Lentils and Flattery
By E. Ann Bardawill (2006)
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
A teacher asked me this in a high school economics class, and I unhesitatingly replied, “Rich and famous.” This response elicited (not unpredictably) snorts of derision and hisses of distain. You see, I left out the two critical parts of the answer. **How** did I intend to become rich and famous. More importantly, **why** did I want to be rich and famous?
“Rich and famous”. Decades later I ponder this memory for a while and decide excessive wealth and blind fame do not hold the appeal they once did.
Right now, the better question would be:
“What do you want to achieve before you die?”
One can be famous for all the wrong reasons, and wealth is not a guaranteed accessory to it. Fame is the ugly stepsister of popularity, and being famous/popular doesn’t mean you actually have talent. **coughPARISHILTONcough**
Literary fruits that age into highly appreciated fine wines often are regulated to cold, dusty, dark cellars and end up being tasted by only a relative few. One must cultivate the knowledge and the palate to appreciate their subtlies, and not everyone wishes to. Ask any kid in his/her first year Shakespeare English class. I loathed the Bard in my first years of high school English. Then I read Richard III and but then BAM! I was hooked… but it took time and understanding.
Shakespeare wrote for his age, creatively hobbled by the political tastes of his merciless Queen. Who could predict that the scribblings of a glove maker with a love for gardening would transcend the ages?
Will J.K.Rowling still be read in 5 centuries? Will Dave Sim? Stephen King? Will Atwood? Who is to know? No one can predict what works of art, music and literature will capture the hearts and minds of the ages. It just does or it doesn’t. No artist can force the issue.
Case in point - Conan Doyle hated writing the Sherlock Holmes stories. He wrote “The White Company”, his great literary labor of love and presented it to his public. He fully expected high praise for the work, but his fanbase did not embrace the White Company. It was Sherlock they wanted. It is Sherlock that continues to live on in our hearts and minds.
What is literature, really? What defines a Literary Classic seems to be timelessness and rereadabilty, not just talent and popularity. I have a list of such Classic books I know I ought to read. **coughULYSSEScough**. There are books I feel are the dietary equivalent of broccoli or brussle sprouts and so I find myself pushing them to the side and eyeing cake instead.
Generally, I am reading far more substantial works now than I used to, though admittedly, I still enjoy cake. Recently, I reread a few books I loved in high school. Only Dune, Tolkien and Grimm’s fairy tales withstood the test of time, and more importantly, blossomed with new layers of meaning.
There is time, experience and maturity at work here, and not just in literary circles. Lee Goldberg blogged about this recently. He bought the DVD of a show he loved in his youth, but now finds it a huge disappointment. I know how he feels. I can’t watch clips of the Six Million Dollar Man without twitching in revulsion now, yet as a kid, I never missed it.
The realization dawns that I don’t want write books that are the literary equivalent of Big Macs. There’s nothing wrong with Big Macs, but you can get them anywhere.
I want to attempt to create work that is savored and appreciated for ages - a literary gem that will be forced on the angst-ridden and pimple prone. Yes! YES! This is what I want! Endless generations of teenagers and aspiring guilt-ridden writers forced to SUFFER through my work and - and - and then …
REVENGE WILL BE MINE!!!
So, ask yourself - What do you want to say (or do or be) before you die? Take grants, book deals, fame, wealth and even immortality out of “why do I write” equation and what you are left with?
Know this, and 90% of your problems are solved. More importantly, immortality as ‘required reading’ may yet be yours.
Essay Question:
If you could only write one book for the ages, what would you write about?
Test is on Monday.
Spelling counts.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Sunday, February 26, 2006
It crossed my mind to write a post a lengthy and brilliant essay on a writer’s internal struggle to either attain immortality through deep and meaningful literary works or hacking out sheer entertainment for possible fortune, glory and offers of sex from fans…
But then I thought, “Screw that, let’s post a couple of inane memes instead.”
The Hot Tub & Booze Symposium Challenge*.
‘Name ten personalities (currently living) you would like to spend an evening with drinking, hot tubbing, and engaging in meaningful/genial discussion with’:
Rick Mercer, Rex Murphy, Dave Sim, Scott Adams, Dame Edna, Hugh Laurie, Stephen Fry, Peter Gabriel, Jan Arden and Johnny Depp.
‘What celebrity/author autographs have you obtained?’
Issac Asimov. (Author (d))
Dave Sim. (Artist, writer, creator of Cerebus)
Larry Gowan. (Singer, currently with STYX)
Mike Jittlov. (Filmmaker, Wizard of Speed and Time)
Mitch Pileggi. (Actor)
Patrick Stewart. (Actor)
*These MEME’s were sponsored by D.A.M.M. - Drunks Against Mad Mothers**.
and
Circuit Shack - Yesterday’s Technology at Tomorrow’s Prices***.
Jokes shamelessly stolen from **the guys in Cooper Hill Band and ***my hubster.
But then I thought, “Screw that, let’s post a couple of inane memes instead.”
The Hot Tub & Booze Symposium Challenge*.
‘Name ten personalities (currently living) you would like to spend an evening with drinking, hot tubbing, and engaging in meaningful/genial discussion with’:
Rick Mercer, Rex Murphy, Dave Sim, Scott Adams, Dame Edna, Hugh Laurie, Stephen Fry, Peter Gabriel, Jan Arden and Johnny Depp.
‘What celebrity/author autographs have you obtained?’
Issac Asimov. (Author (d))
Dave Sim. (Artist, writer, creator of Cerebus)
Larry Gowan. (Singer, currently with STYX)
Mike Jittlov. (Filmmaker, Wizard of Speed and Time)
Mitch Pileggi. (Actor)
Patrick Stewart. (Actor)
*These MEME’s were sponsored by D.A.M.M. - Drunks Against Mad Mothers**.
and
Circuit Shack - Yesterday’s Technology at Tomorrow’s Prices***.
Jokes shamelessly stolen from **the guys in Cooper Hill Band and ***my hubster.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Tricky Dicky dept. of WTF!!!?
This is why I have to stop going to Fark.com
Honestly.
You simply cannot make this stuff up.
Honestly.
You simply cannot make this stuff up.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Thursdays
Thursdays are Grudgematch nights at JA’s place. It can become a tad tense in the back room when poker for pills gets too serious, so we hired us some retired carpenters to build us the Pit. Word spread about the matches, and now you can’t squeeze an extra pimple in here the day after Wednesday.
Wordsmiths work out their differences in the Pit, which is at various times filled either with mud or Jello or both. Right now it’s Sandra’s team, the Potboilers, versus the Romantic Tragedists. Nic Sparks makes it to the semi-finals, but it’s a down and dirty fight until Ann pins Nic face down in lime jello until he cries.
Clean up crew hose off the big chunks in the alleyway, as I watch as the Italian Chick with ADD and her tag team partner, ‘Lyn Like Flynn’, psychologically ream their opponents - from Harlequin - new emotional assholes. Their sparkly spandex outfits are a few sizes too small. Dana confides they found them at a garage sale of two little old ladies, scarred but living and defiant remnants of the roller derby’s craze back in the ‘70s.
A skinny, wide-eyed guy from St. John’s ambulance is standing by in case someone loses an eye. In of the corner of the bar, I think I see Mrs. Gretsky place a bet under the table to JA, but it could just be a trick of the light. Winners buy the losers a drink, and by mutual agreement, what goes on in the Pit, stays in the Pit.
Nic Sparks minces over to the bar and orders a diet cola with a lime twist. I roll my eyes and wink at the bartender. He brings Nic a vodka-based fruity concoction and a coded note signed “Smooches, D. Brown”. Sparks frowns and tries to work it out with a pencil. I grin. The poor bastard’ll spend the rest of the life trying to figure out a dirty limerick written in bad Latin.
The Muddslinging Celebrity Death matches are up. First in the Pit is Jim Frey vs Oprah. Smart money is on Oprah. Within seconds, Oprah pins Jim into the mud and gives him a wedgie without breaking a sweat. It’s kinda pitiful, like watching a kid heartlessly stomp on a bug.
Next up is Amy Tan vs Steve King. I put my money on Tan, pull a fresh bottle of Alex Keith’s from my rucksack, and sit up on the bar to get a better view. Some guy named Spider sits next to me. He’s obviously annoyed at the cost of the drinks and keeps making puns until Bernita tells him to shut the hell up and what sort of parent would name their kid “Spider” anyway.
“Steve’s gonna take her down.” M.G. extracts a cube of jello from her straining bodice and sticks it in Goodman’s martini.
“I dunno.” The smuggled Nova Scotian brew does a happy, frothy dance on my tongue. “Steve’s got much bigger titles but Tan’s are way perkier.” Amy grunts as she throttles King with a bootlace. Steve attempts to make a cameo but he can’t breath. Amy misjudges the depth of the mud, which allows Steve to slither into a corner and put Amy in a headlock. As her eyes bulge, the crowd roars.
One of our lookouts muscles the door open, a look of terror his face. “IT’S A RAID!!” Sirens approach. Drinks hit the floor. Chaos busts like a cheap condom, leaving damp spots and fear in its wake.
In the confusion I manage to elbow my way out the back and make it home relatively unscathed.
God, I love Thursdays.
Thursdays are Grudgematch nights at JA’s place. It can become a tad tense in the back room when poker for pills gets too serious, so we hired us some retired carpenters to build us the Pit. Word spread about the matches, and now you can’t squeeze an extra pimple in here the day after Wednesday.
Wordsmiths work out their differences in the Pit, which is at various times filled either with mud or Jello or both. Right now it’s Sandra’s team, the Potboilers, versus the Romantic Tragedists. Nic Sparks makes it to the semi-finals, but it’s a down and dirty fight until Ann pins Nic face down in lime jello until he cries.
Clean up crew hose off the big chunks in the alleyway, as I watch as the Italian Chick with ADD and her tag team partner, ‘Lyn Like Flynn’, psychologically ream their opponents - from Harlequin - new emotional assholes. Their sparkly spandex outfits are a few sizes too small. Dana confides they found them at a garage sale of two little old ladies, scarred but living and defiant remnants of the roller derby’s craze back in the ‘70s.
A skinny, wide-eyed guy from St. John’s ambulance is standing by in case someone loses an eye. In of the corner of the bar, I think I see Mrs. Gretsky place a bet under the table to JA, but it could just be a trick of the light. Winners buy the losers a drink, and by mutual agreement, what goes on in the Pit, stays in the Pit.
Nic Sparks minces over to the bar and orders a diet cola with a lime twist. I roll my eyes and wink at the bartender. He brings Nic a vodka-based fruity concoction and a coded note signed “Smooches, D. Brown”. Sparks frowns and tries to work it out with a pencil. I grin. The poor bastard’ll spend the rest of the life trying to figure out a dirty limerick written in bad Latin.
The Muddslinging Celebrity Death matches are up. First in the Pit is Jim Frey vs Oprah. Smart money is on Oprah. Within seconds, Oprah pins Jim into the mud and gives him a wedgie without breaking a sweat. It’s kinda pitiful, like watching a kid heartlessly stomp on a bug.
Next up is Amy Tan vs Steve King. I put my money on Tan, pull a fresh bottle of Alex Keith’s from my rucksack, and sit up on the bar to get a better view. Some guy named Spider sits next to me. He’s obviously annoyed at the cost of the drinks and keeps making puns until Bernita tells him to shut the hell up and what sort of parent would name their kid “Spider” anyway.
“Steve’s gonna take her down.” M.G. extracts a cube of jello from her straining bodice and sticks it in Goodman’s martini.
“I dunno.” The smuggled Nova Scotian brew does a happy, frothy dance on my tongue. “Steve’s got much bigger titles but Tan’s are way perkier.” Amy grunts as she throttles King with a bootlace. Steve attempts to make a cameo but he can’t breath. Amy misjudges the depth of the mud, which allows Steve to slither into a corner and put Amy in a headlock. As her eyes bulge, the crowd roars.
One of our lookouts muscles the door open, a look of terror his face. “IT’S A RAID!!” Sirens approach. Drinks hit the floor. Chaos busts like a cheap condom, leaving damp spots and fear in its wake.
In the confusion I manage to elbow my way out the back and make it home relatively unscathed.
God, I love Thursdays.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Black and White and Read All Over.
The sounds she makes reminds me of a gargling duck. She sucks back her umpteenth Jell-O shot and signals the bartender for another.
“It’s discrim…mini…mation,” she racially slurs, “pure and simpuuull,”
The bar’s last shipment of Dr. Pepper was older than dirt and flatter than piss on a plate. I like my mixed drinks good and bubbly. I push the Pap Smear away, order a bottled beer and eye the room, looking for more upbeat company.
JA’s place is subdued. A few regulars, a few strangers, a few you-look-familiars. Erik is shooting stick, but occasionally stops to write dirty haiku on placemats. There was a bit of action earlier when Bonnie’s pastor showed up and, yet again, dragged her out. Her nails left eight jagged, parallel gouges in the linoleum.
Jell-O chick taps my arm with the back of her hand. “I’ma good writer, y’know. I don’t need no specshull sectshun.”
“I know.” What else can I say? She doesn’t want an argument. She wants to blame society.
She searches the containers for dregs of vodka-laden jello and comes up empty. I push my discarded drink her way and she accepts it with a lopsided grin. “Thanks bubba. Yer okay.”
“I know.”
“People can be so cold, yanno?”
“Yup.”
“So I spell things a liddle differently. So I’m not from here…” She lurches back, grasps my arm and steadies herself. “I can still write a from anudder’s perspective, right? Right?”
“Right.”
“But they put me in a specshull sectshun. I’m a romance writer, dammit! Why should it matter if I’m Canadian too?” She drains the glass. “American? Canadian? We all love the same, right?”
“You write romance?” I push her hand off my arm.
The bar, once only subdued, now deafens with its silence. The bartender saunters over, the revulsion plain on his face. “Is this love-stuck Canuck bothering you?”
I nod. He forcibly escorts her to the door and tosses her out. She protests that she’s querying Harlequin’s Intrigue line, but everyone here knows that’s not the same as a real mystery.
The sign tacked over the door is plainly worded:
NO soliciting.
NO turtles.
NO romance writers.
The bartender replaces my beer and tells me it’s on the house. A voice from the back pipes up. “Why is it there is always one who thinks they are the exception to the rule?”
The beer tastes like making love in a canoe and I can’t stomach anymore of it. I put on my hat. Go home. Toss my shirt in the hamper. Shower.
But I still feel dirty.
The sounds she makes reminds me of a gargling duck. She sucks back her umpteenth Jell-O shot and signals the bartender for another.
“It’s discrim…mini…mation,” she racially slurs, “pure and simpuuull,”
The bar’s last shipment of Dr. Pepper was older than dirt and flatter than piss on a plate. I like my mixed drinks good and bubbly. I push the Pap Smear away, order a bottled beer and eye the room, looking for more upbeat company.
JA’s place is subdued. A few regulars, a few strangers, a few you-look-familiars. Erik is shooting stick, but occasionally stops to write dirty haiku on placemats. There was a bit of action earlier when Bonnie’s pastor showed up and, yet again, dragged her out. Her nails left eight jagged, parallel gouges in the linoleum.
Jell-O chick taps my arm with the back of her hand. “I’ma good writer, y’know. I don’t need no specshull sectshun.”
“I know.” What else can I say? She doesn’t want an argument. She wants to blame society.
She searches the containers for dregs of vodka-laden jello and comes up empty. I push my discarded drink her way and she accepts it with a lopsided grin. “Thanks bubba. Yer okay.”
“I know.”
“People can be so cold, yanno?”
“Yup.”
“So I spell things a liddle differently. So I’m not from here…” She lurches back, grasps my arm and steadies herself. “I can still write a from anudder’s perspective, right? Right?”
“Right.”
“But they put me in a specshull sectshun. I’m a romance writer, dammit! Why should it matter if I’m Canadian too?” She drains the glass. “American? Canadian? We all love the same, right?”
“You write romance?” I push her hand off my arm.
The bar, once only subdued, now deafens with its silence. The bartender saunters over, the revulsion plain on his face. “Is this love-stuck Canuck bothering you?”
I nod. He forcibly escorts her to the door and tosses her out. She protests that she’s querying Harlequin’s Intrigue line, but everyone here knows that’s not the same as a real mystery.
The sign tacked over the door is plainly worded:
NO soliciting.
NO turtles.
NO romance writers.
The bartender replaces my beer and tells me it’s on the house. A voice from the back pipes up. “Why is it there is always one who thinks they are the exception to the rule?”
The beer tastes like making love in a canoe and I can’t stomach anymore of it. I put on my hat. Go home. Toss my shirt in the hamper. Shower.
But I still feel dirty.
Friday, February 17, 2006
The Lair of the Drinks
JA’s place is hopping this night. A symposium huddles at one end of the bar yakking about ‘how far they would go’. Konwraith is front and center, flashing his four-pack to anyone with half a dollar. RJ corners some poor broad at the bar and trots out his “I never metaphor I didn’t like” line.
I think about the ‘poker for pills’ game going on in the backroom. The last time I ventured back there, MG cleaned me out of my favorite muscle relaxants. I only had the codeine tabs left, and I knew better than to take those on an empty gut.
The bartender mixes me my usual Pap Smear, tosses in a few extra wrinkled cherries, and pushes a stained menu in my direction. I order a Philly Cheese steak, extra ‘au jus’ in the side.
“Medium or well-done?” His bar rag smells like the floor of a Rave where the Ecstasy got cut with Ipecac syrup.
“Blue. So blue the cow needed to call a suicide hotline.” I suck back a cherry and flick the pit at the back of RJ’s head. “And hold the E-coli this time.”
The bartender tosses the menu in a puddle of Bud and scuffs away. Bored, I look around to see who’s looking for a cheap blurb and who’s been through the Crap-O-Meter.
Two characters catch my interest. A tall, scruffy guy in leather and a shorter fella, with bare feet and big, round eyes like those stupid troll dolls. JA’s place usually caters to mysterious types, so they stand out. I figure they tried getting into JK’s place up the street, but the security there is tighter than Rosie O’ Donnell’s corset and no one gets in without a agent.
I hear Leather-boy tell Shorty, “These are the Drinkwraiths, neither living nor read. They will never stop snubbing you.”
Fantasy types. God, I hate them. Their reality checks bounce back so hard you can lose an eye. I turn away and ignore them.
Shorty tries to wave down a guy he takes for a waitress but it’s Adam dressed up in a French Maid’s outfit. Made a bad bet with MG again. You think he’d learn.
Someone invites them to discuss how long it would take a trussed up guy to die if he had a coat rack stuck two feet up his back passage. Shorty exchanges a worried glance with Leather-Boy, and then they get up to leave.
My cheese steak arrives and I dig in, stopping occasionally to argue the finer points of using rock salt in conjunction with a plane sander on human flesh.
I suppose we’re a pretty hardboiled bunch.
JA’s place is hopping this night. A symposium huddles at one end of the bar yakking about ‘how far they would go’. Konwraith is front and center, flashing his four-pack to anyone with half a dollar. RJ corners some poor broad at the bar and trots out his “I never metaphor I didn’t like” line.
I think about the ‘poker for pills’ game going on in the backroom. The last time I ventured back there, MG cleaned me out of my favorite muscle relaxants. I only had the codeine tabs left, and I knew better than to take those on an empty gut.
The bartender mixes me my usual Pap Smear, tosses in a few extra wrinkled cherries, and pushes a stained menu in my direction. I order a Philly Cheese steak, extra ‘au jus’ in the side.
“Medium or well-done?” His bar rag smells like the floor of a Rave where the Ecstasy got cut with Ipecac syrup.
“Blue. So blue the cow needed to call a suicide hotline.” I suck back a cherry and flick the pit at the back of RJ’s head. “And hold the E-coli this time.”
The bartender tosses the menu in a puddle of Bud and scuffs away. Bored, I look around to see who’s looking for a cheap blurb and who’s been through the Crap-O-Meter.
Two characters catch my interest. A tall, scruffy guy in leather and a shorter fella, with bare feet and big, round eyes like those stupid troll dolls. JA’s place usually caters to mysterious types, so they stand out. I figure they tried getting into JK’s place up the street, but the security there is tighter than Rosie O’ Donnell’s corset and no one gets in without a agent.
I hear Leather-boy tell Shorty, “These are the Drinkwraiths, neither living nor read. They will never stop snubbing you.”
Fantasy types. God, I hate them. Their reality checks bounce back so hard you can lose an eye. I turn away and ignore them.
Shorty tries to wave down a guy he takes for a waitress but it’s Adam dressed up in a French Maid’s outfit. Made a bad bet with MG again. You think he’d learn.
Someone invites them to discuss how long it would take a trussed up guy to die if he had a coat rack stuck two feet up his back passage. Shorty exchanges a worried glance with Leather-Boy, and then they get up to leave.
My cheese steak arrives and I dig in, stopping occasionally to argue the finer points of using rock salt in conjunction with a plane sander on human flesh.
I suppose we’re a pretty hardboiled bunch.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
To Blurb or not to Blurb
It all started at Konwraith’s place, a sleazy dive where the drinks are cheap and the dames are cheaper. JA sits in the corner, mouthing off about blurbs, telling us some sell their praises to the highest bidder, and why bother to read it, and why care if the book turned out to be compost on pulp, so long as you get blurbed back good and hard, just the way you like it.
I order a Pap Smear, extra cold, and watch JA work the room. His fancy gold suede shoes are propped up on a table that hasn’t been wiped down since the Reagan administration. He leans against a nicely stacked Asian broad and stares into his fifth martini - shaken, stirred and smacked around a few times for good measure – unaware the Italian chick with ADD is tying his shoelaces together.
I feel someone sidle up and radiate a need so intense the underwire in my bra leaves thin, smiling burn marks in my flesh.
“I could use a good blurbing.” She crunchs an ice cube, probably the first decent meal she’s had in days. “Maybe we could work something out.”
I know this poor kid. Sad story - the kind that never ends well if you manage to read that far. She’s been rock bottom remaindered with no way out.
“Sorry, doll face.” I thumb my mitt in JA’s direction. “Try the guy in the corner.”
“Aw, c’mon…” She offers me a smile faker than a hooker’s orgasm. “Help a girl out, would ya?”
“No dice, sister.” I flick a shard of ice from my hat and put it on. “I don’t blurb unless I’m in love with the work. Call me old fashioned, but that’s just the kinda hack that I am.”
There is a shriek from the corner and a heavy thump. The Asian and the Italian chick take off out the door, a glass mug of Bud in pursuit.
I think about my first blurb. A mistake. A bad one. I faked the wild intensity, the overdone enthusiasm and, worst of all - the unrestrained adjectives. That tawdry blurb smacked me in the face one Bouchercon during a Q&A. I couldn’t remember the main characters, and in the throes of an unexpected interview question, I got the author’s name wrong.
My lowest moment. I felt cheap, dirty, sleazy - a perpetual day where I didn’t feel fresh. I vowed I’d never blurb again. Not unless I meant it. Then I blurbed someone. I blurbed them with real feeling, real admiration and real honesty… and they didn’t blurb me back.
That’s when I started drinking at JA’s place. I felt used, useless, unblurbable. Yeah, mostly hacks hang out there, and they cut the beer with black-market Evian water, but it’s a good bunch. Some on the way up. Some on the way down. A lot use pseudonyms, but that’s par for the course. If you want a business-like blurb, you can get it here. Cozy up to someone and 9 times out of 10, they’ll tell you your work is “Vivid” and "Gripping” but most don’t really mean it.
You learn not to take these things personally. You learn to keep writing.
Me? I just try to keep my nose clean, and send out SASE’s whether agents want ‘em or not.
You can’t get much piece of mind for under a buck these days.
It all started at Konwraith’s place, a sleazy dive where the drinks are cheap and the dames are cheaper. JA sits in the corner, mouthing off about blurbs, telling us some sell their praises to the highest bidder, and why bother to read it, and why care if the book turned out to be compost on pulp, so long as you get blurbed back good and hard, just the way you like it.
I order a Pap Smear, extra cold, and watch JA work the room. His fancy gold suede shoes are propped up on a table that hasn’t been wiped down since the Reagan administration. He leans against a nicely stacked Asian broad and stares into his fifth martini - shaken, stirred and smacked around a few times for good measure – unaware the Italian chick with ADD is tying his shoelaces together.
I feel someone sidle up and radiate a need so intense the underwire in my bra leaves thin, smiling burn marks in my flesh.
“I could use a good blurbing.” She crunchs an ice cube, probably the first decent meal she’s had in days. “Maybe we could work something out.”
I know this poor kid. Sad story - the kind that never ends well if you manage to read that far. She’s been rock bottom remaindered with no way out.
“Sorry, doll face.” I thumb my mitt in JA’s direction. “Try the guy in the corner.”
“Aw, c’mon…” She offers me a smile faker than a hooker’s orgasm. “Help a girl out, would ya?”
“No dice, sister.” I flick a shard of ice from my hat and put it on. “I don’t blurb unless I’m in love with the work. Call me old fashioned, but that’s just the kinda hack that I am.”
There is a shriek from the corner and a heavy thump. The Asian and the Italian chick take off out the door, a glass mug of Bud in pursuit.
I think about my first blurb. A mistake. A bad one. I faked the wild intensity, the overdone enthusiasm and, worst of all - the unrestrained adjectives. That tawdry blurb smacked me in the face one Bouchercon during a Q&A. I couldn’t remember the main characters, and in the throes of an unexpected interview question, I got the author’s name wrong.
My lowest moment. I felt cheap, dirty, sleazy - a perpetual day where I didn’t feel fresh. I vowed I’d never blurb again. Not unless I meant it. Then I blurbed someone. I blurbed them with real feeling, real admiration and real honesty… and they didn’t blurb me back.
That’s when I started drinking at JA’s place. I felt used, useless, unblurbable. Yeah, mostly hacks hang out there, and they cut the beer with black-market Evian water, but it’s a good bunch. Some on the way up. Some on the way down. A lot use pseudonyms, but that’s par for the course. If you want a business-like blurb, you can get it here. Cozy up to someone and 9 times out of 10, they’ll tell you your work is “Vivid” and "Gripping” but most don’t really mean it.
You learn not to take these things personally. You learn to keep writing.
Me? I just try to keep my nose clean, and send out SASE’s whether agents want ‘em or not.
You can’t get much piece of mind for under a buck these days.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
It’s not the heat, it’s the Cupidity.
Yes, St. Valentine’s Day has descended upon us once again, like a distant aunt who wears clothes far too tight and smells vaguely of cinnamon hearts and chocolate, leaving unwanted, waxy lip prints in her wake.
I am always stumped as to what to give the Hub this day of daze. I tried a gift certificate once, an hour with a professional massage therapist, but it gathered dust and expired. When I asked why, he shuffled and told me he was far too shy for that sort of thing.
Too shy?
This guy can get up on stage and play bass guitar before 15,000 people no sweat, but he can’t lie on a table with a sheet to cover anything untoward?
Right.
I have no taste in clothes, so that’s right out.
Chocolates are unhealthy.
Mushy and humorous card are appreciated, but just don’t seem to be enough.
He’s a sentimental sort, and often casts loving looks in my general direction and says, “Y’know, you don’t sweat much for a big old girl.”
I just melt when he talks like that.
He always makes sure there’s enough oil and washer fluid in my car. He brings me a coffee every morning. He buys me Licorice Goodies even though I tell him not too, because he knows I don’t mean it.
He is an excellent father to our boys and frankly, I just love him to pieces.
I don’t need St. Valentine to remind me of that.
But pass the cinnamon hearts anyway.
Yes, St. Valentine’s Day has descended upon us once again, like a distant aunt who wears clothes far too tight and smells vaguely of cinnamon hearts and chocolate, leaving unwanted, waxy lip prints in her wake.
I am always stumped as to what to give the Hub this day of daze. I tried a gift certificate once, an hour with a professional massage therapist, but it gathered dust and expired. When I asked why, he shuffled and told me he was far too shy for that sort of thing.
Too shy?
This guy can get up on stage and play bass guitar before 15,000 people no sweat, but he can’t lie on a table with a sheet to cover anything untoward?
Right.
I have no taste in clothes, so that’s right out.
Chocolates are unhealthy.
Mushy and humorous card are appreciated, but just don’t seem to be enough.
He’s a sentimental sort, and often casts loving looks in my general direction and says, “Y’know, you don’t sweat much for a big old girl.”
I just melt when he talks like that.
He always makes sure there’s enough oil and washer fluid in my car. He brings me a coffee every morning. He buys me Licorice Goodies even though I tell him not too, because he knows I don’t mean it.
He is an excellent father to our boys and frankly, I just love him to pieces.
I don’t need St. Valentine to remind me of that.
But pass the cinnamon hearts anyway.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Disappointment with one’s shallow celebrity obsessions is inevitable but one always hopes it will never happen. Still, a woman has to know when to walk away.
So, it’s over. Johnny Depp and I are kaput.
I stuck with him through the Winona Ryder fiasco, the tattoos, the smoking, the move to Paris and his other “real life” family. However, my sordid imagination has now reached the breaking point.
Generally, I attempt to remain ignorant about the lives of my fantasy objects. Too much information can spoil a perfectly good make-belief relationship. Once I learn gritty and unsavory details – well, suffice to say I must then find myself a spanking new cerebral boytoy to daydream about.
My dear husband endured a similar and painful break-up with Catherine Zeta Jones. It was the ‘smoking while topless AND pregnant’ photo that sunk their long-term fantasy relationship. He’d been stuck on Zeta-Jones since The Darling Buds of May, and pouted for months until his suffering was alleviated by luscious, leggy Diana Krall - only to have that sweet dream dashed by her doing Elvis Costello. Lately he’s been watching Desperate Housewives. Perhaps he will find fulfilling flights of fancy with one of them. He seems to like that spunky redhead with the 1960’s Catwoman aura. I sincerely hope it works out for him.
More to the point, I firmly believe it is the sworn duty of celebrities to not give us too much information, either about themselves or what they think. When the media provides us with every nasty detail it can be a complete buzz kill. I have learned repeatedly that such specifics ruin one’s carefully fabricated perceptions of treasured personalities. Putrid TV movies about the “real” story behind Mork and Mindy, The Monkees, or Charlie’s Angels are a ruinous detriment to the imaginations of the masses. Case in point: I didn’t need to know about ‘Greg’ and ‘Mrs. Brady’s’ – how to put it delicately? – Mother-May-I-December tryst.
If I want the truth about these people, I’ll make it up myself, thank you very much!
When celebrities insist on being regarded as “real people” they forsake their solemn duty to provide inane fantasy fodder for those of us stuck in the dismal trenches of reality. If this trend continues I firmly believe Western civilization will inevitably crumble. How can I (or anyone else) cope with all the depressing information I am forced to absorb daily unless I can - for example - resort to reveries of Johnny Depp fetching vodka coolers and offering me long, loving foot rubs.
So the search is on! Generally, political personalities in this country make Rex Murphy look hot, so there is no hope of finding any dishy distractions there. (The exception being Peter Mackay, but even in my wildest dreams I won’t have anything to do with Belinda’s ex-chew toy.)
Once again I turn to the smog shrouded Hollywood Hills in hopes of finding a suitable male focus for my immoral meditations, but frankly good cerebral distractions are hard to find. Perhaps my standards are absurdly high.
Undaunted, I am taking a closer look at the latest in sweaty, scruffy eye-candy that television offers (better known as the male cast of LOST), but none of them are doing anything for me. The loss of Johnny is proving most inconvenient. While I can make do with the vast selection of hotties from the Lord of the Rings movie, too much choice is as bad as not enough.
You may be wondering what tidbit of information completely ruined Johnny Depp for me? Well, I read somewhere he likes to watch … the Teletubbies.
What can I say besides “Ew!”?
I have my limits.
So, it’s over. Johnny Depp and I are kaput.
I stuck with him through the Winona Ryder fiasco, the tattoos, the smoking, the move to Paris and his other “real life” family. However, my sordid imagination has now reached the breaking point.
Generally, I attempt to remain ignorant about the lives of my fantasy objects. Too much information can spoil a perfectly good make-belief relationship. Once I learn gritty and unsavory details – well, suffice to say I must then find myself a spanking new cerebral boytoy to daydream about.
My dear husband endured a similar and painful break-up with Catherine Zeta Jones. It was the ‘smoking while topless AND pregnant’ photo that sunk their long-term fantasy relationship. He’d been stuck on Zeta-Jones since The Darling Buds of May, and pouted for months until his suffering was alleviated by luscious, leggy Diana Krall - only to have that sweet dream dashed by her doing Elvis Costello. Lately he’s been watching Desperate Housewives. Perhaps he will find fulfilling flights of fancy with one of them. He seems to like that spunky redhead with the 1960’s Catwoman aura. I sincerely hope it works out for him.
More to the point, I firmly believe it is the sworn duty of celebrities to not give us too much information, either about themselves or what they think. When the media provides us with every nasty detail it can be a complete buzz kill. I have learned repeatedly that such specifics ruin one’s carefully fabricated perceptions of treasured personalities. Putrid TV movies about the “real” story behind Mork and Mindy, The Monkees, or Charlie’s Angels are a ruinous detriment to the imaginations of the masses. Case in point: I didn’t need to know about ‘Greg’ and ‘Mrs. Brady’s’ – how to put it delicately? – Mother-May-I-December tryst.
If I want the truth about these people, I’ll make it up myself, thank you very much!
When celebrities insist on being regarded as “real people” they forsake their solemn duty to provide inane fantasy fodder for those of us stuck in the dismal trenches of reality. If this trend continues I firmly believe Western civilization will inevitably crumble. How can I (or anyone else) cope with all the depressing information I am forced to absorb daily unless I can - for example - resort to reveries of Johnny Depp fetching vodka coolers and offering me long, loving foot rubs.
So the search is on! Generally, political personalities in this country make Rex Murphy look hot, so there is no hope of finding any dishy distractions there. (The exception being Peter Mackay, but even in my wildest dreams I won’t have anything to do with Belinda’s ex-chew toy.)
Once again I turn to the smog shrouded Hollywood Hills in hopes of finding a suitable male focus for my immoral meditations, but frankly good cerebral distractions are hard to find. Perhaps my standards are absurdly high.
Undaunted, I am taking a closer look at the latest in sweaty, scruffy eye-candy that television offers (better known as the male cast of LOST), but none of them are doing anything for me. The loss of Johnny is proving most inconvenient. While I can make do with the vast selection of hotties from the Lord of the Rings movie, too much choice is as bad as not enough.
You may be wondering what tidbit of information completely ruined Johnny Depp for me? Well, I read somewhere he likes to watch … the Teletubbies.
What can I say besides “Ew!”?
I have my limits.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
“Ten days after the war ended, my sister Laura drove a car off a bridge.”
First line of The Blind Assassin, by Margaret Atwood.
A few blog entries ago I recommended a novel called The Blind Assassin, by Margaret Atwood. I didn’t go into a huge amount of detail, since I hadn’t actually finished reading it, but I know a damned good book by page ten and since Atwood seldom drops the ball, I recommended it without hesitation.
Don’t take my word for it, The Blind Assassin won both the Booker Prize and the International Crime Writer’s Association’s Dashiell Hammett Award for Literary Excellence. So, all you Crime/Mystery writers out there, I especially encourage you to read it.
Atwood’s descriptive prose verges on poetry, and is always dead on. (Iris’ comparision of her sister-in-law’s tanned face to a testicle made me howl with laughter.) Atwood’s leanings towards science fiction appeal to me, since I cut my literary teeth on SF, and having once been a hardcore Sherlockian, I appreciate her ability to keep me guessing until the end.
The Blind Assassin is also a perfect example of ‘Crone Lit’, although it brushes against so many other genres I would never dare to constrain this novel to just one. The narrator, Iris, is an old woman and she is writing a very long letter explaining the twisted circumstances of her life, her sister Laura’s life and death, and a story within a story – a pulp science fiction tale called The Blind Assassin.
I could go on at length, but I will simply say The Blind Assassin is brilliant. Like all great novels, the reading of it is effortless. Upon having to put it down and go to work I seriously contemplated calling in sick, just so I could finish it. (I didn’t, but I very much wanted to.)
On a hunch I did a search on this novel at IMDB, and sure enough it appears the book was optioned to become a movie. It would be a damned good one, but like all movies, the script will be absolutely critical. If it were up to me, I’d find Darin Morgan and pay him whatever he wanted to write it. It should have been filmed back in 2002 – the book came out in 2000 – but I suspect a lackluster script is bogging things down.
This novel is also unashamedly CANADIAN.
So, for all you Canadians out there who feel that you must cater to an American market, read this book, and think that one over again.
PS-
I’m going to reread it. It’s one of the few novels I can think of that will get better every time one reads it. (The only other books I pull our every year to reread are Dune, by Frank Herbert, and The Lord of the Rings, by J. R. R. Tolkien.
First line of The Blind Assassin, by Margaret Atwood.
A few blog entries ago I recommended a novel called The Blind Assassin, by Margaret Atwood. I didn’t go into a huge amount of detail, since I hadn’t actually finished reading it, but I know a damned good book by page ten and since Atwood seldom drops the ball, I recommended it without hesitation.
Don’t take my word for it, The Blind Assassin won both the Booker Prize and the International Crime Writer’s Association’s Dashiell Hammett Award for Literary Excellence. So, all you Crime/Mystery writers out there, I especially encourage you to read it.
Atwood’s descriptive prose verges on poetry, and is always dead on. (Iris’ comparision of her sister-in-law’s tanned face to a testicle made me howl with laughter.) Atwood’s leanings towards science fiction appeal to me, since I cut my literary teeth on SF, and having once been a hardcore Sherlockian, I appreciate her ability to keep me guessing until the end.
The Blind Assassin is also a perfect example of ‘Crone Lit’, although it brushes against so many other genres I would never dare to constrain this novel to just one. The narrator, Iris, is an old woman and she is writing a very long letter explaining the twisted circumstances of her life, her sister Laura’s life and death, and a story within a story – a pulp science fiction tale called The Blind Assassin.
I could go on at length, but I will simply say The Blind Assassin is brilliant. Like all great novels, the reading of it is effortless. Upon having to put it down and go to work I seriously contemplated calling in sick, just so I could finish it. (I didn’t, but I very much wanted to.)
On a hunch I did a search on this novel at IMDB, and sure enough it appears the book was optioned to become a movie. It would be a damned good one, but like all movies, the script will be absolutely critical. If it were up to me, I’d find Darin Morgan and pay him whatever he wanted to write it. It should have been filmed back in 2002 – the book came out in 2000 – but I suspect a lackluster script is bogging things down.
This novel is also unashamedly CANADIAN.
So, for all you Canadians out there who feel that you must cater to an American market, read this book, and think that one over again.
PS-
I’m going to reread it. It’s one of the few novels I can think of that will get better every time one reads it. (The only other books I pull our every year to reread are Dune, by Frank Herbert, and The Lord of the Rings, by J. R. R. Tolkien.
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