Any of you who have followed my blog for more than a few months, know that I struggled with the description one agent (during my days of query) saddled my baby...er, manuscript, with. She called it "cliche." OUCH!
My initial response was to fire back an email proclaiming the authenticity of my book, and demand she resign from the literary world because her twenty-five years of experience had obviously left her lacking in the ability to properly access a story as "cliche" or "non-cliche." But after a few calming breaths (and a firm "DO NOT DO THAT!" email from a writer friend) I realized that wasn't in my best interest. Instead, I thanked her for her consideration and settled on Google Earth-ing her place of business so I could fantasize about toilet papering her building and leaving chalk outlines on her front porch. (Relax, Frances. Not dead body outlines, more like sad faces and elephants wearing hats. I draw those really well.)
The great cliche has sort of haunted me since then.
True, I did sign with an agent who believes wholeheartedly in the originality of my book, and the "cliche" word hasn't come up at all during our submission process, but up until this last weekend I always considered "cliche" as something negative. (Like when my 7th grade teacher used my favorite word: AUDACITY, like it was the plague instead of an attribute). That is until I was flipping through channels and came across Pretty In Pink. *blissful sigh* With one glimpse of Molly Ringwald in her hideous, hand-made outfit I was instantly transported from a laundry-induced stupor where cliche was a bad word, to a relaxing nirvana where slightly-predictable story lines were familiar and welcoming, and Duckie wasn't just the second-rate actor standing beside Ashton Kutcher.
What I've come to accept is that writing a "cliche" story isn't a bad thing at all. It works! Just ask John Hughes...er...his estate? Anyway, It's the characters that make a predicable story unique. We all knew that Andie and Blane were going to end up together, just like we knew that Jake *swoon* would bring Samantha her undies, and that Keith would give Watts the diamond earrings. There's a reason we love the plot lines we do. On some level we know how the story is going to end--it's the journey that gets us there that makes it exciting!
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Lights, Camera, ACTION!
Faithful fan club, today I am thrilled to present to you
the trailer of my novel, Summer on the Short Bus.
As I describe over there ------>
Summer on the Short Bus is an irreverent and sarcastic look
at what happens when you're stripped of your comfort zone
and left to face reality head on,
despite how uncomfortable it might be.
There's no "message" behind this book--not an intentional one anyway.
In fact, it's about as non-p.c. as you can get.
It's meant to entertain.
Period.
If you get something else from it, good on ya!
the trailer of my novel, Summer on the Short Bus.
As I describe over there ------>
Summer on the Short Bus is an irreverent and sarcastic look
at what happens when you're stripped of your comfort zone
and left to face reality head on,
despite how uncomfortable it might be.
There's no "message" behind this book--not an intentional one anyway.
In fact, it's about as non-p.c. as you can get.
It's meant to entertain.
Period.
If you get something else from it, good on ya!
And now, the trailer...
(And yes, that was Zac Efron. *swipes dibble from chin*
The heart throb in this tale bares a striking resemblance to Zac,
a fact that's incorporated into the story)
*Special thanks to A.G. Howard, whose talents befuddle me on a daily basis*
(And yes, that was Zac Efron. *swipes dibble from chin*
The heart throb in this tale bares a striking resemblance to Zac,
a fact that's incorporated into the story)
*Special thanks to A.G. Howard, whose talents befuddle me on a daily basis*
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
A goat. A meme.
The air was crisp enough to see a hint of breath hanging in front of me, the earth looking fresh after the cleansing rainfall it endured the night before. Book in hand, bundled in my favorite sweatshirt, I stepped, slipper-footed, onto the cold landing outside my kitchen door and proceeded down the steps to the patio. The flock of wild, lime green parrots that live somewhere nearby passed overhead, shrieking in a language I didn’t understand but loved to listen to, while the personal-space challenged Labrador I’d come to love tip-toed beside me, matching my stride step for step. A beautiful winter morning in San Diego. Or so I thought...
“Somebody’s up bright and early.”
Eh? The sudden interruption forced my attention from the lush patio furniture beckoning me and to the corner of the yard.
I extinguished a heavy sigh. “Good morning, Nigel.”
“Good morning, love. What brings outside on such a crisp morning?”
“Oh...you know, just thought I’d get in a little reading before the girls woke up.” I raised my copy of Miss Peregrine’s for evidence, but quickly tucked it back into the safety of my arms. The paper used for the printing of this book was particularly high quality. If Nigel came within a foot of a delicacy like that, I’d find myself on Amazon ordering a replacement book for Anita.
“Well, isn’t that a grand idea,” he said, elongating his pronunciation of the word grand in case I’d forgotten he was English. He dropped his head to the ground, taking one last nibble of dew-ridden grass, before approaching me with a loping gate Heidi Klum would kill for. “What else have you on your schedule for today?”
I settled Indian-style into the corner of the wicker couch, tucking the red throw pillow on my lap and thought about the day that lie ahead. Groceries, a little laundry, date night with my husband...
“Oh,” I groaned, suddenly remembering the task I’d unwillingly been assigned. “My friend Cherie tagged me with this meme a couple of weeks ago. I hate those things but...you know, I love her to bits so I guess I have to do it.”
“You’re not fond of the memes then?”
I glanced up at him, his beady eyes intent on me. “No,” I said. “They’re too...dogmatic for my taste.”
“Well that’s a shame,” he said, shooing the dog away with a gentle kick of his hind hoof. Chance, the wonder mutt with Bambi eyes, whimpered before venturing into the depths of the yard in search of his own grass to chew. “Say, I’ve got a brilliant idea,” Nigel said in a surprisingly chipper tone. “Why don’t you let me take care of the meme? I’m quite sure I’d do a smashing job–given my English heritage and propensity for wooing lady-folk.” I had a momentary flashback to the panty meme last summer and felt my cheeks flush. “Cherie wouldn’t mind, would she? As I recall she was quite fond of me...”
My teeth sunk into my bottom lip, as I considered the possible ramifications of such an agreement. I’m in the middle of submissions with my book, trying to present myself as a serious, professional writer–if Nigel took the reigns, what would I be subjecting myself and my caree–
“Sure!” I agreed, broad smile threatening to rip through my skin. “You know my Gmail password, right?”
“Indeed, I do,” he said behind an unsettling smirk. “Indeed I do.”
And now...Nigel’s meme:
1. What is your dream vacation? It’s quite simple really. An open field with rich, decadent grasses that I could graze on for days. Somewhere in the countryside–perhaps outside of Darlington or Middlesborough...though if I’m dreaming I should say I’d prefer the grasses in Ireland. Unfortunately the Irish are a very daft audience, so I should stick to my homeland. Something befitting a nobleman like myself.
2. Are you spontaneous or do you like to plan ahead?
Spontaneity is for the lower-classes. These suits don’t iron themselves, you know...
3. Tell us one thing you want to do but don’t dare to do.
Oh heavens, I think I should love to run nude through the streets, kicking up my hooves and wiggling my dingly danglies, but a gentleman would never do such a thing.
4. What’s your biggest phobia?
That the Beckham’s should split. David and Victoria are quite possibly the most beautiful, well-groomed humans on the planet. If their union were ever to dissolve, I fear it would be the end of a fairytale I've only begun to enjoy reading about.
5. If you were stranded on a desert island, what 3 things would you want with you (not including your laptop, or family).
Well now...you are a naughty thing for asking such a question, aren’t you? I suppose I’d start with an endless supply of 24 lb. bond paper. Not only does it taste like a tiny slice of Heaven on Earth, but it keeps my nethers running in a timely fashion. Secondly, I dare say I’d bring along Daisy. She’s not the most elegant of my admirers,
but she’s quite entertaining when she’s had a few drinks. If we’re on a deserted island, I might as well cut loose, right? Lastly, I would bring my manicure kit. Without my regularly scheduled spa visits, I fear I might look a bit ghastly if I didn’t at least maintain my hooves. Can you imagine...the horror of a chipped nail!
6. Name three blessings in your life.
The neighbor’s clothesline
My ability to make Americans feel inferior simply by speaking in my native brogue
My ass in a thong
7. What was your nickname in high school?
Dearest, I’m a goat. I skipped high school and went straight to university. There I was known only as, The Great Ramming Horn.
8. If you could meet the President of the United States, what would you say to him? Where do you get your suits?
9. If you could be any literary character for a day, who would you be?
Bella Swan, for obvious reasons.
10. What is your favorite quote?
“Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can't help but cry. I mean I'd love to be skinny like that but not with all those flies and death and stuff.” - Mariah Carey. She’s such a visionary...
As I understand, meme rules dictate I should pass this task along to seven other bloggers, however, I cannot see how anyone could possibly improve upon my response so I think we shall consider this memo officially retired. Why mess with a good thing, after all.
Until next time, my beloved fan club.
Cheers, Nigel
“Somebody’s up bright and early.”
Eh? The sudden interruption forced my attention from the lush patio furniture beckoning me and to the corner of the yard.
I extinguished a heavy sigh. “Good morning, Nigel.”
“Good morning, love. What brings outside on such a crisp morning?”
“Oh...you know, just thought I’d get in a little reading before the girls woke up.” I raised my copy of Miss Peregrine’s for evidence, but quickly tucked it back into the safety of my arms. The paper used for the printing of this book was particularly high quality. If Nigel came within a foot of a delicacy like that, I’d find myself on Amazon ordering a replacement book for Anita.
“Well, isn’t that a grand idea,” he said, elongating his pronunciation of the word grand in case I’d forgotten he was English. He dropped his head to the ground, taking one last nibble of dew-ridden grass, before approaching me with a loping gate Heidi Klum would kill for. “What else have you on your schedule for today?”
I settled Indian-style into the corner of the wicker couch, tucking the red throw pillow on my lap and thought about the day that lie ahead. Groceries, a little laundry, date night with my husband...
“Oh,” I groaned, suddenly remembering the task I’d unwillingly been assigned. “My friend Cherie tagged me with this meme a couple of weeks ago. I hate those things but...you know, I love her to bits so I guess I have to do it.”
“You’re not fond of the memes then?”
I glanced up at him, his beady eyes intent on me. “No,” I said. “They’re too...dogmatic for my taste.”
“Well that’s a shame,” he said, shooing the dog away with a gentle kick of his hind hoof. Chance, the wonder mutt with Bambi eyes, whimpered before venturing into the depths of the yard in search of his own grass to chew. “Say, I’ve got a brilliant idea,” Nigel said in a surprisingly chipper tone. “Why don’t you let me take care of the meme? I’m quite sure I’d do a smashing job–given my English heritage and propensity for wooing lady-folk.” I had a momentary flashback to the panty meme last summer and felt my cheeks flush. “Cherie wouldn’t mind, would she? As I recall she was quite fond of me...”
My teeth sunk into my bottom lip, as I considered the possible ramifications of such an agreement. I’m in the middle of submissions with my book, trying to present myself as a serious, professional writer–if Nigel took the reigns, what would I be subjecting myself and my caree–
“Sure!” I agreed, broad smile threatening to rip through my skin. “You know my Gmail password, right?”
“Indeed, I do,” he said behind an unsettling smirk. “Indeed I do.”
And now...Nigel’s meme:
1. What is your dream vacation? It’s quite simple really. An open field with rich, decadent grasses that I could graze on for days. Somewhere in the countryside–perhaps outside of Darlington or Middlesborough...though if I’m dreaming I should say I’d prefer the grasses in Ireland. Unfortunately the Irish are a very daft audience, so I should stick to my homeland. Something befitting a nobleman like myself.
2. Are you spontaneous or do you like to plan ahead?
Spontaneity is for the lower-classes. These suits don’t iron themselves, you know...
3. Tell us one thing you want to do but don’t dare to do.
Oh heavens, I think I should love to run nude through the streets, kicking up my hooves and wiggling my dingly danglies, but a gentleman would never do such a thing.
4. What’s your biggest phobia?
That the Beckham’s should split. David and Victoria are quite possibly the most beautiful, well-groomed humans on the planet. If their union were ever to dissolve, I fear it would be the end of a fairytale I've only begun to enjoy reading about.
5. If you were stranded on a desert island, what 3 things would you want with you (not including your laptop, or family).
Well now...you are a naughty thing for asking such a question, aren’t you? I suppose I’d start with an endless supply of 24 lb. bond paper. Not only does it taste like a tiny slice of Heaven on Earth, but it keeps my nethers running in a timely fashion. Secondly, I dare say I’d bring along Daisy. She’s not the most elegant of my admirers,
but she’s quite entertaining when she’s had a few drinks. If we’re on a deserted island, I might as well cut loose, right? Lastly, I would bring my manicure kit. Without my regularly scheduled spa visits, I fear I might look a bit ghastly if I didn’t at least maintain my hooves. Can you imagine...the horror of a chipped nail!6. Name three blessings in your life.
The neighbor’s clothesline
My ability to make Americans feel inferior simply by speaking in my native brogue
My ass in a thong
7. What was your nickname in high school?
Dearest, I’m a goat. I skipped high school and went straight to university. There I was known only as, The Great Ramming Horn.
8. If you could meet the President of the United States, what would you say to him? Where do you get your suits?
9. If you could be any literary character for a day, who would you be?
Bella Swan, for obvious reasons.
10. What is your favorite quote?
“Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can't help but cry. I mean I'd love to be skinny like that but not with all those flies and death and stuff.” - Mariah Carey. She’s such a visionary...
As I understand, meme rules dictate I should pass this task along to seven other bloggers, however, I cannot see how anyone could possibly improve upon my response so I think we shall consider this memo officially retired. Why mess with a good thing, after all.
Until next time, my beloved fan club.
Cheers, Nigel
Friday, February 24, 2012
Gratuitous cuteness in lieu of legitimate creativity...
What's a writer to blog about when they are feeling exceptionally lazy and so contented with their recently completed WIP that their brain hamster is in a constant state of hung over?
Baby animals, of course!
Baby animals, of course!
Have a great day!! I'll do a legit blog post again soon. Maybe...
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Not quite ready for public viewing...
Hip, Hip, HOORAY!
I have finally completed the first draft of my next book! (I'm refusing to call it rough because I edit as I go--if anything it's course, like margarita salt. Besides, rough sounds very X-Rated).
After just over nine months, I have 77,962 words that I think make a pretty good story. It's got some high-stakes drama, gut-wrenching emotion, potentially inappropriate humor, and of course some make-your-toes-tingle love scenes to round things out. It's a wonderful story and I'm truly proud of it...But here's the kicker: IT'S NOT READY FOR PUBLIC VIEWING!
*Ugh* Rookie clutches her cheek, still aching from the reality slap.
As beautiful as my story is in my head, it needs a lot of work to get purdy enough to share with the world. I don't know about you guys, but that's a hard pillow for this author to swallow. I want this book to be READY. DONE. POLISHED AND SHINY! But the truth is it takes a long, long time to get a manuscript to that point.
So...here I am. Scrub brush in hand, fingers poised on the keyboard, bound and determined to make this book as amazing as I know it can be. Will it take a long time? YOU BET. But sending something out into the world before it's ready is just foolish. Don't believe me?! Just ask these chicks...
Friday, January 20, 2012
A man and his eyebrows. (A true story)
Once upon a time there was a man who grew more and more handsome the closer he came to his fortieth birthday.
The dusting of gray amidst his dark brown hair made him look distinguished, and the faint wrinkle lines around his eyes showed a life filled with joy and laughter--a good look for any man. The one minor problem though...his eyebrows.
Thought it hardly seemed to bother the man, his wife was deeply troubled. For when she looked at her beloved husband, she no longer saw this:
But something that bore a striking resemblance to this:
Not all the brow hairs were bad, mind you. In fact there was just one. One evil, despicable thing that would appear on his right eyebrow approximately every six weeks. With the immeasurable powers of a super hero, this rogue hair would sprout out of virtual nothingness and into a length of 7/8" overnight.
For days the wild hair would go unnoticed, until one evening at the dinner table, the husband, in a benign gesture, would drag his arm across his forehead in an attempt to drown out the incessant chatter of the nine-year-old girl at the table. Unbeknownst to the husband he'd awakened a beast. A course, thick, deep rooted beast that stood at full attention nearly an inch above the rest of the eyebrow.
Shrieking at the sight, the wife begged her husband to let her tweeze it. "It is ugly and dastardly and makes you look unkempt," she begged him. "Please let me rid you of this hideous hair or people will think I don't love you."
The husband scoffed at her request, claiming that the pain associated with a needle-nosed tweezers extraction was too great for any man to endure.
The woman, a survivor of two Cesarean sections, rolled her eyes. Though disappointed with the surprising wussiness of her husband, the former marine, she stayed steady on her course to rid the man of the atrocity that grew upon his beautiful face.
For days she pleaded for submission to the tweezers. She begged him to dismiss the notion that an eyebrow comb over was sexy.
Finally, upon the threat of abstinence, the man relented.
It was a cold, Thursday night in January when she sat him down on the bathroom counter and approached him with the silver Revlon tweezers (available at Target for $6.99, less 5% with the red card). The man gripped the tile, bracing himself for the pain he'd experienced only twice before in his life. With the steady hand of a neurosurgeon she gripped the angry hair between the tips of the tweezers, clamped down and pulled.
A high-pitched shriek was heard throughout the land,
"HOLY CRAP! Look at the size of this root ball!"
While the husband whimpered in shock on the counter, the wife held her victim to the light for a better view. At 7/8" she knew that little bastard would win records if she were into that kind of thing. But she wasn't. She didn't need an award to prove she'd done something wonderful. She had a well-groomed husband for that.
The dusting of gray amidst his dark brown hair made him look distinguished, and the faint wrinkle lines around his eyes showed a life filled with joy and laughter--a good look for any man. The one minor problem though...his eyebrows.
Thought it hardly seemed to bother the man, his wife was deeply troubled. For when she looked at her beloved husband, she no longer saw this:
But something that bore a striking resemblance to this:
Not all the brow hairs were bad, mind you. In fact there was just one. One evil, despicable thing that would appear on his right eyebrow approximately every six weeks. With the immeasurable powers of a super hero, this rogue hair would sprout out of virtual nothingness and into a length of 7/8" overnight.
For days the wild hair would go unnoticed, until one evening at the dinner table, the husband, in a benign gesture, would drag his arm across his forehead in an attempt to drown out the incessant chatter of the nine-year-old girl at the table. Unbeknownst to the husband he'd awakened a beast. A course, thick, deep rooted beast that stood at full attention nearly an inch above the rest of the eyebrow.
Shrieking at the sight, the wife begged her husband to let her tweeze it. "It is ugly and dastardly and makes you look unkempt," she begged him. "Please let me rid you of this hideous hair or people will think I don't love you."
The husband scoffed at her request, claiming that the pain associated with a needle-nosed tweezers extraction was too great for any man to endure.
The woman, a survivor of two Cesarean sections, rolled her eyes. Though disappointed with the surprising wussiness of her husband, the former marine, she stayed steady on her course to rid the man of the atrocity that grew upon his beautiful face.
For days she pleaded for submission to the tweezers. She begged him to dismiss the notion that an eyebrow comb over was sexy.
Finally, upon the threat of abstinence, the man relented.
It was a cold, Thursday night in January when she sat him down on the bathroom counter and approached him with the silver Revlon tweezers (available at Target for $6.99, less 5% with the red card). The man gripped the tile, bracing himself for the pain he'd experienced only twice before in his life. With the steady hand of a neurosurgeon she gripped the angry hair between the tips of the tweezers, clamped down and pulled.
A high-pitched shriek was heard throughout the land,
"HOLY CRAP! Look at the size of this root ball!"
While the husband whimpered in shock on the counter, the wife held her victim to the light for a better view. At 7/8" she knew that little bastard would win records if she were into that kind of thing. But she wasn't. She didn't need an award to prove she'd done something wonderful. She had a well-groomed husband for that.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Don't Give Up On HOPE
Every now then I veer off of the freeway of sarcasm and inappropriate humor I drive most days, and take a much needed detour down emotional lane. This post, my inaugural for the new year, is my first pit stop on the sentimental side street. I hope you enjoy...
It was almost exactly a year ago that a good portion of my prayer life was dedicated to asking the BIG GUY for someone (AN AGENT!) to take me seriously. You know...just give me and my peculiar book a chance. Six months later...I got an agent. WAHOO! Thanks, God!
This morning I was feeling much the way I did a year ago except that the request to the you know who had changed. This morning I prayed that someone (AN EDITOR!) would take me AND my agent seriously. (Calm down, Kitten--no news to report). On days like this, when I feel like the last author in the world an editor would be willing to take a leap of faith with, I'm reminded of one very important four-letter word: HOPE!
You see, the beauty of HOPE is that it strikes you when you're at your lowest point and quite often through unconventional means. Here's how the HOPE bug big me today:
On December 24th (Yeah, the DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS) my darling 9 year-old decided to write Santa a letter. (Apparently I wasn't supposed to read it, though she left it out on the hutch in the living room--um, FREE GAME, TOOTS!) Anyway, I got the Aww...lump in my throat as we moms do, and then I read the inside:
(I cannot tell you how many times we've told my daughter that she cannot get a trampoline, but I assure you it's well into the double-digits.)
My husband and I chuckled about this card, both enjoying what could very well be her last Christmas believing in the white bearded man from up North, and then we actually discussed her request. After surprisingly short deliberation, we decided this actually could be a good investment for us and that both our kids would get a lot of use out of it. (Not Christmas of 2011, obviously, but perhaps an Easter gift purchased off of Craig's List)
At any rate, my kiddo never lost HOPE. She was the dog under the dining table just waiting for a scrap. And you know what...she got it! A piece of macaroni fell on the floor. (Or in this case, a used trampoline that will probably need new springs).
She never gave up--she just kept hoping. After finding this letter in my dresser drawer, right next to her letter demanding more money from the Tooth Fairy, I realized that I cannot give up on HOPE. It's all I've got left.
(Side note: I had a trampoline as a kid. Our hesitation in buying one was not because we are wicked, evil parents who like to stifle our children of exercise and a good time, but because we didn't think she would use it. If we are guilty of anything--it's practicality.)
It was almost exactly a year ago that a good portion of my prayer life was dedicated to asking the BIG GUY for someone (AN AGENT!) to take me seriously. You know...just give me and my peculiar book a chance. Six months later...I got an agent. WAHOO! Thanks, God!
This morning I was feeling much the way I did a year ago except that the request to the you know who had changed. This morning I prayed that someone (AN EDITOR!) would take me AND my agent seriously. (Calm down, Kitten--no news to report). On days like this, when I feel like the last author in the world an editor would be willing to take a leap of faith with, I'm reminded of one very important four-letter word: HOPE!
You see, the beauty of HOPE is that it strikes you when you're at your lowest point and quite often through unconventional means. Here's how the HOPE bug big me today:
On December 24th (Yeah, the DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS) my darling 9 year-old decided to write Santa a letter. (Apparently I wasn't supposed to read it, though she left it out on the hutch in the living room--um, FREE GAME, TOOTS!) Anyway, I got the Aww...lump in my throat as we moms do, and then I read the inside:
(I cannot tell you how many times we've told my daughter that she cannot get a trampoline, but I assure you it's well into the double-digits.)My husband and I chuckled about this card, both enjoying what could very well be her last Christmas believing in the white bearded man from up North, and then we actually discussed her request. After surprisingly short deliberation, we decided this actually could be a good investment for us and that both our kids would get a lot of use out of it. (Not Christmas of 2011, obviously, but perhaps an Easter gift purchased off of Craig's List)
At any rate, my kiddo never lost HOPE. She was the dog under the dining table just waiting for a scrap. And you know what...she got it! A piece of macaroni fell on the floor. (Or in this case, a used trampoline that will probably need new springs).
She never gave up--she just kept hoping. After finding this letter in my dresser drawer, right next to her letter demanding more money from the Tooth Fairy, I realized that I cannot give up on HOPE. It's all I've got left.
(Side note: I had a trampoline as a kid. Our hesitation in buying one was not because we are wicked, evil parents who like to stifle our children of exercise and a good time, but because we didn't think she would use it. If we are guilty of anything--it's practicality.)
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