Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 148

Spatter-paint

Okay, so let's do random today, okay?

*  This is going on tonight: Interview with Amy Lane -- 4 P.M. Thursday, Pacific Standard Time, which means if you have Google Chat you can tune in and say hi.  If you don't, it'll be uploaded to YouTube.com and that'll be, uhm, posterical.  (It so TOO should be a word.)  I promised Lynsie I'd put on make-up and do my hair and everything.  I think there was a trip to the fountain of youth involved their too, and the swapping of my countenance for that of a supermodel and probably wearing a T-shirt instead of a tank top so the Chiwhowhat can sleep in my shirt and the world won't see my ta-tas.  You know-- being all civilized and shit.  So, come say hi!  They'll post the link about 15 minutes before the interview so you can get queued up and we can all face time :-)

*  It occurred to me that in a couple of years I'm going to have two teenagers again--oh joy.  I seem to remember that a lot of that time was spent playing WHAT-THE-HELL-IS-THAT-SMELL!

*  Since I tend to use hyperbolic terms of measurement anyway-- fuckton, shitload, trucking fuckload-- I'm going to add a new term.  This one's mine, consider this blog a copyright-- It's the PSB, or the Porn Star's Buttload.  It should be used to measure levels of heinousness, such as "That edit was six PSB's of fucked up!"  Or "My car's in the shop-- that's at least two PSB's of suck!"

*  Someone on Twitter told me I won Twitter for most random out of context Tweet ever.  I wanted to tell her how "LICK MY BALLS AND SERVE ME CHICKEN" had a perfectly reasonable explanation, but, uhm, it wouldn't fit into 140 characters.

*  Pandora is going to break my bank account.  I'll be cruising along, la-la-la-la and suddenly it's I LOVE THIS SONG.  I MUST HEAR IT AGAIN!  But Pandora doesn't HAVE repeat, so you know what that means?  Yeah.  It means I-Tunes is making a PSB of money off of me, THAT'S what it means!


*  I brought Squish into the bookstore and the owner said, "Oh my God!  She's your Mini-Me!"  Of course, people say that about Chicken.  I guess together, we're Amy nesting dolls.

*  My house is a mess and I'm getting MOAR SWAG.  *headdesk*  When did hiring a personal assistant/maid become a need and not a want?

*  My Advent Calendar story for DSP was not actually accepted for the Advent Calendar.  It was, instead, scheduled to be released on Christmas Day, which is sort of cool, because really, it was a better "Let's see what the new year holds," sort of story.  I'm still struggling with the title-- right now it's Prince in the Tower, but it might be Going Up.  If you've got a preference, by all means let me know.


*  Mary Calmes and I share a release date on Christmas.  We're goofily happy about this :-)



*  Big T shaved his mustache and not his beard.  Doesn't make him look any less like an amish lumberjack.  Sayin'. 


*  Chicken is reaping the unfortunate rewards of being my daughter.  She texted me yesterday half-hysterical, mostly pissed, because she had the Chris the Dell repair guy over to fix her computer, and he got an eyeful of Kal-el going down on Robin (because that's her fanfiction wheelhouse, and shit, who am I to judge!)  She could have lived with that, but the computer guy left and her computer crashed less than an hour later.  She pitched a fit, scared the hell out of her roommates (because she's the even- keeled one who never loses it) and stormed out of the apartment.

My return text was an attempt to be mild.  "Uhm, I don't think I've ever seen that picture."

"Well now CHRIS has!"

Poor baby-- we've all had days like that.  But I couldn't help it-- was chuckling all day.

*  And finally... ooooh... I'm so excited.  Can you see them?  Can you SEE THEM?  They're the new book covers.  Aren't they gorgeous?  And  friends are saying, "My teenager would love these books!" and since that was their intended audience, I'm...DUDES!!!  And look at the two kids on the horse in the back.  See the kid in front?  See him?  Does he look familiar?  HE'S ZOOMBOY!!!!!!!  I sent the artist a picture of him now, the artist painted him to look like Zoomboy at fifteen, since that's his character.  I swear, if I hadn't decided to make the snowcat the focal point of the covers, I would have done that with all the kids.  But seriously-- I'm so excited.  I don't know if I'll ever write another epic fantasy series like this.  But I love these books so much, and Nathie, the artist, really did me proud.

Yay.  Just yay.  I'm so excited.  Now I need to get to work and edit!

Unhealthy

The air is "unhealthy" today.  There is a fire in the foothills, it's over 102 degrees with 25% humidity, and basically?  Who needs fire-flavored gum, we've got the air!   It's so bad that Squish and Zoomboy didn't get an outside recess.  My eyes are burning from inside the house, and the idea of cooking is physically repulsive.

I'm not sure if Mate is going to call practice today-- he's the head coach, and his boys are getting old enough for the the competition to be pretty fierce.  They played an exhibition game and got slaughtered this weekend, but it does have me wondering about that line-- that line between "pushing yourself to be good" and "pushing yourself past your limits".

If you look at famous artists throughout history, well... the the record isn't pretty.  For every Longfellow, who loved well and long, there was the same Longfellow who loved tragically and short.  In fact, there were three or five or seven of them.  You really only can have one mistress, one thing that controls your life, one burning passion.

Does everybody remember Rick Moranis?  Of course you do!  He's a gifted comic actor, and he pretty much defined the 90's, right?  Does everyone remember what happened to him?

Not really.  His wife died, and he was heart broken.  He devoted himself to his children, and when he came up for air, he realized that he didn't miss the Hollywood life enough to go back to it, and he did something else.  So the masses of us were deprived of his genius, but his children will love him forever.   He will be happy, and he will live a small life, and not miss the cumbersome weight of the world's expectations hanging on his limbs.

And who can blame him?  It's just such a terrible paradox.  The people with the sensitivity to embrace the human condition, or with the talent and drive to hone their bodies or their skills to the point of spectacular achievements, are, very often, the ones just fragile enough not to sustain the heat and the friction of their journey through the particulate atmosphere of critics, deadlines, bills, and marketing that is the truth behind making a living off of your talent.

History is full of people killing themselves--or their loved ones-- for their art.

Van Gough?  Of course.  Poe?  Absolutely.  Keats?  Well, it's a fine line-- reports were, he pushed himself so that he could write those final verses, but tuberculosis was definitely not self-inflicted.  But Byron died for glory and Shelley drowned for poetic symmetry and Coleridge was an opium addict and don't even get me started on Judy Garland, Jimmy Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, John Bonham, River Phoenix, Heath Ledger, Cory Monteith and...

The list is just too long and depressing to finish.  In fact, there is no end to a list like that.  There will always be another headline, another young person, another brilliant talent that pushed too far, too fast and burnt out, a vanishing star on the horizon.

There is a precarious balance between pushing yourself to your human limits and pushing yourself beyond your human limits.  It's like that line from Gattaca.  "This!  This is how I did it!  I didn't save anything for the way back!"  Artists, musicians, poets, athletes-- they don't save anything for the way back.  That leaves the people who love them scrambling for purchase, trying to hold on to a tiny, personal part of their beloved, just so they can have something, anything, that the world didn't own, something to claim this bright shining meteor lighting the sky above the human condition was really a flesh and blood person, and this person was theirs.

See, I started a story-- it was supposed to be lighthearted and happy.  A twenty-something dancer meets a newly twenty techie and sparks fly and BOOM!  Happy wholesome sex with a bang, right?

But the conflict inherent in the coupling-- the dancer, wanting to dance the last few years of his career-- it just hits too close to home.  My messy, unappealing home, actually.  It flares into bass relief the hours I spent behind the computer instead of keeping a home for my family.  The times I've said "Let me just finish..." and I lose out on hugs my kids maybe really needed.  My own neglected body, which gets its aqua aerobics but not nearly enough veggies and water, and which walks the fine-line between self-inflicted diabetes and self-medication with chocolate and caffeine.

I'm not Poe or Keats by any stretch of the imagination, but that idea, of where to draw the line, teases at the thread of my brain on an almost daily basis.  Visit a friend or work?  Work.  Sit on the couch with my children or work?  Sometimes, it's work.  Cook dinner or work and order out?  Work and order out.  Because my work isn't just my work, it's my passion, my talent, the one thing I can do that nobody else can, the one gift that I and I alone can give to my tiny corner of the world.  No one would write this book the way I would.  No one.  Therefor I must work on it.  I must work on it.  I must work on it, why aren't I working on it, dammit why am I sitting, knitting, walking, cooking, cleaning should I not be working on my book?  

It's a compulsion.  An addiction.  A drive.  A need.

A job.

So, in spite of an AQI of 156, Mate is taking the kids to practice soccer.  They want to win and winning doesn't come easy, and that's something kids need to learn at an early age.

And me?

I'll be here.  So intensely invested in a fictional character's

life, I won't even know what to cook for dinner until I'm standing in front of the refrigerator, trying to remember how to turn on the stove.

Wolves and Waves: A Guest Post from LE Franks

Okay-- I'm biased.  LE Franks came and knit with me-- in fact, she was the first person to try on Chicken's sweater.
Anyway, she claims I helped inspire some of her madness, and I'm sound with that.  I mean, to be told that you helped someone write a book?  That's sort of amazing.  
So I offered to let L.E. post on my blog to celebrate that tremendous thing she did, cause how could you not?  Anyway, this is LE Franks, my dry-witted, funny, knitting friend who lives in my backyard and came to visit me at my mother ship.  I adore her.  Enjoy her post-- and hopefully her book.  

Wolves and Waves: Prodigal Wolf by LE Franks & Sara York
Wow. Looking at what I just wrote at the top of this page and I’m a little bit sheepish. Not false modesty, but vast humility because if it wasn’t for Amy Lane, Sara York, and Sue Brown, along with the encouragement of the fabulous members of the yahoo M/Marvelous group—if it wasn’t for all of them my faux-name wouldn’t be up there and this book that sprang from a creative synergy with Sara York, wouldn’t exist. I particularly want to thank Amy for welcoming me to post here. She’s been inspiration, technical assistant, and cheerleader. Knit on Amy!


Funnily enough, Wolves & Waves: Prodigal Wolf wasn’t the story Sara and I were going to write. We had (have?) plans for an angsty romance set in San Francisco (my back yard). We spent time outlining the plot--found photos of our locations, created backstories... all the fun work of writing.  But before we started our ‘real work’ we decided to cut our teeth on a 10K word short set in South Carolina (her backyard). It would be a little formula piece in the shifter genre picked out of a hat. I think I told Sara a brief story from high school about when five of us got into trouble for breaking a shower in a motel in Fresno on a school field trip. Unlike real life, we started riffing on five guys in a shower, what they were doing and how they got there. The scene becomes a pivotal moment for our human twinks in the book, and I still have the Peet’s cup that I diagramed the action on.  























Suddenly we had five characters to weave into a coherent story – six including our alpha. Our 10K word quickie became 62K, with a planned, three book initial story arc about a wolf shifter destined to lead —one who hasn’t come to terms with his place in the world and the losses he’s suffered in his past. We weren’t in a hurry to push Carlo along too fast. He’s still in pain. He’s angry, and he’s conflicted, and he’s resisting efforts from all sides to reintegrate into the pack.  And that’s so much fun to write.  Hope you like this.  –LE


http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=A2PRDWLF
For More about the authors, visit our webpages:http://www.lefranks.comhttp://sarayork.com/sarayork/
And follow us on twitter:https://twitter.com/boxtersushihttps://twitter.com/sarayork

Power Post

Okay, so school starts tomorrow for the little kids, and, well, five whole people heard me whine about how I haven't crammed enough fun in this summer for them, so let's have a list of what we've done for the past three days, shall we?

*  School shopping with my step mom

* Soccer

* Swimming at the pool with kids one last time

* Dance

*  Ignoring laundry

*  Soccer

*  Grocery shopping

*  Grocery shopping again because I realized that the first time, I bought vitamin water.  The second time, I needed things for school lunches and breakfast out the door and after school snacks.  There is a very different way to shop when school is in session, one that doesn't rely nearly as much on Chicken McNuggets and giant diet cokes.

*  Edit

* Dealing with family stuff and stupid mental health care disarray and the consequences of taking someone off antipsychotics after they've been on them for nearly 40 years.

*  Soccer

*  Edit.

*  Write special guest post for Cherie about promoting a new book!

*  Dance

* Edit

*I'm giving away a free copy of Sidecar HERE. 

*  Write some Dawson.

*  Edit

*  Make sure the kids have packed their backpacks for tomorrow.

*  Edit

*  Introduce Squish to Chicago, and teach her all the words to When You're Good to Mama.

*  Cook dinner

*  Realize you dumped wormy rice in your chicken stock.  Cook pizza.

*  Edit

*  Wonder how you're going to fit all this stuff in while shuttling kids back and forth.

*  I've got an interview about alpaca ranching HERE.

*  Wonder where the summer went, and why you didn't spend as much time as you wanted to with your kids as a whole.

*  Send them to bed with hugs and tears and one last admonition to have their clothes and their backpacks ready.

*  Sit down to edit just a little bit sadder than you did three nights ago.

*  Wonder where the time goes.

Winner, losers, and random numbers

*drumroll please*

And the winner is...

LIZ!  Liz, darlin', #10 on the comments, you won the free copy of City Mouse/Country Mouse.  Give me a buzz at amylane AT greenshill DOT com, and send me your address, kay?

And WOW, that weekend went by quickly.

First there was the interview for Write on the Edge, which was both fun and sort of draining.  And then there was the incessant wondering, "How much of an idiot did I sound like?  A minor idiot, a psychotic cat sort of idiot, or a full fledged nematode with an attention deficit-- I'll let you guys be the judge.

There was a trip to the grocery store with my husband, because sometimes, we're so desperate for each other's company that we go, "Hey, I have a soul-killing errand to run, want to come with?" and the other one will drop whatever we're doing to come with, because everything is better with mates.  It just is!
Chicken drew this, Teen Wolf fans. It's awesome.
On Friday, Big T's friend came over and cut the kids' hair, and although the price was right, and she was very sweet, I think, in the end, Zoomboy's cowlicks completely defeated her.  That's okay.  Zoomboy didn't care, and she came to my house.  I'm calling her again, especially when it's time to dye my hair some more.  Wheehoo!  (Oh, and by the way, I sent Chicken that picture showing off ZB's hair cut, and her first comment was, "Isn't that my T-shirt?"  Ah, siblings.)

We went to visit Mate's mom-- lunch at Rubio's and a trip to the used book store-- it's sort of our thing.  The used book store is sort of awesome-- I used to sell my books there on consignment, and as I've gotten less dependent on my indie work, they've gotten more and more excited for me.  I told Kelly today that I met Robyn Carr and she got so excited!

Also, I got some fun videos and links, via a fan (Thanks Dan!) and Chicken (who drew the picture-- did you see!)

The first one is totally safe for work and adorable-- and you can find it right here! 

The second one is also safe for work, and only really works if you love both Supernatural and Adventure Time.  Because, you know, it's crossed over.  And I HAVE to show it in my view.  Cause.



And this right here is the WORLD'S GREATEST LINK ABOUT SUPERNATURAL EVER.  I shit you not.  If you've loved the show--even for a season, you will appreciate.

And also?  I'm editing Triane's Son Rising, the first of the Bitter Moon books.  Now I'm not sure if I've talked much about this, but the books are getting split into four parts instead of two, and prettied up for Harmony Ink, Dreamspinner Press's Young Adult imprint.  Now I'm very excited about this, but at the same time, getting my global notes back was hard.  The books have been read by a number of people, and the things the editor wanted me to change hadn't been really complained about--but that doesn't mean it wasn't going to happen.  So I need to ask myself what assumptions about my work I need to let go and what things I need to keep.  It's a tricky balance to walk.  What's age worth if you don't gain experience?  What's youth for if your raw enthusiasm doesn't help you do the impossible?  Either way, editing is going to be a challenge, but I've put it off for as long as possible.  I finished my Christmas novella (tentatively titled Prince in the Tower) and got some more work done on my supposedly light little story about theatre geeks that's turning into a novel without my permission.  It is time to put on my big girl panties and get this shit done.

Anyway-- the good news is, that the cover art is GORGEOUS--and I get to share the first book (although I've seen the initial sketches for the rest of them.)

So here it is.  And now, I'm gonna go knit, cause I've earned a little knitting with my weekend.

Write on the Edge

Hello, all-- I'm... okay.  So it was like this.

I was up until all frickin' hours of the night, editing Ethan Gold, when suddenly I heard a chatbox open.  Oh crap-- who's up right now?

Check the two e-mails, and oh, wait, it's FB.  Oh!  Hi, Wt Prater-- howyadoin?  Now, Wt is one of those quietly happy online presences.  He doesn't jump up and down and spread glitter on the masses-- he writes and is exuberant about what he's done and posts blogs and sometimes tries to help me help myself by getting involved in the community.

And he wanted to know if I'd do an interview.

For the record, (and my husband knows this) if you want me to do something for you that involves sex or romance, by all means, ask me after one in the morning.

So tomorrow, I'm going to do an interview on Write on the Edge at 8 pm PST.  Now, Vicktor Alexander who did this interview right here, is going to be on the interview team, and he and his cohost will ask me questions and I will try really hard not to sound like a moron!  (That's gonna be tough-- trust me.  I don't even want to think about how many ways I can screw this up!)

And the questions?  Okay-- some of the questions I turned down were, "Who would play you in the film of your life?"  (For the record, Raven Goodwin, and I don't care if the skin color doesn't quite match, she's fabulous, funny, she can display pathos and sympathy, she can sing and I can't, she doesn't apologize to anyone for her shape, and she's as young as I think I am.  So there.)  Or there's always, "How are you at discipline?  What do you do to promote writing every day?"  (To which I'd respond, "My discipline is terrible-- I can't walk by the computer without opening it and working on a project.  Wait, was that what you meant?")  Or there's always, "How do you feel when you finish a book?"  (Dance to THIS song.)  And the time honored, "How long do you wait between projects?"  (About as long as it takes to dance to that song.)  So, you know-- if those are the questions I skipped, God knows what I'll say to the ones I took!  (Please let it be funny, please let it be funny, please let it be funny!)

So, you know.  It could be entertaining.

Now, coincidentally, today, when I got home from Target, where all evil spawns and they only want your money if you slice open your wrist to prove the blood is yours (I've got issues-- I need to rant!)   I got the prettiest thing in the mail.  Did you see the pictures?  Because if you didn't, you can still order the paperbacks of Country Mouse/City Mouse combined here  and here.

So, I'm thinking... well, how do I orchestrate a giveaway.  Now I think I've got it-- and I'm going to have to limit my venue because, frankly, I can't count all the replies on Twitter, FB, and the blog feed on GR and here, so I'm going to make it you have to reply here.  

I will send a free copy of Country Mouse/City Mouse to the commenter who either A. Tells me what their favorite answer from the interview was, or B. Gives me a question they wish I would have been asked, C. thinks of a creative punishment for the Target executive who ordered the new credit card machine because it's ruining my life (more about that in a second),  D. Identifies the source of the funk coming from my son's laundry (again, more of that in a second, E. Tells me they teared up over this, F. Tells me where Left on St. Truth be Well made them cry, (and don't lie, I know it hit some of you like this) or G. just stops in to say hello.  (Okay-- that other stuff was mostly for my own benefit.)

Anyway-- since some of the answers are based on the interview, (which you'll be able to listen to as we're taping, at 8 pm PST, OR listen to in the archives) I'm going to hold the contest open until Sunday, 7pm PST.  I'll ship anywhere but Russia (because seriously, I don't want you imprisoned) and throw in the bookmarks of your choice (because hey, bookmarks, I haz em!).  If I get more than FIFTY replies, I'll throw in another book, after I scrape myself off the floor in complete and total disbelief.  Oh yeah-- I'm going to use a random number generator to pick the number, and post the winner when I blog on Sunday.  If the winner doesn't get back to me in two days, I'll pick someone else, 'kay?  Cause that's as long as I can remember anything, but basically?  I'm just sort of bribing you to listen to the podcast so you can laugh at me!  (Sense.  I haz it!)

How's that?  Did I cover all my bases?  Listen to me blather, comment on the blog, win a copy of Country Mouse/City Mouse in print!  Ta-da!

Okay-- on to putting on my Ranty McRantypants--are we ready?

First of all...

Today, we played another rousing game of WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL?  

It involved the laundry, and when I opened the overfilled basin, this stench emerged... oh Holy Gawd and Jebus his only! It was this amazing combination... ozone, corn chips, mildew and dog pee-- *gag*  *hurl* *tamp down on the nausea*

It made my eyes water.

And then I started loading the drier.

Now, given that these were Big T's clothes, I got halfway through with my gorge still rising (and people, you've been there for some of the things that don't make me vomit, so you know this has got to be bad) and I made him come out and fill the drier.

And he figured out what had happened.

He'd tried to was a GIFUCKINORMOUS load of laundry on the small load setting.  Yes folks, apparently when your washer's motor is trying to commit suicide, it smells like ozone, corn chips, mildew and dog pee.

And now you know.

errrrrrrgggg...

And I continued to try to edit all day.  This was interesting, because I'd promised I'd take the kids to Pinkberry (from whence we get the smiling pictures of my lovely children)  and then to shop for school supplies at Target, (you guessed it!) and we had to do this before Squish's soccer practice at 4:30.

Should be easy, right?  I mean, I was out of the shower at 1.  Squish was out at 1:30.  Zoomboy was... still looking for his shoes at 2:30.  I was standing right next to him when his brother found them under the computer--where he'd just been.  I flicked him in the head.  Because.  Just... just because.

And then we get to Target...

And I throw a fuckton of all the things into the cart, and pull out my perfectly valid and well funded pice of plastic to pay for the fuckton of all the things in the cart, and I get to the cash register with half an hour to spare.

But Target, you see, has just replaced their credit card machines with new ones.  These new credit card machines don't take PIN # over 7 digits.  My PIN is 8 digits.  So I'm fucked.  So I try to get it to go to credit.

And it won't take the credit.

So I'm fucked.

And I put in another card.

And it won't take the other card.

So I'm fucked.

So I go over to the bank machine to get cash-- and it gives me cash, because according to it, I've got plenty of cash, but the cash machine takes six dollars out of my account for me to get enough cash to pay for the fuckton of all the fucking things.

So now, I'm fucked again.  

I snarled at the girl behind the counter.  I don't know if she meant to make me feel shamed and dirty because her charge machine was not doing its job, but she did, and I was furious.  

And Squish was late to soccer, where her dad, the assistant coach was on time.  And we forgot the ball.

And I overcooked dinner and the dog peed on the floor.

So there.  *fume*

Can I take my Ranty McRantypants off?

Because if I'm going to be a charming author and not free-range dino-bitch tomorrow for my interview, I need to hang around in my underwear, take a nap and let my flaming bitch parts breathe.

What Was That?

*  The road to Monterey is dark and eerie, and the moon is hiding behind the misty mountain in front of Gilroy.  I am knitting in the dark, we are listening to The Bravery playing The Ocean, and there is a noise.

"What was that?"

"I don't know, but something cold is dripping on my foot!"  It is acid cold.

"It's just water from the condenser."

"It burns!"

"Well, do you want me to turn around and go home?"  Mate sounds as though am making this strange acid thing dripping on my foot into a bigger deal than it is.

"No, no--as long as the ship don't explode!"

*  The young man behind the counter at the gift shop is African-American, handsome, and, when I ask him where the Mantis Shrimp is, boyishly excited.

"Okay, so you go down to the right, and then on your right, you'll see this little kid's coral reef thing, and you have to go inside there.  It's on the ground to your right.  They're supposed to be cool--you know, they can see in infrared?"

"Yeah!" I say excitedly.  "And can generate heat from their claws in Kelvin!  You can see it spark!"

He sighs.  "Yeah, they sort of of hid him.  A lot of us want to see him, but he's hard to get to."

While my kids and husband are crawling around the Coral Reef to find the Mantis Shrimp, I tell at least three people where that little world-fucker is--and they all go in to check him out!  Thank you, The Oatmeal, because we all felt the power of being a science geek right there!

*  The boy (and this guy really was younger) who was in charge of keeping people from photo-flashing the octopi was also sweet.  African American as well, he could have been the kindest, most protective docent known to man.

"So," I said, "do the octopi ever give you the creepies?"

"No!  In fact, they're really the sweetest creatures."

"Yeah-- what makes them sweet?"  Now, honestly?  Zoomboy watches enough nature channel for me to know all of this, but I've got to tell you, listening to his enthusiasm was enough to make me want to keep talking to him.

"Well, they recognize us for one thing-- people they see every day, they come to greet.  And they play, and they turn colors according to their mood.  They get darker when they get anxious or unhappy.  It's okay now-- there's not too many people-- but when people start swarming the tanks, I need to be careful.  People use flash on them and I hate that.   It's why we keep them in the dark.  They don't have any membrane over their eyes-- they're totally helpless when the light washes over them."  He sounded really upset about this, and I thought he could be the hands-down, nicest kid ever to volunteer anywhere.  (And, for the record, one of the reasons I don't have pictures of the critters is that we couldn't seem to kill the flash on my stupid camera--I didn't want to flash the octopi either.)

"So, you're like their protector," I said.  "You're their guardian.  That's awesome."

"Yeah!  That's it.  I like that.  I'm the octopuses guardian!"

In the shade ;-)


*  OH my GOD.  What the hell is that?  What IS that?  No seriously.  What the FUCK is that?

It's the Fat Innkeeper Worm.  Or the Innkeeper's Fat One.  Dude... it's... it's.. Well, you all KNOW what it looks like.  You just don't expect those things to grow sentience and detach, right?



 *  "Mom, I want an octopi tentacle.  So I can freak people out.  See?"

"You only want one?"

"Well, how many can I get?"

I told him three, but he had so much fun with them, I wish I'd said five.  And then I sent this picture to Chicken, who responded, "Mom, they look like hentai tentacles!"

"I hate you," I texted.  "He was so happy!"

Well, he's still happy.  I'm just even more grossed out now.  Especially because we spent the rest of the day not sure when they'd be in our hair or on our face or... ew.

*   And I know you can't see it, but it's a backpack, with kittens poking their heads out of it.  We BOUGHT it that way.  It's like a toy, DESIGNED for Squishy.  That was her souvenir.  No, it has nothing whatsoever to do with Monterey or the aquarium, or fish.  But for Squish?  It was awesome.  

 *  Mad as the sea and the wind, when both contend which is mightier-- Hamlet.

*Though the yesty waves confound and swallow navigation up--MacBeth


*My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.-- Romeo and Juliet *  Me, to Mate:  Look at Squish.  She's telling herself stories as she walks.
Mate:  Yeah, I wonder where she gets that?  (Can you smell the sarcasm through the computer?)
Me:  (Straight faced)  Your family.  
Mate: The hell!
Me:  (laughing)  No, no, I was kidding.  That one's all on me.
*Squish, as we're getting into the car:  I think I'm your most spiritual child.  
Mate:  I think you're our most egotistical child.
Squish: What does egotistical mean?
Mate:  It means you think a lot of yourself, don't you?
Squish:  Well, yeah!
*  Zoomboy, in the middle of taking twenty-minutes to change out of his wet clothes as we get into the car:  I don't want anything to chafe!
Mate:  As opposed to any other day when the dirt is just there?

*  On the way home, as we realize that the air conditioner has now completely broken again, as it was three years ago:  OH.  That's what that was!

But it was worth it.  Two day trips-- I really sort of love them.  We were in our beds and our air-conditioned house by last night, and we're back in the saddle again.

Life is a Bag of Dicks

You've had those days, right?  THOSE days?  The ones where you have a bright, shining moments of fun waiting for you...

If only you can wade through the bullshit to get there?

Yeah.

Today was one of those.  But worry not-- I've got a bag full of, uhm, interesting stories to pull out for you, because, as I was telling a young friend of mine, my life just does that.

Lessee... where to start...

Oh, okay.  Yesterday morning.  Took the dog for a walk.  And, because he is a dog, he had to smell ALL THE THINGS.  Yes, yes, ALL THE THINGS, and they were WONDERFUL, and we had to ROLL IN THEM because they were WONDERFUL, oh yes, oh yes, ALL THE THINGS!  And then we get that dog home, and suddenly me, the kids, Big T--we're all wrinkling our noses, and oh holy shit WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL????

RED ALERT RED ALERT RED ALERT!  All children outside with the dog and a bottle of baby shampoo and a hose--STAT!  NO, don't pander the little shit-bag, WASH him--he is the ENEMY and he needs to be lathered, rinsed, and repeated until that smell is GONE, GODDAMMIT, GONE!!!

A half an hour later, as I was cuddling a shaking, traumatized Chiwhowhat (who now smelled like baby shampoo, and, go figure, wet dog) we looked at each other as if to say, "How did this happen?"

"I know how it happened you little snicker-poo-poo junkie-- leave the other dogs' shit ALONE!"

He buried his nose in my cleavage and I assume that was an apology.

*sigh*  Dogs.

But they can't be all bad, right?  Because today, when I stopped to get gas, Big T was holding Jonnie on his lap in the front seat, and this little old lady-- she was so sweet.  She was stooped and fragile and her blue hair was perfectly coifed, and she had a dog bed in her front seat, which was home to an obnoxiously fat Chihuahua.  Whom she scooped out of the front seat and brought to meet Jonnie, thinking that they must be friends.

She was sweet, and very dear, but I have to tell you--I think our dogs were confused as Minnie-mother-of-Hell.

Anyway-- I took Big T up to my parents to mow the lawn, and then went back up to get him. When I was there, I got a call from my Aunt, detailing a situation with my mother which has apparently been building for months.  I was irritated (and felt more than a little guilty since I hadn't seen my mom since May) but mostly irritated, because one does not tell a mentally ill woman who has been accidentally phased off her meds to "take your medication or we'll take away your money!" and expect good results.   (For the record, my family did not actually run with this argument, and I'm pretty sure it came from my uncle, and, well, we've discussed this.)  Anyway, I'm going in Monday to help fix the situation (not that I have a lot of clout), but before that, I had to rant a little on my Dad and Stepmom, who were reasonably sympathetic.

I thought.

And then I did the unthinkable.

My parents' driveway is sort of a nightmare.  In order to get in, you have to execute what amounts to a slow ninety degree turn, and in order to get out, you have to make two of those-- backwards.  Fun, right?  Well, I used to be fairly proficient (minus a couple of broken tail lights, and one memorable moment of PMS in which I told off my stepbrother that if I could do it he could do it, and then smacked my car against his) but after all these years?  Well, I usually have Mate do it.  Driving backwards is the ultimate mindfuck for me, and it doesn't help that my dad is usually sarcastically applauding my painful efforts on the way out.  Anyway, today, I was parked perilously close to random white truck (seriously, I do NOT keep track of all of their vehicles!) and seeing that it was, like all of my father's cars, pristine, and I was driving the crapmobile which is, well, imagine if you took a metal rake down the sides threw or four hundred times, and then pounded the handle in along the side doors, well, that's a rough approximation of the damned car.  Anyway, back to my crime against nature.

"Dad, could you please back my car out?"

"Oh Jesus."

"No, seriously.  I don't want to be responsible for that damned truck."

"Wimp."

"Fine, whatever, I'm asking nicely.  I know my limitations.  PLease back my car out."

"Okay, you get the gate."

And then my father backed the car out in one smooth "S" motion, and proceeded to gun the thing out of the driveway, flying gravel and all, and take off with my children.

FOR THE RECORD, MY FATHER CAN BE AN INCREDIBLE ASSHOLE SOMETIMES.

In case, you know, I've only shared the good shit, I think that maybe I should make that clear.  But by this point in the story, I'm sure you've guessed.

So he gets back, and is laughing his ass off.

"You are the biggest asshole on the entire planet!"

"Thank you!  I've worked hard to become so!"

"Well practice makes perfect-- it's working!"

"By the way, your car needs to be looked at.  Your power steering is loose and your breaks chatter."

"So, is it going to get us to Monterey and back?  Because we're leaving tonight."

"Well, it'll get you one way."

"Awesome."

"Drive safe!"

I get into the car and look at Big T, who is manfully suppressing his laughter.

"T, I need to apologize."

"For what?"

"You are obviously descended from a bag of dicks.  I probably passed it on.  I'm sorry."

"That's okay.  You're a nice person."

"Yeah, but you never know when I'm going to change."

I don't even tell Chicken this story.  She was the first person to look at my mom's side of the family and go, "You know, some of those people are real douchebags."  Because you know how it is with family-- you don't really think about this when you've grown up with it.

Well, maybe you don't always recognize it at all, because it's a part of you.

And now, I'm going to take my little bag of dicks in training to Monterey, and hope the dysfunctional car gets as much mileage as my dysfunctional family.

Maybe by the time we get back (if we get back) that picture of the kittens will have done it's work.

They're home!!!

Can you see them in the picture?  Clean and chilling in the rubble?  *happy sigh*  It's where they belong.

My children are home from their camping trip, and I'm glad!  I was about to raise the flag of surrender on all of that childless fun--I shit you not!

Anyway, I'm so glad to have them home-- although I'll be even happier to have them CLEAN-- and right now they're munching McDonalds (because my parents don't believe in fast food and my kids needed to visit our place of worship tuite suite!) and coming down from animation withdrawals in the living room.  We can't stop hugging each other when we pass, and Big T talked my ear off because he read Fahrenheit 451 during the camping trip and wanted some discussion on it that Grandma and Grandpa were just not up to.

Anyway,  I am now up three movies (Red 2, Pacific Rim, and, yes, finally, Wolverine, for those counting!) and down one edit of Ethan, and all I have from living without the structure of children for three days is a bunch of random observations and moments of dialog, both in person and textual, so here we go.

*  As Mate was leaving this morning, he said, "I fart in your general direction!" And then he did.

And then we both almost asphyxiated.  He walked out of the door saying "I love you! Run away run away!" over his shoulder.  I laughed for a very long time.

*  In the car, after I picked the kids up, Zoomboy said, "So, did you feed Greg?"

I said, "Uh..."

"Greg?  How's Greg?"

"Uh..."

"MY FISH?"

"Well, uhm, you know Beta fish, hon.  They can live for a week without food."

Big T looked at me sadly.  "No they don't.  I killed one off that way by accident."

Me-- in panic:  "Well it's only been four days... right?  RIGHT?"

As it turns out, Greg was okay, but dude, I was having visions of taking a dead fish to the vets and coming home with a live one...

*  Squishy had her hair in two tight Renaissance braids when I got her.  Apparently those lasted for three days.  Yes.  I practically TOSSED that child into the shower, why do you ask?

*  Apparently, my parents broke their dog.  They said they played with the dog so hard for three days straight that when he woke up this morning, he staggered around like he was sleepwalking, and then fell down sideways with his eyes rolled back in his head-- like people do when they're too tired to open their eyes, right?  I watched him when I picked the kids up.  He flopped down in the middle of the walkway and fell asleep within seconds.  Now Max is a fairly young dog-- only about five years old.  That takes an awful lot of playing, to break a dog like that.  Damn.

*  On the way home, Big T told me that I'd forgotten towels.

Me: Crap.

T: Grandpa has several things to say about it.

Me:  Awesome.  Thanks for telling me.

T:  Your 'thanks' has a sarcastic ring.

Me:  No, no, the 'thanks' is sincere.  The 'awesome' was sarcastic.

T:  Ah...

*  Apparently while I was gone to RWA, Jonny and my father had a run in.  The dog ran outside, saw my dad waiting for Mate, and spazzed the fuck out.  He jerked the leash out of Mate's hand, and by the time Mate cleared the house to see where the little fucker had gone, he was doing the two-pawed desperation run and was rounding the corner of the block.

As a result, my dad has upped his campaign to  prove to me that small dogs need to be treated like big dogs to be considered real people.  When I went to pick up the kids, I took Jonny with me.  My dad grabbed his leach and tried to make him recognize that both my dad, and Max his giant golden lab, were not going to eat him.

Jonny peed on Max's nose.  Then he peed on my dad.

The kids and I laughed our asses off.  I told my dad that if we'd wanted a big dog, we would have gotten a labrador retriever.

*  Mate and I decided that the Bruckheimer foundation is aware of when he's got a weekend off to watch movies, because it invariably follows that they play everything fromThe Rock to Con-Air in an effort to pander to Mate's guiltiest movie pleasures.  *sniff*  Notice how nobody panders to my need for comfort disaster flicks like Twister and The Day after Tomorrow, right?  BASTAGES!  *shakes widdo fist*

*  Okay-- I can't show you these because they're preliminary sketches, but DUDES.  Harmony Ink (the YA subsidiary of DSP) has accepted my Bitter Moon books to re-release in a total of four volumes instead of two.  They get new covers, and even the preliminary sketches are amazing.  I don't want to show you guys because A. I'm not authorized and B. I don't trust people with my rough drafts, I don't think an artist should have his just thrown out willy nilly, but dudes.  I'm so excited.  The covers are gorgeous, and this series will get a new chance at life.  Now, if you look it up, vendors are still allowed to sell copies they have in stock, but it's been taken off of Kindle and off of the iUniverse website.  I still have author copies of the old version as well, which I'm thinking of donating to our local LGBT outreach center in Sacramento, but it will be out this fall, one volume every two months, and I am jazzed.  One of the bennies of this sort of release is that YA librarians will be able to look the book up on lists and it will be submitted to their review publications and I would love it if it showed up in school libraries.  That, I think, would be a real milestone for me.  I know that if Talker were released at this point in time, it would be under the New Adult category of YA, and so, possibly, would Locker Room and (definitely) Litha's Constant Whim and Truth in the Dark.  Given what I've dealt with because people assume two male leads make porn instead of literature, I'm going to call this idea a win.

Anyway--

So that's news-- I've said it before, my virtual life may be chock-full-o-goodness, but my actual life is the stuff that naps are made of.  I do have to admit, though-- I'm finally catching up my sleep after RWA.  And I'm still waiting trepidatiously for footage of me and two llama puppets to emerge from the cybersphere.  If it doesn't, I'll be very relieved.

Meditation on Movies and Expectations

Okay-- so the kids are gone, right? Off in the wilds with my parents, where I will worry about them appropriately until they return, and fret about the fact that, seriously, we haven't done a whole lot with them this summer and I feel HELLA FRICKIN' GUILTY.

But in the meantime, gone they are, and it's time for mama cat and daddy cat to...

Well, for us, it's go to movies.

Now, today there was actually a choice, which is pretty frickin' awesome, because I'm telling you, pickings have been mighty slim this summer.  Anyway, we had Wolverine, we had Reds2, we had The Heat and we had RIPd.  (We also had Pacific Rim, but we forgot about that until we got to the movie theater, and we'll go see it tomorrow.)

Anyway-- it was an embarrassment of riches after months during which we're going back to see classic stuff on the screen because there's really nothing good.

And it forced us to choose, and that made me think about what people want from their entertainment.

Sometimes, we really do want our hearts ripped out.

Seriously-- that's what I go to Superhero movies for.  That's why I go to Star Trek (twice so far!).  Yeah, some people go to their family dramas for that, but honestly?  I get my feels much more thoroughly when they're pumped through my body with adrenaline and clenched-fist humor.  When I'm writing a contemporary story and my heroes are faced with an impossible choice, or an impossible way to retain their humanity, it's that sort of intensity I'm going for-- I adore me a good, painful, oh-the-fucking-humanity story about someone trying to be better than human-- who fails miserably.

But, that being said, we did not see Wolverine.  

Because the trailers look awesome.  And there are some movies that you know you'll sit down to, and it will be like a roller coaster.  There will be five horrible minutes of "what have I done!" followed by a breathless thrill ride that you're glad you've taken, but that you know has drained some time off of your final resting clock.

Yeah.  No.

I wanted something funny.  But not stupid funny.  There is a troupe of very talented, very rare and amazing actors-- Paul Rudd, Jason Segal, Will Farrell, Steve Corel, Zach Gallifiankis--  yeah.  I can't watch any of their stuff at the theatre.  Like I said-- they're brilliant-- but watching their movies makes me have to run out of the room to hide my head under the pillow and scream "La la la la la la la la!!!"  at the top of my lungs.  If I ever went to the movie theatre to actually see one of their movies, I'd spend a lot of time checking my e-mail in the bathroom, and that's not kosher in the least.

So I was looking for a smart comedy, but one not based on embarrassment, and one that didn't make me feel old, and one that didn't make me wish I was in my own house with a pillow nearby.

And it had to be good.

Now see, in this mood that I was in, if I'd seen any of those other movies, I would have hated them.

I would have flat out hated them.  I wouldn't have panned them because as I get older I'm better at recognizing when it's the stupid movie and when it's me being a mean bitch, but I know myself-- I would have hated it.  As Mate and I get older, we get more and more adept and reading between the lines of the trailers and figuring out whether or not the only funny parts really are on the trailer, so we don't make that mistake ever during our precious movie time, and we're also pretty good at differentiating.

For example?  The Others was really not like The Sixth Sense because in the end, there was no redeeming message about humanity so there!  So when we watched it and it scared the shit out of us, we knew enough to tell people what not to expect--and what to expect, and people were happy.

Because the audience-- of a movie or a book or a theatre piece or whatever-- really does bring it to the table when they allow themselves to be entertained.  If you tell someone that they're going to a Christmas concert and they end up at a Motley Crue cover band, they're going to be disappointed.  That disappointment is difficult to measure in terms of their own expectations-- they're going to take it out on the cover band when it might have actually been pretty decent.

And the older I get, and the more I talk to people who come out of a movie or a book or a television show complaining, the more i think that what they missed was (very often) overall quality of the product, but expectation.  Now some people are going to say, "Yeah!  I expected it to be good!" but that's not true at all.  We went to see Season of the Witch expecting it to suck, and yet to be entertained. And we were entertained--and the movie was campy as hell!  But we didn't leave the theatre angry or unsatisfied-- we left it in a good mood.  We'd known what to expect, and the movie fulfilled our expectations and in spite of the fact that it really was one of the shittiest movies ever, we deemed it good.

And I'm sure actors and producers and content creators everywhere live in fear of the product that really is very good overall, but that is given a bad rep by misleading expectations.  Because it's funny-- we the audience have no idea that this thing inside us--that very often we're unaware of--has such a powerful effect on what our perception of quality is.

It's a thing I've always found fascinating-- I mean, I have no "conclusion" here, because really, what am I going to exhort people to do?  "Don't go into that piece of literature with any expectations at all!"

Uhm, that will fly, right?

I guess I just wanted to ponder it a little--how the audience is the unquantified ingredient that can make or break the movie.  You can have the best actors, writers, producers, intentions and results, and still, because the job is out of your control, have a movie that flames out spectacularly.

It's daunting, isn't it?

It's like that plane I was boarding that was lifting off in Salt Lake City.  There was some confusion as to whether or not passengers from another, bumped flight, would be boarding on our flight-- and it came down to weather.  Salt Lake City is so high that if the plane had been loaded to capacity, and it got higher than 95 degrees, well, the plane might not take off so well.

And it was 93 degrees, and they were wondering if they should stuff the plane chock full of  victims, I mean virgins I mean passengers, right?  (I counted almost 30 Mormon Missionaries-- not great for dragons no, but a little easier on the conscience in airplane travel.)

So, we boarded the plane: me, the gentleman by the window, and the empty seat in the middle.

As the airplane filled up, we both looked at that seat between us, and came to understand the truth:  should that seat fill up, that meant the airline was going to try to risk it, and we were going to try to overload the plane.  Should that seat stay empty, our odds of living to Atlanta had just dramatically improved.

So, at the end of the boarding process, the door closed, and that seat was still between us.  I put my stuff there, and both of us looked at each other and said, "Yes!" quietly, with little arm-pumps of triumph.

We were going to live!

So, given that, when we hit turbulence and a violent thunderstorm over Atlanta, the gentleman opened his window, looked outside at the tumult of clouds and lightning, and said, "We didn't need to see that."

Then he shut the window.

And we both agreed at the end, it wasn't a bad flight at all.

See-- it's all about expectations, right?