Yesterday, driving to work I listened to a commercial for “Sedation Dentistry.” The fearful or gaggy or too-busy-for-a-lot-of-appointments patient is knocked out and the teeth and/or gums are fixed and said patient goes his merrie way.
I would propose anything done by the medical profession where the word “discomfort” is a substitution for pain be sedation optional.
A sedation commute would be cool.
A sedated work-day would be even cooler.
Sedated television-viewing? Sorry, that already has a sedative effect.
Sedation long-winded telephone calls?
Sedation for endless meetings? Definitely.
Sedation sex with someone not that sexy. For sure.
Sedation football viewing for women.
Sedation baby/couples showers for men.
Sedated time on the treadmill? That might be tricky. Maybe someone could come up with a harness to keep sedated walkers from toppling off.
Sedated rehab?
Sedated church? No more tuneless hymns or boring meetings.
The possibilities are endless.
Grapeshot,
Who is considering whether she could knock out a novel while sedated and who is still not working very hard.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Five pages or Five pounds
Yikes! Moment Horribilus when I stepped on the scale Monday morning after the nice sailing weekend. Must have been an eating weekend, too, or maybe just all that lazing about in the cockpit not burning any calories to speak of. The steak, the banana bread, the tiny little snickers bars are still with me. And another even longer Berkshire weekend looms, which always involves delicious food and lots of it.
Solution: lose five pounds.
This necessitates a long brisk walk and at least two sessions at the so-called "health" club, the word "wellness" being one that never crosses my lips without a sneer. Also have to avoid eating out and pack a healthy lunch and cook a healthy from scratch dinner. If you've ever read the ingredients lists of the diet dinners it's like chemical city, and I'm not sure how healthy those gums and flavor extenders and all that artificial crap really is. I mean, what the hell is "meat product?" Ewwwwww.
Now the only problem here is that walking and working out take time, to say nothing of cooking from scratch, and the day only has so many hours. I get home even later, we eat later, and after fourteen hours of non-stop busy-ness, well, I get tired, bone-weary. Can barely read e-mail. Doze in front of my computer. Damn. What a Hobson's Choice. This week (four pounds down already), but one lousy page progress. Maybe two tonight.
The good news is that I finally thought of a cool ending for the short story I've been working on for months. Now to write it.
Aloha from work where I am obviously not working.
Grapeshot
Solution: lose five pounds.
This necessitates a long brisk walk and at least two sessions at the so-called "health" club, the word "wellness" being one that never crosses my lips without a sneer. Also have to avoid eating out and pack a healthy lunch and cook a healthy from scratch dinner. If you've ever read the ingredients lists of the diet dinners it's like chemical city, and I'm not sure how healthy those gums and flavor extenders and all that artificial crap really is. I mean, what the hell is "meat product?" Ewwwwww.
Now the only problem here is that walking and working out take time, to say nothing of cooking from scratch, and the day only has so many hours. I get home even later, we eat later, and after fourteen hours of non-stop busy-ness, well, I get tired, bone-weary. Can barely read e-mail. Doze in front of my computer. Damn. What a Hobson's Choice. This week (four pounds down already), but one lousy page progress. Maybe two tonight.
The good news is that I finally thought of a cool ending for the short story I've been working on for months. Now to write it.
Aloha from work where I am obviously not working.
Grapeshot
Monday, September 26, 2005
Sailing
Up early on Saturday for a drive to Norwalk, CT, where we met up with friends for a delightful weekend of sailing on the water of Long Island Sound. The boat is old and beautiful, and made of wood, such that people sail alongside her in order to bestow compliments. One basks in the glow of being aboard such faded glory. The sun shone and the winds blew fair after a blustery start. We ate lunch in Ziegler's Cove, next to America II, who seems to be idling there for no very good reason that I could see.
A sail across the sound to the far reaches of Huntington Harbor, gaping at all the mansions lining the coves. The Connecticut and Long Island Shores have great big houses with wonderful water views, and one wonders what it would be like to live in such a place for the summer with children and children's friends and houseguests and servants and events at the yacht club and the tennis club and drinks on the terrace. Very grand.
We had dinner at the yacht club and they really did know how to cook a steak.
Two swans patrolled the harbor and a flock of Canada geese voiced outrage over a dog on the sand. The swans made swan noises (something between a honk and a caw) as they sailed along, and the night was very quiet, with no parties anywhere, or else very subdued parties, and Sunday morning dawned even quieter except for one seagull with something on his mind.
We had a breakfast that couldn't be beat: eggs, tomatoes and spam, with some German rye, and a piece of home-made banana bread to top it off. Coffee, of course. The sun disappeared and the wind did likewise. A nip of rum before lunch. Another sail across the sound and then home thru the Bridgeport and New Haven traffic.
Bridgeport has spruced itself up. Part of the slum seen from the freeway is gone, and grass now grows where the derelict building once sat. New buildings and a look of almost prosperity.
Home to a gazillion emails, laundry and the prospect of a workday with ordinariness far removed from the mansions and the yacht club and the admiring glances of the other sailors. Back to technology and thinking about my book and maybe tomorrow even writing a few pages, which I hope will also be removed from the ordinary. Or maybe not.
Aloha (or is it ahoy)
Grapeshot
A sail across the sound to the far reaches of Huntington Harbor, gaping at all the mansions lining the coves. The Connecticut and Long Island Shores have great big houses with wonderful water views, and one wonders what it would be like to live in such a place for the summer with children and children's friends and houseguests and servants and events at the yacht club and the tennis club and drinks on the terrace. Very grand.
We had dinner at the yacht club and they really did know how to cook a steak.
Two swans patrolled the harbor and a flock of Canada geese voiced outrage over a dog on the sand. The swans made swan noises (something between a honk and a caw) as they sailed along, and the night was very quiet, with no parties anywhere, or else very subdued parties, and Sunday morning dawned even quieter except for one seagull with something on his mind.
We had a breakfast that couldn't be beat: eggs, tomatoes and spam, with some German rye, and a piece of home-made banana bread to top it off. Coffee, of course. The sun disappeared and the wind did likewise. A nip of rum before lunch. Another sail across the sound and then home thru the Bridgeport and New Haven traffic.
Bridgeport has spruced itself up. Part of the slum seen from the freeway is gone, and grass now grows where the derelict building once sat. New buildings and a look of almost prosperity.
Home to a gazillion emails, laundry and the prospect of a workday with ordinariness far removed from the mansions and the yacht club and the admiring glances of the other sailors. Back to technology and thinking about my book and maybe tomorrow even writing a few pages, which I hope will also be removed from the ordinary. Or maybe not.
Aloha (or is it ahoy)
Grapeshot
Thursday, September 22, 2005
When the Snakes Come Out of the Bayous
Houston and Galveston are places I care about. I went to university in Houston (Rice) and as practically starving students we drove to Galveston (day trips) for spring break, for flounder stuffed with shrimp, for cheap beer and the beach. To a girl from the high plains of Colorado, Galveston was another world, with its above ground cemeteries and the bishop's palace with the oldeanders, and the delightful southern sleaze.
Sorry, but I have a soft spot for sleaze, and Galveston had it in spades with the ramshakle old hotels (Galvez and Buccaneer), driving for miles on along the surf, the little beach shacks on stilts, the rank sea air, the Brahma cattle with the white cattle egrets perched on their flanks, the 100 % humidity, the Portugese Man-o-War, the very otherness of the place.
When I bought my first car I drove to Galveston on the Gulf-Tex freeway, enjoying the sensation of being one of the car and the car one with the road and the road one with the earth and so on ad infinitumm. My freshman year I bought musty books in a second-hand bookstore that had been through the first hurricane at the old seaman's library in Galveston. Those were my first ever used books.
When Houston has bad storms, the snakes come out of the bayous. Unfortunately, these aren't our friends the garter snake and the bull snake. These are water moccasins and coppermouths and ready scary critters. Probably happened in New Orleans too. After all, in Alabama after the last storm, someone noticed a shark swimming down the street.
It's time we face facts and do something about global warming, which apparently makes these gulf of Mexico storms worse than usual, when usual is bad enough.
So think good thoughts for Houston and Galveston. Must be scary, like the mouse in the snake's den. Just waiting. Even the Dali Lama left early.
http://www.chron.com/cs/CDA/ssistory.mpl/special/05/rita/3364573
In times of old, we would all have believed that someone had offended the gods to bring these storms to our shores. Well, all snakes don't live in the bayous, and maybe we have. I don't know.
Think about it.
Grapeshot
Sorry, but I have a soft spot for sleaze, and Galveston had it in spades with the ramshakle old hotels (Galvez and Buccaneer), driving for miles on along the surf, the little beach shacks on stilts, the rank sea air, the Brahma cattle with the white cattle egrets perched on their flanks, the 100 % humidity, the Portugese Man-o-War, the very otherness of the place.
When I bought my first car I drove to Galveston on the Gulf-Tex freeway, enjoying the sensation of being one of the car and the car one with the road and the road one with the earth and so on ad infinitumm. My freshman year I bought musty books in a second-hand bookstore that had been through the first hurricane at the old seaman's library in Galveston. Those were my first ever used books.
When Houston has bad storms, the snakes come out of the bayous. Unfortunately, these aren't our friends the garter snake and the bull snake. These are water moccasins and coppermouths and ready scary critters. Probably happened in New Orleans too. After all, in Alabama after the last storm, someone noticed a shark swimming down the street.
It's time we face facts and do something about global warming, which apparently makes these gulf of Mexico storms worse than usual, when usual is bad enough.
So think good thoughts for Houston and Galveston. Must be scary, like the mouse in the snake's den. Just waiting. Even the Dali Lama left early.
http://www.chron.com/cs/CDA/ssistory.mpl/special/05/rita/3364573
In times of old, we would all have believed that someone had offended the gods to bring these storms to our shores. Well, all snakes don't live in the bayous, and maybe we have. I don't know.
Think about it.
Grapeshot
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Marshall Field & Co: adieu, ciao, farewell, alas
Classy Marshall Field is to be swallowed up by Macy's. The store where I bought my first maternity clothes, where my kids stood in line to see Santa Claus, where one December day we did all of our Christmas shopping for the whole holiday is going to become a Macy's. Major Bummer. Just 3 weeks ago when we were in that toddlin' town we made a special trip through Field's at Water Tower Place. Still there. Still cool. Still made me want to shop.
When Macy's first came to the Natick Mall in suburban Boston, I went in to take a look around. Kinda junky. Way too many departments with sleazy junior clothes for the teeny bopper crowd. A sea of cheap clothes is not calculated to pull me in to shop. Maybe they weren't cheap and maybe they were not junior sizes, but by god, they looked it. Just something about it wasn't . . . me.
Actually Lord and Taylor at Natick Mall is no prize either. Filene's (soon to also be the late Filene's) I can hack. Good cosmetic counter, children's clothes, housewares and always a nice sale in better sportswear.
I can still remember the red sweater at Field's I bought myself one year while Christmas shopping. Oh, the huge holiday tree, lunch in the dining room with the kids in their best finery, back when they could be coaxed into dressing up. Frango mints. The absolutely cool coffee table that is made out of old chocolate molds. Betcha Macy's doesn't have that.
And Major Daly saying we have to go with the times. Quatch! May all the Mall shoppers surveyed who thought this was a "good idea" spend eternity looking for the exit in an endless mall where the food court smells of rancid grease and the sound of bawling two-years olds never ceases. May all the people polled on the phone who also thought that this was a "good idea" get busy signals and roam in voice mail hell until their ear atrophies and falls off.
Marketing! Now there's a department. Marketing wants things yesterday. No, really. Marketing dreams things and up forgets to tell the people who make it happen. La di dah marketing. They are worse than upper management. Well, almost.
Like the guy said, this is a marketing faux pas way up there with New Coke. Remember new Coke? Yeah. Marketing.
So shoppers: go to Target. Keep the independent stores and small chains in business. Buy less. Make do. Boycott Macy's. You won't drop if you don't shop.
Marshall Field forever. Amen
When Macy's first came to the Natick Mall in suburban Boston, I went in to take a look around. Kinda junky. Way too many departments with sleazy junior clothes for the teeny bopper crowd. A sea of cheap clothes is not calculated to pull me in to shop. Maybe they weren't cheap and maybe they were not junior sizes, but by god, they looked it. Just something about it wasn't . . . me.
Actually Lord and Taylor at Natick Mall is no prize either. Filene's (soon to also be the late Filene's) I can hack. Good cosmetic counter, children's clothes, housewares and always a nice sale in better sportswear.
I can still remember the red sweater at Field's I bought myself one year while Christmas shopping. Oh, the huge holiday tree, lunch in the dining room with the kids in their best finery, back when they could be coaxed into dressing up. Frango mints. The absolutely cool coffee table that is made out of old chocolate molds. Betcha Macy's doesn't have that.
And Major Daly saying we have to go with the times. Quatch! May all the Mall shoppers surveyed who thought this was a "good idea" spend eternity looking for the exit in an endless mall where the food court smells of rancid grease and the sound of bawling two-years olds never ceases. May all the people polled on the phone who also thought that this was a "good idea" get busy signals and roam in voice mail hell until their ear atrophies and falls off.
Marketing! Now there's a department. Marketing wants things yesterday. No, really. Marketing dreams things and up forgets to tell the people who make it happen. La di dah marketing. They are worse than upper management. Well, almost.
Like the guy said, this is a marketing faux pas way up there with New Coke. Remember new Coke? Yeah. Marketing.
So shoppers: go to Target. Keep the independent stores and small chains in business. Buy less. Make do. Boycott Macy's. You won't drop if you don't shop.
Marshall Field forever. Amen
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Smoking Dreams
Last night I had another smoking dream. In two months, I will had been off cigarettes for sixteen years, and yet I smoke in my dreams. Sometimes, I have quit and this is just a strange aberation; other times, I have started smoking again, but I can quit. In my dreams I smoke without addiction. That will be the day.
Everyone smoked in a scene from Carmen. Well, duh, she worked in a cigarette factory. Carmen was a sublime dramatic and musical experience, and Christina Baldwin and Bradley Greenwald were Carmen and Don Jose. The minimalist setting with an old warehouse as a backdrop, exactly conveyed the mood and the scene. The dualling pianos pounded out Bizet perfectly. I remember playing the Habanera on the piano. My music book had little illustrations, and Carmen portrayed a fiery Spanish girl with a comb in her hair, looking for all the world like a flamenco dancer, with the bull fighter and his cape in the background.
After the performance we had dessert at Harvest, and a woman in the restroom was humming the Habanera. I had a vision of all of Harvard Square breaking into song and dance on that warm rainy night. Just about anything can happen in Harvard Square. Well, maybe.
Then yesterday there were the books. For some of us, books are more temping than any drug, more desirable than any other acquisiton. Addictive. Just bring on the books.
And the smoking dream had a festival and drama and craziness that I can't remember, but I do always remember the smoking. And how wonderful it feels. My god, nicotine has a long memory and it never lets go of you.
Everyone smoked in a scene from Carmen. Well, duh, she worked in a cigarette factory. Carmen was a sublime dramatic and musical experience, and Christina Baldwin and Bradley Greenwald were Carmen and Don Jose. The minimalist setting with an old warehouse as a backdrop, exactly conveyed the mood and the scene. The dualling pianos pounded out Bizet perfectly. I remember playing the Habanera on the piano. My music book had little illustrations, and Carmen portrayed a fiery Spanish girl with a comb in her hair, looking for all the world like a flamenco dancer, with the bull fighter and his cape in the background.
After the performance we had dessert at Harvest, and a woman in the restroom was humming the Habanera. I had a vision of all of Harvard Square breaking into song and dance on that warm rainy night. Just about anything can happen in Harvard Square. Well, maybe.
Then yesterday there were the books. For some of us, books are more temping than any drug, more desirable than any other acquisiton. Addictive. Just bring on the books.
And the smoking dream had a festival and drama and craziness that I can't remember, but I do always remember the smoking. And how wonderful it feels. My god, nicotine has a long memory and it never lets go of you.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Carmen and Lorainne and so forth
We're off to the opera at the A.R.T. Two pianos and minimalist set. Apparently great voices and acting. The last opera I attended was many years ago in Chicago. Falstaff. A January night. Bitter chill wind off the lake, the kind that freezes marrow. We ate dinner in town and ran out of time, ergo no coffee. Hideous cold walk to the opera house. Warm and dark within. I slept through Act II and Act III. Nobody could sleep through Carmen.
There was a Carmen kind of girl in my junior high. Lorainne Lujan. Very mature for her age, when the rest of us had skinny legs and flat chests. Beautiful skin. Tough as nails. Mean, too. She beat the crap out of a bunch of my friends in front of the library one day after school. Like many Hispanic kids, she didn't go on to high school. I put a woman like her in my first book which remains forever on the closet shelf. And rightly so.
A small publisher who sells mostly to libraries wants to see the East German book, The World of Mirrors, and as always, I am hopeful.
Tomorrow, we're off to NEBA, the New England Bookseller's Association. Manning a booth for some mystery writing organizations. I'm signing and giving away a few books.
Actually wrote some pages this week. A big murder scene that occurs 2/3 of the way thru the book. I'm just about out of Reno and back to New England. About this time of year, too. Maybe I better run outside and take notes.
Aloha
Grapeshot
There was a Carmen kind of girl in my junior high. Lorainne Lujan. Very mature for her age, when the rest of us had skinny legs and flat chests. Beautiful skin. Tough as nails. Mean, too. She beat the crap out of a bunch of my friends in front of the library one day after school. Like many Hispanic kids, she didn't go on to high school. I put a woman like her in my first book which remains forever on the closet shelf. And rightly so.
A small publisher who sells mostly to libraries wants to see the East German book, The World of Mirrors, and as always, I am hopeful.
Tomorrow, we're off to NEBA, the New England Bookseller's Association. Manning a booth for some mystery writing organizations. I'm signing and giving away a few books.
Actually wrote some pages this week. A big murder scene that occurs 2/3 of the way thru the book. I'm just about out of Reno and back to New England. About this time of year, too. Maybe I better run outside and take notes.
Aloha
Grapeshot
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Spicy Romance? I don't think so. And a poem.
I have a "google alert" sent to email me when it finds my name floating around cyber-space. Every now and then a link to something pops up, but the last notice that made its way to my email box was beyond strange. My novel, The Shadow Warriors was listed on a "spicy romance" books web site.
Hmmmm.
Now it would take the proverbial quantum leap to equate The Shadow Warriors with romance. I mean, think about the title. Not exactly Love's Sweet Promise, or anything like that. (Apologies to anyone who may have actually written that book). Yeah, there is a relationship, and it's not very good, and certainly not very romantic, although I suppose it does have its moments (damn few). Its moments, in the context of 2005 or even 1995, 1985 and earlier would not be considered "spicy." Folks, we aren't talking body parts here, we are talking treachery, betrayal and angst, but not spicy.
The annoying thing is that one would think (hope) that being listed under "spicy romance" might help sell a few books. Wrong again. Oh well, suck it up forever and ever.
Good news! The Boston 375 exhibit is moving out to Logan Airport after it leaves Boston City Hall. I hope the poetry moves along, too, because guess whoses poem is about Logan? Yes!
See below. I wrote it years ago.
Night Landing at Logan
From above, an open jewel box.
Intricate gold chains on black velvet.
Haphazard scattering of rubies, emeralds and diamonds,
Rich and luscious.
We arc slowly over the harbor, then
The jet sweeps across dark water
A shadow over the scattered islands,
A bird of prey, talons ready
Screaming, whining, howling, bucking the wind.
Low. Lower. Lowest.
Sapphire landing lights,
A shudder, and wheels caress the runway.
Roaring, the engines reverse their thrust,
Offering a muted reek of kerosene.
To port, the skyline surges,
Bold accretion of glass, stone and steel
Collage of history.
Red carpets of old brick
Roll out a challenge and a dare.
Hmmmm.
Now it would take the proverbial quantum leap to equate The Shadow Warriors with romance. I mean, think about the title. Not exactly Love's Sweet Promise, or anything like that. (Apologies to anyone who may have actually written that book). Yeah, there is a relationship, and it's not very good, and certainly not very romantic, although I suppose it does have its moments (damn few). Its moments, in the context of 2005 or even 1995, 1985 and earlier would not be considered "spicy." Folks, we aren't talking body parts here, we are talking treachery, betrayal and angst, but not spicy.
The annoying thing is that one would think (hope) that being listed under "spicy romance" might help sell a few books. Wrong again. Oh well, suck it up forever and ever.
Good news! The Boston 375 exhibit is moving out to Logan Airport after it leaves Boston City Hall. I hope the poetry moves along, too, because guess whoses poem is about Logan? Yes!
See below. I wrote it years ago.
Night Landing at Logan
From above, an open jewel box.
Intricate gold chains on black velvet.
Haphazard scattering of rubies, emeralds and diamonds,
Rich and luscious.
We arc slowly over the harbor, then
The jet sweeps across dark water
A shadow over the scattered islands,
A bird of prey, talons ready
Screaming, whining, howling, bucking the wind.
Low. Lower. Lowest.
Sapphire landing lights,
A shudder, and wheels caress the runway.
Roaring, the engines reverse their thrust,
Offering a muted reek of kerosene.
To port, the skyline surges,
Bold accretion of glass, stone and steel
Collage of history.
Red carpets of old brick
Roll out a challenge and a dare.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Writing As a Social Acitivity
Or, why I am not writing. Took off for Chicago and Bouchercon. Huge big crime writers conference over a long labor day weekend. 5 days of being immersed talking about writing, meeting writers, schmooze, network, eat, drink, sit and look at the Chicago river. See rat run. Talk about writing. Read new books on plane.
Yesterday: meet with female writer's group. Eat, talk, talk about writing, listen to a presentation on action and suspense, eat, drive, talk, buy book, come home read paper, take a walk, finally, finally print out a query letter and the 30 pages the Bouchercon agent wanted to see.
Today: writer's group--talk about writing, read my piece, come home, eat leftover pizza, think about writing, think about reading, discover why character was not doing something he should be. Read blogs, read some more about writing. Write blog. Anything, anything, but actually sit down and god damn write the book. Arrrrrrgh! Eleven months, 108 pages. Let's see. That's 9.8181818181818181 pages per month. I just gotta suck it up and get off my duff. Tomorrow I have to work out. Wednesday is another writer's meeting. Saturday is the New England Book Sellers Association. My whole life is writing but I hardly ever write.
And now I have discovered that two other books already published have basically the same plot. Hit myself hard on side of head.
How did this happen?
Grapeshot
Yesterday: meet with female writer's group. Eat, talk, talk about writing, listen to a presentation on action and suspense, eat, drive, talk, buy book, come home read paper, take a walk, finally, finally print out a query letter and the 30 pages the Bouchercon agent wanted to see.
Today: writer's group--talk about writing, read my piece, come home, eat leftover pizza, think about writing, think about reading, discover why character was not doing something he should be. Read blogs, read some more about writing. Write blog. Anything, anything, but actually sit down and god damn write the book. Arrrrrrgh! Eleven months, 108 pages. Let's see. That's 9.8181818181818181 pages per month. I just gotta suck it up and get off my duff. Tomorrow I have to work out. Wednesday is another writer's meeting. Saturday is the New England Book Sellers Association. My whole life is writing but I hardly ever write.
And now I have discovered that two other books already published have basically the same plot. Hit myself hard on side of head.
How did this happen?
Grapeshot
Friday, September 09, 2005
An Alphabet Ode to Spam
These are among the message subjects in my email box since Monday:
Amid Katrina Chaos, One Company Struggles to
Breathe Easier This Fall
Color Printer Reaches Superstar Status
Divert Bead Corkscrew Clap
Emergency Housing Drive. Pass it on
Facts about Fish
Get Noticed Again
Have the Phish Stopped Biting?
Is yours below 5 inches long?
Just say no
Katrina relief
Life being what it is
Maybe You need Medications
Nonstick Cooking
Protect Your Systems Against Attacks
QAS Install
Really Works Very Good
Survey on Women’s Fashion
Terrific Release
Update: HP to reschedules New Orleans conference
Vi@gra at good prices
Well, you need medications
XP may be vulnerable to plug and play worms
Yahoo, Alloy, Playboy and more
Zoo Sex Farm Animal
Amid Katrina Chaos, One Company Struggles to
Breathe Easier This Fall
Color Printer Reaches Superstar Status
Divert Bead Corkscrew Clap
Emergency Housing Drive. Pass it on
Facts about Fish
Get Noticed Again
Have the Phish Stopped Biting?
Is yours below 5 inches long?
Just say no
Katrina relief
Life being what it is
Maybe You need Medications
Nonstick Cooking
Protect Your Systems Against Attacks
QAS Install
Really Works Very Good
Survey on Women’s Fashion
Terrific Release
Update: HP to reschedules New Orleans conference
Vi@gra at good prices
Well, you need medications
XP may be vulnerable to plug and play worms
Yahoo, Alloy, Playboy and more
Zoo Sex Farm Animal
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Ten Years to No Avail - an Epiphany
With apologies to James Joyce. This afternoon, sitting at my desk, bored out of my mind, I had a thought that pierced me like a knife.
I haven't sold my books because the agents and editors are right. They didn't say it in so many words, but no one wants to read them.
John Q Public doesn't want to read fictionalized accounts of computer crime. Boring! The general public is either non-readers, or guys who read non-fiction and would want blood and guts and techno-thillers or else Computerworld. Women, who read most of the fiction and particularly most of the mysteries like touchie-feelie. Familes. Children. Relationships. Psycbo-therapists and caterers. Grief and tears and sturm and drang. Mrs. Marple. Why the hell would anyone want to read about a little team of cyber-sleuths who trek all over the world solving believable (well, sort of) computer crimes. Who gives a damn if someone is flogging a data warehouse to the old Stasis so they can blackmail their countrymen? All a bunch of former commies, anyhow! Who cares what happens in an office? Who cares about corporate America? We work there. We hate it. We sure as hell don't want to read about it. Yuck!
So the futility of the last nine years (when I was actively trying to sell one book or another) has sucker-punched me.
This is not good.
Plan A. I finish the current book which has good characters and Burning Man and some plot points that may keep a general readership happy. De-emphasize the techno-babble. Write my 1928 California book which has no techno-babble whatsoever and a decent plot and lots of family stuff, touchie-feelie to the max, and a little bit dark.
The next cybersleuth book will find my heroine and her sidekick on their own, far from corporate America, solving identity theft, internet stalking, internet porn crimes, all the good trite and true stuff that may keep the old ladies reading. Jeez, have I been dumb for a reputedly smart person!
The thing is, no one ever said, "your concept sucks." Not my writing group or my colleagues or anyone. My writing group said things like, "she can't wear Chanel lipstick. Everyone identifies Chanel with perfume. Maybe you should sort of explain that Chanel makes other cosmetics. Or change the lipstick to Revlon."
Of course, I have to admit that no one ever said, "what a brilliant concept! I love it." No one ever said that. I should have listened to the silence. So right now I am pretty much dead in the water. A concept 20 years ahead of its time. If there ever is or will be a time. Shit.
A major major suck it up. Well, at least I learned to write. Cyber-sex, here I come! Anyone for identify theft?
Grapeshot
I haven't sold my books because the agents and editors are right. They didn't say it in so many words, but no one wants to read them.
John Q Public doesn't want to read fictionalized accounts of computer crime. Boring! The general public is either non-readers, or guys who read non-fiction and would want blood and guts and techno-thillers or else Computerworld. Women, who read most of the fiction and particularly most of the mysteries like touchie-feelie. Familes. Children. Relationships. Psycbo-therapists and caterers. Grief and tears and sturm and drang. Mrs. Marple. Why the hell would anyone want to read about a little team of cyber-sleuths who trek all over the world solving believable (well, sort of) computer crimes. Who gives a damn if someone is flogging a data warehouse to the old Stasis so they can blackmail their countrymen? All a bunch of former commies, anyhow! Who cares what happens in an office? Who cares about corporate America? We work there. We hate it. We sure as hell don't want to read about it. Yuck!
So the futility of the last nine years (when I was actively trying to sell one book or another) has sucker-punched me.
This is not good.
Plan A. I finish the current book which has good characters and Burning Man and some plot points that may keep a general readership happy. De-emphasize the techno-babble. Write my 1928 California book which has no techno-babble whatsoever and a decent plot and lots of family stuff, touchie-feelie to the max, and a little bit dark.
The next cybersleuth book will find my heroine and her sidekick on their own, far from corporate America, solving identity theft, internet stalking, internet porn crimes, all the good trite and true stuff that may keep the old ladies reading. Jeez, have I been dumb for a reputedly smart person!
The thing is, no one ever said, "your concept sucks." Not my writing group or my colleagues or anyone. My writing group said things like, "she can't wear Chanel lipstick. Everyone identifies Chanel with perfume. Maybe you should sort of explain that Chanel makes other cosmetics. Or change the lipstick to Revlon."
Of course, I have to admit that no one ever said, "what a brilliant concept! I love it." No one ever said that. I should have listened to the silence. So right now I am pretty much dead in the water. A concept 20 years ahead of its time. If there ever is or will be a time. Shit.
A major major suck it up. Well, at least I learned to write. Cyber-sex, here I come! Anyone for identify theft?
Grapeshot
I capture the flag
Poor New Orleans. The news gets worse and worse. My next post will have a few interesting links. One need not be subversive if one's links are sufficiently so.
http://www.dailykos.com/
http://blogs.salon.com/0001107/
http://erikholtan.blogspot.com/
Today at noon I captured the flag. No deranged salesman in a plaid suit came charging out of the used car lots office to confront me. I had to take the flag pole, too, which is in better condition that the poor battered flag used to bar walkders (me) from taking a short cut through the parking lot. The car lot never has any business anyway. And I really don't like it that they have nice big (maybe) clay flowerpots in back and throw old junk in them.
More later. Life intervened.
http://www.dailykos.com/
http://blogs.salon.com/0001107/
http://erikholtan.blogspot.com/
Today at noon I captured the flag. No deranged salesman in a plaid suit came charging out of the used car lots office to confront me. I had to take the flag pole, too, which is in better condition that the poor battered flag used to bar walkders (me) from taking a short cut through the parking lot. The car lot never has any business anyway. And I really don't like it that they have nice big (maybe) clay flowerpots in back and throw old junk in them.
More later. Life intervened.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
The Man Burns and other stuff
Fantastic photos of last week on the Playa at Burning Man can be seen at:
http://losangeles.tribe.net/listing/09279555-e030-48c8-8a1e-6401a502076f
Then click on the home page link.
Don't you wish you had made that scene?
I found the proper way to dispose of a battered flag. If you see a woman marching along Rte. 138 tomorrow at noon, it's me, on my weird sad errand.
Next to last thing: yesterday my in box at work received a "take a clothing survey" email. Sounded interesting, and I bookmarked. Extra time today at lunch, so I clicked on the survey. Now normally, I lie like crazy about my age, but today I just clicked into the right age group box, and yikes, they didn't want my opinion. Too old to be stylish? Too poor? Too dowdy? Maybe a wearer of those yucky-colored ecru shoes that no one over 60 is caught dead in? Not me. Readers of this blog know that I have been known to agonize over what rags to hang on my ass in the Big Apple. So this was the ultimate insult. First I clicked the bottom to "take me off your list," then I signed onto the survey again. Twenty-nine years old with mega-bucks to spend on clothes shopping. Only liked Bloomies and Saks with a few forays into Banana Republic and the Gap. Shopping as recreation, relaxation, shopping as life. The lies I told! Big bold spectacular lies. Pretty soon I really disliked the self-absorbed persona I had created, but she didn't stop glorying in her purchasing power until the survey was complete. So those folks can suck it up.
Last thing: I am totally charmed by the cute story about the little (350 lbs) hippo that bonded with a big old turtle. Another link.
http://www.snopes.com/photos/animals/hippo.asp
Aloha.
Grapeshot
http://losangeles.tribe.net/listing/09279555-e030-48c8-8a1e-6401a502076f
Then click on the home page link.
Don't you wish you had made that scene?
I found the proper way to dispose of a battered flag. If you see a woman marching along Rte. 138 tomorrow at noon, it's me, on my weird sad errand.
Next to last thing: yesterday my in box at work received a "take a clothing survey" email. Sounded interesting, and I bookmarked. Extra time today at lunch, so I clicked on the survey. Now normally, I lie like crazy about my age, but today I just clicked into the right age group box, and yikes, they didn't want my opinion. Too old to be stylish? Too poor? Too dowdy? Maybe a wearer of those yucky-colored ecru shoes that no one over 60 is caught dead in? Not me. Readers of this blog know that I have been known to agonize over what rags to hang on my ass in the Big Apple. So this was the ultimate insult. First I clicked the bottom to "take me off your list," then I signed onto the survey again. Twenty-nine years old with mega-bucks to spend on clothes shopping. Only liked Bloomies and Saks with a few forays into Banana Republic and the Gap. Shopping as recreation, relaxation, shopping as life. The lies I told! Big bold spectacular lies. Pretty soon I really disliked the self-absorbed persona I had created, but she didn't stop glorying in her purchasing power until the survey was complete. So those folks can suck it up.
Last thing: I am totally charmed by the cute story about the little (350 lbs) hippo that bonded with a big old turtle. Another link.
http://www.snopes.com/photos/animals/hippo.asp
Aloha.
Grapeshot
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
A Plethora of Plovers
Nice day, decide to take a walk at noon. Creep around the fence where we're not supposed to go, company worried about liability if associate gets his by a truck around the loading docks. Lots of dried mud puddles and one lone shorebird. Not a sandpiper. Natty band around neck. Bird is pissed, flits around and gives me a huge piece of her birdbrain.
Me: "I can't help it if the water dried up. You should go on the other side of the building. There used to be a little pond over there."
Bird: "squawk, squawk, $#$%&*."
Me: "I am only try to help."
Bird dances around and squawks some more. Flies off into the undergrowth. Chastened, I continue my walk, around past the trailers, back where the guys who work next door play a game I don't recognize, up the hill past where I saw the fox, past the tulip bulbs someone was too lazy to plant and thru the parking lot, across the street, past an empty building where someone has put out fresh crysanthemums. Guess they hope to lease based on appearance.
I turn back, past another building and the used car place. I look at the fence and the American flag is on the ground where it has been been for months, but at least not being used to block the entry to walkers, because it has fallen down. Scumbags run the place, obviously. I debate about a flag rescue and a proper burial, but the idea of marching down the street carrying that poor sad flag on its pole is more than I can imagine. Do I take it into the office building or leave it by my car. When I get it home do I burn it or bury it? How? I live in a condo, and there are probably rules. Decide I will read up on proper flag care, then do it. Before fall, definitely. Will the used car people think I'm stealing their flag? Imagine ugly confrontation. A writer's mind builds the most modest moments up into scenes of drama. Maybe.
Back at my desk, I go online to find the bird. Not a sandpiper, so it has to be a plover. Ye gods! There are scads of plovers. I know it's not a piping plover, (endangered) or Wilson's (not in range), so it must be either a kildeer or a semipalmated plover. Not a black-bellied plover. Web site describes plover often found in Louisiana, and I am sad again, thinking of the hurricane.
"My" bird was a kildeer, often found far from water. Do not get paid to surf the web identifying irate parking lot birds. No indeedy.
We need to have a conference call with some folks in Florida and the phone lines don't work all day. "We're sorry. Yada yada yada." I am assuming re-routing of calls due to the hurricane has tanked the phone lines. We have only two weeks to test and release this big complicated project and we are testing brand new software. We are the Alpha site, not even the Beta site. It ain't gonna be pretty. Should we tell The Corner Office to suck it up and understand that these things take time? No indeedy. The Corner Office will squawk like the Kildeer.
Aloha,
Grapeshot
Me: "I can't help it if the water dried up. You should go on the other side of the building. There used to be a little pond over there."
Bird: "squawk, squawk, $#$%&*."
Me: "I am only try to help."
Bird dances around and squawks some more. Flies off into the undergrowth. Chastened, I continue my walk, around past the trailers, back where the guys who work next door play a game I don't recognize, up the hill past where I saw the fox, past the tulip bulbs someone was too lazy to plant and thru the parking lot, across the street, past an empty building where someone has put out fresh crysanthemums. Guess they hope to lease based on appearance.
I turn back, past another building and the used car place. I look at the fence and the American flag is on the ground where it has been been for months, but at least not being used to block the entry to walkers, because it has fallen down. Scumbags run the place, obviously. I debate about a flag rescue and a proper burial, but the idea of marching down the street carrying that poor sad flag on its pole is more than I can imagine. Do I take it into the office building or leave it by my car. When I get it home do I burn it or bury it? How? I live in a condo, and there are probably rules. Decide I will read up on proper flag care, then do it. Before fall, definitely. Will the used car people think I'm stealing their flag? Imagine ugly confrontation. A writer's mind builds the most modest moments up into scenes of drama. Maybe.
Back at my desk, I go online to find the bird. Not a sandpiper, so it has to be a plover. Ye gods! There are scads of plovers. I know it's not a piping plover, (endangered) or Wilson's (not in range), so it must be either a kildeer or a semipalmated plover. Not a black-bellied plover. Web site describes plover often found in Louisiana, and I am sad again, thinking of the hurricane.
"My" bird was a kildeer, often found far from water. Do not get paid to surf the web identifying irate parking lot birds. No indeedy.
We need to have a conference call with some folks in Florida and the phone lines don't work all day. "We're sorry. Yada yada yada." I am assuming re-routing of calls due to the hurricane has tanked the phone lines. We have only two weeks to test and release this big complicated project and we are testing brand new software. We are the Alpha site, not even the Beta site. It ain't gonna be pretty. Should we tell The Corner Office to suck it up and understand that these things take time? No indeedy. The Corner Office will squawk like the Kildeer.
Aloha,
Grapeshot
Monday, September 05, 2005
Back to Beantown from the Windy City
Chicago offered up excellent weather, good food, a hotel on the river and lots of writing panels and advice. Booksellers, too. I even sold a few books, and tried to do a lot of promotion. If you're the kind of person who likes to sit along in a cubicle most of the day, promotion is difficult, really exhausting, not your forte. Smile. Remember where you met someone. Smile. Crack a joke or two. Smile. Ask an intelligent question. Smile. Talk about your book. Smile. Talk about their book. Go to the bar. Smile. Schmooze. Drink. Drink! Now there's an idea. I saw a black plastic bag in the river and thought it was a dead cormorant. Saw a rat running along the riverside at dusk. Saw a monach butterfly. Hey, writer's notice stuff.
So I made some contacts and came home with three new agents to query. While I was gone, a nice email came from an agent who said no nicely, and actually read my book and even liked it. Still said no, but there is no and there is up yours, and I do believe I can tell the difference.
Bought food. Paid bills. Did laundry. Work tomorrow. Read the office email, so I know there's problems and a crisis and it is all so bloody boring. Because I want to write, now that I have all this new knowledge and tips and all.
Reading a terrific book I picked up at the convention. Blood Father by Peter Craig. This is a tremendous page turner and the writing is just blowing me away. My own stuff seems kind of boring and listless. The problem is, when you only know computers and cats and cooking and stuff like that, it's hard to pump out thrillers. Esp. is you are female. You tend to nurture, not kill people off in fiction.
Arrrrgh.
I'm going to turn off the computer and go back to Peter's book.
I did not feed the cows, who haven't seen me for weeks. I did not pass 'go.' The man burned and the temple burned and I wasn't there. Summer's over. Sort of. The hummingbird spent ten minutes in the garden this evening. Sometimes he perched and rested. He really liked some big tall purple flowers from the Wildflower Garden in the Woods. Hummingbird heaven.
So, back to this writing stuff. Chicago was my kind of town and Bouchercon was cool. Met some nice people. It's always fun to talk about and think about writing. Now it's time to suck it up and actually do some.
Aloha,
Grapeshot
So I made some contacts and came home with three new agents to query. While I was gone, a nice email came from an agent who said no nicely, and actually read my book and even liked it. Still said no, but there is no and there is up yours, and I do believe I can tell the difference.
Bought food. Paid bills. Did laundry. Work tomorrow. Read the office email, so I know there's problems and a crisis and it is all so bloody boring. Because I want to write, now that I have all this new knowledge and tips and all.
Reading a terrific book I picked up at the convention. Blood Father by Peter Craig. This is a tremendous page turner and the writing is just blowing me away. My own stuff seems kind of boring and listless. The problem is, when you only know computers and cats and cooking and stuff like that, it's hard to pump out thrillers. Esp. is you are female. You tend to nurture, not kill people off in fiction.
Arrrrgh.
I'm going to turn off the computer and go back to Peter's book.
I did not feed the cows, who haven't seen me for weeks. I did not pass 'go.' The man burned and the temple burned and I wasn't there. Summer's over. Sort of. The hummingbird spent ten minutes in the garden this evening. Sometimes he perched and rested. He really liked some big tall purple flowers from the Wildflower Garden in the Woods. Hummingbird heaven.
So, back to this writing stuff. Chicago was my kind of town and Bouchercon was cool. Met some nice people. It's always fun to talk about and think about writing. Now it's time to suck it up and actually do some.
Aloha,
Grapeshot
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