Jessica Martinez's Blog, page 2
October 7, 2010
On the Writing FrontVIRTUOSITY Revisions: ACCEPTED!...
On the Writing Front
VIRTUOSITY Revisions: ACCEPTED!!! I've been sweating bullets over my new ending, but my editor loved it (thank you, Anica!) and the manuscript has been sent to copyediting. Whatever that is. Or maybe I should say wherever that is. Maybe there's a whole copyediting land with unicorns and cupcakes and free massages. Hmmm, if so, I hope I get sent to copyediting someday… (I'm not sure if I actually need to explain that I do have some idea of what copyediting entails or not. Guess I just did.)
So just when I thought I could stop checking my email four times a minute, Anica told me they were having an open casting call for the cover model, and that if she's allowed to, she'll send me a picture of the girl they choose! Back to refreshing the inbox. I really hope my Carmen doesn't have a snaggletooth and a monobrow.
The WIP. I have got to name this thing so I can stop calling it that. I'm rewriting, because apparently that is what I do. My writing process needs some serious tweaking, but I'm not sure how to fix it. I guess I write books by writing 80,000 words, then realizing I've finally found out who my character really is, but that isn't the same person she was at the beginning of the book, and her story needs to be different too. So I rewrite the book. Totally. It's not that I don't outline. I just have to get to know her really well, the same way you get to know a real person, and that takes me a long time. Maybe for the next book I'll do some intensive Daniel Day Lewis style become-my-character-for-a-week instead. Seriously, that would be easier. Let's hope it's not a book about a serial killer.
Ode to Watching TV with my Husband
I hate COPS. The show, not actual police officers—I like them just fine. I'm watching the show right now because I like to be in the same room as my husband in the evening after the kids are down. Hard to say whether or not this counts as quality time together or not.
Anyway, I hate the show. At first it's hilarious (I mean, are people really that stupid?), but then you realize yes they are, and what you're watching is happening all over America, that there are thousands and thousands of huffers/DUI-ers/wife beaters/tranny prostitutes getting arrested right now. And that's sad. Then you realize there are way way more out there not getting arrested right now. And that's scary.
I prefer it when he watches Telemundo. I don't speak Spanish, but I get significantly more out of it than ESPN, which is the other go-to.
Clearly, I need to reclaim the remote.
Why I Don't Reclaim the Remote
I'd much rather make fun of his shows than listen to him make fun of mine.
VIRTUOSITY Revisions: ACCEPTED!!! I've been sweating bullets over my new ending, but my editor loved it (thank you, Anica!) and the manuscript has been sent to copyediting. Whatever that is. Or maybe I should say wherever that is. Maybe there's a whole copyediting land with unicorns and cupcakes and free massages. Hmmm, if so, I hope I get sent to copyediting someday… (I'm not sure if I actually need to explain that I do have some idea of what copyediting entails or not. Guess I just did.)
So just when I thought I could stop checking my email four times a minute, Anica told me they were having an open casting call for the cover model, and that if she's allowed to, she'll send me a picture of the girl they choose! Back to refreshing the inbox. I really hope my Carmen doesn't have a snaggletooth and a monobrow.
The WIP. I have got to name this thing so I can stop calling it that. I'm rewriting, because apparently that is what I do. My writing process needs some serious tweaking, but I'm not sure how to fix it. I guess I write books by writing 80,000 words, then realizing I've finally found out who my character really is, but that isn't the same person she was at the beginning of the book, and her story needs to be different too. So I rewrite the book. Totally. It's not that I don't outline. I just have to get to know her really well, the same way you get to know a real person, and that takes me a long time. Maybe for the next book I'll do some intensive Daniel Day Lewis style become-my-character-for-a-week instead. Seriously, that would be easier. Let's hope it's not a book about a serial killer.
Ode to Watching TV with my Husband
I hate COPS. The show, not actual police officers—I like them just fine. I'm watching the show right now because I like to be in the same room as my husband in the evening after the kids are down. Hard to say whether or not this counts as quality time together or not.
Anyway, I hate the show. At first it's hilarious (I mean, are people really that stupid?), but then you realize yes they are, and what you're watching is happening all over America, that there are thousands and thousands of huffers/DUI-ers/wife beaters/tranny prostitutes getting arrested right now. And that's sad. Then you realize there are way way more out there not getting arrested right now. And that's scary.
I prefer it when he watches Telemundo. I don't speak Spanish, but I get significantly more out of it than ESPN, which is the other go-to.
Clearly, I need to reclaim the remote.
Why I Don't Reclaim the Remote
I'd much rather make fun of his shows than listen to him make fun of mine.
September 29, 2010
Blah, blah, blah
Hey, I'm dedicating this post to Barb. She just tore a strip off me at book club for not posting this week. (Fine, she just asked me why I hadn't posted—nobody's crying themselves to sleep over my blog slacking.) My lame excuse was that I've been busy with my WIP, but the truth is I just haven't had a single funny thought in days. Not that this has to be Jessica's comedy hour, but nobody wants to read blah blah blah. What can I say—my husband's been out of town and my sense of humor has been dampened by only communicating with people who think the word "bum-bum" is the most HILARIOUS thing in the world.
So here's a rundown of my somewhat humorless week. Brace yourselves:
I finished my edits and sent them to my editor. I've been refreshing my inbox every ten seconds since then. It's crazy addictive. I don't recommend it.
I got a very unfortunate haircut. Luckily, I don't like my hair enough in the first place to be all that sad. I fixed it up myself with some dull kitchen scissors, and it looks much better now. Two months and I should be back to socially acceptable.
I celebrated Banned Books Week by hosting a book burning. Just kidding. I went to book club and talked about whether, when, and why violence is appropriate in YA, among other things. Hooray for Hunger Games! Definitely a bright spot in the week.
Last but not least, I, um, got paid. For writing my book. It was surreal, and not at all ho-hum—the whole thing is still so unbelievable (I'm not just doing this for fun?)—but I celebrated by taking the aforementioned comedians for FroYo and the word "bum-bum" was said at least five times, just for laughs. Clearly I need some tips on celebrating.
September 20, 2010
What Would Carmen Wear?
Carmen is the main character in my upcoming novel VIRTUOSITY. She's a 17-year-old concert violinist, which means she gets to wear fabulous gowns like the ones you see on the red carpet.
So what would Carmen wear?
Not Exhibit A, B, or C. That's a guarantee. And not anything Lady Gaga has ever worn or will ever wear. Definitely not the meat dress.
And why am I wondering this now? Because my editor sent me an email this last week full of gowns they were considering for the cover of VIRTUOSITY! Imagine my joy, my glee, my freak out dance!
Thus far, being a writer has not been super glamorous. (Unless you think writing bleary-eyed at 4:30 a.m. in footy-pajamas is super glamorous, and if so, try it and get back to me.) So to be looking at pictures of real dresses that an actual live model was going to wear at a photo shoot was mind blowing.
By the way, my editor, Anica Rissi, rules for letting me weigh in on this. I'd heard not to expect to have input in my cover—most authors don't—and I was okay with that. Leaving things to the experts is smart. My partially-functioning sprinkler system and dead dead lawn are evidence of that (sorry honey, you have other gifts). I used to play chamber music for weddings, and I don't know how many times I had a bride nearly ruin her nuptials by choreographing details she had no business messing with. (And while my fifth bridesmaid is walking in I want you to play Ode to Joy, but then go back to Pachelbel's Canon for the next two bridesmaids, and then when you see me, start playing Send in the Clowns, because it's my dad's favorite song. ) Think I'm joking about that last part? Wrong. I ACTUALLY HAD TO PLAY SEND IN THE CLOWNS WHILE A BRIDE WALKED DOWN THE AISLE. Ask my mom, she was there, playing with me. I lost a little bit of my soul that day. Mom, if you're reading this, back me up here because people never believe me when I tell that story.
Anyway, I was cool with leaving the cover art to the cover artists.
But then they went and asked my opinion, and the power totally went to my head. How did I forget that I'm the girl who can't shop for clothes without her sister there telling her what to buy?! I wrote back with a lengthy explanation of why I loved my favorites. I don't know how much my opinion meant, but it probably meant considerably less an hour later when I sent a second email, in which I changed my least favorite dress to my most favorite dress. Oh, credibility, where are you now?
Doesn't matter. I trust the people at Simon Pulse—they make gorgeous covers. And I've decided that if I ever have the need for a red-carpet gown, I'll go straight to Lady Gaga for her raw meat dress. She clearly knows her fashion. Classy.
So what would Carmen wear?
Not Exhibit A, B, or C. That's a guarantee. And not anything Lady Gaga has ever worn or will ever wear. Definitely not the meat dress.
And why am I wondering this now? Because my editor sent me an email this last week full of gowns they were considering for the cover of VIRTUOSITY! Imagine my joy, my glee, my freak out dance!
Thus far, being a writer has not been super glamorous. (Unless you think writing bleary-eyed at 4:30 a.m. in footy-pajamas is super glamorous, and if so, try it and get back to me.) So to be looking at pictures of real dresses that an actual live model was going to wear at a photo shoot was mind blowing.
By the way, my editor, Anica Rissi, rules for letting me weigh in on this. I'd heard not to expect to have input in my cover—most authors don't—and I was okay with that. Leaving things to the experts is smart. My partially-functioning sprinkler system and dead dead lawn are evidence of that (sorry honey, you have other gifts). I used to play chamber music for weddings, and I don't know how many times I had a bride nearly ruin her nuptials by choreographing details she had no business messing with. (And while my fifth bridesmaid is walking in I want you to play Ode to Joy, but then go back to Pachelbel's Canon for the next two bridesmaids, and then when you see me, start playing Send in the Clowns, because it's my dad's favorite song. ) Think I'm joking about that last part? Wrong. I ACTUALLY HAD TO PLAY SEND IN THE CLOWNS WHILE A BRIDE WALKED DOWN THE AISLE. Ask my mom, she was there, playing with me. I lost a little bit of my soul that day. Mom, if you're reading this, back me up here because people never believe me when I tell that story.
Anyway, I was cool with leaving the cover art to the cover artists.
But then they went and asked my opinion, and the power totally went to my head. How did I forget that I'm the girl who can't shop for clothes without her sister there telling her what to buy?! I wrote back with a lengthy explanation of why I loved my favorites. I don't know how much my opinion meant, but it probably meant considerably less an hour later when I sent a second email, in which I changed my least favorite dress to my most favorite dress. Oh, credibility, where are you now?
Doesn't matter. I trust the people at Simon Pulse—they make gorgeous covers. And I've decided that if I ever have the need for a red-carpet gown, I'll go straight to Lady Gaga for her raw meat dress. She clearly knows her fashion. Classy.
