L.M. Pruitt's Blog, page 20
October 10, 2011
Media Monday--The Art of the Spoof
Today's late post brought to you by the real world--aka, the bank being closed, my paycheck not being direct deposited, my mom's phone breaking...you get the picture. I contemplated skipping today, but I skipped two posts last week, and I don't want to feel like the ultimate slacker--but what to write about?
Thankfully, I checked HBO OnDemand, saw Vampires Suck was available, and was hit by inspiration.
Comedy in and of itself, is, well, funny. But there's something about a spoof movie that just ramps things up, at least for me.
Spoof movies have a long, illustrious history, starting with Airplane back in 1980. The early 2000's saw a rebirth, if you will, with titles such as Date Movie, Disaster Movie, Epic Movie, and of course, the Scary Movie franchise.
A lot of people see spoof movies as the lowest form of comedy, right down there with fart and penis jokes. First, I'm the type of person who will laugh her ass off at a good penis joke, because penises are funny, period. Second, I think all those people need to actually take a good, long look at a spoof movie--because if they did, they'd see just how much work goes into such a film.
You could write an entire book on the art of the spoof. I'll try and compress it to a few sentences.
In order for a spoof to work, you have to have some sort of socially relevant main plot. In the case of Airplane, it was the disaster movies of the 1970s. Scary Movie, the original, took its main plot from Scream, with a little I Know What You Did Last Summer thrown in to help move things along. Both of these films already had built in knowledge--they didn't need to explain the plot to viewers; if you saw Scream, you had an idea of what to expect in Scary Movie. This is important, because if nobody knows what you're making fun of, nobody is going to get the joke.
Which leads to element two of a successful spoof: the jokes themselves also have to be socially relevant. Vampires Suck plays off by The Black-Eyed Peas and the Kardishians, both things/people that the general population has at least some passing knowledge of. Same goes for jokes about sleep walking, headgear, and high school craziness. Damn near everybody has been exposed in some way, shape of form to these everyday things, and so jokes about them are funny.
Finally, the biggest thing about a spoof: You have to play it straight. That's right. The funniest thing about a spoof is that it's not supposed to be funny, and the people acting in it know this, and play their roles with a level of gravitas normally reserved for heavy hitting dramas. I'll admit, Vampires Suck is not the best spoof movie of all time. But the two main actors nail their roles. I swear, there were moments I thought I was actually watching Pattinson and Stewart, that's how on point the actor are in Vampires Suck. Every twitch, every facial expression, every bit of insipid dialogue, they're all pitch perfect. If they were off by even the smallest bit, it wouldn't work.
So, to all you naysayers down in the front--shush. I'm trying to laugh my ass off here.
Thankfully, I checked HBO OnDemand, saw Vampires Suck was available, and was hit by inspiration.
Comedy in and of itself, is, well, funny. But there's something about a spoof movie that just ramps things up, at least for me.
Spoof movies have a long, illustrious history, starting with Airplane back in 1980. The early 2000's saw a rebirth, if you will, with titles such as Date Movie, Disaster Movie, Epic Movie, and of course, the Scary Movie franchise.
A lot of people see spoof movies as the lowest form of comedy, right down there with fart and penis jokes. First, I'm the type of person who will laugh her ass off at a good penis joke, because penises are funny, period. Second, I think all those people need to actually take a good, long look at a spoof movie--because if they did, they'd see just how much work goes into such a film.
You could write an entire book on the art of the spoof. I'll try and compress it to a few sentences.
In order for a spoof to work, you have to have some sort of socially relevant main plot. In the case of Airplane, it was the disaster movies of the 1970s. Scary Movie, the original, took its main plot from Scream, with a little I Know What You Did Last Summer thrown in to help move things along. Both of these films already had built in knowledge--they didn't need to explain the plot to viewers; if you saw Scream, you had an idea of what to expect in Scary Movie. This is important, because if nobody knows what you're making fun of, nobody is going to get the joke.
Which leads to element two of a successful spoof: the jokes themselves also have to be socially relevant. Vampires Suck plays off by The Black-Eyed Peas and the Kardishians, both things/people that the general population has at least some passing knowledge of. Same goes for jokes about sleep walking, headgear, and high school craziness. Damn near everybody has been exposed in some way, shape of form to these everyday things, and so jokes about them are funny.
Finally, the biggest thing about a spoof: You have to play it straight. That's right. The funniest thing about a spoof is that it's not supposed to be funny, and the people acting in it know this, and play their roles with a level of gravitas normally reserved for heavy hitting dramas. I'll admit, Vampires Suck is not the best spoof movie of all time. But the two main actors nail their roles. I swear, there were moments I thought I was actually watching Pattinson and Stewart, that's how on point the actor are in Vampires Suck. Every twitch, every facial expression, every bit of insipid dialogue, they're all pitch perfect. If they were off by even the smallest bit, it wouldn't work.
So, to all you naysayers down in the front--shush. I'm trying to laugh my ass off here.
October 7, 2011
Food Friday--Soup!
Finally, after months and months and months of ridiculous heat, we're starting to get some cooler weather. Yes, I know what you're thinking--"There's cool weather in Florida?" Yes, by our standards, mornings starting in the 40s is "cool weather". Just remember, our summers are brutal.
Anyway, while I hate cold weather, I do love being able to wear snuggly things, amazing boots, and... soup! Can you have soup in the summer? Sure, and there are even some soups that are better in the summer, since they're basically just broth, but the truly amazing, insanely good soups get saved for winter.
Chicken noodle, cream of potato, french onion, gumbo... I have a ton and a half of soups I love to cook during the winter. For one, you can make a pot, and you've got dinner for at least two meals. For two, it's very soothing, maybe even more so than any other cooking.
Now, why is soup so soothing? Ignore the alliteration there, and focus on the question. For generations, the most well known advice for almost anything that ails you has been, "Have some chicken noodle soup." Even before scientists had to go and actually make sure it was true, everybody knew it. Maybe some of it was psychological--ok, maybe most of it is psychological, but it doesn't mean the damn soup didn't work.
I'm not going to lie. I have no freaking clue. None.
But I still love soup.
Anyway, while I hate cold weather, I do love being able to wear snuggly things, amazing boots, and... soup! Can you have soup in the summer? Sure, and there are even some soups that are better in the summer, since they're basically just broth, but the truly amazing, insanely good soups get saved for winter.
Chicken noodle, cream of potato, french onion, gumbo... I have a ton and a half of soups I love to cook during the winter. For one, you can make a pot, and you've got dinner for at least two meals. For two, it's very soothing, maybe even more so than any other cooking.
Now, why is soup so soothing? Ignore the alliteration there, and focus on the question. For generations, the most well known advice for almost anything that ails you has been, "Have some chicken noodle soup." Even before scientists had to go and actually make sure it was true, everybody knew it. Maybe some of it was psychological--ok, maybe most of it is psychological, but it doesn't mean the damn soup didn't work.
I'm not going to lie. I have no freaking clue. None.
But I still love soup.
October 5, 2011
Writer Wednesday!
So, first things first--I'm posting this from my phone, so I may not catch every error. But, how awesome has technology come that I can blog from my phone while I wait for the movie to start?
As a writer, technology is one of those those things I find easy to forget how important it is, when besides my imagination it's something I really can't do without. Imagine for a moment how the world would be without the advent of the Internet and everything that's popped up from it. Self publishing, e-readers, cheaper books--none of these would be possible without the Internet. And yet, I find it all too easy to forget how big technology is, simply because it is, in fact, there.
So, while I watch a movie where technology will do us no good (Contagion, in case you're wondering), let's take a moment to appreciate everything technology as accomplished, across every field.
Including letting me share this from a movie theater.
As a writer, technology is one of those those things I find easy to forget how important it is, when besides my imagination it's something I really can't do without. Imagine for a moment how the world would be without the advent of the Internet and everything that's popped up from it. Self publishing, e-readers, cheaper books--none of these would be possible without the Internet. And yet, I find it all too easy to forget how big technology is, simply because it is, in fact, there.
So, while I watch a movie where technology will do us no good (Contagion, in case you're wondering), let's take a moment to appreciate everything technology as accomplished, across every field.
Including letting me share this from a movie theater.
October 4, 2011
Taken Tuesday!
It's that time of the week again! Sorry for missing yesterday, but I was coming off a 28 hour work binge and the only think I cared about was my bed. Which would be where I went when I got home. Until I had to wake up and go back to work this morning. But enough of my woes.
This scene is a little further in the book (obviously), and introduces another pretty important character. And I'll leave it at that.
"You planning on sitting here all morning?" The waitress topped off my coffee, one hand on her bony hip. She'd seen the backside of forty more than a few years ago and the make-up she'd troweled on didn't help. "I got to make a living, same as anyone else." "With your attitude, I'm surprised you make a living at all." I pulled a twenty out of my wallet, slammed it on the table. Coffee slopped over the rim, came dangerously close to the papers spread over the cheap laminate. "Consider it a down payment on your tip. Keep the coffee coming and keep your mouth shut and we'll get along just fine." Her mouth twisted in a snarl but her fingers nipped out, snatched up the twenty and slipped it in her apron. Sensible white shoes squeaked on the tile as she spun and stalked away. Shrugging, I doctored the cup, added enough cream and sugar to kill the taste of the coffee. Casey Lynn would be another fifteen minutes. Maybe thirty. I'd left Jack at the Waldorf, sprawled across the bed and snoring. I'd dressed in the bedroom so I could watch him, just to be sure. He tended to have nightmares the day or so after I saw something, as if he needed to make up for not being able to follow me. Since he wasn't awake to see me, I indulged myself by running my fingers through his hair, trailing my hand down his spine. I lingered for a moment at the scar, pressed my lips together at old memories. My fingers lingered on the necklace, worried the charm. Instead of tucking the gold in my purse or the pocket of my jeans, I slid it under my shirt. It wasn't smart, but I needed the extra comfort. Besides, nobody was going to be looking down my shirt today. Even now, I picked at the charm beneath my shirt, nibbled on my lower lip while I studied Jack's notes. He'd take the sketch into the station, see if there'd been a missing person report filed for someone named Roxanne from the Bronx. The notes were mine, mine to look over and absorb and see where they took me. If I got enough information, I'd call in an anonymous tip. Jack and I had done this routine more times than either of us could count. "I fucking hate you. You know that, right? I abso-fucking-lutely hate you." Casey Lynn threw her bag into the booth, flung herself in after it. She yanked big, Jackie-O sunglasses off and tossed them on the table. "You know what time I got to sleep? Three hours ago. Which meant I got about two hours before I had to get up to meet you at this shithole diner." "You have such a way with words, Casey Lynn. Butter wouldn't even melt in your mouth." I took a sip of coffee, studied her over the rim. "You look like shit." Her lips quivered for a moment before she grinned. "You sweet talker, you. Damn it. I was going to be bitchy for at least ten minutes before I broke character." "You better head back to acting class, darlin'. Either that or get a refund." I'd slid into the voice Casey Lynn normally heard me use, an accent mellower than my natural twang but stronger than most Southern drawls. "You eating food this morning or still starving yourself?" "Food. Those five pounds are never coming off, just like my Mama said." Casey Lynn flashed a big, toothy smile at the hag as she approached. "I sure hope we're not taking up too much of your time. I promise as soon as we're done eating we'll be gone, lickty split." I sat back and watched Casey Lynn use her farm girl magic on the waitress, smiling and laughing over some little shared joke. Casey Lynn Hawbacker might have got the hell out of Jewell, Kansas but nothing short of a miracle would get Jewell, Kansas out of her. She'd still look sparkly and new if she spent another ten years in Manhattan's underbelly. "And what about you?" The hag managed to smile at me, still under Casey Lynn's influence. "Two over easy, bacon, country potatoes, wheat toast." The sensory memory of hominy grits, scalding hot on my tongue, flashed through me, made me miserably homesick in a way I hadn't been in years. "Water, please, when you have a moment." Casey Lynn pushed her hair back, a wild, curling mass of dark browns, gilded with red. Her hazel eyes were rimmed with red but still alert. "You just make friends all over the place. Dolores, our waitress, is probably thinking about spitting in your food." "Considering the twenty in her pocket, I doubt she'll follow through." My coffee was edging toward lukewarm but I was going to need the caffeine today. "Jack says hello." The quick, indrawn breath and the sudden laxness of her mouth made me snicker. She licked her lip, tongue ring winking in the low light. "Jack says hello or you both say hello?" "Well, both of us. But not like that." I sighed when she began to pout. "Not right now, anyway. We've both got work." "Out of all the men I've had - ." "All three of them," I interrupted, shuffling papers around. "Out of all the men I've had," Casey Lynn repeated, spearing me with a glare. "Jack is the only one who could make me move to the other side of the street." "You're not even on a side of the street. You're playing in the median." "And? You are, too." "I am not. I live firmly on the side of the street involving men, with the occasional visit to the median." Waving a hand, determined to not let the conversation stray into areas already talked to death, I pulled the picture of Roxy out of the stack, laid it on top. "I'm serious, darlin'. We're both busy with work. But maybe you can help us out." Casey Lynn's eyes went sharp. "Decoy work?" "Of a sort." I chewed on my lower lip, unsure how much to tell her. Casey Lynn tended to talk more than wise, but sending her in as blind bait didn't sit right. "Women are being snatched up and sold. About two weeks ago, Audrey Clark stepped outside Low Places." Quickly, I gave her the rest of what Jack and I knew so far, pausing only when Dolores brought our food. I dusted my plate with salt and pepper, glanced up to find Casey Lynn studying me. "If you're not up for this, we understand. I'll put an ad in the paper, hire someone." "I'm thinking it over. You've never asked me to do something dangerous." She forked up a bite of omelette, watched steam waft up before popping it in her mouth. She chewed slowly, eyes distant. Swallowing, she said, "Do you have a picture of this guy Chad?" "Not yet." One of the many things on my list to do today. Ian Hamby didn't know it yet, but he was going to let me in his cousin's apartment. Or point me in the right direction, at the very least. "You'd get a picture and a wire and one of Jack's nifty locator beepers. And probably the pair of us in a dark corner somewhere." "If you'd mentioned that last bit first, you'd have sold me right away." Casey Lynn flashed a grin before going back to her omelette. For the next few minutes we concentrated on eating, Casey Lynn staring off in the distance, lists of things I needed to do running through my mind. None of the lists were short and all of them had reached should have been done yesterday status. "Ok, I'm in." I blinked, brought my mind back to the conversation. Casey Lynn pushed her plate away and I blinked again, wondering where she'd stuffed the plate sized omelette and how she'd done it so quickly. "You want to work out a cover story now or later?"
This scene is a little further in the book (obviously), and introduces another pretty important character. And I'll leave it at that.
"You planning on sitting here all morning?" The waitress topped off my coffee, one hand on her bony hip. She'd seen the backside of forty more than a few years ago and the make-up she'd troweled on didn't help. "I got to make a living, same as anyone else." "With your attitude, I'm surprised you make a living at all." I pulled a twenty out of my wallet, slammed it on the table. Coffee slopped over the rim, came dangerously close to the papers spread over the cheap laminate. "Consider it a down payment on your tip. Keep the coffee coming and keep your mouth shut and we'll get along just fine." Her mouth twisted in a snarl but her fingers nipped out, snatched up the twenty and slipped it in her apron. Sensible white shoes squeaked on the tile as she spun and stalked away. Shrugging, I doctored the cup, added enough cream and sugar to kill the taste of the coffee. Casey Lynn would be another fifteen minutes. Maybe thirty. I'd left Jack at the Waldorf, sprawled across the bed and snoring. I'd dressed in the bedroom so I could watch him, just to be sure. He tended to have nightmares the day or so after I saw something, as if he needed to make up for not being able to follow me. Since he wasn't awake to see me, I indulged myself by running my fingers through his hair, trailing my hand down his spine. I lingered for a moment at the scar, pressed my lips together at old memories. My fingers lingered on the necklace, worried the charm. Instead of tucking the gold in my purse or the pocket of my jeans, I slid it under my shirt. It wasn't smart, but I needed the extra comfort. Besides, nobody was going to be looking down my shirt today. Even now, I picked at the charm beneath my shirt, nibbled on my lower lip while I studied Jack's notes. He'd take the sketch into the station, see if there'd been a missing person report filed for someone named Roxanne from the Bronx. The notes were mine, mine to look over and absorb and see where they took me. If I got enough information, I'd call in an anonymous tip. Jack and I had done this routine more times than either of us could count. "I fucking hate you. You know that, right? I abso-fucking-lutely hate you." Casey Lynn threw her bag into the booth, flung herself in after it. She yanked big, Jackie-O sunglasses off and tossed them on the table. "You know what time I got to sleep? Three hours ago. Which meant I got about two hours before I had to get up to meet you at this shithole diner." "You have such a way with words, Casey Lynn. Butter wouldn't even melt in your mouth." I took a sip of coffee, studied her over the rim. "You look like shit." Her lips quivered for a moment before she grinned. "You sweet talker, you. Damn it. I was going to be bitchy for at least ten minutes before I broke character." "You better head back to acting class, darlin'. Either that or get a refund." I'd slid into the voice Casey Lynn normally heard me use, an accent mellower than my natural twang but stronger than most Southern drawls. "You eating food this morning or still starving yourself?" "Food. Those five pounds are never coming off, just like my Mama said." Casey Lynn flashed a big, toothy smile at the hag as she approached. "I sure hope we're not taking up too much of your time. I promise as soon as we're done eating we'll be gone, lickty split." I sat back and watched Casey Lynn use her farm girl magic on the waitress, smiling and laughing over some little shared joke. Casey Lynn Hawbacker might have got the hell out of Jewell, Kansas but nothing short of a miracle would get Jewell, Kansas out of her. She'd still look sparkly and new if she spent another ten years in Manhattan's underbelly. "And what about you?" The hag managed to smile at me, still under Casey Lynn's influence. "Two over easy, bacon, country potatoes, wheat toast." The sensory memory of hominy grits, scalding hot on my tongue, flashed through me, made me miserably homesick in a way I hadn't been in years. "Water, please, when you have a moment." Casey Lynn pushed her hair back, a wild, curling mass of dark browns, gilded with red. Her hazel eyes were rimmed with red but still alert. "You just make friends all over the place. Dolores, our waitress, is probably thinking about spitting in your food." "Considering the twenty in her pocket, I doubt she'll follow through." My coffee was edging toward lukewarm but I was going to need the caffeine today. "Jack says hello." The quick, indrawn breath and the sudden laxness of her mouth made me snicker. She licked her lip, tongue ring winking in the low light. "Jack says hello or you both say hello?" "Well, both of us. But not like that." I sighed when she began to pout. "Not right now, anyway. We've both got work." "Out of all the men I've had - ." "All three of them," I interrupted, shuffling papers around. "Out of all the men I've had," Casey Lynn repeated, spearing me with a glare. "Jack is the only one who could make me move to the other side of the street." "You're not even on a side of the street. You're playing in the median." "And? You are, too." "I am not. I live firmly on the side of the street involving men, with the occasional visit to the median." Waving a hand, determined to not let the conversation stray into areas already talked to death, I pulled the picture of Roxy out of the stack, laid it on top. "I'm serious, darlin'. We're both busy with work. But maybe you can help us out." Casey Lynn's eyes went sharp. "Decoy work?" "Of a sort." I chewed on my lower lip, unsure how much to tell her. Casey Lynn tended to talk more than wise, but sending her in as blind bait didn't sit right. "Women are being snatched up and sold. About two weeks ago, Audrey Clark stepped outside Low Places." Quickly, I gave her the rest of what Jack and I knew so far, pausing only when Dolores brought our food. I dusted my plate with salt and pepper, glanced up to find Casey Lynn studying me. "If you're not up for this, we understand. I'll put an ad in the paper, hire someone." "I'm thinking it over. You've never asked me to do something dangerous." She forked up a bite of omelette, watched steam waft up before popping it in her mouth. She chewed slowly, eyes distant. Swallowing, she said, "Do you have a picture of this guy Chad?" "Not yet." One of the many things on my list to do today. Ian Hamby didn't know it yet, but he was going to let me in his cousin's apartment. Or point me in the right direction, at the very least. "You'd get a picture and a wire and one of Jack's nifty locator beepers. And probably the pair of us in a dark corner somewhere." "If you'd mentioned that last bit first, you'd have sold me right away." Casey Lynn flashed a grin before going back to her omelette. For the next few minutes we concentrated on eating, Casey Lynn staring off in the distance, lists of things I needed to do running through my mind. None of the lists were short and all of them had reached should have been done yesterday status. "Ok, I'm in." I blinked, brought my mind back to the conversation. Casey Lynn pushed her plate away and I blinked again, wondering where she'd stuffed the plate sized omelette and how she'd done it so quickly. "You want to work out a cover story now or later?"
September 30, 2011
Food Friday!--Customer Satisfaction
First things first--I'm thinking about doing one of two things: either changing the focus of Friday from food, which would result in a blog title change, which I really don't want to do. Or, posting every other Friday. Why? I like talking about food, but at the same time, I don't. If that makes sense. I'll decide later.
So, today, what's floating through my mind food-wise is this: if you're a picky eater--I'm talking like, it takes a solid five minutes to give your server your order--actually, scratch that, so picky that no matter how many times you go to a place, the kitchen never gets it right, despite the best efforts of every person on the staff, including the manager--why would you continue to go there?
I'm not asking/thinking this in a rude way. It's a genuine curiosity. Everyone has a right to be picky about their food, especially when they're paying for it. I know that whenever I go out to eat, if I get chicken, I always ask the kitchen to burn it, like literally BURN it. I can count on one hand the number of the times the kitchen as taken me at my word--I guess everyone thinks I'm pulling their leg, when in fact I'm straight serious. Still, I don't throw a fit, I don't ask things to be recooked, I especially don't cause a flat-out scene.
So, I don't understand why other people do. Maybe my patience comes from working on the other side. Or maybe I was raised with manners, which is something some people today seem to be sadly lacking in. I really don't know where the difference in handling the situation comes from. Readers, any clues?
So, today, what's floating through my mind food-wise is this: if you're a picky eater--I'm talking like, it takes a solid five minutes to give your server your order--actually, scratch that, so picky that no matter how many times you go to a place, the kitchen never gets it right, despite the best efforts of every person on the staff, including the manager--why would you continue to go there?
I'm not asking/thinking this in a rude way. It's a genuine curiosity. Everyone has a right to be picky about their food, especially when they're paying for it. I know that whenever I go out to eat, if I get chicken, I always ask the kitchen to burn it, like literally BURN it. I can count on one hand the number of the times the kitchen as taken me at my word--I guess everyone thinks I'm pulling their leg, when in fact I'm straight serious. Still, I don't throw a fit, I don't ask things to be recooked, I especially don't cause a flat-out scene.
So, I don't understand why other people do. Maybe my patience comes from working on the other side. Or maybe I was raised with manners, which is something some people today seem to be sadly lacking in. I really don't know where the difference in handling the situation comes from. Readers, any clues?
September 29, 2011
Random Thursday!
On today's list of random things I'm thinking/doing/are happening:
Breakfast with my family. We don't often manage to be together in the same place, and today it just happened that we all decided to go eat breakfast at the same restaurant. One of those quirks of the universe.
E-mailing after Midnight. Don't do it, whether or not you're sober. Just spent the morning explaining to the formatter that my fingers are fat, and no, I don't think she's my editor. Clearly, I have a problem with my fingers being fat, something made worse with a lack of sleep.
Editing. I hate it. I loathe it, I despise it, I might start running out of normal adjectives here if I'm not careful. Yes, I understand the vitalness of it. That does not mean I have to like it. Which is good. Because I might have a problem.
My Cats. I feel like this may an entire post here someday. My cats are special creatures. I'm watching one of them right now, who probably weighs more than a two year old child, and I'm waiting for the moment when he takes off running, hits the kitchen floor, and slides straight into the cabinets. Because he does this at LEAST twice a day, without fail. No rhyme, no reason, at least not to me. He just gallops everywhere like he's part horse. I call him my special child--because if he was human, I'd have to treat him like Ralphie from the Simpsons, and pray he didn't eat the red crayon.
Breakfast with my family. We don't often manage to be together in the same place, and today it just happened that we all decided to go eat breakfast at the same restaurant. One of those quirks of the universe.
E-mailing after Midnight. Don't do it, whether or not you're sober. Just spent the morning explaining to the formatter that my fingers are fat, and no, I don't think she's my editor. Clearly, I have a problem with my fingers being fat, something made worse with a lack of sleep.
Editing. I hate it. I loathe it, I despise it, I might start running out of normal adjectives here if I'm not careful. Yes, I understand the vitalness of it. That does not mean I have to like it. Which is good. Because I might have a problem.
My Cats. I feel like this may an entire post here someday. My cats are special creatures. I'm watching one of them right now, who probably weighs more than a two year old child, and I'm waiting for the moment when he takes off running, hits the kitchen floor, and slides straight into the cabinets. Because he does this at LEAST twice a day, without fail. No rhyme, no reason, at least not to me. He just gallops everywhere like he's part horse. I call him my special child--because if he was human, I'd have to treat him like Ralphie from the Simpsons, and pray he didn't eat the red crayon.
September 28, 2011
Writing Wednesday--The Art of the Blurb
Does anybody watch Mad Men? Well, obviously not at the moment--neither do I, but hopefully they'll be rectifying that grievance here soon. Anyway, one of the things I've always loved about Mad Men is that they actually show the process of ad-writing. I have no idea how accurate it is, but it looks pretty damn accurate, for the simple reason that there are times when the various characters want to pull their hair out.
Every time I need to write a blurb, I experience their pain.
I don't know what it is. I can write novels, entire novels, and only feel the urge to slit my wrists once, maybe twice. Ten minutes into writing a blurb and I would gladly swallow a fistful of Ambian to get out of the job.
Is it a block? Some sort of ingrained habit about boasting that kicks in? Or just a general inability to say things in a concise manner? I'll admit, that's a bad habit of mine, one I've had to curb in writing but which I can' seem to curb in real life. I couldn't begin to tell you the number of times my friend has told me to "hurry up and get to the point already".
Like I said, I don't know what it is. But I know it's a pain in my ass. And now you know what I'll be doing today.
Every time I need to write a blurb, I experience their pain.
I don't know what it is. I can write novels, entire novels, and only feel the urge to slit my wrists once, maybe twice. Ten minutes into writing a blurb and I would gladly swallow a fistful of Ambian to get out of the job.
Is it a block? Some sort of ingrained habit about boasting that kicks in? Or just a general inability to say things in a concise manner? I'll admit, that's a bad habit of mine, one I've had to curb in writing but which I can' seem to curb in real life. I couldn't begin to tell you the number of times my friend has told me to "hurry up and get to the point already".
Like I said, I don't know what it is. But I know it's a pain in my ass. And now you know what I'll be doing today.
September 27, 2011
Taken Tuesday!
No, you didn't read that wrong. And no, I didn't type that wrong. In honor of the upcoming release of my next work TAKEN on November 8, I'll be posting a small excerpt each Tuesday for the next seven weeks (or five, depending on how you count them).
TAKEN is my interpretation of the classic crime fiction/noir genre, with a dash of paranormal and romantica thrown in. It's a little gritty than either Shades of Gray or New Moon Rising and definitely racier. I had a ridiculous amount of fun writing it, even when I wanted to tear my hair out at times.
Ok, so enough of my yammering. Below you'll find an excerpt from Chapter Two--I hope it whets your appetite for more!
TAKEN is my interpretation of the classic crime fiction/noir genre, with a dash of paranormal and romantica thrown in. It's a little gritty than either Shades of Gray or New Moon Rising and definitely racier. I had a ridiculous amount of fun writing it, even when I wanted to tear my hair out at times.
Ok, so enough of my yammering. Below you'll find an excerpt from Chapter Two--I hope it whets your appetite for more!
I crossed the lobby of the Waldorf, waved at the check-in clerk. I was close to an hour late. Jack would already be waiting with the room key. I ignored the glitz, glamour and tourists and headed for Peacock Alley. I stopped in the entrance, did a slow scan of the room. Lunch hour, even for WASPs and bankers, was long finished. Still too early for the dinner crowd. I spotted Jack tucked away in the back right corner. A single shot glass sat on the table. I paid no attention to the whispered comments or stares thrown my direction as I wound my way through tables. Until the overly loud one about my hourly price. "Honey, if you're asking, you can't afford me." The idiot's friends, every one of them decked out in three piece suits and ties, snorted and laughed. Drinks spilled over the clothed surface and I rolled my eyes. Future of America, my ass. Which got slapped as I walked past the table. I froze, shut my eyes and counted to ten. Opening them, I shook my head at Jack. He eased back down into the booth, gave a sharp nod. I spun on my heels, my oversized bag connecting with the asshole's head. My deliberate stumble brought the ice-pick heel down on the toe of his wingtip. His eyes widened when I pushed my hands out to break my fall, my palm closing over his dick. I leaned in, watched beads of sweat pop up on his forehead as I twisted my fist. My native Kentucky twang came out when I spoke. "I'll put that down to being young, dumb and full of cum, so I won't do anything other than make your balls ache in the worst way possible. But the man over in the corner, he'd like nothing more than to peel the skin off your face before he pulls your tongue clean out your throat and strangles you with it. So when I stand up, you're going to apologize. And then you're gonna leave." I paused, watched my words sink in. Nobody said a word. I straightened, brushed my hair back, tugged down the hem of my skirt. Muttered and stammered apologies spewed forth, wallets yanked from pockets, cash tossed carelessly on the table. Turning, I continued making my way to Jack. I slid into the booth across from him, rolled my shoulders. The picture I'd had of him in my head for the last hour didn't hold a candle to the reality. Eyes so bloodshot the Red Cross could have pulled a pint of blood from them, cheeks and chin covered with scruff, hair in a hundred directions. He looked like hell. We'd be lucky to make it to the room. "Keep your seat, Jack." "Maybe." He leaned back as the server placed two shots on the table. His eyes roamed up and down, did a better job of assaulting me than the banker could ever dream of doing. "What'd you tell the kids?" "The usual. You were sitting here entertaining about a hundred different ways to kill them." I lifted my glass, clinked it against his. Tequila slid down smooth, added fuel to the fire already burning. "You didn't give me that much time. I'd say I was only up to number twenty five." Jack held up two fingers, tapped his empty glass on the table. "And who were you today?" "Hundred dollar an hour hooker. There's a Queens husband with a weakness for them and a Queens wife with a suspicious nature." We tossed back the second round and I licked my lips clean, sighing. "I'd wager soon there'll be a Queens ex-husband paying a generous amount of alimony and child-support." Jack grunted, ran a hand through his hair. He'd tugged the tie loose and the knot hung crooked. His knee bumped against mine, slid between them. "What's the work? New client?" "One of yours. Ian Hamby." I slipped my shoe off, skimmed my toes up his calf. "Missing cousin. Bad attitude." "Trouble. Bad trouble there." His eyes skimmed over the bag next to me. "That why you're late?" "Had to take Monster home." Jack grunted again, eased his knee back. I slid my foot back into the shoe, wiggled my toes. "You ready?" "As far as you're concerned, always." We stood, his hand pressing into the small of my back. The first evening diners were coming in, tourists mingling with jaded locals. More lawyers and bankers surrounded the bar, sly glances sliding our way. Jack eyed them back, until leers die and shoulders hunch. "You're scary, Jack." My heels clicked on the marble, the sound sharp in contrast to our lazy walk. "Very scary." Jack pulled me in front of him, curved his body around mine to press the elevator call button. I squirmed back against him, his quick intake of breath stirring the fine hairs around my ear. "You like it." "Maybe." I tilted my head, sighed when he nuzzled the crook of my neck. "Hard day?" "Getting harder." He ground against me and this time my breath came short and harsh. "They're sending a bottle up in an hour." "An hour? Feeling ambitious?" The elevator dinged and a couple exited, cameras slung around necks, maps open. Jack nudged me forward, waited until the doors slid silently shut before spinning me around, pressing me against the paneled wall. "No. Hungry."
September 26, 2011
Media Monday
So, time for another running dialogue, this time for one of my new favorite series, Two Broke Girls.
Before the Show
Somehow, I've gotten sucked into watching How I Met Your Mother. I may have to do more research on this show. It's pretty darn amusing. And it has Jason Sudekis, who, for reasons I can't decipher, is totally hot. Maybe it's the humor. I love funny guys and I love witty, sarcastic guys and I love it even better when I manage to get both for the same price.
The Show
What I love about this show is the wisecracks start at the very beginning. They're actually going so fast, I can't keep up. So, I'll throw down the ones I manage to remember/catch in time.
"I don't cry. I sold my tear ducts to an organ bank two years ago."
"I forgot you're Equestrian Barbie, you came with a horse."
"Well, that's Puerto Rican noise, you'll get used to it."
"I don't even let the men I sleep with sleep with me."
"If I were going to go lesbian, she'd be the last lez I'd be in."
"I prefer my usual cash on the bedside table."
"Look, Chanel No. 2!" --(After a character falls in horse poop)
"You almost ruined a perfectly happy fake marriage."
"Oh, joke's on you. I don't have a future."
"Oh, your bed's so soft." "That's my boob!"
Before the Show
Somehow, I've gotten sucked into watching How I Met Your Mother. I may have to do more research on this show. It's pretty darn amusing. And it has Jason Sudekis, who, for reasons I can't decipher, is totally hot. Maybe it's the humor. I love funny guys and I love witty, sarcastic guys and I love it even better when I manage to get both for the same price.
The Show
What I love about this show is the wisecracks start at the very beginning. They're actually going so fast, I can't keep up. So, I'll throw down the ones I manage to remember/catch in time.
"I don't cry. I sold my tear ducts to an organ bank two years ago."
"I forgot you're Equestrian Barbie, you came with a horse."
"Well, that's Puerto Rican noise, you'll get used to it."
"I don't even let the men I sleep with sleep with me."
"If I were going to go lesbian, she'd be the last lez I'd be in."
"I prefer my usual cash on the bedside table."
"Look, Chanel No. 2!" --(After a character falls in horse poop)
"You almost ruined a perfectly happy fake marriage."
"Oh, joke's on you. I don't have a future."
"Oh, your bed's so soft." "That's my boob!"
September 22, 2011
Random Thursday
We, being everyone I work with, just received the news that the mother of one of our fellow co-workers died yesterday. I'm not going to wax maudlin, or spout off about death being part of life or some other crap like that.
I'm going to say one thing, the thing that as I get older, I hold to more and more:
Don't just go through life. LIVE it.
I'm going to say one thing, the thing that as I get older, I hold to more and more:
Don't just go through life. LIVE it.
