MaryJanice Davidson's Blog, page 7
June 13, 2012
Readers Shove UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE Onto Best-seller Lists and I'm Slobberingly Grateful
Found out tonight UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE made both the NYT best-seller list AND the USA Today list! I never take book contracts or sales for granted, so to say I'm pleased would be like saying Betsy would think hanging around the Manolo factory would be pleasant.
Thank you guys so much for sticking with Betsy and me through the grim stuff of UNFINISHED and UNDERMINED! I promised you guys there would be resolution (one way or the other) in this book and I'm grateful you gave me the chance to put my royalties where my mouth is. Thank you!
Also: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Thank you guys so much for sticking with Betsy and me through the grim stuff of UNFINISHED and UNDERMINED! I promised you guys there would be resolution (one way or the other) in this book and I'm grateful you gave me the chance to put my royalties where my mouth is. Thank you!
Also: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
June 7, 2012
Independent Book Stores Kick Ass: Uncle Hugo's
I've got nothing against Barnes and Noble or the late lamented Borders; I love them. But I also love the independent book stores, sort of the way I root for the ab-eriffic studs in the movie 300. They're probably doomed eventually, but holy hell, everything they do is mega-cool, and Gerard Butler is there!
Which brings me to Uncle Hugo's Science Fiction and Mystery Bookstore. First off, at least two or three times a year, they invite me to sign books. They also keep most of my back list (60+ titles!) in stock. Third, one of the awesomest signings of my life happened on their property: me, and Laurell K. Hamilton. (She gets migraines, so often wears sunglasses inside. And when she's on tour, they keep track of her whereabouts. So it was like a rock star had entered the building, complete with second-by-second updates and walkie-talkie noises: "Laurell's pulling up. Kkkkssshht! Laurell's getting out. Kkkkssshht...Laurell's in the aisle with... kkkssshht...the Parker novels. Laurell's...here!")
Uncle Hugo's Science Fiction and Mystery Bookstore would be great by anybody's standards, but these guys really go the extra mile, what with the signings and the back list...did I mention I don't write science fiction or mysteries? And they STILL do all those things for me?
Right! So: too cool for school. Anyway, I'll be there tomorrow night, from 6:00 p.m. until 7:00 p.m. And then I'll probably cross the parking lot and hit the KFC. They have a Kentucky Fried Chicken mere steps form their door! After I finish signing I can take a bath in KFC gravy! What's not to love?
http://www.unclehugo.com/prod/index.s...
Hope to see you there!
Which brings me to Uncle Hugo's Science Fiction and Mystery Bookstore. First off, at least two or three times a year, they invite me to sign books. They also keep most of my back list (60+ titles!) in stock. Third, one of the awesomest signings of my life happened on their property: me, and Laurell K. Hamilton. (She gets migraines, so often wears sunglasses inside. And when she's on tour, they keep track of her whereabouts. So it was like a rock star had entered the building, complete with second-by-second updates and walkie-talkie noises: "Laurell's pulling up. Kkkkssshht! Laurell's getting out. Kkkkssshht...Laurell's in the aisle with... kkkssshht...the Parker novels. Laurell's...here!")
Uncle Hugo's Science Fiction and Mystery Bookstore would be great by anybody's standards, but these guys really go the extra mile, what with the signings and the back list...did I mention I don't write science fiction or mysteries? And they STILL do all those things for me?
Right! So: too cool for school. Anyway, I'll be there tomorrow night, from 6:00 p.m. until 7:00 p.m. And then I'll probably cross the parking lot and hit the KFC. They have a Kentucky Fried Chicken mere steps form their door! After I finish signing I can take a bath in KFC gravy! What's not to love?
http://www.unclehugo.com/prod/index.s...
Hope to see you there!
June 5, 2012
Free Chunks of UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE All Over the Web
Back from France today, the day UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE comes out. France was wonderful, and more on that later (see my FaceBook page for immediate, laugh-at-my-expense details, and they are legion, baby!), but right now I'm pretty thrilled June 5, 2012, is finally here! I'm so excited for readers to get this book, I can't tell you. It's the definitive Betsy book: all the dark things happening in the last two books are resolved, one way or the other. Love the ending or hate it, readers will at last know what Betsy's reaction to her horrific future is...and exactly what she does about it.
But hardcovers are expensive, and the economy sucks. So I've done a number of blog posts all over the web, and with each post I also posted an excerpt of UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE. They're from a chapter here and part of a chapter there and a chapter in the middle and one near the end and one at the beginning...like that. And though they aren't in order, when you put all those blogs and all those posts and all those sneak peeks together, you end up getting to read something like 85-some pages of UNSTABLE...for free.
So! Here's a quick list of the blogs. Check them out yourself...if you're intrigued, great, and if you're not, you're out just a little of your time, and none of your $$$$. And hey...you might have found a new blog you might like to visit now and again!
Also: France rocked it. ROCKED IT. But more on that later. I'm still digesting eclairs...what's French for, "Sure, there's a searing pain racing down my left arm and my heart feels tingly and a little too big for my chest, but have you tried this cream puff? I like to buy two and then eat one, then rub the other one all over my face."
Blogs/book excerpts up as of right now:
nocturnereads.com
magicalurbanfantasyreads.com
literaladdiction.com
allthingsubranfantasy.com
Blogs up beginning June 8 (there will be one almost every day for the next several days, so if the excerpt isn't up when you check, keep trying):
Bittenbybooks.com
beasbooknook.blogspot.com
theromancestudio.com
stella-exlibris.com
Freshfiction.com
RexRobotReviews.com
qwillery.blogspot.com
I'll also be doing some radio and TV interviews over the next couple of weeks, in addition to local (Twin Cities area) book and stock signings, so watch this blog, my Yahoo group, and my FaceBook for updates on when to catch my smiling face and/or dulcet tones on the airwaves. That sounded less like a threat in my head, and more like an invitation. Really!
But hardcovers are expensive, and the economy sucks. So I've done a number of blog posts all over the web, and with each post I also posted an excerpt of UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE. They're from a chapter here and part of a chapter there and a chapter in the middle and one near the end and one at the beginning...like that. And though they aren't in order, when you put all those blogs and all those posts and all those sneak peeks together, you end up getting to read something like 85-some pages of UNSTABLE...for free.
So! Here's a quick list of the blogs. Check them out yourself...if you're intrigued, great, and if you're not, you're out just a little of your time, and none of your $$$$. And hey...you might have found a new blog you might like to visit now and again!
Also: France rocked it. ROCKED IT. But more on that later. I'm still digesting eclairs...what's French for, "Sure, there's a searing pain racing down my left arm and my heart feels tingly and a little too big for my chest, but have you tried this cream puff? I like to buy two and then eat one, then rub the other one all over my face."
Blogs/book excerpts up as of right now:
nocturnereads.com
magicalurbanfantasyreads.com
literaladdiction.com
allthingsubranfantasy.com
Blogs up beginning June 8 (there will be one almost every day for the next several days, so if the excerpt isn't up when you check, keep trying):
Bittenbybooks.com
beasbooknook.blogspot.com
theromancestudio.com
stella-exlibris.com
Freshfiction.com
RexRobotReviews.com
qwillery.blogspot.com
I'll also be doing some radio and TV interviews over the next couple of weeks, in addition to local (Twin Cities area) book and stock signings, so watch this blog, my Yahoo group, and my FaceBook for updates on when to catch my smiling face and/or dulcet tones on the airwaves. That sounded less like a threat in my head, and more like an invitation. Really!
June 3, 2012
I Let My Husband Speak
With my wife MaryJanice out of town - nay, out of state - nay, out of the country! - I have hacked the password to her blog (hint: every password she has is a variation of “asshat”) and intend to bring you, the gentle reader, the first highly reasoned entry this entire blog has ever seen. No outlandish statements, no random insults, no stream-of-what-passes-for-consciousness in her mind; just good, wholesome reading for the entire family.
That’s why I’m going to talk about my ass.
Seriously. (For about one paragraph.) By the end of this blog posting, and probably by the end of the next sentence, you’ll figure out the rationale for this topic. Of course to get there, you’re going to have to read about a colonoscopy. I had one recently, and it just offers too much material. MaryJanice spoke to me before she left about sharing the experience with her readers, since many of you might find yourselves in the same situation someday. She thought it would be a good idea. I’m still not sure it is myself - I’m an elected official running opposed this year, and even the most extroverted candidates don’t generally disclose THIS much information about themselves! Still, I’ll do a lot for the sake of good health advice, and if everyone can have a bit of a laugh at my expense along the way, that’s just fine.
So, we’ve all agreed that if you’re reading further than this, you’re not going to whine on the Internet about “too much information!”, right?! We’re all big boys and girls here, right?! Okay, let’s get to the mockin’.
The American Cancer Society recommends colonoscopies for adults over 50. I am not over 50, but I’ve got some family history that convinced my doctor that my ass may be ten years older than the rest of me. I put him off for a couple of years because, I dunno, my butt didn’t feel like it had cancer; but after he pointed out a few months ago that all of the good eating habits and stomach crunches and push-ups I was doing wouldn’t mean shit to a malignant tumor if it was sitting there already, I made the appointment.
Then I postponed the appointment three months, because I had a professional development opportunity.
Then I lost the prep letter they sent me.
Then I got snippy when the clinic called and asked if I had received the prep letter and understood it.
Then I made them send me another one, which I read and fumed at before I stuffed it back in the enveloped and tacked it to the kitchen corkboard, well within reach of my dog’s jaws if she were so inclined to taste the inexplicably gravy-tainted paperwork.
My wife has observed, on occasion, that I am not a model patient. Of course I’m not. Most models get paid - she should know this, having dabbled in that career path herself. My service to the medical profession is to avoid being sick in the first place. The less the doctors, nurses, and other devoted health professionals see me, the happier we all are. I’m not the first person to feel this way, and I won’t be the last. I consider myself in plentiful and distinguished company.
Still, it’s hard to ignore things like mortality, especially once trauma hits someone you know. Also, it occurs to me that I will make a kick-ass grandfather someday, because I very much enjoy entertaining children for short bursts and then off-loading them onto someone more responsible. But I can’t have that sort of fun if I’m dead. So I wiped the gravy off the envelope, fed the dog a biscuit instead, and kept the goddamn appointment.
Prep letters for this sort of procedure are written by well-meaning people who didn’t exactly major in communication or marketing. That’s okay, because I’d prefer they pursued the medical degree. Still, it’s obvious that these letters have some passionate authors, because they have warnings heaped after bold-faced warnings heaped after bold-italicized warnings heaped after bold-italic-underlined warnings. You can just hear the staff as they plink away at the keyboard:
Tappity tap. “Okay, I’m listing the low-fiber diet. Should we explain why it’s necessary?”
“No, let’s just start listing foods they like. What do people like?”
“Hmm. I like nuts.”
“Nuts. That’s the first thing to go. Add raw fruit and vegetables, too.”
Tappity tappity. “Raw fruit...vegetables...anything else?”
“Hmmm. There’s a lot, aren’t there? Just list ‘high-fiber foods’.”
“Wait. We’re going to make a list of high-fiber foods, throw a couple of examples, and then just close it out with an actual entry that says, ‘high fiber foods’? That doesn’t explain very much. Isn’t that like defining a word by using the word, or something?”
“What is this, War and Peace? Just tell them to lay off the fucking fiber. Everyone knows what fiber is. Finish the list and let’s move on to liquid diet day.”
“Got it...all right, doing the part about mixing the laxative and the Gatorade. Should we explain why this is necessary?”
“They’ll figure it out within an hour. Hey - make sure it’s not RED Gatorade. We don’t want this solution to taste like anything but fake lemon-lime. Underline that: not red.”
Tappity tappity tap. “Not...red...underlining...okay...”
“Did you boldface it?”
“I underlined it. That’s not enough?”
“They won’t read it if you don’t boldface it. Also, it should be all caps. Patients need capitalization when they read about colonoscopies. That’s how they know it’s important.”
“Do you think they won’t read the stuff we don’t capitalize, then?”
“Good point. Better capitalize the whole paragraph.”
Of course, everything they direct the reader to do is actually important, and I did it. It helped to take a vacation day or two off beforehand, and I was also glad MaryJanice was home with me because like most people who don’t normally work out of the house, I lost track of what day of the week it was and almost made a cataclysmic mistake when I popped open a Greek yogurt the day before, thinking it was Wednesday instead of Thursday. Actually, truth be told, in that moment I thought it was Sunday since I’d been home the day before. This whole thing was really hiding my water bowl, so to speak.
During this short liquid diet, I got a brief glimpse into the life of an anorexic. I’m not jesting there; I know many people with eating disorders resort to liquid diets because they’re effective at purging the weight of whatever’s in the digestive tract. It’s wildly effective for about 24 hours - you drop a bunch of pounds right away. The problem, of course, is that this is a one-time loss of solid material from your body, and to sustain the lower level you have to keep sucking down nothing more than chicken broth and sports drinks. Say what you will about the evils of fiber, but I found that I was nearly keeling over every three or four hours without it. Apparently, foods with fiber also tend to have these crazy things called “nutrients” in them. So don’t skip ‘em.
In between fainting spells, I was also mildly cranky. Wedded life with me is normally uninterrupted bliss, as MaryJanice will be the first to attest (though there’s no need for her to exert herself editorially in this blog entry, to do so). Still, when not properly fed, I can do an admirable impression of that honey badger that went video-viral about a year ago. Cute as a button, but perhaps a touch aggressive. Here is a list of things I found annoying during this time:
* the cramps (no way this doesn’t come first);* the fact that I knew I couldn’t play basketball or do any significant exercise;* the taste of Gatorade laced with Miralax;* the fact that my wife, in a fit of well-intentioned helpfulness, bought three times the volume of liquids I could possibly consume for this time period, apparently thinking me to be some sort of exotic fish;* every Gatorade commercial I saw on television, which showed other people drinking the stuff during the course of actual physical exertion;* the way the dogs barked every time a squirrel crossed the street;* the inexplicable career success of Kristen Stewart;* my children’s voices;* the air from the ceiling fan;* the stuffiness of the room when the ceiling fan wasn’t on;* my persistent inability to beat the demon Belial on normal difficulty in Diablo III (since rectified, but still);* the endless chain of leashes my family has constructed for the puppy so that she can explore more of the yard while being taken outside, which is both unnecessary and in fact counterproductive to proper training (this may still be bugging me); and* the worry that this procedure may, in fact, find something requiring follow-up.
The morning of the procedure, MaryJanice and I drove in to the hospital together. (I couldn’t go alone. You need to have someone there to drive you home, so they can start laughing at you and your ass camera procedure right away. Delaying the mocking process can entail severe side effects.) The office made it very clear (note how I’ve bold-faced, italicized, and underlined that) to be there forty-five minutes before the actual start time of the procedure. Lots of paperwork to do, you see, and it’s the start of the day and we need to be there on the spot so that they don’t get behind with everyone else. Everything depends on us! So we’re there forty-five minutes early. Is there a soul out there who hasn’t already predicted that we had to sit in their waiting room for a good chunk of that time, anyway?
At this point, I get some new papers that outline what the procedure will actually be like, and what I’ll need to do afterward. It’s legal stuff masquerading as medical information (you can tell because of the way you have to sign at the end and give them back a copy, even though they already know everything on the sheet). Still, I read it and found it informative. One of the things I learned was that the endoscope didn’t just have a camera on it; it also had a tiny pair of scissors capable of taking tiny biopsies. That way, if they found anything, they could snag the sample right away, instead of pulling the camera back and then blindly jamming some spinning blades into my intestine.
“That’s thoughtful of them,” I remarked to MaryJanice. She nodded, nose stuck in People magazine.
Eventually I got to go back to the prep room, where you undress and put on the stupid smock. I had to use the bathroom again, which inspired the nurse to reassure me that I would likely not have the urge again during the procedure. When I asked her the basis for her astonishing prescience, she pointed out that the endoscope also had a suction tool.
Wow, I thought to myself. A camera. A scissors. And now a vacuum cleaner. It’s like getting an enema from a Swiss Army knife.
Flash forward twenty minutes, and yep, that’s what it felt like. No, okay, it wasn’t that bad! While I was in the prep room, the nurse set up the intravenous for my sedative, which not only keeps you from driving home alone later but alsokeeps you from jumping off the operating table mid-procedure screaming “aaaiiiiiiieeeeee...that thing must be at least four feet long!” Here, the writing skills of whoever authored the prep memo shone brightly: they used the word “discomfort”, which is spot on.
The doctor herself was a superstar, a fine mix of pleasant and professional, who hadn’t forgotten that patients like things like introductions and explanations and warnings. She was kind to her staff, who were also excellent, and she recognized me in my city council role...which led to the only surreal part of the entire experience.
I understood immediately, when she began asking questions about a specific city planning issue, that she was trying to distract me from the discomfort of the procedure. (I’m like a quasi-slim Jabba the Hut, in that Jedi mind tricks don’t work on me...also, I keep an enormous beast in the basement, under a trap door.) Still, it was an odd topic to pick. At one point, one of the nurses chimed in with mild disagreement about my take on the issue, which didn’t strike me as fighting particularly fairly. I mean, I think I held my own in this particular debate; still, I trust everyone involved will cut me some slack if I didn’t recall correctly every precise detail of the city’s landmark purchase of the Hudson Sprayers building for riverside redevelopment purposes.
Just at the point where I started to feel sufficient discomfort to request a change in conversational topic, I felt the Swiss Army knife retract. It pulled back with alarming speed, but it seems churlish to complain. I got up, they guided me back to the prep room, I got to dress and have an orange juice and cookie, and then my wife drove me home.
Oh, I almost forgot: no growths. If cancer’s going to get me, it’s not taking the back door! In fact, given some thinness in some of the lining in there, the medical staff actually had the outstanding sense of irony to recommended a high fiber diet for me. I tried hard not to say anything in response to that. (I lasted until this blog, anyway.)
So that’s how I started my Memorial Day weekend, which put me in a mind of the real sacrifices many people have made, which far outstrip anything I’ve experienced inside or outside a hospital. I’m grateful for the life I have, the city and state and country I live it in, and the people I know who’ve helped me along the way. They care about me, and the least I can do for them is take reasonable steps to ensure my long-term health.
Do I have to spell out the moral of the story? Very well, for the less subtle among you, especially the men, I will. Those of you who are over 50, or those younger who fall into one of several high-risk categories, should get an occasional colonoscopy. You can learn more about the necessary frequency for this and other tests at the American Cancer Society website (http://www.cancer.org/). You won’t sacrifice your dignity or self-respect - in fact, you’ll gather more of it by demonstrating what people do when they care for each other.
Thanks to MaryJanice for letting me use her blog to carry this message to a wider audience than many politicians enjoy, thanks to all of you for reading (and of course, for reading my wife’s books), and special thanks to those of you who take the message of testing to heart. Many happy returns.
May 30, 2012
France Gives Us the Statue of Liberty, and Invites Me for a Sleepover
I'm in France for the next few days, and before you pity the French too much, they invited me. When my French publisher, the too-cool folks at Bragelonne, invited me to attend the Les Imaginales conference, I assumed it was a cruel trick. "Listen, I understand you don't want me in your country, ever, and I don't blame you, but there's no need to be a jerk...what? No, really? You're serious?" Having no wish to say on my deathbed, "Wow, I really wish I hadn't turned down that free trip to France" along with "Also, I probably should have turned the lights on before taking that ill-fated shower", I took them up on it, and here I am. If that doesn't teach them, there's no point.
This is my second full day here and it's terrific so far. The weather's gorgeous (I brought summer with me, and you're welcome, France), the food's divine, the scenery is jaw-droppingly beautiful, and the people are so nice. I can say "hello", "good-bye", "yes", "no", "please", "thank you", and "please please God tell me you speak English I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM or even what day it is", and that's all the French I know, but I've found that if I greet people with "Thank you, please, I'm sorry, good-bye!" in French, the locals take pity on me and respond in English. And their sentences make way more sense.
I'll be blogging more about the trip once there's more to tell; meanwhile I'm posting pics and comments daily on my Face Book page, so hop over and check it out if you want a good laugh(s) at my expense. Also, my husband is guest-blogging sometime this week! Be warned: it's gonna be graphic. And awesome! But mostly graphic. No. I'm not kidding.
More next week, but in the meantime I'm making a mental note: stop swearing at the table and then excusing myself with, "Whoa, pardon my French!" to the French.
Also: the show Psych is hilarious when dubbed in French. I think. And so is Winter Planet. Who cares if it's dubbed? It's penguins!
This is my second full day here and it's terrific so far. The weather's gorgeous (I brought summer with me, and you're welcome, France), the food's divine, the scenery is jaw-droppingly beautiful, and the people are so nice. I can say "hello", "good-bye", "yes", "no", "please", "thank you", and "please please God tell me you speak English I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM or even what day it is", and that's all the French I know, but I've found that if I greet people with "Thank you, please, I'm sorry, good-bye!" in French, the locals take pity on me and respond in English. And their sentences make way more sense.
I'll be blogging more about the trip once there's more to tell; meanwhile I'm posting pics and comments daily on my Face Book page, so hop over and check it out if you want a good laugh(s) at my expense. Also, my husband is guest-blogging sometime this week! Be warned: it's gonna be graphic. And awesome! But mostly graphic. No. I'm not kidding.
More next week, but in the meantime I'm making a mental note: stop swearing at the table and then excusing myself with, "Whoa, pardon my French!" to the French.
Also: the show Psych is hilarious when dubbed in French. I think. And so is Winter Planet. Who cares if it's dubbed? It's penguins!
May 21, 2012
I Terrify Yet Another Neighbor
I went up to our cabin this weekend to check on the place and work on my pot garden. (My garden in pots, you druggie pervs.) Some of you know a bear we named Hammock occasionally ambles through our yard and stares at me from nearby ditches while I iPod out to B.o.B.'s "Don't Let Me Fall". (Which I think should be re-titled "Don't Let Me Be Devoured Alive".) No, this isn't a blog about Hammock, though I know many of you will be disappointed. A disturbing number of you, frankly. Lately I've noticed newbies popping up on my Yahoo group with questions like, "Is this that writer who studies bears?" (No.) "Is MJ like that poor Grizzly Guy who got eaten by grizzlies because he loved hanging out with grizzlies?" (No.) "Wait, she's a writer? I don't want to read about her writing. Wanna read about the bear, Ottoman." (His name is Hammock, and you can't. So there.)
Eventually there will be a black-bordered blog written by my husband which will begin, "Last week MJ and Hammock crossed paths and irritated each other for the last time." This isn't that blog. But despite the absence of an omnivore who could kill me with one paw while deaf to my outraged shrieks and F-bomb usage, I did manage to come off to a neighbor as a deeply disturbed weirdo who has contempt for all living things, including but not limited to her pot garden. (My garden in pots!)
So I show up Saturday and, after a quick bat-check (see earlier blog about my arch nemesis, bats, or as I call them, "Eww, bat, bat, it's a bat oh GROSS!") started to move my pots of dirt outside. Many people, I'm told, actually grow things in pots. Me, I like to use them to store dirt and seeds that never sprout. And my dirt pots need lots of sunshine. So outside they went. I also started transplanting seedlings (yep, I cheat, I only grow herbs from seeds, when I'm not growing dirt). And that's when I realized I had nothing to water them with, and I was waaaaay too lazy to hunt for the hose, unravel it, trip over it at least twice, yank spider webs away from the outside spigot as I hooked it up, then realize the hose is so tangled it looks like a big green ball of string...exhausting. I didn't have a watering can, either, which I should remember when I'm buying dirt for my pots (I never do, though).
So I popped into the house for a pitcher, when I realized my one pitcher had tea in it. Tea! How'd that happen? Oh, right: I made tea. I poked around the kitchen with no luck, until I checked the liquor cabinet. Success! There was a big vodka bottle with only an inch or so of potato-booze left. Not having a need for potato-booze at 9:00 a.m., down the sink it went. I rinsed it, then filled the giant vodka bottle with water, and back out I went.
One of our neighbors was staring at me from the street, which is not uncommon. We're, um, kind of memorable. Neighbors have seen/heard me sprinting from a black bear, prowling the neighborhood at night with a fillet knife, flinging addled bats from the belfry (our cabin was once a church, so it really is a belfry), roaming the neighborhood with several jangly bells hung from various parts of my person...you know. Just everyday weekends.
So he wanders over (brave man!) and we chat about the weather and what a mild winter it was and the entire time he's not making eye contact, the entire time he's watching me water herb seeds, tomato seedlings, and flowers with my giant jug o'vodka. And of course I know what he really wants to talk about, and it ain't the weather. But I've got a small streak of sadism in me, so I was in no rush to enlighten him. Nope. I was gonna make him ask. So I up the chatter: "...but I don't have time to dick around with fertilizer, if they're gonna grow, they'll grow, and really, it's up to the fates..."
He finally cracks. "They'll die."
"...and what am I, am I the god of herb gardens? Ha! Hey, in a pinch I'll use the dried stuff...get it? In a pinch? Because lots of recipes require a pinch? D'you see what I did there with my play on words? I..."
"They're gonna die."
"...can't really the tell the--what?"
"Your plants. They're gonna..." He breaks. "Why are you watering tomato plants with vodka?"
"Because I really. Hate. Parsley. Die, parsley seeds!" Okay, I didn't say that. But boy, I sure wish I hate. What I really said: "I'm not...although I had the flu last week and my doctor did tell me to drink lots of clear fluids."
"I don't think that's what he had in mind." He gives me an appalled look. "Who's your doctor?" Like the quack in question was lurking in the nearby raspberry bushes, ready to jump out and force a liter of vodka down his throat.
"And they need lots of liquid. Don't you, my pretties? Ahhhh, yes..." I cooed, shaking the vodka bottle to get out every drop onto the moisture hogging tomato seedlings. "Mama's here." I finally took pity on him. "I didn't have a watering can and I stupidly made iced tea without considering all the consequences. I drove myself to this! Accidentally. So I'm the victim. Twice!"
"Oh." He nods. "Okay."
"Desperate times call for desperate measures."
"Okay."
"Pot gardens aren't a hobby for the cowardly."
"I have to...uh..." He made a vague gesture back the way he came. "So, okay."
"Come back anytime!" I called after him. "Just some advanced warning, gin is also a clear liquid!" He quickened his pace. "Don't judge meeeeeeeeeee!"
Huh. I never know what to make of weird neighbors; does anyone?
Eventually there will be a black-bordered blog written by my husband which will begin, "Last week MJ and Hammock crossed paths and irritated each other for the last time." This isn't that blog. But despite the absence of an omnivore who could kill me with one paw while deaf to my outraged shrieks and F-bomb usage, I did manage to come off to a neighbor as a deeply disturbed weirdo who has contempt for all living things, including but not limited to her pot garden. (My garden in pots!)
So I show up Saturday and, after a quick bat-check (see earlier blog about my arch nemesis, bats, or as I call them, "Eww, bat, bat, it's a bat oh GROSS!") started to move my pots of dirt outside. Many people, I'm told, actually grow things in pots. Me, I like to use them to store dirt and seeds that never sprout. And my dirt pots need lots of sunshine. So outside they went. I also started transplanting seedlings (yep, I cheat, I only grow herbs from seeds, when I'm not growing dirt). And that's when I realized I had nothing to water them with, and I was waaaaay too lazy to hunt for the hose, unravel it, trip over it at least twice, yank spider webs away from the outside spigot as I hooked it up, then realize the hose is so tangled it looks like a big green ball of string...exhausting. I didn't have a watering can, either, which I should remember when I'm buying dirt for my pots (I never do, though).
So I popped into the house for a pitcher, when I realized my one pitcher had tea in it. Tea! How'd that happen? Oh, right: I made tea. I poked around the kitchen with no luck, until I checked the liquor cabinet. Success! There was a big vodka bottle with only an inch or so of potato-booze left. Not having a need for potato-booze at 9:00 a.m., down the sink it went. I rinsed it, then filled the giant vodka bottle with water, and back out I went.
One of our neighbors was staring at me from the street, which is not uncommon. We're, um, kind of memorable. Neighbors have seen/heard me sprinting from a black bear, prowling the neighborhood at night with a fillet knife, flinging addled bats from the belfry (our cabin was once a church, so it really is a belfry), roaming the neighborhood with several jangly bells hung from various parts of my person...you know. Just everyday weekends.
So he wanders over (brave man!) and we chat about the weather and what a mild winter it was and the entire time he's not making eye contact, the entire time he's watching me water herb seeds, tomato seedlings, and flowers with my giant jug o'vodka. And of course I know what he really wants to talk about, and it ain't the weather. But I've got a small streak of sadism in me, so I was in no rush to enlighten him. Nope. I was gonna make him ask. So I up the chatter: "...but I don't have time to dick around with fertilizer, if they're gonna grow, they'll grow, and really, it's up to the fates..."
He finally cracks. "They'll die."
"...and what am I, am I the god of herb gardens? Ha! Hey, in a pinch I'll use the dried stuff...get it? In a pinch? Because lots of recipes require a pinch? D'you see what I did there with my play on words? I..."
"They're gonna die."
"...can't really the tell the--what?"
"Your plants. They're gonna..." He breaks. "Why are you watering tomato plants with vodka?"
"Because I really. Hate. Parsley. Die, parsley seeds!" Okay, I didn't say that. But boy, I sure wish I hate. What I really said: "I'm not...although I had the flu last week and my doctor did tell me to drink lots of clear fluids."
"I don't think that's what he had in mind." He gives me an appalled look. "Who's your doctor?" Like the quack in question was lurking in the nearby raspberry bushes, ready to jump out and force a liter of vodka down his throat.
"And they need lots of liquid. Don't you, my pretties? Ahhhh, yes..." I cooed, shaking the vodka bottle to get out every drop onto the moisture hogging tomato seedlings. "Mama's here." I finally took pity on him. "I didn't have a watering can and I stupidly made iced tea without considering all the consequences. I drove myself to this! Accidentally. So I'm the victim. Twice!"
"Oh." He nods. "Okay."
"Desperate times call for desperate measures."
"Okay."
"Pot gardens aren't a hobby for the cowardly."
"I have to...uh..." He made a vague gesture back the way he came. "So, okay."
"Come back anytime!" I called after him. "Just some advanced warning, gin is also a clear liquid!" He quickened his pace. "Don't judge meeeeeeeeeee!"
Huh. I never know what to make of weird neighbors; does anyone?
May 2, 2012
I Endure THE RAVEN & Clear Up Misconceptions About Crazy-Ass Writers
Writers aren't like writers on TV (Liz Lemon: "One time I laughed at a blind guy eating spaghetti! Sometimes I pee in the shower if I'm really tired! I saw my grandparents making love once and didn't leave right away!") or the movies (Mary Fisher: "He held her body as he had for a millenium with an ease neither of them had ever, ever known. He reached for her...nub...love...button!"). But my friend Cathie enjoys pretending they are. Specifically, she likes pretending I am. So I probably should have known what I was in for when we decided to indulge our John Cusack jones. We went to The Raven last night with her son, August, and it was pretty terrific. The other show, I mean, the Cathie-and-MJ show, not The Raven. The Raven sucked ass.
First, I was completely floored by how much her eldest had grown. You know how it is with your friends and their kids: you see the pals pretty regularly, but maybe not the kids. And they have this weird thing they do where they get bigger, really fast. Contrary to our demands that they remain children, pre-teens and teens ignore their parents' wishes and aggressivly grow. With malice! They do it on purpose, just to mess with me! I mean, their parents. And even though back in the day I found it annoying when my parents' friends would exclaim about me getting tall, the only stuff to come out of my mouth last night were the cliches I was sick of: my, my, look how you'e grown! Wow, what have you been eating? I can't get over how tall you're getting! When I was your age etc., etc., blah-blah-blaaaaaaaaah. To give August credit, he listened politely to my inane babbling while churning through a bucket of popcorn the size of his head.
The popcorn! Okay, movie popcorn tends to be pretty yuck-o, unless you love the taste of stale. Also, they sell it for about eighty bucks an ounce. Also, the Carmike movie theater in Apple Valley has a special: if you buy the bucket of popcorn, anytime the rest of the year you can bring the bucket back and they'll fill it for free. "You don't even need to be here to see a movie," the concession clerk explained. So, what, it's like lunch? You could bring your bucket to the lobby and eat popcorn for the rest of the day? Could you get a sandwich with that, or just M&Ms? Would you bring your friends to the movie theater and treat them to popcorn while not seeing a movie? What...what is the selling point, here? Why is this something I'd want in my life? But Cathie was intrigued, so into the theater we went, bucket o'popcorn in tow. I assume she's gonna hold on to that bucket and, in a month or so, invite me to come to the movie theater to eat popcorn but not see a movie. Can't wait!
So, The Raven started. And I tried to keep an open mind, because I love John Cusack. Better Off Dead ("Two...dollars...") and Gross Point Blank ("I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork. How've you been?") are two of my all-time faves. The Raven, however, will not be one of my faves. In a movie about a writer, it was hilarious that the writing was awful. They must have told John Cusack to scream nearly all of his lines. Shrill is not a good look (or sound) for him. I wish I didn't know that.
So early on Cusack/Poe is trying to wheedle booze out of a bartender, probably trying to convey "tortured writer self-destructing in a world where he is scorned and misunderstood", but instead he put across "giant douchebag". He starts breaking glasses and bottles and shoving chairs while screaming about what a misunderstood genius he is: "NONE OF YOU HAVE THE CAPACITY TO UNDERSTAND MY ART!" Crash, shatter. "HOW DARE YOU JUDGE WHEN YOU HAVE NO SOULS!" Clink, clunk. "YOU ARE ALL SCUM ON THE MUD PUDDLE OF LIFE!" (I'm paraphrasing.)
Cathie whispered to her son, "Yep, MJ does this all the time. That's why we can't go to Applebee's anymore."
As above, Cathie gets most of her ideas about my work from TV, movies, and books. After she'd seen She-Devil she asked if I lounged around all day in pink silk dressing gowns, writing with pastel ink, fussing over my be-poufed yappy poodle while thinking up euphamisms for clitoris and seducing married men. "Yeah, but only on Tuesdays," I replied (I hated to shatter the illusion). Damn you, Meryl Streep! This isn't the first time you've caused trouble for me.
And whenever I'd head to a conference, she'd remind me to beware of dumpy brunette women prowling the hotel bar with an axe while they muttered what a dirty bird I was, and threatened to play their Liberace records. Like anybody would need warning to avoid that.
Later in the movie, Poe has to write a new story and it has to be perfect and suspenseful and his best work ever and the editor can't change a word or the killer's gonna bring the hurt on another vic. So he's swilling booze and scribbling on parchment rolls that look like toilet paper for giants and screaming at the editor, "SHE WILL DIE IF I DO NOT DO THIS THING! YOU CANNOT TOUCH A WORD YOU INBRED SWINE! I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS!" (I'm paraphrasing.)
Cathie leaned over. "No more bitching about deadlines for you," she informed me cheerfully. I had to agree; Poe's writing deadline seemed pretty stressful. Mine tend to lack that whole iminent death vibe.
"I WILL KILL THIS MADMAN WHO I ACCIDENTALLY INSPIRED WITH ALL MY DARK GENIUS AND YOU WILL NOT CHANGE ONE WORD YOU WILL NOT CHANGE THE TITLE YOU WILL STAY OUT OF MY WAY SO I CAN SAVE THAT POOR WOMAN FROM THE CLUTCHES OF A MAD KILLER YOU STUPID ASSHAT DUMB SHITS!" (I'm...never mind, you know what I'm up to.)
"That's exactly how she is," she murmured to August. That poor kid! All he wanted to do was sit through a terrible movie with his chatty mom and her annoying friend, and eat his weight in popcorn, and now he's gotta put up with weird writer comparisons, and his mom's buddy sneaking popcorn. "MJ always storms into offices and yells, 'PRINT IT ALL OR GO TO HELL, DAMN YOU, SO I CAN SAVE THAT POOR WOMAN FROM THE CLUTCHES OF A MAD KILLER!' when her editor wants to make necessary changes. Don't even get me started on her prose."
In addition to the writing myths that kept springing up, the dialogue was pretty terrible, which would have been unbearable if it hadn't given us more ammunition. A few examples: one of the characters described their mental state as "I guess I went a little nuts!" which I cannot imagine was early-to-mid 19th century jargon. Poe is also referred to as an alcoholic, when it's commonly thought the term wasn't used until 1849...the year he died. Of alcoholism! Or not...by then I'd lost all interest in the fate of Cusack-Poe. No interest in him. No interest in the heroine's fate. No interest in whodunnit. No interest in THE POOR WOMAN he was trying to save FROM THE CLUTCHES OF A MAD KILLER. Nope, I'm out. I'm just gonna steal more popcorn and stoically endure. C'mon, end credits!
After ten or eleven hours, the credits rolled and I gratefully lunged for the exit. Other than the pleasure of Cathie and her little boy's company (who has defiantly grown at least a head taller than his mother, despite strict orders to the contrary), I left the theater with a smile on my face: "And to think, I didn't have anything to blog about this week."
Ha! Now you've all got to pay the price for my John Cusack fixation. Quoth the Raven, "You would be wise to do as Mother says, Lane Myers." Whoops! Wrong Cusack movie.
First, I was completely floored by how much her eldest had grown. You know how it is with your friends and their kids: you see the pals pretty regularly, but maybe not the kids. And they have this weird thing they do where they get bigger, really fast. Contrary to our demands that they remain children, pre-teens and teens ignore their parents' wishes and aggressivly grow. With malice! They do it on purpose, just to mess with me! I mean, their parents. And even though back in the day I found it annoying when my parents' friends would exclaim about me getting tall, the only stuff to come out of my mouth last night were the cliches I was sick of: my, my, look how you'e grown! Wow, what have you been eating? I can't get over how tall you're getting! When I was your age etc., etc., blah-blah-blaaaaaaaaah. To give August credit, he listened politely to my inane babbling while churning through a bucket of popcorn the size of his head.
The popcorn! Okay, movie popcorn tends to be pretty yuck-o, unless you love the taste of stale. Also, they sell it for about eighty bucks an ounce. Also, the Carmike movie theater in Apple Valley has a special: if you buy the bucket of popcorn, anytime the rest of the year you can bring the bucket back and they'll fill it for free. "You don't even need to be here to see a movie," the concession clerk explained. So, what, it's like lunch? You could bring your bucket to the lobby and eat popcorn for the rest of the day? Could you get a sandwich with that, or just M&Ms? Would you bring your friends to the movie theater and treat them to popcorn while not seeing a movie? What...what is the selling point, here? Why is this something I'd want in my life? But Cathie was intrigued, so into the theater we went, bucket o'popcorn in tow. I assume she's gonna hold on to that bucket and, in a month or so, invite me to come to the movie theater to eat popcorn but not see a movie. Can't wait!
So, The Raven started. And I tried to keep an open mind, because I love John Cusack. Better Off Dead ("Two...dollars...") and Gross Point Blank ("I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork. How've you been?") are two of my all-time faves. The Raven, however, will not be one of my faves. In a movie about a writer, it was hilarious that the writing was awful. They must have told John Cusack to scream nearly all of his lines. Shrill is not a good look (or sound) for him. I wish I didn't know that.
So early on Cusack/Poe is trying to wheedle booze out of a bartender, probably trying to convey "tortured writer self-destructing in a world where he is scorned and misunderstood", but instead he put across "giant douchebag". He starts breaking glasses and bottles and shoving chairs while screaming about what a misunderstood genius he is: "NONE OF YOU HAVE THE CAPACITY TO UNDERSTAND MY ART!" Crash, shatter. "HOW DARE YOU JUDGE WHEN YOU HAVE NO SOULS!" Clink, clunk. "YOU ARE ALL SCUM ON THE MUD PUDDLE OF LIFE!" (I'm paraphrasing.)
Cathie whispered to her son, "Yep, MJ does this all the time. That's why we can't go to Applebee's anymore."
As above, Cathie gets most of her ideas about my work from TV, movies, and books. After she'd seen She-Devil she asked if I lounged around all day in pink silk dressing gowns, writing with pastel ink, fussing over my be-poufed yappy poodle while thinking up euphamisms for clitoris and seducing married men. "Yeah, but only on Tuesdays," I replied (I hated to shatter the illusion). Damn you, Meryl Streep! This isn't the first time you've caused trouble for me.
And whenever I'd head to a conference, she'd remind me to beware of dumpy brunette women prowling the hotel bar with an axe while they muttered what a dirty bird I was, and threatened to play their Liberace records. Like anybody would need warning to avoid that.
Later in the movie, Poe has to write a new story and it has to be perfect and suspenseful and his best work ever and the editor can't change a word or the killer's gonna bring the hurt on another vic. So he's swilling booze and scribbling on parchment rolls that look like toilet paper for giants and screaming at the editor, "SHE WILL DIE IF I DO NOT DO THIS THING! YOU CANNOT TOUCH A WORD YOU INBRED SWINE! I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS!" (I'm paraphrasing.)
Cathie leaned over. "No more bitching about deadlines for you," she informed me cheerfully. I had to agree; Poe's writing deadline seemed pretty stressful. Mine tend to lack that whole iminent death vibe.
"I WILL KILL THIS MADMAN WHO I ACCIDENTALLY INSPIRED WITH ALL MY DARK GENIUS AND YOU WILL NOT CHANGE ONE WORD YOU WILL NOT CHANGE THE TITLE YOU WILL STAY OUT OF MY WAY SO I CAN SAVE THAT POOR WOMAN FROM THE CLUTCHES OF A MAD KILLER YOU STUPID ASSHAT DUMB SHITS!" (I'm...never mind, you know what I'm up to.)
"That's exactly how she is," she murmured to August. That poor kid! All he wanted to do was sit through a terrible movie with his chatty mom and her annoying friend, and eat his weight in popcorn, and now he's gotta put up with weird writer comparisons, and his mom's buddy sneaking popcorn. "MJ always storms into offices and yells, 'PRINT IT ALL OR GO TO HELL, DAMN YOU, SO I CAN SAVE THAT POOR WOMAN FROM THE CLUTCHES OF A MAD KILLER!' when her editor wants to make necessary changes. Don't even get me started on her prose."
In addition to the writing myths that kept springing up, the dialogue was pretty terrible, which would have been unbearable if it hadn't given us more ammunition. A few examples: one of the characters described their mental state as "I guess I went a little nuts!" which I cannot imagine was early-to-mid 19th century jargon. Poe is also referred to as an alcoholic, when it's commonly thought the term wasn't used until 1849...the year he died. Of alcoholism! Or not...by then I'd lost all interest in the fate of Cusack-Poe. No interest in him. No interest in the heroine's fate. No interest in whodunnit. No interest in THE POOR WOMAN he was trying to save FROM THE CLUTCHES OF A MAD KILLER. Nope, I'm out. I'm just gonna steal more popcorn and stoically endure. C'mon, end credits!
After ten or eleven hours, the credits rolled and I gratefully lunged for the exit. Other than the pleasure of Cathie and her little boy's company (who has defiantly grown at least a head taller than his mother, despite strict orders to the contrary), I left the theater with a smile on my face: "And to think, I didn't have anything to blog about this week."
Ha! Now you've all got to pay the price for my John Cusack fixation. Quoth the Raven, "You would be wise to do as Mother says, Lane Myers." Whoops! Wrong Cusack movie.
April 24, 2012
UNDEAD AND UNDERMINED Paperback Release
UNDEAD AND UNDERMINED is out in paperback today, followed in 7 weeks by the hardcover release of UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE. UNDERMINED casts some light on recent mysteries in the Betsyverse, but does leave some questions unanswered. But then, lo! (I like when I can slip a 'lo!' into a blog, any blog.) Fast forward to early June, and UNSTABLE is right there, torturing you--I mean, pleasuring you--wait, that's too far the other way...anyway, it's gonna be out. And questions are gonna be answered.
UNSTABLE is the definitive Betsy book: one way or the other, big problems are resolved. Betsy finds out all kinds of deep dark secrets and, to quote the queen herself, "Shit gets done."
Take that any way you like. :-)
Stay tuned: I'll be sneaking some UNSTABLE excerpts into this blog, mostly just to mess with you. :-)
UNSTABLE is the definitive Betsy book: one way or the other, big problems are resolved. Betsy finds out all kinds of deep dark secrets and, to quote the queen herself, "Shit gets done."
Take that any way you like. :-)
Stay tuned: I'll be sneaking some UNSTABLE excerpts into this blog, mostly just to mess with you. :-)
April 9, 2012
Chicago Loses the Coin Toss
I'm off to the Romantic Times convention Wednesday...Chicago should probably be resigned to me showing up. Other than book tour, the RT convention is my favorite book-related thingy. (Me write good!) Tons of readers who love to talk about books...bliss! Also, smoothies and screwdrivers...I'm throwing a bash for my readers, since you guys were nice enough to get me from the trailer park to the best-seller list. Hope to meet as many of you as I can!
http://www.rtconvention.com/
http://www.rtconvention.com/
March 30, 2012
I Tease With UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER
My editor asked for a quick summary of the novellas in UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER, and I thought I'd show you guys, too. Enjoy!
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My working title has been UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER, and there are three novellas.
The first (UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER) is the Betsy/Fred team-up I've been threatening...I mean, promising to do. (To paraphrase Stan Lee: Because no one demanded it!) Yes, the queen of the undead and the dour could've-been-a-princess mermaid reluctantly team up to help a mutual "friend". Madison Fehr has gotten her silly self in a jam, and calls an old friend of the family for help (her mother and Betsy's mother grew up together). From the beginning, Betsy and Fred recognize how absurd their team-up is ("My life is now a buddy movie. A bad one. Because of you, Betsy Taylor! I hold you entirely responsible!"). It doesn't help that neither of them are cops or have any lawful authority. It also doesn't help that neither believes in the other ("There's no such things as--" "Mermaids?" "I was going to say vampires. But that works, too."). And it absolutely doesn't help that the reason they've been thrust together is because Madison Fehr has crappy taste in men. (Madison is the annoying intern readers met in SLEEPING WITH THE FISHES, the one who "rilly rilly" loves dolphins.) Luckily Fred's old flame Prince Artur, who's been spending a lot of time at the New England Aquarium, stands ready to help. "And by luckily," Fred sighed, "I mean horribly."
SUPER, GIRL! (I like how it emphasizes the importance of correct punctuation) is about Karen Kilher ("Your name is not Killer!" "The 'h' is silent, so relax."), HR rep by day, super-hero also by day (and sometimes early evening, and occasionally mid-afternoons as well). When she's not fighting crime, she's helping fellow employees as best she can despite management's plan to nickel-and-dime them to murder/suicide pacts ("Wow, they really leave the human out of Human Resources, don't they?"). Ironically, she often has to write herself up for chronic tardiness, long lunches, and early departures ("Crime neither sleeps. And I guess I don't either. Dammit."), since you can't plan for terrorists wanting to rob every SuperAmerica station in town. Karen was born with the ability to eat anything and convert it to energy: ice cream, granola, wrenches, ashes, steak, tacks, yogurt ("Ugh!"), sticks, tomatoes...like that. Her other power is her Obsessive Compulsive Disorder ("Of course scrubbing my kitchen floor with toothbrushes is an advantage! What ELSE would it be?"). Luckily the new hire is extremely cute, has a crush on Karen's alter-ego, Meta-Girl ("Wait, you met a girl? Or Meta-Girl saved you?"), and thinks his new boss is great. It's weird, though, how Karen keeps disappearing all the time...
The last story, CRYING WOLF (alternate title: END OF DAZE), is set twenty-five years in the future, and features Lara Wyndham (now Pack Leader on Cape Cod) struggling to lead her Pack through the tremendous upheaval caused by the Kardashian Riots of 2025. Her father, Michael Wyndham, isn't dead, but caused an uproar by retiring (the only Pack Leader to ever do so; all others were killed in fights for dominance or died of natural causes) so Lara can learn how to lead while having the advantage of her father's advice and wisdom. Naturally, some of the more die-hard Packers (heh...Packers...) find this unacceptable, and move to dispatch both the Usurper (as they refer to Lara), the Monkeylover (Michael), and the Skank (one guess, and Jeannie Wyndham doesn't count). Meanwhile, she's fending off the distractingly yummy advances of Jack Gardner, Derik and Sara's son (we met them in DERIK'S BANE, and saw them again in UNDEAD AND UNWELCOME). Jack's got his father's alpha tendencies and his mother's gift for landing in fabulous trouble. If Jack would just go away and let her work, Lara figures things would settle down. Or at least seem less weird. Yes, that's the answer: Jack should leave and he should take his mouth with him, and his strong long-fingered hands, and his wonderful scent ("Cotton and...blueberries?" "I really love jam."), and he should definitely take his heart-stoppingly fine ass somewhere else...anywhere else...
I love novellas!!!
