Boo, hoo, hoo

Because I have a sore throat, headache, and an impossible amount of mosquito bites, I thought I'd share my favorite poem with you. Because it makes me feel a little better.

Sick

'I cannot go to school today, ' Said little Peggy Ann McKay. 'I have the measles and the mumps, A gash, a rash and purple bumps. My mouth is wet, my throat is dry, I'm going blind in my right eye. My tonsils are as big as rocks, I've counted sixteen chicken pox And there's one more-that's seventeen, And don't you think my face looks green? My leg is cut-my eyes are blue- It might be instamatic flu. I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke, I'm sure that my left leg is broke- My hip hurts when I move my chin, My belly button's caving in, My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained, My 'pendix pains each time it rains. My nose is cold, my toes are numb. I have a sliver in my thumb. My neck is stiff, my voice is weak, I hardly whisper when I speak. My tongue is filling up my mouth, I think my hair is falling out. My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight, My temperature is one-o-eight. My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear, There is a hole inside my ear. I have a hangnail, and my heart is-what? What's that? What's that you say? You say today is...Saturday? G'bye, I'm going out to play! ' -Shel Silverstein

BLACH! Quick, get it off!

BREAKING NEWS: ROOKIE RITER FALLS VICTIM TO THE EVER-EVOLVING MEME!

Son of a BIATCH!

Somehow I thought I could sneak through another round of Memes without having to participate (I'm lazy, guys), but at least three of my blogging buds have tagged me like a cheap hooker at closing time--guess that means I have to put out. Because I have some very talented, funny, and slightly sadistic friends who have already contributed to this round of debauchery, I thought I'd combine a few of their questions and a few of my own, creating one, seriously jacked-up meme. So, here we go...

1. If you were a rutabaga, would you be hot?
I would be. Especially if I was on the grill. Wait, what is a rutabaga?

2. When was the last time you ate lion meat?
I live in San Diego, which means we are just one Disney dvd ride from the happiest place on earth. If you've ever been to the Magic Kingdom you'll recall they used to serve enormous turkey drumsticks from an umbrella'd cart just outside of Fantasy Land and also near Sleeping Beauty's Castle. What you may not know is that under President Obama's recently implemented turkey embargo (It's true. I read it online), the fine folks at Disney are no longer allowed to serve their famous turkey legs. Instead they're using Lion. They call them SIMBA STICKS. I agree...it's a little tasteless considering the venue, but damn, they're good! Anyway, the last time I had lion meat was...spring break.

3. Upload a picture of something that makes you smile.

WalMart and I go together like toe fungus and banana bread. The fine folks I see trolling through the ROLL BACK bins always bring a smile to my face. Always.




4. Name one habit that makes other people plot your demise.
I am a schedule Nazi. I like routines. And I expect others to follow them, too. HEIL!

5. How many goats, stacked atop one another like Yertle's Turtles, would it take to reach the moon? Uh...it's my understanding that space exploration has been given the big middle finger so...I can't even contemplate an answer for this one. But I'm guessing more than 4.

6. Describe yourself using obscure Latin words.
Pelo grande y rubio, ojos azules y muy sarcástico. Latin?? Seriously...who speaks Latin any more? Hable Espanol or go home!

7. If you could shave someones head while they slept, and they'd never know it was you who did it...would you?
Definitely. I'd start with this chick.
And finally,
8. Where da muffin top at?
Is that something you can order from McDonalds in the bad neighborhoods??

I'm not tagging anybody with this meme because they've all done it already and, as previously stated, I'm just freakin' lazy.

Writing the Love Interest: The Jake Ryan Complex

I hadn't planned on re-posting anything just yet (this blog still has new car smell) but in reviewing my "stats" it appears this post gets a lot of attention. I couldn't figure out why...so I reread it. Now I know. It's awesome! So, because I am a lazy girl, eagerly awaiting a spring break trip to Disneyland, I am go to re-post for the first time ever. Hope you enjoy. (Again)

They say that inspiration comes from the most unlikely of places. In the case of today's post that sentiment couldn't be more true.

Let me set the scene: It's about 6 am Thursday morning. I'm blowing my hair dry in preparation for a day of work, praying for an epiphany as to what my next blog post will be. My husband stumbles into the bathroom, eyes narrowed to pinch out the morning light, and that mysterious nighttime crust is wedged in the corners of his mouth like he'd been making out with a glue stick. (Hands off, ladies, he's taken!) He drops down onto the toilet seat and begins lacing up his running shoes, grumbling about the stupid dog not caring whether he gets walked or not, and that's when it happens...INSPIRATION STRIKES!

With as much maturity as a four-year-old boy who licks mailboxes and chews on his own toenails, my husband discovers he has a little booger dangling from his nose. Rather than depositing said snot rocket into a tissue or square of toilet paper like a civilized person, he determines that an appropriate relocation would be to smear the little sucker on the leg of my pajama pants. Under different circumstances I would have thrown a royal fit, going all blond-afro-girl on his disgusting arse, but I opted not to because he'd just given me my next blog topic, and therefore I was extremely grateful.

It's what I refer to as: THE JAKE RYAN COMPLEX

For those of you who don't know who Jake Ryan is, (Cherie!) please pull your head from beneath the rock you're buried under and rent SIXTEEN CANDLES. It's this movie that absolutely ruined the realistic love interest for any teenage girl.

You see, Jake Ryan was really a thirty-year-old man trapped in an eighteen-year-old boy's body. He didn't care that he drove a zippy red Porsche when all the other kids drove hand-me-down Honda's. He was the most popular guy on campus, dating a gorgeous cheerleader with big dairy pillows, but it was of absolutely no consequence to him. Jake wanted more than a good time. He wanted depth. He wanted sincerity. He wanted Samantha Baker, the flat-chested sophomore who took a sex quiz in Independent Study and, stupidly, answered honestly!

"I don't know, Rook," you say skeptically. "This guy sounds too good to be true."

Brilliant deduction my underpaid fan club. He is! HE'S TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE! Which is why we love him so much!

As YA authors it's our job to create a desirable 17-20 year old boy that any girl would be thrilled to tongue tangle with. He shall be good looking, mature for his age, loyal, funny, smart and be willing to walk through fire, slay dragons, stake vampires, publicly humiliate snobby cheerleaders, or put an abusive father in his place on his girl's behalf, all within forty-eight hours of meeting her.

Is he realistic? HECK NO! But who wants to read about a pimple-faced kid who lights his own farts for entertainment? Our job is to create the ideal boyfriend who says all the right things and makes our tummy quiver with just a glance. Is it misleading to our young readers? Yep. But if we had our Jake Ryan moment it only seems fair that they should have theirs, too. After all, in fifteen short years they'll look down and find a booger stuck to their cotton jammies.

I GOT AN AGENT!

I've been dreaming about this blog post for a long time. I had it all worked out in my head--and let me tell you, friend, it was RAD!

First I was going to suck you in with a really sexy title like, "You had me at hello" or, "Out of the slush I will rise!" And then I was going to string together a beautifully eloquent statement about subjectivity, and how one agent's trash is another agent's treasure.

I was going to captivate you with unlikely metaphors, and dazzle you with my surprising wit and off-color humor. I'd offer a sweet little nugget that you'd chew on and think, "Man, that RookieRiter totally gets it!" And then I'd conclude my awesome post by telling you that it only takes one YES to make it all worthwhile.

And now here I am...
The day I've been dreaming about.
The day I've been praying for.
The day I got an agent.
And what do I come up with??? I GOT AN AGENT. (Brilliant, Rook).

The truth is, I'm at a loss for words.

Up until a week ago my story was cliche. But today it's charming & fresh? What gives?!

Doesn't this east coast agent of glory know who she's talking to? I'm the RookieRiter. I get rejections, not offers. I run around with women who liken themselves to goat herders, not poet laureates. Why do I deserve all this love & affection??

All I can come up with is, SHE GETS ME. I don't know how it happened, but Rachael Dugas gets me. And now she's going to do her best to help my book become something wonderful--and that is just about the coolest thing that's ever happened to me.

The 90+ rejections over two manuscripts are history. The words "cliche" and "predictable" that plagued me three weeks ago are just words in a dictionary now. All the hurt, frustration, tears, anger and booze (okay, not the booze) but the rest of it really is dust in the wind. It's gone...

Since I can't think of anything fancy to say (I'm in a happy fog right now), I'll leave you with this:
DON'T GIVE UP! EVER!! If it can happen to me, BELIEVE ME, it can happen for you! JUST KEEP SWIMMING!!

PEARLS OF WISDOM. OR NOT.

I survived my 36th birthday this week. You know what that means, right?

It means service people call me ma'am, not miss. It means that the tiny little hair that creeps out of my chin scar every few months is going to bring friends with her next time. It means I can hold a pencil (or a phone book) under my breast with no hands. And it means I will probably never get carded for buying alcohol again. (Except at Claim Jumper--they card EVERYBODY!)

But it also means I've had 13,140 days to learn, grow, and experience life--and in that time I've learned some pretty valuable lessons. Today, I'd like to share some of them with you.

Ahem...

-A genuine smile can be very disarming.
-Your mother will always love your manuscript. Even if it sucks. She's just amazed that you were able to string 75,000 words together considering you're the kid she used to find you in the basement shaving bars of soap and sniffing--just to see if you'd sneeze.
-Do not go barefoot to pick up dog poop.
-One armed hugs are stupid. Go big or go home.
-Lite beer doesn't taste good, and only pansies drink it.
-Sing loud. Even if you sound terrible.
-Go to church sometimes. Good things happen there.
-Laugh until you cry.
-If a burner smells hot--don't touch it!
-Fainting goats are proof that God has a sense of humor. (see video below)
-Say what you mean.
-Girls with long hair should not stick their heads into ice coolers outside the 7-11. The little fan inside can do damage.
-If your dad offers to pick you up from school in a sky blue, 1969 Winnebago with an umbrella-holding, cartoon bear on the side, and a caption reading, "God's love shines through" just say no.
-Potlucks are a stomach ache waiting to happen.
and finally,
-Always have faith.

This post is like the penny-cup at the drug store. Take a lesson if you need one, leave one if you don't.

DON'T RAIN ON MY CLICHE!

cli·ché

As defined by Merriam Webster:

/kliˈʃeɪ, klɪ-/ Show S[klee-shey, kli-]

noun

Something that is so commonly used in books, stories, etc., that it is no longer effective

Or as defined by a nameless agent:

SUMMER ON THE SHORT BUS (Rookie Riter's current MS)

It's true. A very well respected, desirable agent finished reading my manuscript and, after telling me how strong a writer I was and how likable the characters were, said this, "My concern really lies in the predictability of the story...in the end I am afraid that editors will see the story in the same way and that as a result it would be a fairly challenging sale."

Then a second agent who was reviewing only the first chapter said this, "...I just got back from a three week trip in New York City stacked with editor meetings and they were adamant that they don't want to look at anything even remotely derivative. It has to be truly unique to garner interest at this point."

I'm not going to lie to you, I was pretty pissed for a few minutes there...my story, predictable?!
And then I started thinking about it...

And they were right.
It is predictable.
Sort of.

The main character is an angry, self-absorbed girl who, through unlikely circumstances and even more unlikely friends, discovers who she really is and who she wants to be. Sound familiar? Probably--in one form or another, but I'm not convinced that familiarity is a bad thing.

For example: Have you ever read a Nora Roberts novel? (Don't be embarrassed. We've all done it. It's no worse than farting in the grocery store and blaming it on your disabled daughter who doesn't speak) Well, haven't you ever noticed all her novels are exactly the same?! ALL OF THEM. Here's the formula:

EARLY 30's KNOCKOUT WITH UNLIKELY JOB + MISUNDERSTOOD DREAMY MAN + DANGEROUS SITUATION = HAPPILY EVER AFTER

It's the same as our favorite chick flicks: We watch them because we know the formula:

HOT GUY + TUMMY TINGLES = $8 WELL SPENT!

Are they cliche? Prolly.
Do we still love them? YES!

So, my beef is this: WHY DOES A CLICHE HAVE TO BE A BAD THING? Aren't the millions of dollars in royalties from best-selling books and box-office chart busters proof enough that cliches are, sometimes, a good thing?!

I leave you with this final nugget to chew on: (Relax! It's a 100% pure breast meat nugget. Only the best here.) My favorite television show is the biggest cliche imaginable. The dorks make Farmer Ted look cool. The Jews compare their large noses like other people exchange text messages. The jocks think with their man parts, and collectively, the cheerleaders are as bright as a box of hair. In case you haven't figured it out yet, it's a little show called GLEE. And, from what I've heard, it's doing pretty darn good in the ratings.

So, to all you agents out there, I say this: DON'T RAIN ON MY CLICHE!

Or, according to a recent agent, MY NOVEL

DON'T YOU FORGET ABOUT ME(me)

ou may have heard about a sneaky little guy whose been corrupting the coolest blogs on the blogosphere. He strikes when you least expect, is harder to shake than a booger from your finger, and leaves you with a creative hatchet wound so deep it will literally keep you up at night. He's called MEME and he was created by a pretty rad chick we call, GREEN WOMAN. (I'm guessing that's a pseudonym, though I once was secretary to a committee that housed a member named RICHARD BONER, so who knows.)

GREEN WOMAN suggested that writing was definitely NOT like a box of chocolates, but thought her fellow writers were astute enough to come up with a metaphor for what writing IS like. So, my sweet friend Angela, and my disturbed friend Marewulf, happily leaked my location to said MEME, enabling him to jump me like a common street thug after my late night shift at Hooters, and forced me at cursor point to come up with my own MEME.

So...here it goes:

WRITING IS LIKE THE ALL 80's CHANNEL ON SIRIUS/XM

I know you're wondering how on earth I'm going to swing this comparison, but bear with me for a minute. It all makes sense in my head.

I was born in 1975, thus making me a real kid by the time the 80's rolled around. Like every other Reagan-era thug, I wore jelly shoes, tried (unsuccessfully) to master the Rubik's cube and yes, had a wide variety of neon-colored clothing, studded belts, and even a pair of L.A Gear high tops with two different colored laces just like Tiffany's (You know, I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW). But besides my bitchin' wardrobe, I also developed two great loves in the 80's: Music & Writing. (I wrote my first book in 2nd grade. It's a testament of why parents should not pay the extra money for private school)

It's not to say that I'm stuck in a time warp, but there's something about the 80's that feels familiar. Comfortable. The way I feel when I'm writing.

(yes, this would be the segue to the metaphor)

Some days a really bitchin' song will come on and I am transported back to the place when I first heard and fell in love with that song. Like SISTER CHRISTIAN, by Night Ranger. I remember riding in the backseat of our Malibu Classic and the plastic seat covers were leaving marks on the back of my legs, but I didn't care because that was just the coolest song ever! I still feel that way about my first manuscript. I remember a moment from a particular scene, or that stolen glance that still makes my tummy twist in delight. Those are the days when I love being a writer.

Then there are the days when you feel like you're off to a good start. You drop 300 words in a matter of minutes, and the familiar song stars to play. You get yourself all worked up, expecting another 500 words to flow magically through your fingertips, and then you realize it's Duran Duran's ,THE REFLEX, and that the song actually sucks. And before you know it you're staring at a blinking cursor, wondering why you ever thought you were a good writer, or that Duran Duran wrote good music. These are the days when being a writer is frustrating.

Unfortunately there are the SUCK days, too. The days when Linda Ronstadt and Lionel Richie are clogging up the airwaves and my fingers are nothing more than bloody stumps completely incapable of typing. How is one supposed to come up with a decent thought when ISLANDS IN THE STREAM is playing the background? It's impossible. Those are the days when being a writer totally blows.

But, like every John Hughes movie, something good still lies ahead.

It's one of those days where you're cruising along an empty freeway--you're alone, the windows are down, the sunroof is open, the warm spring breeze is whipping your hair so you look just like a girl on a Pantene commercial. Everything is just right. Your chair is comfy, the scene you wrote before you went to bed last night still rocks, and then you hear it. Eddie's guitar riff, Sammy's familiar voice. Your fingers start dancing across the keyboard. 100, 200, 300 words. And then you're singing--like you've never sung before. LOVE COMES WALKING IN...Who needs thesaurus.com, you're a wordsmith on your own! You've never seen writing like this! It's beautiful and amazing. Just like Van Halen's gut-wrenching ballad. You are a writer! YOU ARE A WRITER! And those are the days that make it all worth while. Because it erases all the edits, takes away all the distractions and reminds us that it's not a choice. Writing is just who we are.



(Side note: The Rookie Riter looks a lot like Sammy, minus the red parachute pants. It's all about the hair, baby!)

Now I think the MEME rules say that I'm supposed to chuck this little miscreant at someone else, but I'm going to leave well enough alone. In part, because I'm lazy. Sorry guys, it's something you should know about me. But also because I'm in a Hagar-induced daze right now and the only creative thought coming to mind involves me, a sandy beach, Sammy Hagar and a bottle of suds.