Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 126

Adding to the family legend...

Squish, just hours before making family history.So, what happened this weekend was, as we told Squish, the second best family vomit story ever.

Or so I thought.

Because when I went to find the blog post to the FIRST BEST family vomit story ever, I found THIS POST  which highlights the ORIGINAL family vomit story (the honeymoon vomit story) and I didn't even GET to the time that Squish threw up on the dog.

But this one was still pretty epic.

So, we went out to the movies and saw Monkey Kingdom (yes, as I predicted, some monkey died) and then went out to lunch with Mate's mom (who is an incredibly lovely woman whom I give thanks for every day).  While at lunch, we noticed Squish didn't eat much. "You okay Squish?" "Yeah, just not in the mood."

We stopped at McDonald's for iced coffee/dessert on the way back, and then Mate, in a fit of whimsy, decided to take the long assed way home with a stop at Great Clips for the entire family.  (Fit. Of. Whimsy. I wanted a nap before taking Squish to her friend's house--do NOT ask me how this happened.)

So, got hair cut.

I went last, because it took the longest.  My hair had gotten pretty long, and the bottom was pretty fried between hair dye, pool chlorine, and old layers grown out, so I got it bobbed to my shoulders, and that takes a while.  Squish, Zoomboy, and Mate were all sitting in the lobby, waiting for me, when the following happened (as reported by Mate):

Squish turned away from Mate and held her hands to her mouth.  Zoomboy said, "Squish, did you just throw up?"

Mate said "THROW UP?" (Witness previous stories, vomit is his achilles heel. He does not do vomit, barf, or puke in any form.)

BLARFGH!!

"Oh, Squish, do you want to go out--"

BLARFGH!!

"Okay, here, let me get a trashc--"

BLARFGH!!!

"Let's just go to the bathroom."

Which is when I caught on, because they went hurtling back behind me to the bathroom.  The stylist had LITERALLY just finished the last snip of my hair when I stood up and stripped off the cloak and started running for the bathroom.  The poor woman was trying to blow the last bits of hair clippings off my neck as I ran.  Because, as I've said before, Mate doesn't DO vomit, and now he was stuck in the bathroom of Great Clips with a vomiting child and that could be all that was bad.

So I ran in there and sort of took over, and Mate ran outside to pay ("Make sure you tip really well!" "Oh my God YES!")

And Squish threw up a couple more times and we wiped off the front of her dress and calmed her down and made sure she'd be okay to get in the car.  She ended up wearing my gym clothes home because they were better than her poor dress that had been taken out.

We still don't know what set her off-- if it was something she ate or a bug going around--but she threw up again that night after I tried to feed her basic bread, and spent the next day in her night gown, mooching about and eating not much.  But I do know this.

A. The lobby of Great Clips was WIPED OUT. There were two women with gloves and sanitizer spraying down the place, but she pretty much took out the entire rug. We felt SO BAD-- Mate kept offering to help clean, which is a measure of both his greatness and our complete and total guilt for bringing this barfing child into their business.

B. On the way home, Mate and I started to discuss whether this vomit story had taken over the Zoomboy vomit story linked above, and in the middle of the discussion he rolled down the window and stuck his head out so he didn't lose his cookies.  I actually gave him one of the little plastic bags we use for dog poop, in case he had to blow chunks.  Remember, folks, he was driving.  The man does not do vomit--but he's pretty great at heroic efforts, I will give him that.

So there you go. Adding to the family legend, we now have Squish, blowing chunks all over Great Clips-- and Mate and I, asking ourselves if we can ever go there again.  (I really hope we can--she cut my hair REALLY WELL.)





And Immortal--

Coming out May 8th still, don't forget folks!



And the Pushback-- still going on at Diverse Readers-- Go enter now!

LGBTQ Pushback

So, for those of you who haven't heard of Memories Pizza, don't push that link.  It will only fucking depress you about the state of mankind and puckered evil white men who turn bigotry into law. If you want a slightly more optimistic version, press THIS link, because that gives the silver lining version, and that's always nice, and that's what I'm here to talk about.

The folks over at Diverse Reader  have decided to do something about the crowd-funding for bigotry, something positive, and I'm on board to help.

If you go to Diverse Reader you will find a rafflecopter for their giveaway, and links for THESE THREE CHARITIES: #Pizza4Equality, Indiana Youth Group and  Planting Peace.  All three of these charities are ways to push back against that act of hate by raising money for LGBTQ homeless charities.  
Now, the way this is supposed to work is that you donate the cost of a book-- $5.00-- to one of these charities, or ANY LGBTQ charity, and then comment on Diverse Reader and tell me -- and leave your e-mail or some way to contact you.  On May 1st, they'll match a reader(s) to me, and tell me who to send the book too. Now, notice I added an "s".  If there are enough entries, I'll add another e-book to the giveaway.  Be sure to add a way to contact you in the comments, okay?
Now the charities for Homeless Youth are particularly dear to my heart.  Having four "yutes" of my own, the idea of kicking a kid out of the house for something like a kiss (or sexual activity or a joint behind the bleachers, or anything short of criminal activity, really) is terrible and terrifying. It's a violation of everything I know as a parent to abandon your children for what should be a natural part of growing up--and one of the worst evils I know.  So if you have another charity-- the Ali Forney center, your own home homeless shelter or LGBTQ youth center-- let us know in the comments, and link us if you can.  
I'll re-posting the winners here when I find out who they are, be sure to check the blog on that date.  We're working on the honor system here, and my readers are some of the most honorable people I know, so I'm not sweating it-- thank you for all you do.

#ETA-- okay, folks, my original directions were not quite accurate-- I've amended them since so you may want to recheck them, okay?

Dear Diary, Today I Learned...

--Note: I will be participating in the LGBTQ Push Back fundraiser starting tomorrow. More details then-- the link wasn't live as I sat down to blog today.

Dear Diary,

Today I learned…

*  If you are participating in a blog-something and the link isn't live, just blog anyway. Pushing the link repeatedly will not make computer "go" any more than pushing the elevator button will make elevator "go".  You can always blog tomorrow.

* If Mate is taking kids to school to give you chance to sleep in, GO BACK TO SLEEP. Otherwise, older son will monopolize your time and make you take him to the bus stop for work.

*  If you choose not to do aqua because of bleeding through everything Goddess gave you to stem the flow reasons, Goddess will find a way to make this time unproductive for you because she is a spiteful bitch sometimes, and you can tell her I said that.

*  There is nothing like getting rerouted around the INTERSECTION TO ALL THE THINGS IN YOUR TOWN because a semi going the wrong way down the road took out a powerline pole to put a shitty day into perspective. Nobody died in the making of this shitty day. Many thanks for motherfucking mercies.

*  If the only thing keeping you sane as you crawl through ALL THE FUCKING TRAFFIC is the thought of a Starbucks sugar cookie, the odds are very very very good they will be out of sugar cookies, and you will be forced to make due with brownies, which are not really your favorite. Crying on the Starbucks barista only confuses him. Ask me how I know this.

*  Yes, I really did cry. Not my finest moment, no.

*  If you leave the house without pads because you are going to stop and buy supplies on the way, that is like tempting the Goddess to put you in traffic for two hours, ensuring that you will be bleeding through ALL THE FUCKING THINGS as you stand in line with feminine protection and four pounds of chocolate.

*  If you are standing in line at the pharmacy with feminine protection and four pounds of fucking chocolate, bleeding, that is an invitation to the Goddess to make you sales clerk especially sweet, chatty, and excited about getting you to sign up for a discount for a pharmacy you only end up going to when you've been crawling around in traffic for two hours unexpectedly and don't want to go to the other pharmacy where you HAVE the savings plan.

*  If you keep your cool and smile through this, you really have earned all the fucking chocolate.

*  If you are running through the house holding your soiled clothes in one hand and wearing nothing but a T-shirt and underwear, don't step on the towel that has lain crumpled in the hallway for two days. Odds are good the dogs used your absence to shit on it.

*  As you are hopping to the bathroom, should you stop to grab a towel, make sure it's not from the time bomb cupboard. You know, the time bomb cupboard? The one that explodes when your day has gone to hell and you have dog shit on your foot and you need to sit down or you'll cry?

That cupboard.

It will explode.  It did explode. I cleaned the dog shit up first, then I did the laundry, then I put on the shorts, then I sat down and cried on a friend (thank you Vicki!) then repacked the time bomb cupboard. I found two bags of Bath and Body Works soap and lotion when I was cleaning up. Did I mention the many thanks for motherfucking mercies? I was going to BUY some more of that shit because I thought we were out.

Thank you, time bomb cupboard, because I couldn't have found that out on a day when I was wandering through the house looking for a distraction for a book that wouldn't go.

*  If you have an hour before you have to pick the kids up and you are tired and tearful and spazzing out? Learn your lesson and use it to nap.

Goddess knows what horrors will await you if you don't get your nap in when you should.

Peace out, diary.  Last time I took a nap, I had a dream that a naked, kelp-green carnivorous elf with pointed teeth was cleaning my toilet and eyeing my dog like a snack.  I'll let you know if that dream is recurring or if, you know, this day has been nightmare enough.

Amy

Period...

So, there's a chapter in Rampant in which Cory is at school on a beautiful spring day, and she's miserable…

She has allergies, she's at odds with Bracken, and she's on her period.

Yeah, that.

On the one hand, thank fuck, because I was becoming an emo crap sack, and I mean that in the most frustrated possible way. "Aw, isn't the dog cute? Excuse me while I SOB because she is too stupid to live and she's not long for this world!"  (People say they want to know what it's like inside my head. No they don't. They really don't.)  And my usual MO is to start JUST as the plane is leaving the ground on the way to some place I need to be as bright and charming as possible. (See the "emo crap sack" comment, because I think you'll note the contradiction there.)  I literally OWE people (and they are NOT letting me off the hook for this) because I jumpstarted like four women at one conference. There's no making up for that, and I'm just as glad I don't have to this time round. LIke I said, thank fuck.

On the other hand? I would plough over my own offspring for a chocolate bar. I got convulsions of mouth watering want just writing that.

The only good news is, its an excuse to stay in from aqua tomorrow and write, and this is good news because I'm so close to being done with this book I can taste it. And the really good news is that, while I get to relive that scene from Rampant right now, I never have to relive the whole pregnancy thing from Quickening ever again.

This makes me so happy right now I could--quite literally-- cry.

Or rip your face off… I'm saying. You know. Beware and shit. Adorable Amy is down for the count, it's time to rip some heads, eat some chocolate and sleep like a mob boss-- with a knife under my pillow and no hesitations about using it.
Oh!  I bought postcards and some magnets for Immortal when I'm in RT.

That cover is just… Mmm…

Happiest swag buy EVER!

Trouble...

 Someone posted the comic on my FB page… and I loved it so much I looked it up on Pinterest and sent it to all my friends.

But I swear, I don't really do that.

Honest.

And it's been sort of a stressful couple of days… week.  Okay, stressful week.  How stressful?  Witness the following conversation:

Mate: Oh look, the school is having a clothing drive!

Me:  HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!!!!!!! *sob* *wail* *self-destruct*

I'm not even exaggerating… but let's do put it into context.  I'd just spent the last hour telling him about all the stuff I had to do in the next month. And then he showed me something that would require extra effort to do, that I knew I SHOULD do--i.e., the clothing drive. Now, point of fact, Mate had no expectation that I would participate-- he was just impressed with the kids' school-- they're very proactive.

But what it turned into was I HAVE TO DO ALL THE FUCKING THINGS RIGHT NOW!!!!!

He did not know this.

He thought it was a flier for a clothing drive.  Poor, poor Mate.  Now he is aware.

So this morning, right after I dropped Big T off at the bus stop, Squish, sitting in the back of the car, wrinkled her nose.  "What's that?" she asked.  We both said, "Zoomboy…"

"What! I didn't do it! I haven't farted since this morning!"

"Oh. I guess your older brother left us a parting gift as he left the car."

You would have thought I'd just delivered Dress to Kill, they laughed so hard.  And the dogs just looked puzzled, because they thought the smell was DELICIOUS, just like the kitty roca they'd been trying to steal all yesterday.  I need rose perfume just writing that. LIke, STAT...

And I shall leave you with this picture of the terrible two. Yes, they're trouble…

Like a Whole New Me...

 Do you like it?

I LOVE it!

Adore it!

Want to use it everywhere-- and I WILL!  I will put it EVERYWHERE!  It shall take over the world--
MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…

Okay… I may be a little bit sleep deprived.

Just a tad.

But Reese Dante just sent me my new artwork for my logo and my banners and my WHOLE NEW ME!

You will see this logo-- or variations of it, or the new profile pic--around the internet.  In fact, you may even be seeing a new internet-- or at least a new website therein-- but that's in a couple of months, when Quickening is finished (like, a matter of weeks now) and RT is under my belt, and I can breathe.

But right now, I'm just giddy with the whole new me!

Do you like it?  Do you see the purple for Alternative Universe, and the orange for Dark Angst and the lemon yellow for Adorable Amy?

Do you like the tagline?  Not just Angst and Pain, Amy Lane anymore-- nope. Chose which Amy you want! Do you want the happy? Do you want the dark alternative universe? Do you want the serious contemporary dramas?

I am ALL THAT IS THE AMY!  (*cue more evil laughter here*  Can you tell I'm a wee bit sleep deprived?  Just a wee bit. A tad.)

But seriously-- when I spoke about intense conversations about marketing and listening to the people who know more than I do (aherm… Poppy Dennison, Damon Suede, Reese Dante, Mary Calmes--yes, you…) this is part of the result.  There is more to come-- I mean, can't remake my image overnight, but this is a good start.

Now some people are going to miss the dragons-- and, yes, I am one.  But, the plan for the new website (and I'm getting there--been BUSY!) is to have a page of "Amy Quirks"-- everything from the dragon logos to turtle sex to adorable alpacas will be there, with an explanation, of course, so people can get the "Amy in-jokes".  I mean, I've had sort of a social media presence for a while (some of that time has been classier than the other of that time, so we shall keep that. Yes. Turtle sex is classy compared to other stuff.  Just don't even ask) so I'm not going to ditch it all.

Just going to make it easier to find!

So isn't it lovely?  Look for it on all your fine Amy places-- Facebook, Twitter, my website, swag, business cards…

I'm just so excited!  WHEEEEEEEE!!!!

And now to nap.






Okay-- so I'm still damned excited about Immortal-- in fact, so excited I want to offer another excerpt.  Enjoy!

I laid my head on the table, looking around me. That quickly, with a full belly, I fell asleep.

I do not know how long I stayed, but I awakened to voices and the thumps of boots on the floorboards.

“’Ere ’e is,” boomed the smith, Cairsten. “Paid all tha’ money for the scamp, and he’s sleeping on our kitchen table!”

I dragged myself awake by the eyelids, as it were, and tried a sleepy scowl in the direction o’ that great, booming voice.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Were I to start?”

“Not much to start, lad,” Cairsten said kindly, throwing his barrel-built, muscular body into a wooden chair that looked like it were built o’ four-by-fours and halves o’ trees, but that creaked with the fierce weight o’ his body. “We were closing down for the day. Any jobs that come in can be waiting for the early morning and don’t need doing now.”

“Do ye always work so early, then?” I asked hesitantly, because it seemed a strange way to do business.

“It grows too hot in the forge in the summertime,” Diarmuid supplied. He rooted through the cabinets as he spoke, assembling, I figured, the contents o’ our evening meal. “We get used to the early hours so we can run the forge before the full heat o’ day. But in the winter, when the sun comes later, we get up later, and the forge keeps us warm after last night’s embers die.”

I smiled a little, liking the simplicity of it. “Aye,” I acknowledged. I remembering finger-aching cold and being rousted from me bed to fetch water, and this seemed a better way.

“Yer not asking about today, then?” Cairsten asked, a slight smile under his dark hair.

“Yer gonna show me my chores,” I said knowledgeably. Funny how I thought I knew so much when in fact I knew nothing, not even the shape o’ the darkness.

Cairsten laughed, a great booming noise that shook the paned windows in their frames. “Nay, boy—not on yer first day. We’ll tame ye all right, but first we gots to bathe ye.”

I wrinkled my nose at him. “A bath? But there’s no holy day tomorrow!”

Diarmuid grunted. “I told ye,” he said, disgusted, and Cairsten shook his head in response.

“Tha’ ye did, but I were thinking good on the—”

“Don’t,” Diarmuid snapped. “Don’t ever ye think good on him.” Diarmuid cast me a veiled glance. 
“Not tha’ one. He dinna deserve nobbut!”

“Aye, aye,” Cairsten acknowledged, holding his hand up to forestall what looked like a flash of Diarmuid’s temper. “I hear ye.” He turned his attention back to me. “We’ll start with a bath, boy, and move on to putting sheets on yer bed, showing ye letters, finding ye clothes. I think Diarmuid’s old things might fit ye fine, and we’ll need a good suit o’ yer own. Did ye not have that at yer cottage?”

I shook my head and looked at the brown-and-gray stained jerkin and breeches I were wearing. “Is all I have,” I said, embarrassed.

“Well, now ye have more,” Diarmuid said with decision. “Bath first.”

They worked as a team, as they did out at the forge. The smith went and fetched the tub while Diarmuid pumped water, first into a pot to boil, and then into bucket after bucket that he dumped into the tub. There were steam rising from the surface before they had me strip naked and step into the tub itself.

Cairsten picked up my clothes using a pair of forge tongs. “I’ll just... just see to these,” he said grimly, and I watched him go, feeling dismal and half-drowned and sorry for myself.

“Me knife,” I said, thinking of the blade in my pocket. It weren’t really a knife, but it had kept me safe from Kump that one night, and all the kindness in the world couldn’t set my mind at ease regarding the bald, barrel-chested, black-bearded smith.

“Ye need a knife?” Diarmuid asked, pressing a piece o’ lye soap and cloth in my hands.

“I.... It were handy,” I said, trying for dignity. “What’s this for?”

“Rub the soap on the cloth, and rub the cloth....” Diarmuid grimaced. “Everywhere.”

I gazed at him blankly. “Everywhere?”

“In yer hair ’til it’s soaked, then under yer arms, between yer legs, behind yer knees, on yer manhood—everywhere.”

The water were already making me flush, or I might’ve flushed all on my own. “Are ye watching to make sure I do?”

Diarmuid grimaced. “I’ll turn me back if ye wash the crease o’ yer arse and everything in there.”

“Why?” I asked boldly, but I were already doing it. His back were broad and stoic. He didn’t seem interested in touching me, and, well, he’d fed me. Small boys are animal, feral—feed them, give them safety, they’ll curl at yer feet and never sniff another soul. I were no exception.

“Ye smell,” he said frankly. “We have to live with ye. Would be good not to smell ye, day in, day out.”

“Excuse me—”

“And ye get sores if ye dinna wash!” He must have felt uncomfortable, because his voice were thickening with that forest accent again.

I looked at my arms and realized he were right. I already had them from the stiff edges of the coarse, chafing fabric.

“They sting in the water,” I told him, as though this had just occurred to me. Well, maybe it had.

He turned and caught my eyes. “Next bath, after living in clean clothes, they willna sting so much. The next one, they’ll be near to gone.”

“How do ye know?” I asked. Aye, I were but a child—but it were occurring to me, looking at me thin limbs, me shins covered in sores from me ragged trousers, that I weren’t much good to these two great, brawny men who could make good porridge and hammer metal and bend it to their will. How could I earn my keep here, where I might have eggs for breakfast one day?

“I were the same when Cairsten found me, only covered in blood to boot. He were taking a fixed wagon to a thatcher’s cottage in the woods. He found me there. I were nobbut four or five.”

“How’d ye get there?” I asked, intrigued in spite o’ myself.

“I dinna know,” Diarmuid said, shivering. “I knew me name, and I kept pointing deeper into the forest. Cairsten said... well, he said he felt summat wrong that direction. He took me with him, cared for me. Were father to me. ’E’s a good man, Teyth. Ye’ll see.”

I scrubbed myself, careful o’ me sores, and thought on it. “I willna be no trouble,” I said after a moment. “I don’t need no raising. I can make porridge fine, haul water, herd chickens and pigs, sweep hearth....” I looked around me uncertainly. There were no chickens or pigs as far as I could see, and Diarmuid had made a better porridge than ever I could. “I....” I bit my lip. Now that some of the grime had been stripped away, I could smell the lack of the smell I’d worn on my skin. “I... would rather not go back,” I said baldly, thinking sadly on Mum. I were an evil boy—Kump had always said so. Mum had begun to agree with him at the end there. And now I’d just gone and proved them both right by turning my back on them.

“Well, we’ll find things for ye ter do,” Diarmuid said, and again I were reassured. It were wise o’ him, I thought later. He didn’t say I could stay right off, although that were what he and Cairsten probably planned the minute they looked at me. He said they’d find things for me to do. Right there, he’d known about me, about the heart o’ me.


He’d known I’d want to make a place, want to grasp a thing that were mine between my fingers and never let go. 

HIstorical Cows

First of all, let me say that I'm at the ARe Cafe today, talking about food, which is one of those things that I both know intimately and know nothing about.  (I hate contradictions like that, don't you?)  Anyway, be sure to visit because there's a chance to win a Kindle Fire, and you get to hear me natter on and generally, is a good time all around. (Plus, they use little coffee cups as their bullet points, and I find that charming.)

Second, Big T and I were having an epic conversation this morning about New Historicism.

What-- don't you talk about schools of literary interpretation over your morning coffee?  Well, if you don't, you're severely deprived.  (I'm joking. I cannot tell you the number of times my poor son has wandered in while I'm trying to cure misanthropy with caffeine and tried to change the subject from irritating dogs to deep schools of thought. Sometimes, it's like, "If you're not going to talk about the stupid dog, just go away and leave me to hating mankind.")

Anyway…

So, when I was making that abortive tour to get my masters degree, I took a semester in Hamlet. Yes. An entire semester on the that one play.  Now, on the one hand, it sounds stupid, because eventually you would probably swing from "Oh, poor Hamlet, wasn't he tortured and sad and tragic and don't I adore him so!" to "Look, you stupid git, you're obviously in love with Horatio and have a man-boner for Laertes, so stop dicking around with poor Ophelia, let your uncle have Denmark because it's about to be invaded, and get over your overbearing daddy who probably would have eaten your liver for being gay anyway."  (And this was long before I wrote Green and Adrian, by the way-- I just sort of felt like a lot of Hamlet's iss-yuus were maybe not as political and revenge driven as he let on.)  Anyway, on the plus side, my state college education had left out interpretive schools of thought until that exact class. 

That, and Professor Adams was, Goddess love him, one of the most amazing, thought provoking, influential instructors in my past, and I loved him so much, it was one last chance to be inspired by his genius.

Anyway-- it was here that I was introduced to the New Historical school of thought.

Which I had a real fucking problem with.

Part of that was that I kept falling asleep during the reading-- let's be real. Kids, work, school, New Historicism and Hamlzzzzzzzz….

So anyway, the quick and simple definition of New Historicism is that it looks at both the historical context of the work as well as the historical context of the reviewer. 

I boiled it down to cows.

Let's say you're a cow somewhere in Western civilization today.  There you are, sitting in a green field in the sun.  The following things are going on that you are not aware of:


You have been injected with antibiotics so you don't die of something horrible you could pass on to a human. Your water has been piped from somewhere else so it is safe to drink.Your blue sky is tainted by chemicals that have helped deplete the ozone and make your temperature a little hotter.There is a road nearby-- you can either A. see it, or B. hear it, or C. actually smell the exhaust from it.You can see power lines, whether or not they impact upon your central nervous system or give you cancer.Airplanes are leaving white trails in your chemically tainted sky.People are actually planning not to eat you and trying to influence other people not to eat you which is a relatively new thing. Republicans and vegetarians are both trying to blame the state of the world on your methane emissions.  In the case of the vegetarians, they have a point. In the case of the Republicans, they are deluded.
Now, contrast that to the cow of a thousand years ago.
You have an impressive array of natural antibodies in your bloodstream, providing you have survived this long.You are lucky to drink from a mud puddle, and don't really care if your water is tainted with amoebas or shallow graves.Your blue sky is nothing but blue sky, and nobody has ever discussed whether the color blue was caused by the internal combustion engine or your own farts.  In fact, cow farts have never, as long as you've existed, given anybody anything to think about ever.You may or may not have seen a road.  Ever.If your humans ever did see an airplane, they would probably sacrifice you to old gods to make it go away.If you can neither produce milk or other baby cows, you will be eaten. The question is when, not why and how good it is for human digestion.  The question is only whether or not you are healthy enough to not spread destruction by your being eaten.You are a symbol of prosperity. Stories are written, civilizations are created and destroyed, families thrive or disappear, all for the health of the family cow.
The cow is unaware of any of these things.

The humans who eat the cow are only marginally aware of these things.

The humans who raise the cows, who see them born, raise them to health, and watch/help them die, are very aware of these things. They are not necessarily aware of how these things affect the way they think, eat, raise/kill/birth cattle as they continue their production of cows.

The cows are literature.

The literature is created by the conditions that the time has rendered.

The people reading the literature do not necessarily know why a cow written a thousand years ago tastes different than a cow written today-- but they do know it's different. 

The people writing and criticizing the literature are aware of why the cows written a thousand years ago taste different than the cows written today.  The don't know how different, but they are very aware that there is A DIFFERENCE IN TASTE. They can use their knowledge of the differences in environment, health, and cow raising to extrapolate what the differences might be, but they cannot know for sure.  All that they can know for sure is that both animals are cows, and that they like steak.  (Remember, this is literary steak-- this does not mean that critics and writers can't be vegetarians. Substitute "cows" for "mushrooms" and you could get the same analogy, without the part about the methane.)

So we know the steak tastes different, and we're aware of why it tastes different, but we can never, not for certain, know what a petrol-free, chemically virginal, power-line ignorant, road-oblivious, pure-blue-sky gazing cow actually tastes like when eaten as a peasant for whom cow is a big fucking deal and who has never had a qualm as to the political leanings of said cow.

Cut we can still appreciate the steak we eat today, even if it was conceived of a thousand years ago, in a different world.

So there you go. Amy has just taken a very complicated literary theory and made you crave steak. And/or mushrooms.

Off to cook dinner!


Oh-- and speaking of cows in the middle ages… (omg-- worst segue ever…)  Don't forget that Immortal goes on sale on May 8th. And it's first person fantasy, set in a sort of European kingdom a long time ago.  But they had plumbing, because they've had plumbing since the Egyptians, and if I'm building a world, everybody gets to wash their privates, that's just a rule.  So enjoy!

Men with hats and beards...

So, on Friday night the whole family watched this video: 


And I have to say I am inspired to write a post through my dogs' POV.  (If you watch the video you'll see where I got the title :-)
Dear Diary--
Today we went to the big open place.  This was both frightening and exhilarating. Frightening because there were many, many men with hats and beards roaming free, and our humans would not allow us to interfere with their roaming. Exhilarating because we got to poop in the open, with no yelling. Ah. Pooping on the lawn with no yelling is the best. We save extra poop for that.
Dear Diary--
Our Dearest Human is the benevolent provider of what she calls "magic treats".  We confess that we are shameless hoores for these "magic treat" and debase ourselves to our lowest forms in order to procure them. Heh heh heh--I, being taller than Small Dog, often get more of the deliciousness for myself. Small Dog is learning to jump though. She may someday steal my treats. I shall curl up and growl in anticipation of that day.
Dear Diary--
The big hairy Dearest Human picked me up today with a long, hard platform in his hand. I think it was a bed. Hairy Dearest Human is considerate that way. I laid immediately on the bed and fell asleep in his arms. He said he'd never be able to "read" the bed that way. Silly human… beds are for zzzzzzzzzzzzz….
Dear Diary--
The evil cat ran from us today.  Heh heh heh… I can almost believe he does that on purpose to make our lives happier.  We did not catch him, as usual.
Life is good.
Dear Diary--
We once again stole cat kibble from the garage. The outside cat seems to fear us, and we do our best to live up to her reputation as mighty and powerful gods. 
Then we totally steal all her food and crap in her happy place.
Because we're gods like that.
Dear Diary--
Our favoritest human, the one who worships the minor glowing box, refuses to go to bed when we are ready. We hide in her shirt and lick about her ankles to no avail. This vexes us, because if she does not sleep, we do not sleep. There are schedules to be maintained. If she does not go to bed at the same time the other humans in the house do, who will let us out to poop.  Tonight we shall try shaming her with soulful looks, and willing her to yawn faster.
We shall keep you apprised. 
Love, Geoffie and Johnnie, two very, very tired dogs

…ing...

Okay, so, doing the following:

Waiting-- For Mate to bring us dinner

Listening--to Into the Woods

Choosing--A new logo

Reorganizing--My queue

Writing--Quickening

Editing-- Bitter Taffy 

Ordering--Swag for RT

Ordering--An evening bag because hey, what do redoubtable hausfraus need with evening bags?

Thinking--About a jewelry "thing".

Swearing,
"I will defend my right to cover my ass with flowered jeans with my dying breath."

Wondering, "Do I have a fever?"

Wondering, "Oh crap! Can I make that deadline?"

Wondering, "Dinner… who put it so close to bedtime?"

Wondering, "Okay, I give, where DID the dog crap?"

Realizing, "I get to sleep in tomorrow!"

Realizing, "Grimm's on tonight!"

Accepting, "I can't do everything between now and midnight."

Anticipating, "There will be knitting and television with family."

Wishing you all a good weekend!

Watch as I distract you all with pretty and music...

Okay-- I'll admit it.

I don't like to ask for help.  I think it sort of stems from parents who weren't great at responding-- I remember feeling stupid a lot, and like if I didn't have it nailed down I was hyper-deficient in all things. I was one of those kids who got flustered easily--and I still sort of loathe asking for favors.  I've overtipped a lot of servers because ordering the whatever caught on fire that day was my problem and let a lot of car servicemen intimidate me, because somehow choosing a Dodge Caravan and having a broken air conditioner had to be my fault, and not being able to fix that was a moral failing.

I know I try really hard not to put my kids in that position. They ask me for help, for advice, for guidance, and I don't shame them for feeling overwhelmed or fucking up or whatever. But that doesn't stop me from feeling like I have completely fucked up entirely when I have to ask.  Yeah-- double standards are a bitch.

Anyway-- today, after having my schedule floating around in my head for… well, six years?  Yeah-- six years I've been writing and setting my own schedule and keeping it *points at head*  all up here, and today I finally lost it.  The stress of writing one book for four months--and worrying about that book paying off and worrying about my other projects and worrying about when my stuff is coming out and promoting it etc, and I hyperventilated on my agent.

She made me start a google.doc schedule, which, I know, for some people they're like, "Uh… so what? Use it all the time?"

I'm like, "I don't know if I can get into this schedule again. It scares me.  And what do I do with it once I have it?"

But for some reason, it makes me feel better, and I'm going to go with that.  Help, I has asked for it. The response has been, "Okay, sweetie, maybe we don't keep this all in your head. that's a start."

Anyway-- I did that, then went and got the kids, then came back and needed some zen. I mean, serious comfort brain food.

I broke out the boys.

These are two newer videos with two of my favorite songs, and I give them to you. Because they made me happy and for no other thematically connective reason than that.

But if you want to catch Amy being slightly wittier and a little more coherent-- do check THIS BLOG OUT, because it's about me and beet porridge, and hopefully mildly amusing!

Enjoy!