Zoraida Córdova's Blog: Zoraida Says, page 15
December 8, 2011
Paranormal Christmas Giveaway
Or, if you don't want these books for Christmas, then we can no longer be friends.
I've had the pleasure of joining one of the coolest groups of 2012. THE debut YA/MG/Children's books writers of 2012. The Apocalypsies. We're gearing up for the big bang. The, holy crap my book REALLY is coming out next year for everyone to get their grubby mits on and judge me reality of it all.
*deep breath*
But wait! There's more...
Some members of the Apocalypsies have already debuted! And you can own them NOW through this giveaway, my gift to you. And even BETTER, both books are signed by their respective author ladies. I had the pleasure of meeting up with them both one fateful night in New York City.
POSSESS by Gretchen McNeil and DARKER STILL by Leanna Renee Hieber. Because if Charles Dickens has taught us anything it's that nothing says Christmas like being afraid of the dark!
Above is proof of their awesomely awesome signatures. And the answer is yes, yes I am wearing boxers that say NAUGHTY. What can I say, it's Christmas time.
*Ahem* Now for the giveaway deets. It's super easy:
US & Canada only
1: fill out the form2: tweet about the contest3: follow me (if you want to live) on twitter @zlikeinzorro4. wait till December 19th when I announce the winner!
I appreciate comment love and WILL SHIP it gift wrapped and all. Granted you already know what's IN it. But if you're like me, I like tearing into that wrapping paper and pretending like I'm surprised.
<p>Loading...</p>
I've had the pleasure of joining one of the coolest groups of 2012. THE debut YA/MG/Children's books writers of 2012. The Apocalypsies. We're gearing up for the big bang. The, holy crap my book REALLY is coming out next year for everyone to get their grubby mits on and judge me reality of it all.
*deep breath*
But wait! There's more...
Some members of the Apocalypsies have already debuted! And you can own them NOW through this giveaway, my gift to you. And even BETTER, both books are signed by their respective author ladies. I had the pleasure of meeting up with them both one fateful night in New York City.
POSSESS by Gretchen McNeil and DARKER STILL by Leanna Renee Hieber. Because if Charles Dickens has taught us anything it's that nothing says Christmas like being afraid of the dark!
Above is proof of their awesomely awesome signatures. And the answer is yes, yes I am wearing boxers that say NAUGHTY. What can I say, it's Christmas time.*Ahem* Now for the giveaway deets. It's super easy:
US & Canada only
1: fill out the form2: tweet about the contest3: follow me (if you want to live) on twitter @zlikeinzorro4. wait till December 19th when I announce the winner!
I appreciate comment love and WILL SHIP it gift wrapped and all. Granted you already know what's IN it. But if you're like me, I like tearing into that wrapping paper and pretending like I'm surprised.
<p>Loading...</p>
December 5, 2011
When I Was a Christmas Gypsy
Or, more importantly how Christmas in New York rules
Whenever I remember coming to America I picture my 9 year old self, even though I was actually 6. I shivered in my black spandex that turned into bells at the ankles, paired with a white ruffle blouse, like Selena. On my feet, clogs, like a little Dutch girl. It was winter in New York City and my family waited with my first down jacket. In Ecuador, Christmas is always hot and humid and the only down feathers anywhere were on turkeys flapping their wings before getting their necks snapped and ducked in a pot of boiling water. That was the best thing about Christmas in Ecuador, the turkey dinner.
At 24 and fairly assimilated, I can't picture a Christmas without snow.The pristine whiteness of it. The way it sparkles under the dirty yellow New York nights. Granted it lasts for a day, if we're lucky, before the endless tire tracks and footprints make it look like Frosty the Snowman puked all over Manhattan. Even with all that, Christmas in New York rules and Christmas in Ecuador will forever be tainted in my soul.
The last time I spent Christmas in Ecuador, I wanted to part of the biggest production in the neighborhood: the birth of Jesus. As of now, I don't know how I survived infancy without a fat man in a red suit giving me presents, but back in the old country, Baby Jesus and the Three Kings were the ones who took care of business. I would leave some food out for their camels, carrots and water and hay. I don't know where we got hay, but there it was, outside our house for them to eat. (The camels, not the Three Kings.) There were no presents till January 6th, which is another bonus of Christmas in America.
The reenactment of the Nativity scene was my first taste of favoritism. As a girl whose entire family was slowly migrating to a different country, the neighborhood both looked up and down at us: at my father for "letting" his baby-momma leave in the first place, and my aunt J whose quickie civil court wedding at 19 was unnanounced and therefore, excluded the neighborhood family all at once. My therapist, if I had one would interject this is the reason I did not get chosen as the angel of the nativity scene.
A part of me, the girl who was always the center of attention— at home and at school believed this part belonged to me. I was only 6 and already understood the values of being #1. Why shouldn't I be #1 in the only part I could play? I was too old to be baby Jesus, not to mention lacking a penis, and I was too young to be Mary, not to mention we were both virgins. I have no recollection of the people who organized the pageant. Because the neighborhood was distinctly 80% related by blood and marriage, I'm sure it was some jealous cousin who hated my mother.
I've burned in my mind the tight and surly smiles women would give my mom. Always a size 4 with a personality that radiated like gold and hair like an Incan princess, plus she could cook, who wouldn't be totally jeal of this lady? Clearly, too good for my dad, but that's a different story. The tight lipped, surly women who organized the reenactment of the Nativity scene told my aunt J that I could not be an angel. It was given to some other girl.
I must admit, there was no way I was an angel. I threw out the vegetables from my soup while my aunt J wasn't looking. I once made fun of a boy at school who had polio because I couldn't understand why he wore braces on his leg. I broke ornaments in the house while I danced around to Michael Jackson and because I didn't have sibling to blame it on, I would break into hysterics so my dad would go easy on me. Really, I should not have been the angel in the Nativity scene. Instead I became the Christmas gypsy.
No, really.
According to this tiny neighborhood in Ecuador, there were gypsies at the birth of Christ. It isn't exactly recorded anywhere, but how accurate were those things anyway? There could have been gypsies there. And so with a scarfaround my head and hips, lots of gold chains borrowed from my aunt's jewelery box, I joined the rest of cast out neighborhood kids who didn't get a better part.
I'm not the kind of person who likes to reflect on events. I don't look for hidden meanings, the "it happened for a reason" of it all. But something about this Christmas has never left me. For all my life, I can not say who the other people were, what the show was like, or what I did after. I remember putting on the outfit, being told I couldn't be the angel, and standing around pissed off because I didn't get what I wanted. It is a fullfilment that has never been dealt with. If I were to psych 101 myself and claim this let down as the reason for every mistake I've ever made, I think I would believe me.
Then again, the following year I was in America, freezing my little tush off at JFK. I was too old to believe in Santa Claus, but I still believe(d) in him anyway. Our family got smaller and there were no more neighborhood reenactments, just us. I learned to wait for first snow falls, the smell of real Christmas trees, the taste of peppermint chocolates. I decided maybe I was better off being the gypsy. Like I said, I was never meant to be any kind of angel.
***
Thank you for stopping by on my round of the Holiday Blog Tour! The next stop is Danielle Klenak, December 6th.
Whenever I remember coming to America I picture my 9 year old self, even though I was actually 6. I shivered in my black spandex that turned into bells at the ankles, paired with a white ruffle blouse, like Selena. On my feet, clogs, like a little Dutch girl. It was winter in New York City and my family waited with my first down jacket. In Ecuador, Christmas is always hot and humid and the only down feathers anywhere were on turkeys flapping their wings before getting their necks snapped and ducked in a pot of boiling water. That was the best thing about Christmas in Ecuador, the turkey dinner.
At 24 and fairly assimilated, I can't picture a Christmas without snow.The pristine whiteness of it. The way it sparkles under the dirty yellow New York nights. Granted it lasts for a day, if we're lucky, before the endless tire tracks and footprints make it look like Frosty the Snowman puked all over Manhattan. Even with all that, Christmas in New York rules and Christmas in Ecuador will forever be tainted in my soul.
The last time I spent Christmas in Ecuador, I wanted to part of the biggest production in the neighborhood: the birth of Jesus. As of now, I don't know how I survived infancy without a fat man in a red suit giving me presents, but back in the old country, Baby Jesus and the Three Kings were the ones who took care of business. I would leave some food out for their camels, carrots and water and hay. I don't know where we got hay, but there it was, outside our house for them to eat. (The camels, not the Three Kings.) There were no presents till January 6th, which is another bonus of Christmas in America.
The reenactment of the Nativity scene was my first taste of favoritism. As a girl whose entire family was slowly migrating to a different country, the neighborhood both looked up and down at us: at my father for "letting" his baby-momma leave in the first place, and my aunt J whose quickie civil court wedding at 19 was unnanounced and therefore, excluded the neighborhood family all at once. My therapist, if I had one would interject this is the reason I did not get chosen as the angel of the nativity scene.
A part of me, the girl who was always the center of attention— at home and at school believed this part belonged to me. I was only 6 and already understood the values of being #1. Why shouldn't I be #1 in the only part I could play? I was too old to be baby Jesus, not to mention lacking a penis, and I was too young to be Mary, not to mention we were both virgins. I have no recollection of the people who organized the pageant. Because the neighborhood was distinctly 80% related by blood and marriage, I'm sure it was some jealous cousin who hated my mother.
I've burned in my mind the tight and surly smiles women would give my mom. Always a size 4 with a personality that radiated like gold and hair like an Incan princess, plus she could cook, who wouldn't be totally jeal of this lady? Clearly, too good for my dad, but that's a different story. The tight lipped, surly women who organized the reenactment of the Nativity scene told my aunt J that I could not be an angel. It was given to some other girl.
I must admit, there was no way I was an angel. I threw out the vegetables from my soup while my aunt J wasn't looking. I once made fun of a boy at school who had polio because I couldn't understand why he wore braces on his leg. I broke ornaments in the house while I danced around to Michael Jackson and because I didn't have sibling to blame it on, I would break into hysterics so my dad would go easy on me. Really, I should not have been the angel in the Nativity scene. Instead I became the Christmas gypsy.
No, really.
According to this tiny neighborhood in Ecuador, there were gypsies at the birth of Christ. It isn't exactly recorded anywhere, but how accurate were those things anyway? There could have been gypsies there. And so with a scarfaround my head and hips, lots of gold chains borrowed from my aunt's jewelery box, I joined the rest of cast out neighborhood kids who didn't get a better part.
I'm not the kind of person who likes to reflect on events. I don't look for hidden meanings, the "it happened for a reason" of it all. But something about this Christmas has never left me. For all my life, I can not say who the other people were, what the show was like, or what I did after. I remember putting on the outfit, being told I couldn't be the angel, and standing around pissed off because I didn't get what I wanted. It is a fullfilment that has never been dealt with. If I were to psych 101 myself and claim this let down as the reason for every mistake I've ever made, I think I would believe me.
Then again, the following year I was in America, freezing my little tush off at JFK. I was too old to believe in Santa Claus, but I still believe(d) in him anyway. Our family got smaller and there were no more neighborhood reenactments, just us. I learned to wait for first snow falls, the smell of real Christmas trees, the taste of peppermint chocolates. I decided maybe I was better off being the gypsy. Like I said, I was never meant to be any kind of angel.
***
Thank you for stopping by on my round of the Holiday Blog Tour! The next stop is Danielle Klenak, December 6th.
When I Was a Christmas Gypsy
Or, more importantly how Christmas in New York rules
Whenever I remember coming to America I picture my 9 year old self, even though I was actually 6. I shivered in my black spandex that turned into bells at the ankles, paired with a white ruffle blouse, like Selena. On my feet, clogs, like a little Dutch girl. It was winter in New York City and my family waited with my first down jacket. In Ecuador, Christmas is always hot and humid and the only down feathers anywhere were on turkeys flapping their wings before getting their necks snapped and ducked in a pot of boiling water. That was the best thing about Christmas in Ecuador, the turkey dinner.
At 24 and fairly assimilated, I can't picture a Christmas without snow.The pristine whiteness of it. The way it sparkles under the dirty yellow New York nights. Granted it lasts for a day, if we're lucky, before the endless tire tracks and footprints make it look like Frosty the Snowman puked all over Manhattan. Even with all that, Christmas in New York rules and Christmas in Ecuador will forever be tainted in my soul.
The last time I spent Christmas in Ecuador, I wanted to part of the biggest production in the neighborhood: the birth of Jesus. As of now, I don't know how I survived infancy without a fat man in a red suit giving me presents, but back in the old country, Baby Jesus and the Three Kings were the ones who took care of business. I would leave some food out for their camels, carrots and water and hay. I don't know where we got hay, but there it was, outside our house for them to eat. (The camels, not the Three Kings.) There were no presents till January 6th, which is another bonus of Christmas in America.
The reenactment of the Nativity scene was my first taste of favoritism. As a girl whose entire family was slowly migrating to a different country, the neighborhood both looked up and down at us: at my father for "letting" his baby-momma leave in the first place, and my aunt J whose quickie civil court wedding at 19 was unnanounced and therefore, excluded the neighborhood family all at once. My therapist, if I had one would interject this is the reason I did not get chosen as the angel of the nativity scene.
A part of me, the girl who was always the center of attention— at home and at school believed this part belonged to me. I was only 6 and already understood the values of being #1. Why shouldn't I be #1 in the only part I could play? I was too old to be baby Jesus, not to mention lacking a penis, and I was too young to be Mary, not to mention we were both virgins. I have no recollection of the people who organized the pageant. Because the neighborhood was distinctly 80% related by blood and marriage, I'm sure it was some jealous cousin who hated my mother.
I've burned in my mind the tight and surly smiles women would give my mom. Always a size 4 with a personality that radiated like gold and hair like an Incan princess, plus she could cook, who wouldn't be totally jeal of this lady? Clearly, too good for my dad, but that's a different story. The tight lipped, surly women who organized the reenactment of the Nativity scene told my aunt J that I could not be an angel. It was given to some other girl.
I must admit, there was no way I was an angel. I threw out the vegetables from my soup while my aunt J wasn't looking. I once made fun of a boy at school who had polio because I couldn't understand why he wore braces on his leg. I broke ornaments in the house while I danced around to Michael Jackson and because I didn't have sibling to blame it on, I would break into hysterics so my dad would go easy on me. Really, I should not have been the angel in the Nativity scene. Instead I became the Christmas gypsy.
No, really.
According to this tiny neighborhood in Ecuador, there were gypsies at the birth of Christ. It isn't exactly recorded anywhere, but how accurate were those things anyway? There could have been gypsies there. And so with a scarfaround my head and hips, lots of gold chains borrowed from my aunt's jewelery box, I joined the rest of cast out neighborhood kids who didn't get a better part.
I'm not the kind of person who likes to reflect on events. I don't look for hidden meanings, the "it happened for a reason" of it all. But something about this Christmas has never left me. For all my life, I can not say who the other people were, what the show was like, or what I did after. I remember putting on the outfit, being told I couldn't be the angel, and standing around pissed off because I didn't get what I wanted. It is a fullfilment that has never been dealt with. If I were to psych 101 myself and claim this let down as the reason for every mistake I've ever made, I think I would believe me.
Then again, the following year I was in America, freezing my little tush off at JFK. I was too old to believe in Santa Claus, but I still believe(d) in him anyway. Our family got smaller and there was no neighborhood reenactments, just us. I learned to wait for first snow falls, the smell of real Christmas trees, the taste of peppermint chocolates. I decided being a Christmas Angel is overrated anyway. Like I said, I was never meant to be any kind of angel.
***
Thank you for stopping by on my round of the Holiday Blog Tour! The next stop is Danielle Klenak, December 6th.
Whenever I remember coming to America I picture my 9 year old self, even though I was actually 6. I shivered in my black spandex that turned into bells at the ankles, paired with a white ruffle blouse, like Selena. On my feet, clogs, like a little Dutch girl. It was winter in New York City and my family waited with my first down jacket. In Ecuador, Christmas is always hot and humid and the only down feathers anywhere were on turkeys flapping their wings before getting their necks snapped and ducked in a pot of boiling water. That was the best thing about Christmas in Ecuador, the turkey dinner. At 24 and fairly assimilated, I can't picture a Christmas without snow.The pristine whiteness of it. The way it sparkles under the dirty yellow New York nights. Granted it lasts for a day, if we're lucky, before the endless tire tracks and footprints make it look like Frosty the Snowman puked all over Manhattan. Even with all that, Christmas in New York rules and Christmas in Ecuador will forever be tainted in my soul.
The last time I spent Christmas in Ecuador, I wanted to part of the biggest production in the neighborhood: the birth of Jesus. As of now, I don't know how I survived infancy without a fat man in a red suit giving me presents, but back in the old country, Baby Jesus and the Three Kings were the ones who took care of business. I would leave some food out for their camels, carrots and water and hay. I don't know where we got hay, but there it was, outside our house for them to eat. (The camels, not the Three Kings.) There were no presents till January 6th, which is another bonus of Christmas in America.
The reenactment of the Nativity scene was my first taste of favoritism. As a girl whose entire family was slowly migrating to a different country, the neighborhood both looked up and down at us: at my father for "letting" his baby-momma leave in the first place, and my aunt J whose quickie civil court wedding at 19 was unnanounced and therefore, excluded the neighborhood family all at once. My therapist, if I had one would interject this is the reason I did not get chosen as the angel of the nativity scene.
A part of me, the girl who was always the center of attention— at home and at school believed this part belonged to me. I was only 6 and already understood the values of being #1. Why shouldn't I be #1 in the only part I could play? I was too old to be baby Jesus, not to mention lacking a penis, and I was too young to be Mary, not to mention we were both virgins. I have no recollection of the people who organized the pageant. Because the neighborhood was distinctly 80% related by blood and marriage, I'm sure it was some jealous cousin who hated my mother.
I've burned in my mind the tight and surly smiles women would give my mom. Always a size 4 with a personality that radiated like gold and hair like an Incan princess, plus she could cook, who wouldn't be totally jeal of this lady? Clearly, too good for my dad, but that's a different story. The tight lipped, surly women who organized the reenactment of the Nativity scene told my aunt J that I could not be an angel. It was given to some other girl.
I must admit, there was no way I was an angel. I threw out the vegetables from my soup while my aunt J wasn't looking. I once made fun of a boy at school who had polio because I couldn't understand why he wore braces on his leg. I broke ornaments in the house while I danced around to Michael Jackson and because I didn't have sibling to blame it on, I would break into hysterics so my dad would go easy on me. Really, I should not have been the angel in the Nativity scene. Instead I became the Christmas gypsy.
No, really.
According to this tiny neighborhood in Ecuador, there were gypsies at the birth of Christ. It isn't exactly recorded anywhere, but how accurate were those things anyway? There could have been gypsies there. And so with a scarfaround my head and hips, lots of gold chains borrowed from my aunt's jewelery box, I joined the rest of cast out neighborhood kids who didn't get a better part.
I'm not the kind of person who likes to reflect on events. I don't look for hidden meanings, the "it happened for a reason" of it all. But something about this Christmas has never left me. For all my life, I can not say who the other people were, what the show was like, or what I did after. I remember putting on the outfit, being told I couldn't be the angel, and standing around pissed off because I didn't get what I wanted. It is a fullfilment that has never been dealt with. If I were to psych 101 myself and claim this let down as the reason for every mistake I've ever made, I think I would believe me.
Then again, the following year I was in America, freezing my little tush off at JFK. I was too old to believe in Santa Claus, but I still believe(d) in him anyway. Our family got smaller and there was no neighborhood reenactments, just us. I learned to wait for first snow falls, the smell of real Christmas trees, the taste of peppermint chocolates. I decided being a Christmas Angel is overrated anyway. Like I said, I was never meant to be any kind of angel.
***
Thank you for stopping by on my round of the Holiday Blog Tour! The next stop is Danielle Klenak, December 6th.
December 4, 2011
unBeautiful Chaos
Or, how do I find myself in the middle of these things? Take a ride with me through good old New York City.
One - Saturday, December 3rd 6PM ish
My first mistake was not spending my writing evening at Starbucks. Though not all Starbucks goers are diligently typing on their laptops. Some sit there and read. Others sit there and gossip. I don't like Starbucks music, usually likening it to Hipster Elevator Shit that PERMEATES my earbuds.
So I chose a wine and cheese shop with a no frills dining section in the back. I ordered this meal below and waited for my friend to join me in one of our last gorges of the year before healthiness ensues.
Meanwhile, a highly pretentious couple talked about things they wanted to see in the next couple of years: Harry Potter land (minus the castle!?!), Disney (minus the Dumbo rides?!?), and cappuccinos across the Pantheon in Rome. He was promising to take her to these place as he refreshed her wine glass over and over again without truly refilling his. Totally classic "get her saucy and take her back to my place to get it in kind of stuff."
Between a cappuccino in Rome and chapter 18 of my WIP, the lady puked her guts out on the man. It was very quiet after that. Lucky for me, none of the puke affected me or my new peacoat. The lady tipped 100% of her bill (I saw), and the man was not going to get laid.
Probably.
Two - Saturday going into Sunday morning
I start work at 8 PM. After the wine and cheese place, my friend K and I sprinted down the Hells Kitchen street to start our shift at The Club. On Saturdays I do Admissions, which means I prepare myself for a lot of fake smiling and coordinating duties with my bouncers. I also prepare myself for the folks who don't want to pay, have no IDs, speak broken English, and the random guy who clears out an entire corner of the club with his sheer smell of onions and curry.
For those of you who think New York on a Saturday is glamorous, don't think that. It isn't and don't let anyone else tell you otherwise. Besides, any place between Hell's Kitchen and Times Square after midnight is a recipe for violence or vomiting. (Though the first vomit was at 7PM)
We don't allow cameras in The Club, but at the end of the night every patron was clapping like it was the world series of some sport with a ball going, *clap* *clap* CHAR-LIE CHAR-LIE! Around me, my bouncers are tired and only ready to pounce if someone is actually threatening. These men going, *clap* *clap* CHAR-LIE CHAR-LIE! were not threatening. They didn't know each other. They were a motley crew of motley crews who bonded over whatever it is boys bond over at 4:45 AM.
In the end, they left. And my friends and I decided we needed nourishment after being surrounded by clapping chaos. At that time in the morning, there is only one place to go.
Three - Sunday December 4th 5:30 AMish
The French Roast on the Upper West Side is a quiet little place, one of those dying New York eateries that serves good food 24 hrs. At 5:30AM it's the after bars/clubs crowd. The nights we go there are generally quiet. We have a fantastic waiter who takes care of us. We keep promising to let him play with our Vamplets (yes, we each have a pair) but somehow always forget.
As the cab pull to a stop I notice our quiet little place doesn't look so quiet and little.
Me: Are they having a dance party?
We get out of the cab.
G: Uhhh, I don't think so.
We look for our waiter and wave at him. He looks distressed.
Me: OMG! There's a fight!
Two chicks decked out in Beyonce's greatest-hits-closet-collection are trying to pull their weaves off each other. This has never happened. This is our quiet, wind down place, not a crazy after party brawl. Clearly, the chaos has hitched a ride at the soles of our shoes.
And not only are these girls including all of their friends and family members in their fight, they are blocking every means of entrance! In hind sight, most people would've seen a fight and walked away. But it might be because we're impervious to the chaos, or because we live in it, we find our table and start ordering.
I like the music here. It's old timeish. Lots of Beatles and rock and roll. Just when Rocket Man comes on and my memories turn nostalgic, LOUD singing erupts. It's times like these that I wish they'd pass a law in NY that let you purchase booze after 4AM.
Things like this...
One of them starts talking to us. His name is Tristan. ("HEY THAT'S JUST LIKE MY NAME," Tristan of The Vicious Deep calls out from the shallows of my delirious brain.) They're all musicians. The kind that study it for years and give the right inflections to foreign names or artists I've never heard of. They drink here after their sets at a little opera/piano bar.
It's all fine until The lady singer gets jealous of my friends and I, and starts making a scene. She disses my friend's spider tattoo. She implies our names are not memorable. To the men we are known as Malta (G), Ecuador (Me), and the one with the beautiful eyes (K). The men ensue staring at her beautiful eyes.
Our trusted waiter gets us our check, and the Opera group goes on their merry way, the lady singer huffing and snarling at us on her way out. All I can say is, "listen lady, all we wanted was to eat."
End - Still Sunday morning, but now I'm really going to sleep.
I find myself wondering why I always stumble onto the craziness of others. If it's something I seek out or if it's something the Universe throws at me. Then again maybe it's New York telling me we're not over yet... Or maybe we are... But that's a different story.
For now, I'm trading the madness of the night for what I hope will be quiet dreams. I'd say "tomorrow is another day," only that for me, Tomorrow is right now.
One - Saturday, December 3rd 6PM ish
My first mistake was not spending my writing evening at Starbucks. Though not all Starbucks goers are diligently typing on their laptops. Some sit there and read. Others sit there and gossip. I don't like Starbucks music, usually likening it to Hipster Elevator Shit that PERMEATES my earbuds.
So I chose a wine and cheese shop with a no frills dining section in the back. I ordered this meal below and waited for my friend to join me in one of our last gorges of the year before healthiness ensues.
Meanwhile, a highly pretentious couple talked about things they wanted to see in the next couple of years: Harry Potter land (minus the castle!?!), Disney (minus the Dumbo rides?!?), and cappuccinos across the Pantheon in Rome. He was promising to take her to these place as he refreshed her wine glass over and over again without truly refilling his. Totally classic "get her saucy and take her back to my place to get it in kind of stuff." Between a cappuccino in Rome and chapter 18 of my WIP, the lady puked her guts out on the man. It was very quiet after that. Lucky for me, none of the puke affected me or my new peacoat. The lady tipped 100% of her bill (I saw), and the man was not going to get laid.
Probably.
Two - Saturday going into Sunday morning
I start work at 8 PM. After the wine and cheese place, my friend K and I sprinted down the Hells Kitchen street to start our shift at The Club. On Saturdays I do Admissions, which means I prepare myself for a lot of fake smiling and coordinating duties with my bouncers. I also prepare myself for the folks who don't want to pay, have no IDs, speak broken English, and the random guy who clears out an entire corner of the club with his sheer smell of onions and curry.
For those of you who think New York on a Saturday is glamorous, don't think that. It isn't and don't let anyone else tell you otherwise. Besides, any place between Hell's Kitchen and Times Square after midnight is a recipe for violence or vomiting. (Though the first vomit was at 7PM)
We don't allow cameras in The Club, but at the end of the night every patron was clapping like it was the world series of some sport with a ball going, *clap* *clap* CHAR-LIE CHAR-LIE! Around me, my bouncers are tired and only ready to pounce if someone is actually threatening. These men going, *clap* *clap* CHAR-LIE CHAR-LIE! were not threatening. They didn't know each other. They were a motley crew of motley crews who bonded over whatever it is boys bond over at 4:45 AM.
In the end, they left. And my friends and I decided we needed nourishment after being surrounded by clapping chaos. At that time in the morning, there is only one place to go.
Three - Sunday December 4th 5:30 AMish
The French Roast on the Upper West Side is a quiet little place, one of those dying New York eateries that serves good food 24 hrs. At 5:30AM it's the after bars/clubs crowd. The nights we go there are generally quiet. We have a fantastic waiter who takes care of us. We keep promising to let him play with our Vamplets (yes, we each have a pair) but somehow always forget.
As the cab pull to a stop I notice our quiet little place doesn't look so quiet and little.
Me: Are they having a dance party?
We get out of the cab.
G: Uhhh, I don't think so.
We look for our waiter and wave at him. He looks distressed.
Me: OMG! There's a fight!
Two chicks decked out in Beyonce's greatest-hits-closet-collection are trying to pull their weaves off each other. This has never happened. This is our quiet, wind down place, not a crazy after party brawl. Clearly, the chaos has hitched a ride at the soles of our shoes.
And not only are these girls including all of their friends and family members in their fight, they are blocking every means of entrance! In hind sight, most people would've seen a fight and walked away. But it might be because we're impervious to the chaos, or because we live in it, we find our table and start ordering.
I like the music here. It's old timeish. Lots of Beatles and rock and roll. Just when Rocket Man comes on and my memories turn nostalgic, LOUD singing erupts. It's times like these that I wish they'd pass a law in NY that let you purchase booze after 4AM.
Things like this...
One of them starts talking to us. His name is Tristan. ("HEY THAT'S JUST LIKE MY NAME," Tristan of The Vicious Deep calls out from the shallows of my delirious brain.) They're all musicians. The kind that study it for years and give the right inflections to foreign names or artists I've never heard of. They drink here after their sets at a little opera/piano bar.
It's all fine until The lady singer gets jealous of my friends and I, and starts making a scene. She disses my friend's spider tattoo. She implies our names are not memorable. To the men we are known as Malta (G), Ecuador (Me), and the one with the beautiful eyes (K). The men ensue staring at her beautiful eyes.
Our trusted waiter gets us our check, and the Opera group goes on their merry way, the lady singer huffing and snarling at us on her way out. All I can say is, "listen lady, all we wanted was to eat."
End - Still Sunday morning, but now I'm really going to sleep.
I find myself wondering why I always stumble onto the craziness of others. If it's something I seek out or if it's something the Universe throws at me. Then again maybe it's New York telling me we're not over yet... Or maybe we are... But that's a different story.
For now, I'm trading the madness of the night for what I hope will be quiet dreams. I'd say "tomorrow is another day," only that for me, Tomorrow is right now.
unBeautiful Chaos
Or, how do I find myself in the middle of these things? Take a ride with me through good old New York City.
One - Saturday, December 3rd 6PM ish
My first mistake was not spending my writing evening at Starbucks. Though not all Starbucks goers are diligently typing on their laptops. Some sit there and read. Others sit there and gossip. I don't like Starbucks music, usually likening it to Hipster Elevator Shit that PERMEATES my earbuds.
So I chose a wine and cheese shop with a no frills dining section in the back. I ordered this meal below and waited for my friend to join me in one of our last gorges of the year before healthiness ensues.
Meanwhile, a highly pretentious couple talked about things they wanted to see in the next couple of years: Harry Potter land (minus the castle!?!), Disney (minus the Dumbo rides?!?), and cappuccinos across the Pantheon in Rome. He was promising to take her to these place as he refreshed her wine glass over and over again without truly refilling his. Totally classic "get her saucy and take her back to my place to get it in kind of stuff."
Between a cappuccino in Rome and chapter 18 of my WIP, the lady puked her guts out on the man. It was very quiet after that. Lucky for me, none of the puke affected me or my new peacoat. The lady tipped 100% of her bill (I saw), and the man was not going to get laid.
Probably.
Two - Saturday going into Sunday morning
I start work at 8 PM. After the wine and cheese place, my friend K and I sprinted down the Hells Kitchen street to start our shift at The Club. On Saturdays I do Admissions, which means I prepare myself for a lot of fake smiling and coordinating duties with my bouncers. I also prepare myself for the folks who don't want to pay, have no IDs, speak broken English, and the random guy who clears out an entire corner of the club with his sheer smell of onions and curry.
For those of you who think New York on a Saturday is glamorous, don't think that. It isn't and don't let anyone else tell you otherwise. Besides, any place between Hell's Kitchen and Times Square after midnight is a recipe for violence or vomiting. (Though the first vomit was at 7PM)
We don't allow cameras in The Club, but at the end of the night every patron was clapping like it was the world series of some sport with a ball going, *clap* *clap* CHAR-LIE CHAR-LIE! Around me, my bouncers are tired and only ready to pounce if someone is actually threatening. These men going, *clap* *clap* CHAR-LIE CHAR-LIE! were not threatening. They didn't know each other. They were a motley crew of motley crews who bonded over whatever it is boys bond over at 4:45 AM.
In the end, they left. And my friends and I decided we needed nourishment after being surrounded by clapping chaos. At that time in the morning, there is only one place to go.
Three - Sunday December 4th 5:30 AMish
The French Roast on the Upper West Side is a quiet little place, one of those dying New York eateries that serves good food 24 hrs. At 5:30AM it's the after bars/clubs crowd. The nights we go there are generally quiet. We have a fantastic waiter who takes care of us. We keep promising to let him play with our Vamplets (yes, we each have a pair) but somehow always forget.
As the cab pull to a stop I notice our quiet little place doesn't look so quiet and little.
Me: Are they having a dance party?
We get out of the cab.
G: Uhhh, I don't think so.
We look for our waiter and wave at him. He looks distressed.
Me: OMG! There's a fight!
Two chicks decked out in Beyonce's greatest-hits-closet-collection are trying to pull their weaves off each other. This has never happened. This is our quiet, wind down place, not a crazy after party brawl. Clearly, the chaos has hitched a ride at the soles of our shoes.
And not only are these girls including all of their friends and family members in their fight, they are blocking every means of entrance! In hind sight, most people would've seen a fight and walked away. But it might be because we're impervious to the chaos, or because we live in it, we find our table and start ordering.
I like the music here. It's old timeish. Lots of Beatles and rock and roll. Just when Rocket Man comes on and my memories turn nostalgic, LOUD singing erupts. It's times like these that I wish they'd pass a law in NY that let you purchase booze after 4AM.
Things like this...
One of them starts talking to us. His name is Tristan. ("HEY THAT'S JUST LIKE MY NAME," Tristan of The Vicious Deep calls out from the shallows of my delirious brain.) They're all musicians. The kind that study it for years and give the right inflections to foreign names or artists I've never heard of. They drink here after their sets at a little opera/piano bar.
It's all fine until The lady singer gets jealous of my friends and I, and starts making a scene. She disses my friend's spider tattoo. She implies our names are not memorable. To the men we are known as Malta (G), Ecuador (Me), and the one with the beautiful eyes (K). The men ensue staring at her beautiful eyes.
Our trusted waiter gets us our check, and the Opera group goes on their merry way, the lady singer huffing and snarling at us on her way out. All I can say is, "listen lady, all we wanted was to eat."
End - Still Sunday morning, but now I'm really going to sleep.
I find myself wondering why I always stumble onto the craziness of others. If it's something I seek out or if it's something the Universe throws at me. Then again maybe it's New York telling me we're not over yet... Or maybe we are... But that's a different story.
For now, I'm trading the madness of the night for what I hope will be quiet dreams. I'd say "tomorrow is another day," only that for me, Tomorrow is right now.
One - Saturday, December 3rd 6PM ish
My first mistake was not spending my writing evening at Starbucks. Though not all Starbucks goers are diligently typing on their laptops. Some sit there and read. Others sit there and gossip. I don't like Starbucks music, usually likening it to Hipster Elevator Shit that PERMEATES my earbuds.
So I chose a wine and cheese shop with a no frills dining section in the back. I ordered this meal below and waited for my friend to join me in one of our last gorges of the year before healthiness ensues.
Meanwhile, a highly pretentious couple talked about things they wanted to see in the next couple of years: Harry Potter land (minus the castle!?!), Disney (minus the Dumbo rides?!?), and cappuccinos across the Pantheon in Rome. He was promising to take her to these place as he refreshed her wine glass over and over again without truly refilling his. Totally classic "get her saucy and take her back to my place to get it in kind of stuff." Between a cappuccino in Rome and chapter 18 of my WIP, the lady puked her guts out on the man. It was very quiet after that. Lucky for me, none of the puke affected me or my new peacoat. The lady tipped 100% of her bill (I saw), and the man was not going to get laid.
Probably.
Two - Saturday going into Sunday morning
I start work at 8 PM. After the wine and cheese place, my friend K and I sprinted down the Hells Kitchen street to start our shift at The Club. On Saturdays I do Admissions, which means I prepare myself for a lot of fake smiling and coordinating duties with my bouncers. I also prepare myself for the folks who don't want to pay, have no IDs, speak broken English, and the random guy who clears out an entire corner of the club with his sheer smell of onions and curry.
For those of you who think New York on a Saturday is glamorous, don't think that. It isn't and don't let anyone else tell you otherwise. Besides, any place between Hell's Kitchen and Times Square after midnight is a recipe for violence or vomiting. (Though the first vomit was at 7PM)
We don't allow cameras in The Club, but at the end of the night every patron was clapping like it was the world series of some sport with a ball going, *clap* *clap* CHAR-LIE CHAR-LIE! Around me, my bouncers are tired and only ready to pounce if someone is actually threatening. These men going, *clap* *clap* CHAR-LIE CHAR-LIE! were not threatening. They didn't know each other. They were a motley crew of motley crews who bonded over whatever it is boys bond over at 4:45 AM.
In the end, they left. And my friends and I decided we needed nourishment after being surrounded by clapping chaos. At that time in the morning, there is only one place to go.
Three - Sunday December 4th 5:30 AMish
The French Roast on the Upper West Side is a quiet little place, one of those dying New York eateries that serves good food 24 hrs. At 5:30AM it's the after bars/clubs crowd. The nights we go there are generally quiet. We have a fantastic waiter who takes care of us. We keep promising to let him play with our Vamplets (yes, we each have a pair) but somehow always forget.
As the cab pull to a stop I notice our quiet little place doesn't look so quiet and little.
Me: Are they having a dance party?
We get out of the cab.
G: Uhhh, I don't think so.
We look for our waiter and wave at him. He looks distressed.
Me: OMG! There's a fight!
Two chicks decked out in Beyonce's greatest-hits-closet-collection are trying to pull their weaves off each other. This has never happened. This is our quiet, wind down place, not a crazy after party brawl. Clearly, the chaos has hitched a ride at the soles of our shoes.
And not only are these girls including all of their friends and family members in their fight, they are blocking every means of entrance! In hind sight, most people would've seen a fight and walked away. But it might be because we're impervious to the chaos, or because we live in it, we find our table and start ordering.
I like the music here. It's old timeish. Lots of Beatles and rock and roll. Just when Rocket Man comes on and my memories turn nostalgic, LOUD singing erupts. It's times like these that I wish they'd pass a law in NY that let you purchase booze after 4AM.
Things like this...
One of them starts talking to us. His name is Tristan. ("HEY THAT'S JUST LIKE MY NAME," Tristan of The Vicious Deep calls out from the shallows of my delirious brain.) They're all musicians. The kind that study it for years and give the right inflections to foreign names or artists I've never heard of. They drink here after their sets at a little opera/piano bar.
It's all fine until The lady singer gets jealous of my friends and I, and starts making a scene. She disses my friend's spider tattoo. She implies our names are not memorable. To the men we are known as Malta (G), Ecuador (Me), and the one with the beautiful eyes (K). The men ensue staring at her beautiful eyes.
Our trusted waiter gets us our check, and the Opera group goes on their merry way, the lady singer huffing and snarling at us on her way out. All I can say is, "listen lady, all we wanted was to eat."
End - Still Sunday morning, but now I'm really going to sleep.
I find myself wondering why I always stumble onto the craziness of others. If it's something I seek out or if it's something the Universe throws at me. Then again maybe it's New York telling me we're not over yet... Or maybe we are... But that's a different story.
For now, I'm trading the madness of the night for what I hope will be quiet dreams. I'd say "tomorrow is another day," only that for me, Tomorrow is right now.
November 20, 2011
Attention Writers!
Or, want to get your query critiqued by some 2012 debut YA novelists?
I know you do ;)
From Tuesday November 29th to December 5th we will be doing live query critiques a-la Miss Snark. SEVEN query letters chosen at random will be workshopped by The Nighstand members.
As of now we are taking query submissions to the following e-mail address: nightstandblog2012@gmail.com
Here are some ground rules:
* One submission per person
* Include your name and address. We will not reveal it on the blog at all. This is precautionary to keep one submission per person.
* All submissions must be sent in by wednesday November 23rd!
Why are we doing this?
Because not long ago we were in the same position, scrambling to write the perfect query letter. Some of us might have more help than others. So spread the word!
Below is a tweet you can copy and paste to help us get this thing going!
@
thenightstand
hosts a post-thanksgiving query critique. Visitbit.ly/v70XZZ and submit! Please RT
#
novels
#
writers
#
queryletter
write on ya'll,
Zoraida
I know you do ;)
From Tuesday November 29th to December 5th we will be doing live query critiques a-la Miss Snark. SEVEN query letters chosen at random will be workshopped by The Nighstand members.
As of now we are taking query submissions to the following e-mail address: nightstandblog2012@gmail.com
Here are some ground rules:
* One submission per person
* Include your name and address. We will not reveal it on the blog at all. This is precautionary to keep one submission per person.
* All submissions must be sent in by wednesday November 23rd!
Why are we doing this?
Because not long ago we were in the same position, scrambling to write the perfect query letter. Some of us might have more help than others. So spread the word!
Below is a tweet you can copy and paste to help us get this thing going!
write on ya'll,
Zoraida
Attention Writers!
Or, want to get your query critiqued by some 2012 debut YA novelists?
I know you do ;)
From Tuesday November 29th to December 5th we will be doing live query critiques a-la Miss Snark. SEVEN query letters chosen at random will be workshopped by The Nighstand members.
As of now we are taking query submissions to the following e-mail address: nightstandblog2012@gmail.com
Here are some ground rules:
* One submission per person
* Include your name and address. We will not reveal it on the blog at all. This is precautionary to keep one submission per person.
* All submissions must be sent in by wednesday November 23rd!
Why are we doing this?
Because not long ago we were in the same position, scrambling to write the perfect query letter. Some of us might have more help than others. So spread the word!
Below is a tweet you can copy and paste to help us get this thing going!
@
thenightstand
hosts a post-thanksgiving query critique. Visitbit.ly/v70XZZ and submit! Please RT
#
novels
#
writers
#
queryletter
write on ya'll,
Zoraida
I know you do ;)
From Tuesday November 29th to December 5th we will be doing live query critiques a-la Miss Snark. SEVEN query letters chosen at random will be workshopped by The Nighstand members.
As of now we are taking query submissions to the following e-mail address: nightstandblog2012@gmail.com
Here are some ground rules:
* One submission per person
* Include your name and address. We will not reveal it on the blog at all. This is precautionary to keep one submission per person.
* All submissions must be sent in by wednesday November 23rd!
Why are we doing this?
Because not long ago we were in the same position, scrambling to write the perfect query letter. Some of us might have more help than others. So spread the word!
Below is a tweet you can copy and paste to help us get this thing going!
write on ya'll,
Zoraida
November 12, 2011
look at what i'm reading...
This is my first copy. I was able to swing by my publisher and pick one up. The cover is not final and to be revealed! Look at all of my excitement ! ! ! ! It's better than having full cell phone bars, which never happens.
Bloggers and persons of interest, if you're like a review copy, the best person to look for is Derry Wilkens @sourcebooksfire / derry.wilkens@sourcebooks.com If there were a list, get yourself of it.
Dreaming of sexy mermen like, Zoraida
look at what i'm reading...
This is my first copy. I was able to swing by my publisher and pick one up. The cover is not final and to be revealed! Look at all of my excitement ! ! ! ! It's better than having full cell phone bars, which never happens.
Bloggers and persons of interest, if you're like a review copy, the best person to look for is Derry Wilkens @sourcebooksfire / derry.wilkens@sourcebooks.com If there were a list, get yourself of it.
Dreaming of sexy mermen like, Zoraida
November 2, 2011
My Vampire Balls are Bigger than Yours
Or, can we leave Stephenie Meyer the F*uck alone?
I WAS going to do a vlog, but this Halloween weekend has given me dark circles and a sore throat.
Old Faihtful (no, not the NYTs, but Facebook) has once again brought some important news to my attention. Anne Rice (to some, the OG Vampire Queen) has taken a cheap shot at sparkling vampires. Listen, when you read The Vicious Deep, you'll find a quip at the dazzling immortals as well. The difference is I actually enjoyed the Twilight books. Anne Rice claims to have never read them.
So where is the problem?
I'm not an "Lets All Just Get Along" kind of person. But when it comes to writing and writers, I'm more naive. I forget that writers don't all sit around and hug each other (unless you're the Apocalypsies, holla) and love everything the other one has written.
As soon as Anne Rice essentially goes, " my vampires have bigger non-sparkly balls" she gets 10 THOUSAND comments from her fans and Twilight fans verbally duking it out. I am not from the Anne Rice generation. When I was a teen, I read Annette Kurtis-Clause, America Atwater Rhodes, and freaking Nancy Drew. The times I tried to read Anne Rice, I'd shut the book after a few pages and would actually prefer to do my homework reading. This has nothing to do with reading levels. I have always read a combination of teen and adult novels. So haters who say "Twilight" is dumbed down, it isn't. Its voice is concentrated and targeted. While you don't have to be a teenage girl to read it, this IS the intended audience. It is not your grandmother's vampire novel.
I do defend Twilight. I read it in a time and place when I needed some comfort and it provided just that. Should it win a Pulitzer? A Booker? A NBA? Something that makes the high brow literary folk pinch their chins in deep thought over what the color of Bella's jacket symbolizes? Sometimes a brown fucking coat is a brown fucking coat.* It makes a lot of girls happy. Sure, also a little insane. But I can only hope people can feel as connected to my writing.
In the end, I leave you with some pictures of my Halloween adventures. Click on *Read More ->* Beware. That is all.
Actually Team Jacob AND Team Edward at the SAME time like,
Zoraida
no, it's not real.
Slash and a Sub
Geisha + Vampire Princess
Vampire Queen + Vampire Princess
MY FAKE EYELASHES!
This is how Latins cook
Feeding my pet zombies
Feeding my self.
[image error] Bourbon Balls!
The red frosting looks pink. Not as scary. But still yummy.(*note: Bella probably wears a brown coat, but in this case it is just an example.)
I WAS going to do a vlog, but this Halloween weekend has given me dark circles and a sore throat.
Old Faihtful (no, not the NYTs, but Facebook) has once again brought some important news to my attention. Anne Rice (to some, the OG Vampire Queen) has taken a cheap shot at sparkling vampires. Listen, when you read The Vicious Deep, you'll find a quip at the dazzling immortals as well. The difference is I actually enjoyed the Twilight books. Anne Rice claims to have never read them.
So where is the problem?
I'm not an "Lets All Just Get Along" kind of person. But when it comes to writing and writers, I'm more naive. I forget that writers don't all sit around and hug each other (unless you're the Apocalypsies, holla) and love everything the other one has written.
As soon as Anne Rice essentially goes, " my vampires have bigger non-sparkly balls" she gets 10 THOUSAND comments from her fans and Twilight fans verbally duking it out. I am not from the Anne Rice generation. When I was a teen, I read Annette Kurtis-Clause, America Atwater Rhodes, and freaking Nancy Drew. The times I tried to read Anne Rice, I'd shut the book after a few pages and would actually prefer to do my homework reading. This has nothing to do with reading levels. I have always read a combination of teen and adult novels. So haters who say "Twilight" is dumbed down, it isn't. Its voice is concentrated and targeted. While you don't have to be a teenage girl to read it, this IS the intended audience. It is not your grandmother's vampire novel.
I do defend Twilight. I read it in a time and place when I needed some comfort and it provided just that. Should it win a Pulitzer? A Booker? A NBA? Something that makes the high brow literary folk pinch their chins in deep thought over what the color of Bella's jacket symbolizes? Sometimes a brown fucking coat is a brown fucking coat.* It makes a lot of girls happy. Sure, also a little insane. But I can only hope people can feel as connected to my writing.
In the end, I leave you with some pictures of my Halloween adventures. Click on *Read More ->* Beware. That is all.
Actually Team Jacob AND Team Edward at the SAME time like,
Zoraida
no, it's not real. 
Slash and a Sub
Geisha + Vampire Princess
Vampire Queen + Vampire Princess
MY FAKE EYELASHES!
This is how Latins cook
Feeding my pet zombies
Feeding my self. [image error] Bourbon Balls!
The red frosting looks pink. Not as scary. But still yummy.(*note: Bella probably wears a brown coat, but in this case it is just an example.)
![[image error]](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ls1qWYf_k5Q/TrGcHr3UImI/AAAAAAAAAhI/XJd28Oyrmh8/s1600/DSCN0856.JPG){kind=link}