-seller lists.
2) Charlaine's agent made her do it!
Seriously? You really think that? Uh, no. Agents don't make writers do anything; they work for the writer. Agents can cajole, they can play devil's advocate, they can stretch a business lunch into three hours, but at the end of the day, Charlaine's agent didn't stick a gun in her ear and shrill, "Bitch, write the ending the way I told you and also, your W-9 will be late this year because I'm between assistants! But the temp will validate your parking!"
3) Charlaine wrote it like that because she hates me!
It's hilarious to me that some readers have made this all about them. Since it's all about me, they're wrong. Charlaine wrote the ending because that was the ending she wanted for her characters. The end.
4) It's Amazon's fault!
Well, probably not. Although they're certainly swinging into action at their usual snail-in-a-coma pace. "Fear not, aggrieved readers, we'll look into this right away. To the servers, my minions!" Amazon's idea of right away is no one else's idea of right away. I'm sure they'll respond to complaints and take down various offending posts by 2028 at the latest.
5) It was really good the ratty asshatty posted the ending online because now that I know the ending I won't buy it.
No, it wasn't. Even if the ratty asshatty was somehow in charge of letting readers know all series endings because ratty asshatty has a telepathic link with the readership and JUST KNOWS exactly what they'll love and what they'll hate and thus because of their ratty asshatty oath had to defy the...I can't even finish that speculation. Ratty Asshatty was entitled to hate the ending, but should have let readers read and think for themselves.
6) Charlaine is stomping on our free speech! She only wants the praise and doesn't want anyone saying anything mean about her book!
No. Per her FB message (see above), Charlaine is asking that readers wait until May 7 to post their opinions so as not to spoil the ending for other readers. Love it or loathe it, she invites readers to comment. Love it or loathe it, she welcomes people to let her have it right there on her FB page if they like. That is the opposite of free speech stomping.
7) So what if readers are flaming her on her FB page? She made a choice to end the book that way, we're making a choice to let her know we hated it and also, she sucks.
It's not just flaming on her page. She's getting threats. Because that's how much perspective has been jettisoned out the window: people are actually threatening her with, among other things, felony assault. Like my hero, Liz Lemon, I don't dare roll my eyes much longer or they'll stay rolled forever ("Ow! Cramp!"), but give me a goddamned break.
8) Charlaine had no right to write that ending.
No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no.
To paraphrase Neil Gaiman: "Charlaine Harris is not your bitch." He's right, except he was talking about George R.R. Martin. GRRM, author of the SONG OF ICE AND FIRE series, takes years to write a book, and because his stuff is so thoroughly wonderful, readers get pissy waiting years between books. GRRM also goes to lots of cons and signings; he's probably one of the easiest mega-famous writers to meet. Because of this, a reader asked Neil Gaiman if there was a nice way to say, "Mr. Martin, I love your books but I've been waiting years for the latest one and you keep changing the release date and I know you go to lots of cons, so could you maybe go to fewer conferences and instead stay home and write? Because you're letting me down by not doing that? Okay? Please?"
And Neil comes back with, "Uh, no. There's no nice way to ask him that. To ask any writer that." Which he followed with, "George R.R. Martin is not your bitch." His blog on this, called "Entitlement Issues" is here in all it's wonderfulness:
http://journal.neilgaiman.com/2009/05...
Anyway, take "George R.R. Martin is not your bitch" and apply it to every writer living or dead or yet to be born.
Charlaine's writing process is not governed by democracy (J.K. Rowling said it pretty perfectly: "I'm not taking dictation.") She doesn't owe her readers the ending some of them insist on. She doesn't even owe readers an explanation. "But I've bought her books." "But I've been reading her stuff since the beginning." "But she made me love Insert Character Name You Love Here." "But she owes me a the ending I want." "But her books are all about me because I love them." "But I'm mad now and she has to kiss it and make it better." "But MJ, your highlights are tacky."
Nope. And my (red!) highlights are lovely, so quiet, you.
If you hate the writer's choice, if you hate what she did with characters that belong to her, that's 100% your perogative. If you were mega-pissed when Scarlett O'Hara ended up with (spoiler!) no one, you're perfectly within your rights to never buy another book Margaret Mitchell...okay, bad example, but you see where I'm going. Love/hate the ending. Return the book (which you didn't buy before May 7) or shred it for the giant nest no one knows you keep in the basement. (My nest is made of shredded phone books and is shin-high and I shall crouch in it to protect my eggs and hide from zombies.) Tell your friends it sucked ass. Vow you could do better and begin your journey toward years of rejection slips...absolutely your right, every one of them.
But Charlaine Harris isn't your bitch.
And that's that.
* * *
MaryJanice Davidson welcomes your nerd rage at madeupemailaddy@it'snotreal.com.
So Charlaine Harris' last Southern Vampires book, DEAD EVER AFTER, is out May 7. Except it's kind of out now, which is why the interwebs are exploding. Some random asshat got their claws on an early copy, which is sneaky enough, but then posted the ending online, which is borderline sociopathic.
But first, a word about release dates, contracts, and asshats. Publisher release dates aren't just random dates they pick out of a hat for funsies. Marketing revolves around release dates, and so do book tours (not to mention author deadlines), and ads, and reviews. Because industry pros take that shit seriously, stores that want to sell a book must sign a contract agreeing NOT to sell a book before the release date. So right out of the gate, if a store sells a book before the pub date, they're in breach of contract and could get fined and/or blacklisted, and the clerk who sold it could end up jobless.
(This leads into the Charlaine Harris mess, I promise.)
Let me emphasize that it's not on the reader to make sure a book store isn't in breach. Also, I'm a gaping hypocrite in that if THE WINDS OF WINTER was on the shelf three days early, you bet your ass I'd buy it. I'd knock over the two little old ladies and the shivering orphan standing in front of me to yank that thing off the shelf and buy it. That's because I'm a hypocrite and also, the store is the one who should be paying attention to little things like honoring a legal document. This happens to me all the time...I'll start seeing customer reviews of one of my book days before the book is actually out, or a reader will mention they were able to buy it at their local bookstore and can't wait to go home to read it and how cool because they didn't think the book was even out until next week! I'll be, "Thanks for the nice e-mail, I hope you love the book and arrggghhhhh! Sorry, I'm fine now, and I do appreciate that you bought the book and what bookstore sold it to you early? Can I have their phone number? And possibly their alarm code?" Social contract: it's not cool to burn down bookstores. Actual contract: it's not cool to ignore contract clauses and sell books whenever. If they blow off theirs, I'm willing to consider blowing off mine.
One of the reasons ignoring release dates drives the publishing industry nuts is because the best seller lists only count books sold on and after the release date. Future contracts depend on how the last book sold. Future everything depends on how the book sold. Sure, the author will eventually get the royalties, but marketing pros and agents and editors don't look at royalties; they look at sales, they look at best-seller rankings. Any sale made prior to the release date falls into the black hole of contract breach, never to return. There have been times my books haven't made a best-seller list, and there have been times when they have, and I've clung to my spot by my ragged fingernails. A thousand books sold the week before the release date can make all the difference between me hanging onto the list, panting, for another week, or falling down and down, screaming all the way ("I regret noooothing!").
Anyhoo, that's why books released pre-release date cause problems for the writer/publisher. Whoever the spoileriffic asshat who started all the trouble is, they either bought the book because a store wasn't paying attention, shoplifted same, got their hands on an ARC (Advanced Reviewer Copy, printed early for the media/reviewers), stole same, bought one off Ebay (This has happened to me! And I feel guilty every time: "Please don't buy my book a week early for $100. No one knows better than I that it's not worth $100. Wait a week and spend $24.99."), or broke into a book warehouse, robbed it, then burned it down because what social contract? However they got it, they probably weren't supposed to have it at all, so bad enough, right? But posting the spoiler wasn't just wrong; it was pure meanness.
Things got yuckier from there. That was partly my fault, because when I found out what happened I literally said to myself, "That's awful, poor Charlaine! I can't see how this could get any worse--hey, what now?" Because yep. It got worse. Charlaine, if you're reading this, it's my fault. I dared the gods. I won't be able to make eye contact with you at RT next year. My shame is great.
To explain the awfulness of the worse, I'll have to talk vaguely about DEAD EVER AFTER. I don't think I'm revealing anything a reader of any of the Sookie books wouldn't have already guessed but if I'm wrong, I apologize, and I'm apologizing because I experience human emotion because I'm not a sociopath. So here comes a minor spoiler about a book I haven't read early and spoiled, on purpose, online, because I'm not a sociopath:
(minor spoiler)
The Sookie books are a love triangle, and apparently Sookie makes her choice by the end of DEAD EVER AFTER.
Okay, so, the nature of triangles means that, because it's a triangle and not a rhombus or a parallelogram, not everybody is going to be thrilled, because it's a triangle. (See: the TWILIGHT books, PRETTY IN PINK, MY BEST FRIEND'S WEDDING, GONE WITH THE WIND, REALITY BITES, every X-MEN movie, TITANIC, THE HUNGER GAMES, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, THE GREAT GATSBY, EMMA, WATER FOR ELEPHANTS, THE AGE OF INNOCENCE, ONE FOR THE MONEY, NORTH AND SOUTH, OUTLANDER, and every single book or story or movie or play about a triangle in the history of everything.) So, natch, when the asshat spoiled the ending, some readers were fine with the author's choice and some lost their minds.
And are still losing them. When Charlaine realized what the spoilery asshat was up to, she posted to her FaceBook page: "By now some of you know that a reader in Germany obtained a copy of DEAD EVER AFTER and decided to post the ending online. While this is unfortunate, I wanted to say this to all of you: Even if you *personally* are unhappy with the ending, please don’t spoil it for other readers. DEAD EVER AFTER goes on sale on May 7th; after that date, you are more that welcome to come here and tell me how much you like - or don’t like - the choices I’ve made for Sookie. But from one Sookie fan to another, I’m asking you all to please not spoil the book for other readers. Thank you so much for your continued support."
Short and classy...like Charlaine! Heh. Anyhoo, that seemed a sensible and even restrained reaction to the online reaming the unnamed asshat was bringing down on her. Except. The very first comment under that was essentially, "I hated your stupid book; it was basically an EXPLETIVE to all your readers, how could you (SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER) you numb EXPLETIVE?", and some of the ones that followed were worse.
Oh no she dih-unt! (Yeah, I know. We don't say that anymore but sometimes I still do because it was a total 'oh no she dih-unt' moment.) So: ending spoiled, on purpose, before the release date. Charlaine discovers this, and does the classy restrained thing. The result: still more online reaming, more spoiling, more raging sociopathy.
Almost more astonishing is the speculation flying all over the interwebs, absurd conspiracy theories and ideas that some readers seem to think are really and truly true. So I figured I'd address a few of them.
1) The publisher knew readers would HATE the ending which is why they tried so hard to keep the spoilers quiet so HA HA, their little plan FAILED, free speech for evah and Charlaine's publisher nevah!
Uh, no. Publishers keep spoilers quiet so ENDINGS DON'T GET SPOILED. This applies to pretty much any book with a spoiler. They weren't sitting around in a board room saying, "This is the worst book ever. We must keep the ending a secret! For sales!" They were sitting around in a board room saying, "This is the last Sookie book. We must keep the ending a secret! For sales!" Remember: any copies sold before May 7 do not count toward best-seller lists.
2) Charlaine's agent made her do it!
Seriously? You really think that? Uh, no. Agents don't make writers do anything; they work for the writer. Agents can cajole, they can play devil's advocate, they can stretch a business lunch into three hours, but at the end of the day, Charlaine's agent didn't stick a gun in her ear and shrill, "Bitch, write the ending the way I told you and also, your W-9 will be late this year because I'm between assistants! But the temp will validate your parking!"
3) Charlaine wrote it like that because she hates me!
It's hilarious to me that some readers have made this all about them. Since it's all about me, they're wrong. Charlaine wrote the ending because that was the ending she wanted for her characters. The end.
4) It's Amazon's fault!
Well, probably not. Although they're certainly swinging into action at their usual snail-in-a-coma pace. "Fear not, aggrieved readers, we'll look into this right away. To the servers, my minions!" Amazon's idea of right away is no one else's idea of right away. I'm sure they'll respond to complaints and take down various offending posts by 2028 at the latest.
5) It was really good the ratty asshatty posted the ending online because now that I know the ending I won't buy it.
No, it wasn't. Even if the ratty asshatty was somehow in charge of letting readers know all series endings because ratty asshatty has a telepathic link with the readership and JUST KNOWS exactly what they'll love and what they'll hate and thus because of their ratty asshatty oath had to defy the...I can't even finish that speculation. Ratty Asshatty was entitled to hate the ending, but should have let readers read and think for themselves.
6) Charlaine is stomping on our free speech! She only wants the praise and doesn't want anyone saying anything mean about her book!
No. Per her FB message (see above), Charlaine is asking that readers wait until May 7 to post their opinions so as not to spoil the ending for other readers. Love it or loathe it, she invites readers to comment. Love it or loathe it, she welcomes people to let her have it right there on her FB page if they like. That is the opposite of free speech stomping.
7) So what if readers are flaming her on her FB page? She made a choice to end the book that way, we're making a choice to let her know we hated it and also, she sucks.
It's not just flaming on her page. She's getting threats. Because that's how much perspective has been jettisoned out the window: people are actually threatening her with, among other things, felony assault. Like my hero, Liz Lemon, I don't dare roll my eyes much longer or they'll stay rolled forever ("Ow! Cramp!"), but give me a goddamned break.
8) Charlaine had no right to write that ending.
No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no.
To paraphrase Neil Gaiman: "Charlaine Harris is not your bitch." He's right, except he was talking about George R.R. Martin. GRRM, author of the SONG OF ICE AND FIRE series, takes years to write a book, and because his stuff is so thoroughly wonderful, readers get pissy waiting years between books. GRRM also goes to lots of cons and signings; he's probably one of the easiest mega-famous writers to meet. Because of this, a reader asked Neil Gaiman if there was a nice way to say, "Mr. Martin, I love your books but I've been waiting years for the latest one and you keep changing the release date and I know you go to lots of cons, so could you maybe go to fewer conferences and instead stay home and write? Because you're letting me down by not doing that? Okay? Please?"
And Neil comes back with, "Uh, no. There's no nice way to ask him that. To ask any writer that." Which he followed with, "George R.R. Martin is not your bitch." His blog on this, called "Entitlement Issues" is here in all it's wonderfulness:
http://journal.neilgaiman.com/2009/05...
Anyway, take "George R.R. Martin is not your bitch" and apply it to every writer living or dead or yet to be born.
Charlaine's writing process is not governed by democracy (J.K. Rowling said it pretty perfectly: "I'm not taking dictation.") She doesn't owe her readers the ending some of them insist on. She doesn't even owe readers an explanation. "But I've bought her books." "But I've been reading her stuff since the beginning." "But she made me love Insert Character Name You Love Here." "But she owes me a the ending I want." "But her books are all about me because I love them." "But I'm mad now and she has to kiss it and make it better." "But MJ, your highlights are tacky."
Nope. And my (red!) highlights are lovely, so quiet, you.
If you hate the writer's choice, if you hate what she did with characters that belong to her, that's 100% your perogative. If you were mega-pissed when Scarlett O'Hara ended up with (spoiler!) no one, you're perfectly within your rights to never buy another book Margaret Mitchell...okay, bad example, but you see where I'm going. Love/hate the ending. Return the book (which you didn't buy before May 7) or shred it for the giant nest no one knows you keep in the basement. (My nest is made of shredded phone books and is shin-high and I shall crouch in it to protect my eggs and hide from zombies.) Tell your friends it sucked ass. Vow you could do better and begin your journey toward years of rejection slips...absolutely your right, every one of them.
But Charlaine Harris isn't your bitch.
And that's that.
* * *
MaryJanice Davidson welcomes your nerd rage at madeupemailaddy@it'snotreal.com.
