MaryJanice Davidson's Blog, page 5
April 16, 2013
I Re-post My Love Letter To Boston, Because I Friggin' Love Boston
A year and a half ago I blogged about how living in Boston inspired my Wyndham werewolf stories. It started out as simple book PR, and ended up as a love letter to Boston and the Cape. In the wake of this week's tragedy, I wanted to re-post because nothing, not one. Damned. Thing. Has changed. Boston is still wonderful, and I still feel so lucky to have lived there.* * *My publisher asked me to talk about WOLF AT THE DOOR for an upcoming newsletter, and ignoring her sensible suggestion of a page, I wrote six. So I'm posting the thing in its entirety below, whether you like it or not. How 'bout THAT (um, seriously, thanks in advance for your attention)?The characters in WATD have been trapped in my head for years, poor bums. When I wrote my first single-title werewolf novel, Derik’s Bane, I had no idea readers would be so intrigued by the idea of werewolves living on Cape Cod, and would want to read more about them.I was intrigued, sure, but that was because I was putting my husband through Harvard with a series of wretched temp jobs, and for the first time in my life was living 1500 miles away from my family. (Irony: as an Air Force brat, I swore when I hit 18 I’d never, ever move again. Then I met someone who lived 1500 miles away. Thanks for nothing, irony, you jerk.)Massachusetts was an eye-opener for a former Midwestern trailer-park inhabitant. Noisy, fast, fuming, and noisy. For some reason, nearly everyone I talked to out there seemed to be furious with me. I found this puzzling, since usually people needed to be with me for at least half an hour before the Hulk rage overwhelmed them.I can hear it now, so shush: “That’s a stereotype! I live in Boston and I’m super-nice, ya vapid dumbass!” I’m sure you are super nice. I’m sure you’re super delightful. And I did meet many people from Boston and the Cape who I adored and are friends with to this day. But I also met a lot of people who seemed to be enraged by my very presence.So there I was, trying to learn the subway system, getting trampled at Filene’s Basement sales (“Please...I—I just want to see if that shirt’s a twelve...please get off my neck...ow...”), and adjusting to a society that had little use for cars.Of all of them, the car thing was the most amazing. When my then-fiance told me I could sell my car before we moved to Massachusetts, I flat-out didn’t believe him. It sounded impossible and dangerous. You’d die in Minnesota or North Dakota if you tried walking to work without a car. You could die checking the mail. If the elements didn’t get you, the wolves would.But he’d been right, and I sold my car. After some nervousness (“Is this the train to Harvard Square? Also, please don’t rape or kill me.” “Kiddo, I’m 82, and you’re not my type.”), I learned to appreciate the T...it was nice being able to let someone else drive while I read or snacked, or snacked. The trains were (relatively) clean, and I was never bothered. At worst, some poor idiot would assume I knew what I was doing (“Is this the train for the Aquarium?” “Kiddo, I gotta get ready for my 83rd birthday pahty, whyncha leave me alone?”), and ask for directions. I went through lots of books during my commute, and listened to lots of Ace of Base on an ancient tool once called a Walkman by my people.I was homesick for the Midwest, sure, but Boston and Cape Cod quickly grew on me. I found myself grazing at Faneuil Hall, spending hours browsing the Barnes and Noble on Park Street and the Wordsworth at Harvard Square, and being morbidly aware that the letter R was usually nowhere to be found in the mouths of the people around me.“Anothah stereotype, ya useless hack! I’ve lived in Bawstahn my whole life, I been to Fenway Pahk, I grew up in Chahsten an’ if you do that thing, that ‘pahk the cah in Havahd yahd’ thing I’m gonna smack ya upside ya big fat head! All that’s nothin’ but hate-mongerin’, jerk!”Like I said: surrounded by awesome food, gorgeous beaches, and people I didn’t know who were super-pissed at me. I started wondering why: something in the water? (This was before we all started carrying our own clear fluids in Aquafina bottles.) Something in the subway? Something in their...nature? Their genetics? (I actually heard the light bulb blink to life over my head: ding!). Thus, I got the idea that werewolves lurked among us, werewolves who were always fighting their natures and trying to hide in plain sight. Werewolves who would lash out when the stress got to them. And a ton of them lived on the Cape.So Derik’s Bane was born, and it was such fun. I really liked the Cape Cod characters, because I was a born tourist and once I got over my apprehension, loved the museums, loved the parks, loved the beaches, loved the peanuts and lemon ice you could buy on the street. I loved how I could shatter the kneecap of the woman lunging for the same jeans I was at the annual Filenes sale. Best of all, I loved the sense of history. I had to walk past Benjamin Franklin’s grave every day on my way to work. I lived within walking distance of the Mount Auburn Cemetery. I sat in the Old North Church and tried to imagine “one if by hand, two here by me”, or whatever Paul Revere was supposed to have figured out.By the time I sat down to write Chapter One, I’d come to love beauty of Boston and the Cape, the friendly and straightforward people, the truly awful driving that gave me a new appreciation for life every time I returned safely from the grocery store...and don’t start with the stereotypes again. That one’s true and you all know it. Boston drivers are more dangerous than a baker’s dozen of serial killers.True to my frivolous and contrary nature, I cried when it was time to move to Boston, and I cried when it was time to move back to Minnesota. In five years, I’d embraced and admired a part of the country that was wholly different from anything I’d experienced the first twenty years of my life. They could have seafood as fast food out there! They thought nothing of dropping everything and heading to a beach, sometimes without sandwiches! They fearlessly crossed the street during rush hour and lived to tell the tale!All this to say, I was homesick for Minnesota and confused when I wrote Derik’s Bane, and writing that book helped me get over myself and appreciate Boston.Fast forward a few years, I asked my editor if I could write another single-title about the Wyndham werewolves, since readers had been asking for that book for years. She agreed at once, and I got to work. By then I’d been back in Minnesota for a few years and was writing full-time. And though most of Wolf at the Door takes place in Minnesota, the few bits in Boston reminded me how afraid I’d been to move there, and what I dumbass I’d been to be afraid, and how much I wanted to see the area again.So I finished the book, talked to my hubby/writing partner (we co-write the Jennifer Scales series), and as it turned out, this year we’ll be having Thanksgiving on the Cape. What can I say? It’s gorgeous out there, and the people are great. Anyone who says different is an idiot. A blonde, six-foot tall, vain, klutzy idiot.So that’s the scoop, and I thank you kindly for your attention. But I’m closing the laptop now...gotta go pahk my cah. Did you know you can actually get your point across more quickly if you omit needless consonants?
April 4, 2013
I Explain Cheese and Mustard to a Subway Employee
I love Subway sandwiches. They're fast, they're delicious, they're ubiquitous, and if you don't drown them in mayo and heap them with French's fried onions and then eat them with three kinds of potato chips, they're healthy. (So I've been told. I myself adore French's fried onions. And also potato chips.)
But I think Subway might have to step up the employee training. I was waiting in a short line, and it was about ten minutes until the lone employee got to me, but I wasn't pissy about that. (I was pissy, to be sure, but because we were out of French's fried onions.) It's why I go NOWHERE without something to read. And is it me, or does Subway seem to have zero interest in increasing their standard number of employees making sandwiches? (Hint: their standard number is 1.) No matter what city I'm in, or what time it is, there's always one lonesome employee making the sandwiches, and the other or others are in back, out of sight. You can sometimes hear them moving around back there. It's eerie. Subway ghosts!
Anyway, waiting ten minutes was nothing new. The weird part came when it was my turn, and I asked for cheese bread for my daughter's icky sandwich. "Asiago bread," I said.
"I don't know what that is."
Surprised, I took a look at the types of bread and corrected myself: "Sorry, I meant Cheddar bread."
"Oh, okay. We've got that. The other kind, I never heard of."
"It's a kind of cheese," I explained to the sandwich shop employee. This was a little weird, but maybe only to me. Maybe Asiago is more of a rarity than I thought. Then I remembered: this whole encounter was taking place in Wisconsin, a state not unfamiliar with cheese. Wisconsin is called America's Dairyland. Know why? Because it's one of the nation's leading dairy producers. Know what's made of dairy? Cheese.
So, yeah. Definitely weird.
Then as she was finishing my kid's Asiago-free sandwich, I asked for Dijon.
"I don't know what that is."
Wait. What? The Asiago thing could probably be overlooked but Dijon? The fifth most popular condiment in the country? (Yeah, after this I went home and looked it up. Shut up.)
"It's a kind of mustard." Please, please let her know what mustard is. "Uh, the opposite of honey mustard, I guess. It's got a bit of a bite to it."
"Okay. I've never even heard of it."
"Really?" This is why we have to bring back those "pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?" commercials. "You've never heard of Dijon?" Argh. Leave it alone, MJ, you're like a bloodhound on the scent of a T-bone. Just let it lie. "And you've never heard of Asiago cheese?" Dammit! I told you to let it lie, you T-bone sniffing bloodhound bitch!
(Keep in mind, this entire conversation is happening IN A SANDWICH SHOP.)
She nodded at my car, parked in front. It was a small shop, and surprisingly narrow, so we could all see my out-of-state license plate. "Outta town?"
"Yep. I apologize for bringing my big-city ways into your shop." She laughed, thank goodness.
I took my Dijon-less sandwiches and went home to do a little research, and not just on how popular Dijon mustard is. Per their website, "SUBWAY® brand is the world's largest submarine sandwich chain with more than 37,000 locations around the world." Wow! That's a lot of people who might not know what cheese or mustard is. "We’ve become the leading choice for people seeking quick, nutritious meals". Yeah, just not people who choose...no. It's too easy. I'll just say the website was good for a few laughs and let the rest lie. So back off, inner voice.
I'm not outing that particular shop. There's nothing wrong with not knowing something, and there's nothing wrong with admitting it. In fact, I was impressed that she was so straight-forward about it. Since she hadn't heard of either of the things I wanted, she must have known Dijon and Asiago weren't lurking in the back with the ghosts. She could have just said, "We don't have that" and I would have had to blog about something else this week. (Thank goodness she didn't!) As someone who doesn't know something at least eight times an hour, but who only admits it four times an hour, I've got no particular problem with that Subway employee. She was a nice woman doing her best alone in front because of the whole "we can only let you see one employee at a time" Subway policy.
But Subway Corporate might want to re-vamp their training to include defining different kinds of cheese and mustard. Just a thought. You're welcome, Subway!
(Also, my sandwich was delicious, despite the total lack of fried onions. But I can't put that on Subway.)
But I think Subway might have to step up the employee training. I was waiting in a short line, and it was about ten minutes until the lone employee got to me, but I wasn't pissy about that. (I was pissy, to be sure, but because we were out of French's fried onions.) It's why I go NOWHERE without something to read. And is it me, or does Subway seem to have zero interest in increasing their standard number of employees making sandwiches? (Hint: their standard number is 1.) No matter what city I'm in, or what time it is, there's always one lonesome employee making the sandwiches, and the other or others are in back, out of sight. You can sometimes hear them moving around back there. It's eerie. Subway ghosts!
Anyway, waiting ten minutes was nothing new. The weird part came when it was my turn, and I asked for cheese bread for my daughter's icky sandwich. "Asiago bread," I said.
"I don't know what that is."
Surprised, I took a look at the types of bread and corrected myself: "Sorry, I meant Cheddar bread."
"Oh, okay. We've got that. The other kind, I never heard of."
"It's a kind of cheese," I explained to the sandwich shop employee. This was a little weird, but maybe only to me. Maybe Asiago is more of a rarity than I thought. Then I remembered: this whole encounter was taking place in Wisconsin, a state not unfamiliar with cheese. Wisconsin is called America's Dairyland. Know why? Because it's one of the nation's leading dairy producers. Know what's made of dairy? Cheese.
So, yeah. Definitely weird.
Then as she was finishing my kid's Asiago-free sandwich, I asked for Dijon.
"I don't know what that is."
Wait. What? The Asiago thing could probably be overlooked but Dijon? The fifth most popular condiment in the country? (Yeah, after this I went home and looked it up. Shut up.)
"It's a kind of mustard." Please, please let her know what mustard is. "Uh, the opposite of honey mustard, I guess. It's got a bit of a bite to it."
"Okay. I've never even heard of it."
"Really?" This is why we have to bring back those "pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?" commercials. "You've never heard of Dijon?" Argh. Leave it alone, MJ, you're like a bloodhound on the scent of a T-bone. Just let it lie. "And you've never heard of Asiago cheese?" Dammit! I told you to let it lie, you T-bone sniffing bloodhound bitch!
(Keep in mind, this entire conversation is happening IN A SANDWICH SHOP.)
She nodded at my car, parked in front. It was a small shop, and surprisingly narrow, so we could all see my out-of-state license plate. "Outta town?"
"Yep. I apologize for bringing my big-city ways into your shop." She laughed, thank goodness.
I took my Dijon-less sandwiches and went home to do a little research, and not just on how popular Dijon mustard is. Per their website, "SUBWAY® brand is the world's largest submarine sandwich chain with more than 37,000 locations around the world." Wow! That's a lot of people who might not know what cheese or mustard is. "We’ve become the leading choice for people seeking quick, nutritious meals". Yeah, just not people who choose...no. It's too easy. I'll just say the website was good for a few laughs and let the rest lie. So back off, inner voice.
I'm not outing that particular shop. There's nothing wrong with not knowing something, and there's nothing wrong with admitting it. In fact, I was impressed that she was so straight-forward about it. Since she hadn't heard of either of the things I wanted, she must have known Dijon and Asiago weren't lurking in the back with the ghosts. She could have just said, "We don't have that" and I would have had to blog about something else this week. (Thank goodness she didn't!) As someone who doesn't know something at least eight times an hour, but who only admits it four times an hour, I've got no particular problem with that Subway employee. She was a nice woman doing her best alone in front because of the whole "we can only let you see one employee at a time" Subway policy.
But Subway Corporate might want to re-vamp their training to include defining different kinds of cheese and mustard. Just a thought. You're welcome, Subway!
(Also, my sandwich was delicious, despite the total lack of fried onions. But I can't put that on Subway.)
I Explain Cheese Mustard to a Subway Employee
I love Subway sandwiches. They're fast, they're delicious, they're ubiquitous, and if you don't drown them in mayo and heap them with French's fried onions and then eat them with three kinds of potato chips, they're healthy. (So I've been told. I myself adore French's fried onions. And also potato chips.)
But I think Subway might have to step up the employee training. I was waiting in a short line, and it was about ten minutes until the lone employee got to me, but I wasn't pissy about that. (I was pissy, to be sure, but because we were out of French's fried onions.) It's why I go NOWHERE without something to read. And is it me, or does Subway seem to have zero interest in increasing their standard number of employees making sandwiches? (Hint: their standard number is 1.) No matter what city I'm in, or what time it is, there's always one lonesome employee making the sandwiches, and the other or others are in back, out of sight. You can sometimes hear them moving around back there. It's eerie. Subway ghosts!
Anyway, waiting ten minutes was nothing new. The weird part came when it was my turn, and I asked for cheese bread for my daughter's icky sandwich. "Asiago bread," I said.
"I don't know what that is."
Surprised, I took a look at the types of bread and corrected myself: "Sorry, I meant Cheddar bread."
"Oh, okay. We've got that. The other kind, I never heard of."
"It's a kind of cheese," I explained to the sandwich shop employee. This was a little weird, but maybe only to me. Maybe Asiago is more of a rarity than I thought. Then I remembered: this whole encounter was taking place in Wisconsin, a state not unfamiliar with cheese. Wisconsin is called America's Dairyland. Know why? Because it's one of the nation's leading dairy producers. Know what's made of dairy? Cheese.
So, yeah. Definitely weird.
Then as she was finishing my kid's Asiago-free sandwich, I asked for Dijon.
"I don't know what that is."
Wait. What? The Asiago thing could probably be overlooked but Dijon? The fifth most popular condiment in the country? (Yeah, after this I went home and looked it up. Shut up.)
"It's a kind of mustard." Please, please let her know what mustard is. "Uh, the opposite of honey mustard, I guess. It's got a bit of a bite to it."
"Okay. I've never even heard of it."
"Really?" This is why we have to bring back those "pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?" commercials. "You've never heard of Dijon?" Argh. Leave it alone, MJ, you're like a bloodhound on the scent of a T-bone. Just let it lie. "And you've never heard of Asiago cheese?" Dammit! I told you to let it lie, you bloodhound bitch!
(Keep in mind, this entire conversation is happening IN A SANDWICH SHOP.)
She nodded at my car, parked in front. It was a small shop, and surprisingly narrow, so we could all see my out-of-state license plate. "Outta town?"
"Yep. I apologize for bringing my big-city ways into your shop." She laughed, thank goodness.
I took my Dijon-less sandwiches and went home to do a little research, and not just on how popular Dijon mustard is. Per their website, "SUBWAY® brand is the world's largest submarine sandwich chain with more than 37,000 locations around the world." Wow! That's a lot of people who might not know know what cheese or mustard is. "We’ve become the leading choice for people seeking quick, nutritious meals". Yeah, just not people who choose...no. It's too easy. I'll just say the website was good for a few laughs and let the rest lie. So back off, inner voice.
I'm not outing that particular shop. There's nothing wrong with not knowing something, and there's nothing wrong with admitting it. In fact, I was impressed that she was so straight-forward about it. Since she hadn't heard of either of the things I wanted, she must have known Dijon and Asiago weren't lurking in the back with the ghosts. She could have just said, "We don't have that" and I would have had to blog about something else this week. (Thank goodness she didn't!) As someone who doesn't know something at least eight times an hour, but who only admits it four times an hour, I've got no particular problem with that Subway employee. She was a nice woman doing her best alone in front because of the whole "we can only let you see one employee at a time" Subway policy.
But Subway Corporate might want to re-vamp their training to include defining different kinds of cheese and mustard. Just a thought. You're welcome, Subway!
(Also, my sandwich was delicious, despite the total lack of fried onions. But I can't put that on Subway.)
But I think Subway might have to step up the employee training. I was waiting in a short line, and it was about ten minutes until the lone employee got to me, but I wasn't pissy about that. (I was pissy, to be sure, but because we were out of French's fried onions.) It's why I go NOWHERE without something to read. And is it me, or does Subway seem to have zero interest in increasing their standard number of employees making sandwiches? (Hint: their standard number is 1.) No matter what city I'm in, or what time it is, there's always one lonesome employee making the sandwiches, and the other or others are in back, out of sight. You can sometimes hear them moving around back there. It's eerie. Subway ghosts!
Anyway, waiting ten minutes was nothing new. The weird part came when it was my turn, and I asked for cheese bread for my daughter's icky sandwich. "Asiago bread," I said.
"I don't know what that is."
Surprised, I took a look at the types of bread and corrected myself: "Sorry, I meant Cheddar bread."
"Oh, okay. We've got that. The other kind, I never heard of."
"It's a kind of cheese," I explained to the sandwich shop employee. This was a little weird, but maybe only to me. Maybe Asiago is more of a rarity than I thought. Then I remembered: this whole encounter was taking place in Wisconsin, a state not unfamiliar with cheese. Wisconsin is called America's Dairyland. Know why? Because it's one of the nation's leading dairy producers. Know what's made of dairy? Cheese.
So, yeah. Definitely weird.
Then as she was finishing my kid's Asiago-free sandwich, I asked for Dijon.
"I don't know what that is."
Wait. What? The Asiago thing could probably be overlooked but Dijon? The fifth most popular condiment in the country? (Yeah, after this I went home and looked it up. Shut up.)
"It's a kind of mustard." Please, please let her know what mustard is. "Uh, the opposite of honey mustard, I guess. It's got a bit of a bite to it."
"Okay. I've never even heard of it."
"Really?" This is why we have to bring back those "pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?" commercials. "You've never heard of Dijon?" Argh. Leave it alone, MJ, you're like a bloodhound on the scent of a T-bone. Just let it lie. "And you've never heard of Asiago cheese?" Dammit! I told you to let it lie, you bloodhound bitch!
(Keep in mind, this entire conversation is happening IN A SANDWICH SHOP.)
She nodded at my car, parked in front. It was a small shop, and surprisingly narrow, so we could all see my out-of-state license plate. "Outta town?"
"Yep. I apologize for bringing my big-city ways into your shop." She laughed, thank goodness.
I took my Dijon-less sandwiches and went home to do a little research, and not just on how popular Dijon mustard is. Per their website, "SUBWAY® brand is the world's largest submarine sandwich chain with more than 37,000 locations around the world." Wow! That's a lot of people who might not know know what cheese or mustard is. "We’ve become the leading choice for people seeking quick, nutritious meals". Yeah, just not people who choose...no. It's too easy. I'll just say the website was good for a few laughs and let the rest lie. So back off, inner voice.
I'm not outing that particular shop. There's nothing wrong with not knowing something, and there's nothing wrong with admitting it. In fact, I was impressed that she was so straight-forward about it. Since she hadn't heard of either of the things I wanted, she must have known Dijon and Asiago weren't lurking in the back with the ghosts. She could have just said, "We don't have that" and I would have had to blog about something else this week. (Thank goodness she didn't!) As someone who doesn't know something at least eight times an hour, but who only admits it four times an hour, I've got no particular problem with that Subway employee. She was a nice woman doing her best alone in front because of the whole "we can only let you see one employee at a time" Subway policy.
But Subway Corporate might want to re-vamp their training to include defining different kinds of cheese and mustard. Just a thought. You're welcome, Subway!
(Also, my sandwich was delicious, despite the total lack of fried onions. But I can't put that on Subway.)
March 19, 2013
YOU AND I; ME AND YOU: There is no escaping me in 2013
My second new release of the year, coming out 2 weeks after my first release of the year, hits stores today! YOU AND I; ME AND YOU is the third in my FBI BOFFO trilogy (Bureau Of False Flag Ops). I followed the rule of trilogies as set by the Scream movie franchise: everything you thought you knew from books one and two? Nope. You can toss quite a bit of it out the window.
Y&I is about the Jones sisters, three women living in one body. Diagnosed years ago with Multiple Personality Disorder, Cadence, Shiro, and Adrienne catch killers due to, not in spite of, their unique psychiatric histories. They also sow chaos due to, not in spite of, their unique psychiatric histories.
Keep an eye on my FaceBook page this month...we're giving away free books every week! Meanwhile, I leave you with a random snippet from Y&I, a glimpse into George Pinkman, clinical sociopath and reader favorite (many readers see him as a Dennis the Menace type + semi-auto = good times.)
* * *
“Aw, jeez, again with goddamned BOFFO?” We all turned at the sound, and the techs stopped pretending to be busy and actually became busy. Because Special Agent Greer was upon us, and mighty was his annoyance.“We heard you guys had no clue how to catch bad guys, so we figured we’d come over and help you out. You’re welcome.” George grinned. Law enforcement was one of many perfect jobs for someone who thrived on and lived for confrontations. Also politics, door-to-door sales, and collections.(A terrifying digression: George paid for college by working for Cutco. Cutco is a company that makes and sells knives. Their salespeople go door to door. George Pinkman paid for college by talking his way into peoples’ homes with a big bag of knives and selling homeowners potential murder weapons. Do I have to add that he was their top salesman three years running? I do not.)
Y&I is about the Jones sisters, three women living in one body. Diagnosed years ago with Multiple Personality Disorder, Cadence, Shiro, and Adrienne catch killers due to, not in spite of, their unique psychiatric histories. They also sow chaos due to, not in spite of, their unique psychiatric histories.
Keep an eye on my FaceBook page this month...we're giving away free books every week! Meanwhile, I leave you with a random snippet from Y&I, a glimpse into George Pinkman, clinical sociopath and reader favorite (many readers see him as a Dennis the Menace type + semi-auto = good times.)
* * *
“Aw, jeez, again with goddamned BOFFO?” We all turned at the sound, and the techs stopped pretending to be busy and actually became busy. Because Special Agent Greer was upon us, and mighty was his annoyance.“We heard you guys had no clue how to catch bad guys, so we figured we’d come over and help you out. You’re welcome.” George grinned. Law enforcement was one of many perfect jobs for someone who thrived on and lived for confrontations. Also politics, door-to-door sales, and collections.(A terrifying digression: George paid for college by working for Cutco. Cutco is a company that makes and sells knives. Their salespeople go door to door. George Pinkman paid for college by talking his way into peoples’ homes with a big bag of knives and selling homeowners potential murder weapons. Do I have to add that he was their top salesman three years running? I do not.)
March 7, 2013
USA Today Tolerates My Anti-Twilight Leanings
My USA Today interview is out, and once again a national newspaper has rewarded me for being obnoxious. Because now I know they'll let me be mean about Twilight, which given my raging jealousy of Smeyer's empire, suits me fine. (In all seriousness, while I'm fantastically envious of Ms. Stephenie Meyer and her Empire Of Sparkly Apex Predators, I love that she got a TON of people reading paranormal romance.)
I'm off to write the most gushy, inappropriate, chock-full-of-weird-vibes thank you note to Pamela Clare. I want her to feel gratified that I'm appreciative of her kind words, while also feeling a little squicked out. ("Why is this thank you note weirdly damp?") This might well take the rest of my day. Meanwhile: http://www.usatoday.com/story/happyev...
I'm off to write the most gushy, inappropriate, chock-full-of-weird-vibes thank you note to Pamela Clare. I want her to feel gratified that I'm appreciative of her kind words, while also feeling a little squicked out. ("Why is this thank you note weirdly damp?") This might well take the rest of my day. Meanwhile: http://www.usatoday.com/story/happyev...
March 6, 2013
My Erotically Charged Facebook Photos
For those of you who have managed to avoid it, nice try, jerks, but I insist you leer at my erotically charged photos featuring my Rubenesque hotness and several pairs of designer shoes. It's definitely pushing the erotic envelope. You're welcome in advance for letting me widen your narrow, not-so-erotic sensibilities. This! This is how much I love my readers. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?s...
aka "Beverly Feldman Should Rule the World"
https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?s...
aka "Beverly Feldman Should Rule the World"
March 3, 2013
UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER Is Bearing Down On You
Two things happened today--okay, many things happened, but two of note so far: I double-checked the cal and yep, UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER is out this Tuesday, March 5, followed by YOU AND I; ME AND YOU two weeks after that, and UNDEAD AND UNSURE this August. Because writers who don't put out (heh, I said put--never mind) at least two hardcovers and one paperback release a year are slackers. (Yeah. I said it.) And per their latest catalog, Williams-Sonoma thinks it's time we all started beekeeping, to keep up with our chicken-keeping. Um...yeah. It's like that. The DIY craze is now officially out of control. It reminded me of a Betsy bit, where she explains why she's against all things DIY, out of laziness and also dread fear of her mother. So check it!
A bit of background: in an attempt to make Thanksgiving 2.0 happen, Jessica bought an organic turkey, and now she and Betsy are terrified. Betsy's mom is also terrified, but for entirely different reasons. It's fine to be confused. Betsy and her mom are also confused.
Tina showed my mom in, then went off to do something Tina-ish. I gave serious thought to ditching the turkey and pretending that the plan all along had been to make pumpkin pie smoothies as the main dish, what turkey, what expensive yuppified organic turkey? But that was chickenshit, and I figured it’d be better to stand my ground, tell the truth, and accept the horrific nightmare guaranteed to follow. Besides, how do you ditch a seventeen pound turkey in under ten seconds? Toss it in the yard and pray the puppies (who have bladders the size of dimes and are in the yard twice an hour) don’t stumble across it? Fling open the door to the nearest bathroom, toss it into the sink and pray none of the guests have to use the guest bathroom? Yank open the basement door, fling the turkey into darkness and pray no one smelled it or tripped over it? No: better to suck it up.“Jessica screwed up!” I cried the second I saw my mom. “It’s her fault, not mine!” Hmm. In my head, that sounded courageous, not panicked and whiny.Startled, my mom froze in the doorway for a second. “I’m sure there’s more to it than that.” She was holding BabyJon, who was dressed in a dark green fleece jacket, matching pants, and drool, and a diaper bag so big it looked like a couch with a strap was slung over her other shoulder. She liked to tease that lugging the extra weight was good practice for the coming osteoporosis. “There might be plenty of blame to go around. In fact, I’m sure of it.”“But none for me, right?” “Of course on you; you’re best friends, aren’t you?” Mom got that little wrinkle between her eyes when she felt frown-ey but her mouth didn’t turn down. She could glare just with her eyes. “I don’t think this would be happening if you were a normal person. And honey, I love you, but you weren’t normal when you weren’t a vampire.”“Thank you?”“And I think you’re going to have to be the one to fix it, because I’ve got no idea how and I don’t think Jessica is even capable of acknowledging there’s a problem.”“I don’t think that’s right.” Did I tell Miss Gestates-A-Lot to buy a fresh organic turkey? No. Did I tell her to unhinge her jaw and devour the last turkey we’d had in the fridge? No. “Or fair.”Mom raised her eyebrows and I noticed the dark smudges beneath her eyes. A drawback to having light hair and fair skin is it’s much harder to cover fatigue, pox (either small or cow), or hangover-induced pallor. She hadn’t been sleeping well and I tried to squash the guilt. “Fair? Betsy. You’re in your thirties.”“Technically I’m thirty forever.” “And old enough to know about fair. It’s a word for children.”“Okay, that’s fair.” Argh! “I mean, you make a good point. But the thing is, I really was the victim this time. By the time I found out it was too late to do anything. So like I said, this is all on Jess.”“Then you should be ashamed,” my mom replied with simplicity that stunned me. She wasn’t teasing and she wasn’t mock-complaining the way parents do when they’re pretending their kid is annoying when secretly, they love the annoying kid in question in particular when they’re doing the thing the parent pretends to find so annoying. “You must have decided that attitude was acceptable from somewhere, and I can’t blame everything on your late father. So I’m shamed, too.”“Don’t...Mom, don’t say that.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so startled and hurt. I went to her and held out my arms, and BabyJon came to me at once with a wiggle and a, “Glaarrgg!” I hugged him to me for a second, knowing I was using the baby for pure animal comfort, and too upset to much care. He was dry and—maybe it was the kitchen lighting?—looked a little jaundiced, and smelled like baby lotion and carrots. Ah! Not jaundice. One load off my mind. What do you even do for a jaundiced baby? Beta-smoothies in their bottles? Stick him under a heat lamp like those roasted chickens at the supermarket? Ding! Now we can eat him. I stopped distracting myself with my brother, who was happy to sit on my hip and goggle at the two of us. I faced my mom, who still hadn’t moved from the doorway. “I’m sorry you’re upset, but it’s just a turkey. Jessica and I didn’t grow up the way you did and that’s not a judgment. I think you triumphed and overcame a lot, starting with your father and ending with mine. But the stuff that bothers you doesn’t always bother me, and hasn’t for years.”“Betsy—“I raised my voice. Please let the humans not hear and the vampires be hesitant to interrupt, and for Laura to be late for the first time in her life. “I didn’t mean for the turkey to come across as this horrible insensitive thing I did to you. But I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree on this one because, honestly, I promise we weren’t even thinking about you when we got the stupid bird.” Wait. That was kind of the definition of insensitive, wasn’t it? The thing about my mom: she grew up on a farm that, in a good year, was only decimated by one tornado, or lost only one crop to drought. Living on a working farm was, outside the pages of a Martha Stewart magazine, hard and brutal work. Unrelenting work, too: the crops don’t give a shit about Easter or your Thanksgiving plans or your birthday or your hangover; farms don’t offer paid holidays and don’t apologize for long hours. Neither do the animals who live on it. Business hours do not and have never existed on a farm. Medical interns don’t work that many hours.That’s not even touching on her father, who spent my mother’s childhood annoyed that his wife hadn’t given him a son. This was so stupid in so many ways that, decades later, I still get dizzy if I think about it. I tried to give Gramps the “hey, dimwad, the guy determines the baby’s sex, so how about you drop it before the womenfolk rise up and smite your dumb ass?” talk when I was a teen, and it hadn’t gone well (“Shut up or I’ll get the gun again.”). And when Grandpa wasn’t bemoaning his lack of sons (and, I assume, a 7th grader’s grasp of biology), he was explaining to the future Dr. Elise Taylor, Instructor of the Year, John Tate Award winner, and Morse Alumni Award winner, that college was wasted on a girl and she should just shut up and join the Army already, let them worry about her.Fast forward through the “disco will never die” 70’s and the shoulder pad power suits (for men and women) of the 80’s, Mom was shocked when it became trendy to frequent U-pick orchards. “They’re paying,” she’d tell me, dumbfounded, staring at giddy yuppies slaving under a July sun and posing for pictures doing same, “paying for the privilege of indulging in back-breaking work. As if paying to ride in a splinter-riddled cart on top of itchy pointy straw behind a steaming horse butt wasn’t ridiculous enough.” She had assumed it was a phase, something that sounded cool to the idiots doing it at the time but that they would admit was an embarrassing waste of time and money years later, like velour track suits and gold grills. Excuse me: grillz. It wasn’t a phase.That part of it, the U-pick orchards and pumpkin patches and Saw-Yer-Own-Xmas-Tree lots (“Staggering through snow-choked woods in subzero weather to saw down a tree and drag it back to your home so it can rain needles on the carpet as it slowly dies and dries is exhausting and not at all fun!”) had been incomprehensible enough, but when the “working” Bed & Breakfasts started popping up she really lost her shit. (“Gather the eggs? Feed the pigs, the pigs? Look! Look at the brochure: ‘Book early enough and we just might let you help with chores.’. Oh my dear God, the world has gone mad.”) She despised it when the upper middles played at what had been soul-searing drudgery for her family. So of course when she found out about the organic turkey (I’d have to find out who ratted), she lost her shit all over again. Because I think, in her mind, organic turkey farms and Pick-While-U-Slave orchards and winery grape-stomping and taking out the garbage at the lighthouse you’re dropping $350 a night to sleep in, in her mind it turned what she endured into a punch line, and made what she overcame something that was no big deal. “What’s worse?” she’d asked, staring in horror at Travel and Leisure. “That these farms have the audacity to charge guests for working? Or that the guests pay?” So her being upset was understandable, but (oh, there’s my insensitivity: it’s baaack!) we had bigger problems. What? We did.
A bit of background: in an attempt to make Thanksgiving 2.0 happen, Jessica bought an organic turkey, and now she and Betsy are terrified. Betsy's mom is also terrified, but for entirely different reasons. It's fine to be confused. Betsy and her mom are also confused.
Tina showed my mom in, then went off to do something Tina-ish. I gave serious thought to ditching the turkey and pretending that the plan all along had been to make pumpkin pie smoothies as the main dish, what turkey, what expensive yuppified organic turkey? But that was chickenshit, and I figured it’d be better to stand my ground, tell the truth, and accept the horrific nightmare guaranteed to follow. Besides, how do you ditch a seventeen pound turkey in under ten seconds? Toss it in the yard and pray the puppies (who have bladders the size of dimes and are in the yard twice an hour) don’t stumble across it? Fling open the door to the nearest bathroom, toss it into the sink and pray none of the guests have to use the guest bathroom? Yank open the basement door, fling the turkey into darkness and pray no one smelled it or tripped over it? No: better to suck it up.“Jessica screwed up!” I cried the second I saw my mom. “It’s her fault, not mine!” Hmm. In my head, that sounded courageous, not panicked and whiny.Startled, my mom froze in the doorway for a second. “I’m sure there’s more to it than that.” She was holding BabyJon, who was dressed in a dark green fleece jacket, matching pants, and drool, and a diaper bag so big it looked like a couch with a strap was slung over her other shoulder. She liked to tease that lugging the extra weight was good practice for the coming osteoporosis. “There might be plenty of blame to go around. In fact, I’m sure of it.”“But none for me, right?” “Of course on you; you’re best friends, aren’t you?” Mom got that little wrinkle between her eyes when she felt frown-ey but her mouth didn’t turn down. She could glare just with her eyes. “I don’t think this would be happening if you were a normal person. And honey, I love you, but you weren’t normal when you weren’t a vampire.”“Thank you?”“And I think you’re going to have to be the one to fix it, because I’ve got no idea how and I don’t think Jessica is even capable of acknowledging there’s a problem.”“I don’t think that’s right.” Did I tell Miss Gestates-A-Lot to buy a fresh organic turkey? No. Did I tell her to unhinge her jaw and devour the last turkey we’d had in the fridge? No. “Or fair.”Mom raised her eyebrows and I noticed the dark smudges beneath her eyes. A drawback to having light hair and fair skin is it’s much harder to cover fatigue, pox (either small or cow), or hangover-induced pallor. She hadn’t been sleeping well and I tried to squash the guilt. “Fair? Betsy. You’re in your thirties.”“Technically I’m thirty forever.” “And old enough to know about fair. It’s a word for children.”“Okay, that’s fair.” Argh! “I mean, you make a good point. But the thing is, I really was the victim this time. By the time I found out it was too late to do anything. So like I said, this is all on Jess.”“Then you should be ashamed,” my mom replied with simplicity that stunned me. She wasn’t teasing and she wasn’t mock-complaining the way parents do when they’re pretending their kid is annoying when secretly, they love the annoying kid in question in particular when they’re doing the thing the parent pretends to find so annoying. “You must have decided that attitude was acceptable from somewhere, and I can’t blame everything on your late father. So I’m shamed, too.”“Don’t...Mom, don’t say that.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so startled and hurt. I went to her and held out my arms, and BabyJon came to me at once with a wiggle and a, “Glaarrgg!” I hugged him to me for a second, knowing I was using the baby for pure animal comfort, and too upset to much care. He was dry and—maybe it was the kitchen lighting?—looked a little jaundiced, and smelled like baby lotion and carrots. Ah! Not jaundice. One load off my mind. What do you even do for a jaundiced baby? Beta-smoothies in their bottles? Stick him under a heat lamp like those roasted chickens at the supermarket? Ding! Now we can eat him. I stopped distracting myself with my brother, who was happy to sit on my hip and goggle at the two of us. I faced my mom, who still hadn’t moved from the doorway. “I’m sorry you’re upset, but it’s just a turkey. Jessica and I didn’t grow up the way you did and that’s not a judgment. I think you triumphed and overcame a lot, starting with your father and ending with mine. But the stuff that bothers you doesn’t always bother me, and hasn’t for years.”“Betsy—“I raised my voice. Please let the humans not hear and the vampires be hesitant to interrupt, and for Laura to be late for the first time in her life. “I didn’t mean for the turkey to come across as this horrible insensitive thing I did to you. But I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree on this one because, honestly, I promise we weren’t even thinking about you when we got the stupid bird.” Wait. That was kind of the definition of insensitive, wasn’t it? The thing about my mom: she grew up on a farm that, in a good year, was only decimated by one tornado, or lost only one crop to drought. Living on a working farm was, outside the pages of a Martha Stewart magazine, hard and brutal work. Unrelenting work, too: the crops don’t give a shit about Easter or your Thanksgiving plans or your birthday or your hangover; farms don’t offer paid holidays and don’t apologize for long hours. Neither do the animals who live on it. Business hours do not and have never existed on a farm. Medical interns don’t work that many hours.That’s not even touching on her father, who spent my mother’s childhood annoyed that his wife hadn’t given him a son. This was so stupid in so many ways that, decades later, I still get dizzy if I think about it. I tried to give Gramps the “hey, dimwad, the guy determines the baby’s sex, so how about you drop it before the womenfolk rise up and smite your dumb ass?” talk when I was a teen, and it hadn’t gone well (“Shut up or I’ll get the gun again.”). And when Grandpa wasn’t bemoaning his lack of sons (and, I assume, a 7th grader’s grasp of biology), he was explaining to the future Dr. Elise Taylor, Instructor of the Year, John Tate Award winner, and Morse Alumni Award winner, that college was wasted on a girl and she should just shut up and join the Army already, let them worry about her.Fast forward through the “disco will never die” 70’s and the shoulder pad power suits (for men and women) of the 80’s, Mom was shocked when it became trendy to frequent U-pick orchards. “They’re paying,” she’d tell me, dumbfounded, staring at giddy yuppies slaving under a July sun and posing for pictures doing same, “paying for the privilege of indulging in back-breaking work. As if paying to ride in a splinter-riddled cart on top of itchy pointy straw behind a steaming horse butt wasn’t ridiculous enough.” She had assumed it was a phase, something that sounded cool to the idiots doing it at the time but that they would admit was an embarrassing waste of time and money years later, like velour track suits and gold grills. Excuse me: grillz. It wasn’t a phase.That part of it, the U-pick orchards and pumpkin patches and Saw-Yer-Own-Xmas-Tree lots (“Staggering through snow-choked woods in subzero weather to saw down a tree and drag it back to your home so it can rain needles on the carpet as it slowly dies and dries is exhausting and not at all fun!”) had been incomprehensible enough, but when the “working” Bed & Breakfasts started popping up she really lost her shit. (“Gather the eggs? Feed the pigs, the pigs? Look! Look at the brochure: ‘Book early enough and we just might let you help with chores.’. Oh my dear God, the world has gone mad.”) She despised it when the upper middles played at what had been soul-searing drudgery for her family. So of course when she found out about the organic turkey (I’d have to find out who ratted), she lost her shit all over again. Because I think, in her mind, organic turkey farms and Pick-While-U-Slave orchards and winery grape-stomping and taking out the garbage at the lighthouse you’re dropping $350 a night to sleep in, in her mind it turned what she endured into a punch line, and made what she overcame something that was no big deal. “What’s worse?” she’d asked, staring in horror at Travel and Leisure. “That these farms have the audacity to charge guests for working? Or that the guests pay?” So her being upset was understandable, but (oh, there’s my insensitivity: it’s baaack!) we had bigger problems. What? We did.
February 21, 2013
Authors Behaving Badly: Why We Can't Help It and Why We Have To Knock It Off Already
Writers are needy crybabies.
Yeah. There it is. We are. It's just--okay, some writers are reading this and already disagreeing so hard their left arm is tingling and they're short of breath, and I'm sorry this blog might tip them into a cardiac event, but writers are needy crybabies. And this isn't about me projecting, either. It's not just me this time. It's probably not just me.
We check reviews of our books; of course we do. (See above: needy.) And that's where the trouble always starts, because people who aren't our moms review our books. Let me say that again so I can reiterate the horror: people who aren't genetically programmed to love us review our books. This happens to almost all writers and sometimes the results aren't pretty.
For myself, I often chalk up a bad review to a communication break-down. (Though I did get one nasty review that disparaged my book and my hair, specifically my "soccer mom bangs". My rebuttal: "Hey, jackass, these are marching band mom bangs. Bet you feel stupid now." That review I chalked up to a bad hair day.) It's pretty arrogant, but sometimes I'll read a scorcher review and cluck my tongue and shake my head and sigh, "That poor guy! He just didn't understand what I was trying to put across. If I could sit down with him and explain my visioney vision he'll totally get it and then he'll love me. My book! That's what I meant; he'll love my book. Because that's secretly what I want: reviewer love. For my book. (Shut up, you're the one who's insecure.)"
So you take writer arrogance and add it to our needy crybabying and factor in reviewers not programmed to love us and divide by the Internet and you've got authors firing rebuttals that the entire world can read two seconds after we hit Send. Back in the day, a writer could pen a pissy reply to a reviewer for, I dunno, a newspaper or something? Anyway, when the reviewer got the rebuttal, they could fire something back, address an envelope, laboriously dig up a stamp, then walk to the PO and drop their letter in a big blue box. They might show the letters to a colleague but at the end of the day, no matter what was said, there was an excellent chance the rest of the planet wasn't privy to any of it.
Yeah, um, it's different now. Social media + whiny crybabies = This.
http://www.journalfen.net/community/f...
I'll say it straight out: I feel guilty using Laurell K. Hamilton as an example, but not guilty enough. I've met her many times; she and her husband Jon are the nicest people. She's given me wonderful career advice. She's offered to do signings with me, and no one who's been #1 on the NYT list has to sign with other writers, ever. But it's because I know she's so nice and professional that I've put her on a list that includes Anne Rice and me. She's my proof that you can be hugely successful (her books are sold all over the world, some of them have been published as graphic novels, she's pondering a movie deal, she's frequently on best-seller lists, etc.), have tons of adoring fans (go to a signing and try NOT to wait in line for two hours), be devoted to the characters (people all over the web don't just talk about her characters, they turn them into terrific art: http://www.myspace.com/sarahquillenre...) and still fall into this trap.
Which brings me to Anne Rice:
http://www.journalfen.net/community/f...
I've never met Anne Rice and don't care for her books. But that's a failing in me, because close to a million copies of her books have sold and she's had legions of fans for almost forty years, so there's something going on there that I just don't get. And that's fine; this isn't about me not getting her books. She's on the list for the reasons Laurell is: you can pull a seven figure income, redefine a genre, be the focus of adoration for hundreds of thousands of fans...and still fall into this trap. This awful "I'm gonna give a million people a piece of my mind while I'm still angry and when they're reading it thirty seconds from now they'll be sorry" trap.
Anna from Pocketful of Books has an entire section of her blog devoted to badly behaving writers and their shenanigans. It's hilariously dreadful, with everything from a writer trying to sue a reviewer (for slander, I guess?), to an author who confronts every reviewer who gave her one star to ask them to justify their opinion, to an author who tweeted a reviewer's phone number and encouraged her fans to tell that person off. It's a countdown to WTF!
http://www.pocketfulofbooks.com/p/aut...
And sometimes, the author's spouse gets in on the behaving badly action:
http://coreyann.me/2012/08/authors-be...
Lest you think this is me talking about the asshatery of others, it is! But I've got a few monuments of my own in the Hall of Wank. There's this: http://karenknowsbest.blogspot.com/se... (you'll have to scroll about halfway down to January 11, 2006: "You can reeeeeeally go off some people"
And this: http://smartbitchestrashybooks.com/bl...
And here's where I defend my asshatery:
http://maryjanicedavidson.blogspot.co...
When I mentioned we're whiny crybabies, I forgot to add that we're also crazy. In my case time has lent perspective, and looking back at these six, seven, eight year old posts, my first feeling is regret. Regret that I didn't appreciate all the free time I had on my hands back then. And making an ass of myself. So there's tons of regret there. I'm boob-deep in regret: "Argh, what was I thinking? Why did I keep jumping back into that long dark swimming hole of the soul? Why didn't anyone tell me I was being so obn--oh, right; they did and I blew them off."
Don't get me wrong; I wasn't a victim and my immaturity has been paying off for years. I've got books published in 15 countries; I make a nice living. That's because I jam my characters with odious aspects of my personality and, mysteriously, people like to read about them. But the other end of the pointy sword I've got a sweaty grip on is what you've read above. That same immaturity, coupled with writerly arrogance, leads me to leap before looking, and I usually land chin-deep in virtual cow patties. Which is better than eyeball-deep, but it's still pretty unpleasant.
Like this:
"Ohhhh, man!" I bellowed when my pissy truth-telling had resulted in more bitchiness raining down on my highlights. "Oh, it's on now! You guys think you can take me? I'm a freelance writer! I just sit around all day! I ignore my family responsibilities by pretending I care about my 'art'! I've got nothing but time, haters, nothing but time AND ALSO MY ALL CONSUMING HATE."
My husband: "Quit that. What would Nora Roberts do? Would she hop down into the mud and slug it out? No, because she's above all that. And so are you."
"You've forgotten everything you've learned about me in two decades because I am absolutely not above any of it. I live for the slime. I sincerely get off on the virtual cow pies. Each day I can't wait to get online and see how something blew up more. Because it always blows up more. Just when you think it can't blow up more, it does! It's fascinating and I'm above none of it."
"Pretend," he advised.
I tried. It didn't work. Also, Nora Roberts does occasionally weigh in on this stuff, always in a classy and professional way. But I was wrong to try and be what I was not: 1) classy, like Nora, 2) above all this. And things blew up more. And it took years for me to see why that didn't work, it took years before I realized that whatever my intentions, jumping in always, always made everything worse. And so many of my colleagues have no idea, and since a lot of us make the same mistakes, I figured I'd offer the benefit of my douchebaggery.
1) Even if you're right, you're wrong. No, really, you're wrong and it's time to swallow that down. Because I promise, nobody cares if you're right. This is one of those times when being right actually works against you.
"Oh my, look who's back: it's MJD, here to right wrongs that had nothing to do with her in the first place."
"Yes, but I'm right!"
"Shut up."
"And I have all new brilliant perspective which will help you see things the way I want you t--the way you're supposed to."
"Shut up."
Now reword that a bunch of different ways through a bunch of different people and spread it all over the internet for at least a week, while posts get shriller and further away from whatever the original argument was. Being right is not helpful in these situations, so don't listen to the still small voice inside you telling you you're right. That trouble-making voice is not on your side.
2) You won't change anyone's mind. You just won't. Let's pick the three biggies: abortion, religion, politics. Have you ever explained your POV online and had anyone come back with, "Wow! I never thought about it like that, but you've argued your side so brilliantly that you have changed my mind. Thanks to you, my political views are gonna do a one-eighty."
No. That never happens. You've never done that. No one's ever done that. But writers think we can pull off the impossible in this case because it's not about religion or politics; it's about our books. No one knows them better than we do, so we're the perfect (non)objective person to defend them. Vigorously. And, eventually, depending on the extent of the blow-up, hilariously. However you do it, how often you do it, you're not gonna win anyone over to your side. And even if you did, when the internet rage gets going it's like a perpetual motion machine running on bitchery, and one person's nice comment will quickly be buried under the not-nice comments from reviewers who hate your hair. So you can't change anyone's mind but, even if you did, it wouldn't make a difference.
3) Everything that happens after you wade in is your fault. I know, victim-blaming isn't cool. (Referring to yourself in any of these internet rage wars as the victim isn't cool, either, even when you are; remember, in the online world being right works against you.) I can't tell you how many bloodbaths would have trickled down to nothing faster if the author hadn't waded in.
Just as it's a reader's right to express their opinion, it's also the author's right. But because IT'S MY RIGHT, JACKHOLES is not a good reason to jump in. Also, some people don't like being called jackholes. I've got the right to eat anything I want for breakfast, but that doesn't mean I should slurp a mixing bowl of heavily sugared chocolate Malt O'Meal with a V-8 chaser. I had the right to eat that vile brew! And now I deeply regret indulging my rights. I will be in the bathroom for the next ninety minutes if you need me. Damn you, rights!
Other things that will be your fault: how long the debate rages and how nasty it gets in a hurry. Don't talk about fair. None of this is about fair.
4) Don't party crash someone else's fight. I was notorious for this, so heed me: even when the intentions are great, the fallout isn't worth it. "But it's not about me at all. It's about my colleague, Insert Name Here. They're being mean and telling lies about her. She's too classy to stick up for herself but I'm not! That came out wrong."
You. Will. Not. Help. Them. You absolutely won't. You will make things worse. I promise: you will make things worse. What you're doing when you do that? Making things worse. Then your colleague has the awful choice of speaking up to defend your defense, or saying nothing and watching you sink beneath the waves. ("The last thing I saw before she went down for the third time was her middle finger. Her last words were 'suck it, haterz!'. This is not how I wanted my birthday to go.") This is not helping your colleague; it's the polar opposite. Stay out of it. I know it's hard to stand by while someone you respect is getting stomped. Colleagues who wouldn't defend themselves against felony arson charges will charge into an online review war to stick up for a friend. No. No. No.
5) Let it go, let it go, let it go. Whatever it is. Just don't.
"But this time it's not just about opinions. They're outright lying! They're crediting me with a post I didn't write! How can the smart thing be to let them flail in the soup of their pig-headedness?" (The soup of their--? Jeez. I need a nap.)
Because to not is the crybaby writer thing; see above.
"But I didn't say that. I never said that. Now the discussion is completely off the subject and everybody's yelling at me about something I did not say."
I understand. It's irksome. But remember, being right isn't going to help even a little. So instead, put it in the context of "real" life. What if you were bopping down the street thinking about Subway for lunch, when a stranger swoops down on you and shrieks, sans preamble, "I know you're the one who killed all my mom's cats and put tinfoil in the middle of my brain!" and then runs away? Would you blow off Subway and chase after him? "I never killed those cats, and there's not a single roll of tinfoil anywhere in my house!" you'd scream, hot on his crazy heels. "If someone said I did that stuff, it's a damn lie! You get back here when I'm yelling at you, Mysterious Weirdo! This isn't finished! I have more things to yell at someone I don't know and will probably never see again!"
Yeah, um...you wouldn't. I wouldn't. (Lie. I would, but I have a lot of substance abusers in my family and we sort of thrive on that shit.) Most of us wouldn't because the idea is as nutty as the random guy accusing you of felicide, you taking it seriously and chasing him only to eventually end up murdered in his murder basement. No, instead you'd shrug and blow them off and likely never think of them again. Because you know it's not smart to mess with shoutey strangers.
Okay, but let's say this was happening in your neighborhood, not a random street somewhere. The guy across the street starts a rumor about your carefree days as a medical test subject. You hear about this third-hand from the family who lives down the block. So you can't be sure who started it and you can't be sure things haven't been exaggerated. The rumor doesn't surprise you because that same neighbor is the one who doesn't mow until the grass is thigh high, bitches when you park on the street, and writes nasty letters to the newspaper every time the post office hikes stamp prices. He's been living across the street for years, and during that time you've tried everything short of felony assault and you've never gotten through to him. Worse, sometimes your neighbors see you arguing with him and, because they don't have the whole story, they get pissed at you, too. Even if you try to explain, so much has been said by so many you don't know where to start the damage control. Some of the talks never get straightened out. Some people think you were the one who got nasty, so new neighbors hear about the obnoxious guy across the street and the obnoxious writer across from him. Nothing you have ever done has changed his behavior in the slightest, and has, at times, made your own life a little harder.
So now when he pulls another shenanigan, you roll your eyes and remind yourself there's one in every neighborhood. You go on with your life and fantasize about buying a dozen ostrich eggs so you can egg his house with huge eggs which would make a huge mess and be hard to clean up. It's fun to fantasize about the eggs, even though you know you won't ever do it and have no idea where to find ostrich eggs.
So the next time you get a bad review, check your WWLDIHWD bracelet (What Would Lance Do If He Wasn't Doping) and remind yourself of steps 1 through 5. Do it as often as you need to, rinse, repeat.
As I mentioned above, I'm living in the glassiest of glass houses; my online feuds are legion, and what happens on the Internet stays on the Internet forever after! And when you stumble across one years later, I promise: you'll be amazed at all the much ado about nothing, and aghast at how shrill and un-sexy you got. A ccolleague stumbled across an ancient online pissing contest between me and eight thousand irked readers (ancient = four years ago, so internet ancient) and asked, "Do you regret wading in?" After some thought, my answer was, "No, but I'll need a minute to explain why." And that's where the blog came in.
Years ago, I had to do that silly shit. I had to click Send without spending a day thinking about what I was trying to accomplish with my post. I had to be the crybaby writer lurching from one pissed off blog to another like a toddler cruising the living room who bonks her head and collapses, screaming. Writer/reader blogs are the living room furniture I'm lurching to and from. The temper tantrum in the living room, where I'm beating my heels on the carpet and getting puffy and gross and ending up with a snot moustache? That has to happen to me. (Good God, I need a nap.) I've got to blunder through all that shit, because it's the only way I'll learn. It's like when your grandma finally gets the internet, and she's all excited about Bill Gates sending her to Disneyland after she wires the Nigerian Royal Family some much-needed funds. You know if you tell her it's a scam she won't believe you; she's gotta find that stuff out for herself. That's me and online feuds: the bigger the ass I make of myself, the better I learn the lesson and the longer it stays with me. It's the only way I'll learn.
I don't regret any of the messes I jumped into; they were my mistakes to make. And make them I did, yeesh. But please take a page from my book o'gaffes and resist making your own. At the end of the day, we love our work and can't imagine not writing. Good reviews or bad, we're so incredibly fortunate that we get to do what we do. Reviews and online feuds and agonizing over print runs and trying to make deadlines, that's all part of it, sure. But it's not why we started in the first place. We started because writing was so much better than not writing. Anything else is just blog-fodder.
Yeah. There it is. We are. It's just--okay, some writers are reading this and already disagreeing so hard their left arm is tingling and they're short of breath, and I'm sorry this blog might tip them into a cardiac event, but writers are needy crybabies. And this isn't about me projecting, either. It's not just me this time. It's probably not just me.
We check reviews of our books; of course we do. (See above: needy.) And that's where the trouble always starts, because people who aren't our moms review our books. Let me say that again so I can reiterate the horror: people who aren't genetically programmed to love us review our books. This happens to almost all writers and sometimes the results aren't pretty.
For myself, I often chalk up a bad review to a communication break-down. (Though I did get one nasty review that disparaged my book and my hair, specifically my "soccer mom bangs". My rebuttal: "Hey, jackass, these are marching band mom bangs. Bet you feel stupid now." That review I chalked up to a bad hair day.) It's pretty arrogant, but sometimes I'll read a scorcher review and cluck my tongue and shake my head and sigh, "That poor guy! He just didn't understand what I was trying to put across. If I could sit down with him and explain my visioney vision he'll totally get it and then he'll love me. My book! That's what I meant; he'll love my book. Because that's secretly what I want: reviewer love. For my book. (Shut up, you're the one who's insecure.)"
So you take writer arrogance and add it to our needy crybabying and factor in reviewers not programmed to love us and divide by the Internet and you've got authors firing rebuttals that the entire world can read two seconds after we hit Send. Back in the day, a writer could pen a pissy reply to a reviewer for, I dunno, a newspaper or something? Anyway, when the reviewer got the rebuttal, they could fire something back, address an envelope, laboriously dig up a stamp, then walk to the PO and drop their letter in a big blue box. They might show the letters to a colleague but at the end of the day, no matter what was said, there was an excellent chance the rest of the planet wasn't privy to any of it.
Yeah, um, it's different now. Social media + whiny crybabies = This.
http://www.journalfen.net/community/f...
I'll say it straight out: I feel guilty using Laurell K. Hamilton as an example, but not guilty enough. I've met her many times; she and her husband Jon are the nicest people. She's given me wonderful career advice. She's offered to do signings with me, and no one who's been #1 on the NYT list has to sign with other writers, ever. But it's because I know she's so nice and professional that I've put her on a list that includes Anne Rice and me. She's my proof that you can be hugely successful (her books are sold all over the world, some of them have been published as graphic novels, she's pondering a movie deal, she's frequently on best-seller lists, etc.), have tons of adoring fans (go to a signing and try NOT to wait in line for two hours), be devoted to the characters (people all over the web don't just talk about her characters, they turn them into terrific art: http://www.myspace.com/sarahquillenre...) and still fall into this trap.
Which brings me to Anne Rice:
http://www.journalfen.net/community/f...
I've never met Anne Rice and don't care for her books. But that's a failing in me, because close to a million copies of her books have sold and she's had legions of fans for almost forty years, so there's something going on there that I just don't get. And that's fine; this isn't about me not getting her books. She's on the list for the reasons Laurell is: you can pull a seven figure income, redefine a genre, be the focus of adoration for hundreds of thousands of fans...and still fall into this trap. This awful "I'm gonna give a million people a piece of my mind while I'm still angry and when they're reading it thirty seconds from now they'll be sorry" trap.
Anna from Pocketful of Books has an entire section of her blog devoted to badly behaving writers and their shenanigans. It's hilariously dreadful, with everything from a writer trying to sue a reviewer (for slander, I guess?), to an author who confronts every reviewer who gave her one star to ask them to justify their opinion, to an author who tweeted a reviewer's phone number and encouraged her fans to tell that person off. It's a countdown to WTF!
http://www.pocketfulofbooks.com/p/aut...
And sometimes, the author's spouse gets in on the behaving badly action:
http://coreyann.me/2012/08/authors-be...
Lest you think this is me talking about the asshatery of others, it is! But I've got a few monuments of my own in the Hall of Wank. There's this: http://karenknowsbest.blogspot.com/se... (you'll have to scroll about halfway down to January 11, 2006: "You can reeeeeeally go off some people"
And this: http://smartbitchestrashybooks.com/bl...
And here's where I defend my asshatery:
http://maryjanicedavidson.blogspot.co...
When I mentioned we're whiny crybabies, I forgot to add that we're also crazy. In my case time has lent perspective, and looking back at these six, seven, eight year old posts, my first feeling is regret. Regret that I didn't appreciate all the free time I had on my hands back then. And making an ass of myself. So there's tons of regret there. I'm boob-deep in regret: "Argh, what was I thinking? Why did I keep jumping back into that long dark swimming hole of the soul? Why didn't anyone tell me I was being so obn--oh, right; they did and I blew them off."
Don't get me wrong; I wasn't a victim and my immaturity has been paying off for years. I've got books published in 15 countries; I make a nice living. That's because I jam my characters with odious aspects of my personality and, mysteriously, people like to read about them. But the other end of the pointy sword I've got a sweaty grip on is what you've read above. That same immaturity, coupled with writerly arrogance, leads me to leap before looking, and I usually land chin-deep in virtual cow patties. Which is better than eyeball-deep, but it's still pretty unpleasant.
Like this:
"Ohhhh, man!" I bellowed when my pissy truth-telling had resulted in more bitchiness raining down on my highlights. "Oh, it's on now! You guys think you can take me? I'm a freelance writer! I just sit around all day! I ignore my family responsibilities by pretending I care about my 'art'! I've got nothing but time, haters, nothing but time AND ALSO MY ALL CONSUMING HATE."
My husband: "Quit that. What would Nora Roberts do? Would she hop down into the mud and slug it out? No, because she's above all that. And so are you."
"You've forgotten everything you've learned about me in two decades because I am absolutely not above any of it. I live for the slime. I sincerely get off on the virtual cow pies. Each day I can't wait to get online and see how something blew up more. Because it always blows up more. Just when you think it can't blow up more, it does! It's fascinating and I'm above none of it."
"Pretend," he advised.
I tried. It didn't work. Also, Nora Roberts does occasionally weigh in on this stuff, always in a classy and professional way. But I was wrong to try and be what I was not: 1) classy, like Nora, 2) above all this. And things blew up more. And it took years for me to see why that didn't work, it took years before I realized that whatever my intentions, jumping in always, always made everything worse. And so many of my colleagues have no idea, and since a lot of us make the same mistakes, I figured I'd offer the benefit of my douchebaggery.
1) Even if you're right, you're wrong. No, really, you're wrong and it's time to swallow that down. Because I promise, nobody cares if you're right. This is one of those times when being right actually works against you.
"Oh my, look who's back: it's MJD, here to right wrongs that had nothing to do with her in the first place."
"Yes, but I'm right!"
"Shut up."
"And I have all new brilliant perspective which will help you see things the way I want you t--the way you're supposed to."
"Shut up."
Now reword that a bunch of different ways through a bunch of different people and spread it all over the internet for at least a week, while posts get shriller and further away from whatever the original argument was. Being right is not helpful in these situations, so don't listen to the still small voice inside you telling you you're right. That trouble-making voice is not on your side.
2) You won't change anyone's mind. You just won't. Let's pick the three biggies: abortion, religion, politics. Have you ever explained your POV online and had anyone come back with, "Wow! I never thought about it like that, but you've argued your side so brilliantly that you have changed my mind. Thanks to you, my political views are gonna do a one-eighty."
No. That never happens. You've never done that. No one's ever done that. But writers think we can pull off the impossible in this case because it's not about religion or politics; it's about our books. No one knows them better than we do, so we're the perfect (non)objective person to defend them. Vigorously. And, eventually, depending on the extent of the blow-up, hilariously. However you do it, how often you do it, you're not gonna win anyone over to your side. And even if you did, when the internet rage gets going it's like a perpetual motion machine running on bitchery, and one person's nice comment will quickly be buried under the not-nice comments from reviewers who hate your hair. So you can't change anyone's mind but, even if you did, it wouldn't make a difference.
3) Everything that happens after you wade in is your fault. I know, victim-blaming isn't cool. (Referring to yourself in any of these internet rage wars as the victim isn't cool, either, even when you are; remember, in the online world being right works against you.) I can't tell you how many bloodbaths would have trickled down to nothing faster if the author hadn't waded in.
Just as it's a reader's right to express their opinion, it's also the author's right. But because IT'S MY RIGHT, JACKHOLES is not a good reason to jump in. Also, some people don't like being called jackholes. I've got the right to eat anything I want for breakfast, but that doesn't mean I should slurp a mixing bowl of heavily sugared chocolate Malt O'Meal with a V-8 chaser. I had the right to eat that vile brew! And now I deeply regret indulging my rights. I will be in the bathroom for the next ninety minutes if you need me. Damn you, rights!
Other things that will be your fault: how long the debate rages and how nasty it gets in a hurry. Don't talk about fair. None of this is about fair.
4) Don't party crash someone else's fight. I was notorious for this, so heed me: even when the intentions are great, the fallout isn't worth it. "But it's not about me at all. It's about my colleague, Insert Name Here. They're being mean and telling lies about her. She's too classy to stick up for herself but I'm not! That came out wrong."
You. Will. Not. Help. Them. You absolutely won't. You will make things worse. I promise: you will make things worse. What you're doing when you do that? Making things worse. Then your colleague has the awful choice of speaking up to defend your defense, or saying nothing and watching you sink beneath the waves. ("The last thing I saw before she went down for the third time was her middle finger. Her last words were 'suck it, haterz!'. This is not how I wanted my birthday to go.") This is not helping your colleague; it's the polar opposite. Stay out of it. I know it's hard to stand by while someone you respect is getting stomped. Colleagues who wouldn't defend themselves against felony arson charges will charge into an online review war to stick up for a friend. No. No. No.
5) Let it go, let it go, let it go. Whatever it is. Just don't.
"But this time it's not just about opinions. They're outright lying! They're crediting me with a post I didn't write! How can the smart thing be to let them flail in the soup of their pig-headedness?" (The soup of their--? Jeez. I need a nap.)
Because to not is the crybaby writer thing; see above.
"But I didn't say that. I never said that. Now the discussion is completely off the subject and everybody's yelling at me about something I did not say."
I understand. It's irksome. But remember, being right isn't going to help even a little. So instead, put it in the context of "real" life. What if you were bopping down the street thinking about Subway for lunch, when a stranger swoops down on you and shrieks, sans preamble, "I know you're the one who killed all my mom's cats and put tinfoil in the middle of my brain!" and then runs away? Would you blow off Subway and chase after him? "I never killed those cats, and there's not a single roll of tinfoil anywhere in my house!" you'd scream, hot on his crazy heels. "If someone said I did that stuff, it's a damn lie! You get back here when I'm yelling at you, Mysterious Weirdo! This isn't finished! I have more things to yell at someone I don't know and will probably never see again!"
Yeah, um...you wouldn't. I wouldn't. (Lie. I would, but I have a lot of substance abusers in my family and we sort of thrive on that shit.) Most of us wouldn't because the idea is as nutty as the random guy accusing you of felicide, you taking it seriously and chasing him only to eventually end up murdered in his murder basement. No, instead you'd shrug and blow them off and likely never think of them again. Because you know it's not smart to mess with shoutey strangers.
Okay, but let's say this was happening in your neighborhood, not a random street somewhere. The guy across the street starts a rumor about your carefree days as a medical test subject. You hear about this third-hand from the family who lives down the block. So you can't be sure who started it and you can't be sure things haven't been exaggerated. The rumor doesn't surprise you because that same neighbor is the one who doesn't mow until the grass is thigh high, bitches when you park on the street, and writes nasty letters to the newspaper every time the post office hikes stamp prices. He's been living across the street for years, and during that time you've tried everything short of felony assault and you've never gotten through to him. Worse, sometimes your neighbors see you arguing with him and, because they don't have the whole story, they get pissed at you, too. Even if you try to explain, so much has been said by so many you don't know where to start the damage control. Some of the talks never get straightened out. Some people think you were the one who got nasty, so new neighbors hear about the obnoxious guy across the street and the obnoxious writer across from him. Nothing you have ever done has changed his behavior in the slightest, and has, at times, made your own life a little harder.
So now when he pulls another shenanigan, you roll your eyes and remind yourself there's one in every neighborhood. You go on with your life and fantasize about buying a dozen ostrich eggs so you can egg his house with huge eggs which would make a huge mess and be hard to clean up. It's fun to fantasize about the eggs, even though you know you won't ever do it and have no idea where to find ostrich eggs.
So the next time you get a bad review, check your WWLDIHWD bracelet (What Would Lance Do If He Wasn't Doping) and remind yourself of steps 1 through 5. Do it as often as you need to, rinse, repeat.
As I mentioned above, I'm living in the glassiest of glass houses; my online feuds are legion, and what happens on the Internet stays on the Internet forever after! And when you stumble across one years later, I promise: you'll be amazed at all the much ado about nothing, and aghast at how shrill and un-sexy you got. A ccolleague stumbled across an ancient online pissing contest between me and eight thousand irked readers (ancient = four years ago, so internet ancient) and asked, "Do you regret wading in?" After some thought, my answer was, "No, but I'll need a minute to explain why." And that's where the blog came in.
Years ago, I had to do that silly shit. I had to click Send without spending a day thinking about what I was trying to accomplish with my post. I had to be the crybaby writer lurching from one pissed off blog to another like a toddler cruising the living room who bonks her head and collapses, screaming. Writer/reader blogs are the living room furniture I'm lurching to and from. The temper tantrum in the living room, where I'm beating my heels on the carpet and getting puffy and gross and ending up with a snot moustache? That has to happen to me. (Good God, I need a nap.) I've got to blunder through all that shit, because it's the only way I'll learn. It's like when your grandma finally gets the internet, and she's all excited about Bill Gates sending her to Disneyland after she wires the Nigerian Royal Family some much-needed funds. You know if you tell her it's a scam she won't believe you; she's gotta find that stuff out for herself. That's me and online feuds: the bigger the ass I make of myself, the better I learn the lesson and the longer it stays with me. It's the only way I'll learn.
I don't regret any of the messes I jumped into; they were my mistakes to make. And make them I did, yeesh. But please take a page from my book o'gaffes and resist making your own. At the end of the day, we love our work and can't imagine not writing. Good reviews or bad, we're so incredibly fortunate that we get to do what we do. Reviews and online feuds and agonizing over print runs and trying to make deadlines, that's all part of it, sure. But it's not why we started in the first place. We started because writing was so much better than not writing. Anything else is just blog-fodder.
February 17, 2013
I Chat and Give Away Books
Hey, gang! Tonight, in a ruthless attempt to promote my upcoming releases, I'll be chatting with readers at the Writerspace Valentine Chat tonight, Sunday, 2/17. I'll be in the chatroom for an hour or so between 8 and 11 pm Eastern. Lots of authors are giving away free books, plus Kindles! So if you want to ask about upcoming books, UNDEAD details, or just hang out and chat, I'd love it if you could stop by. Gory details below per the movers and shakers at Writerspace:
"Please join me at the Writerspace Valentine Chat tonight, February 17th from 8pm ET to 11pm ET. Authors will be chatting and giving away tons of prizes -- Kindles, autographed books, gift cards and more. You don't have to be present to win, but you must be registered. To register, and for details on all participating authors and prizes, visit http://www.writerspace.com/valentine/ "
As above, there will be tons of prizes, including a signed ARC (Advanced Readers Copy) of YOU AND I, ME AND YOU (March release, 3rd in the BOFFO trilogy) and a signed ARC of UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER (March release, paranormal thology).
Hope to see lots and lots of you there tonight!
"Please join me at the Writerspace Valentine Chat tonight, February 17th from 8pm ET to 11pm ET. Authors will be chatting and giving away tons of prizes -- Kindles, autographed books, gift cards and more. You don't have to be present to win, but you must be registered. To register, and for details on all participating authors and prizes, visit http://www.writerspace.com/valentine/ "
As above, there will be tons of prizes, including a signed ARC (Advanced Readers Copy) of YOU AND I, ME AND YOU (March release, 3rd in the BOFFO trilogy) and a signed ARC of UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER (March release, paranormal thology).
Hope to see lots and lots of you there tonight!
January 24, 2013
Sinclair Takes Over UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE
My apologies for going so long between blog posts. Deadlines, edits, and the holidays (which entailed feigning love for my family...exhausting!) descended with the delicate grace of a brick to the temporal lobe.
So! Thought I'd celerate my return to the universe with a sneak peek at an UNSURE chapter (unsure chapter...heh). Some quick background: Laura, righteously pissed about Betsy's shenanigans at the end of UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE, has snatched Betsy, dumped her in Hell...and left her there. Midway through the book, the first person narrative switches between Betsy and Sinclair. Below is the first chapter from Sinclair's point of view.
Enjoy! Or boycott. I'm okay with either. :-)
* * *
My wife and my sister-in-law fell off the world and I could not stop them. To my shame, I did not try. I stood like a weakling child and watched. And then I went away inside myself because, at my core, in my essential self, there was always the weakling child who could not prevent the deaths of those he loved, and who lacked the courage to follow them on their journey. I spent decades not following them; I expected to spend centuries. And for the first time since I met my queen, I realized anew that immortality could be a curse to the cowardly. “...my king? Sir? Sir?” A familiar voice, one I had loved long. “Eric? Eric?” Ah. This is where I am. This is what we are doing. Following her foray into familiarity, Christina Caresse Chavelle would now bite her lip and do something she hated. I was comforted by a routine that had begun when I was four and recovering from rubella. The uproar over the consequence(ah...consequence...such a familiar word today...my queen would say it is the word of the week)of my illness had hit my parents hard. I did not know it at the time, but the stress caused me to sleepwalk. If not for Tina’s timely slap, I should have blundered into one of the ponds and drowned. She woke me, she comforted me, and the next day began teaching me to swim. It would not be the first time, or the last, I was saved by a quick-thinking woman who loved me. Father, you thought my rubella-rendered sterility would put an end to the Sinclair name; you thought no grandchildren by your son was the worst thing that could happen to our family. You made us believe it with you. Oh my Father, you were correct in many things; why not this one?I caught Tina’s hand an inch from my face. “I am fine,” I said distinctly. “You may restrain yourself, however tempting your impulse.”She gifted me with the ghost of a smile, gone so quickly it might never have been on her sweet face at all. Beyond hers was a ring of others, all wide-eyed and fretful.I stood(when did I lie down?)and apologized. I noted the dining room table had been shoved across the room and there was a sizeable mess of broken plates and spilled drinks everywhere.I apologized again. “That’s okay,” Jessica said at once. From behind Detective Berry, I could not help but note. At some point in the last—I glanced at my watch—four minutes, he had seized her elbow and tugged her behind him. This was wise, if ultimately useless. “Listen, it’ll be okay. You know we’ll get her back.”I did not.“I think she’ll have to get herself back.” My mother-in-law reached for my hand. “But she can, I’m sure. And if not, you’ll think of something. Just—don’t worry. Okay? You’ll figure it out. Ah—we’ll all figure it out.” Her small warm hand squeezed mine even as her expression told me the former was truer than the latter. I appreciated the sentiments, but had no time for them. Words are wind, as Mr. Martin had written many times. (I had read and re-read the Song of Ice and Fire books because Elizabeth refused; they were delightful and astonishing. But I refused to watch the televised series, no offense meant to Mssrs. Bean and Dinklage.) Words, in fact, were worthless; wind could at least be channeled for power. For I had no idea how Elizabeth would ‘get herself back’. Nor did I know how I could go to her. And that only if she—I gritted my teeth and forced the thought to its logical conclusion—only if my dear one was yet alive. I could not feel her within me. Our fragile telepathic bond, so new, had quickly become invaluable, something we wondered how we had ever done without. As luscious in body and charming in mind as Elizabeth was, it was as humbling as it was arousing to show a woman the most dreadful places in your mind, and have her embrace when all others would shrink back. The loss of our priceless link was nothing less than devastating. Priceless as the dictionary defined it; ‘of inestimable worth’. There was nothing; probing for her spark was like feeling the bloody hole left behind when a tooth was yanked.“We must go to Laura’s new home.”Tina nodded, her furrowed brow smoothing. “New home?” Dr. Spangler asked. He had kept back; he had not rushed to comfort me when I was back to myself. I would wager he endured my paroxysm by distancing himself until my foolish indulgence had burned itself out. A wise man in death as well as life. “She’s moved?”“Yes, as she is now an adult.” I could not keep the scorn from my tone; I did not try. “A thwarted, angry child with delusions of maturity and the power of a god.” My fingers actually twitched, I wanted them around her neck so, so badly. Ah, sweet sister-in-law, your mother’s well-deserved murder was not the worst thing that could happen to you. I will show you. I will.If I could get my hands on her, that is. “I don’t think she’ll stay in Hell for long,” Tina ventured. “Nor do I, and so we must be ready.”My oldest friend nodded once again. “We will be, my king.” She did not waste words on comfort or predictions she had no way of knowing would come to pass. Tina knew what the others did not: if the queen was dead, so was the Anti-Christ. If I had to burn every vampire on the planet to bring that about, I would. Including myself.Tina knew that, too.
So! Thought I'd celerate my return to the universe with a sneak peek at an UNSURE chapter (unsure chapter...heh). Some quick background: Laura, righteously pissed about Betsy's shenanigans at the end of UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE, has snatched Betsy, dumped her in Hell...and left her there. Midway through the book, the first person narrative switches between Betsy and Sinclair. Below is the first chapter from Sinclair's point of view.
Enjoy! Or boycott. I'm okay with either. :-)
* * *
My wife and my sister-in-law fell off the world and I could not stop them. To my shame, I did not try. I stood like a weakling child and watched. And then I went away inside myself because, at my core, in my essential self, there was always the weakling child who could not prevent the deaths of those he loved, and who lacked the courage to follow them on their journey. I spent decades not following them; I expected to spend centuries. And for the first time since I met my queen, I realized anew that immortality could be a curse to the cowardly. “...my king? Sir? Sir?” A familiar voice, one I had loved long. “Eric? Eric?” Ah. This is where I am. This is what we are doing. Following her foray into familiarity, Christina Caresse Chavelle would now bite her lip and do something she hated. I was comforted by a routine that had begun when I was four and recovering from rubella. The uproar over the consequence(ah...consequence...such a familiar word today...my queen would say it is the word of the week)of my illness had hit my parents hard. I did not know it at the time, but the stress caused me to sleepwalk. If not for Tina’s timely slap, I should have blundered into one of the ponds and drowned. She woke me, she comforted me, and the next day began teaching me to swim. It would not be the first time, or the last, I was saved by a quick-thinking woman who loved me. Father, you thought my rubella-rendered sterility would put an end to the Sinclair name; you thought no grandchildren by your son was the worst thing that could happen to our family. You made us believe it with you. Oh my Father, you were correct in many things; why not this one?I caught Tina’s hand an inch from my face. “I am fine,” I said distinctly. “You may restrain yourself, however tempting your impulse.”She gifted me with the ghost of a smile, gone so quickly it might never have been on her sweet face at all. Beyond hers was a ring of others, all wide-eyed and fretful.I stood(when did I lie down?)and apologized. I noted the dining room table had been shoved across the room and there was a sizeable mess of broken plates and spilled drinks everywhere.I apologized again. “That’s okay,” Jessica said at once. From behind Detective Berry, I could not help but note. At some point in the last—I glanced at my watch—four minutes, he had seized her elbow and tugged her behind him. This was wise, if ultimately useless. “Listen, it’ll be okay. You know we’ll get her back.”I did not.“I think she’ll have to get herself back.” My mother-in-law reached for my hand. “But she can, I’m sure. And if not, you’ll think of something. Just—don’t worry. Okay? You’ll figure it out. Ah—we’ll all figure it out.” Her small warm hand squeezed mine even as her expression told me the former was truer than the latter. I appreciated the sentiments, but had no time for them. Words are wind, as Mr. Martin had written many times. (I had read and re-read the Song of Ice and Fire books because Elizabeth refused; they were delightful and astonishing. But I refused to watch the televised series, no offense meant to Mssrs. Bean and Dinklage.) Words, in fact, were worthless; wind could at least be channeled for power. For I had no idea how Elizabeth would ‘get herself back’. Nor did I know how I could go to her. And that only if she—I gritted my teeth and forced the thought to its logical conclusion—only if my dear one was yet alive. I could not feel her within me. Our fragile telepathic bond, so new, had quickly become invaluable, something we wondered how we had ever done without. As luscious in body and charming in mind as Elizabeth was, it was as humbling as it was arousing to show a woman the most dreadful places in your mind, and have her embrace when all others would shrink back. The loss of our priceless link was nothing less than devastating. Priceless as the dictionary defined it; ‘of inestimable worth’. There was nothing; probing for her spark was like feeling the bloody hole left behind when a tooth was yanked.“We must go to Laura’s new home.”Tina nodded, her furrowed brow smoothing. “New home?” Dr. Spangler asked. He had kept back; he had not rushed to comfort me when I was back to myself. I would wager he endured my paroxysm by distancing himself until my foolish indulgence had burned itself out. A wise man in death as well as life. “She’s moved?”“Yes, as she is now an adult.” I could not keep the scorn from my tone; I did not try. “A thwarted, angry child with delusions of maturity and the power of a god.” My fingers actually twitched, I wanted them around her neck so, so badly. Ah, sweet sister-in-law, your mother’s well-deserved murder was not the worst thing that could happen to you. I will show you. I will.If I could get my hands on her, that is. “I don’t think she’ll stay in Hell for long,” Tina ventured. “Nor do I, and so we must be ready.”My oldest friend nodded once again. “We will be, my king.” She did not waste words on comfort or predictions she had no way of knowing would come to pass. Tina knew what the others did not: if the queen was dead, so was the Anti-Christ. If I had to burn every vampire on the planet to bring that about, I would. Including myself.Tina knew that, too.
