I'm not sorry the air conditioner quit. I might be later, if it isn’t fixed before the weather warms up again. But having the windows open is a nice change. The wind is blowing in swooshy waves. I could even close my eyes and pretend it’s the ocean. If I open them and look outside, the cactus infested wilderness out back is shamrock green. And the temperature is cool enough that the humidity isn’t making me insane. I have always hated humidity, being from the desert. But now I’m thinking maybe the humidity might keep my zombie face from looking so much like craggy sandstone.
The TV is off, the house isn’t completely disgusting, and I’m still in my pajamas, revising chapter six of Reconstruction. I actually split chapter 6 and put part of it at the end of chapter 5, thinking maybe if I hide that part there, it won’t scream so loudly to be cleaned up. But that is another blog post altogether.
And of course if I’m revising, I’m also procrastinating, which means I’m writing blogs, reading blogs, scrolling through Twitter finding more blogs to subscribe to, and staring out the window thinking of all of the things I could blog about. Then I check Facebook, and Authonomy and Youwriteon, then back to the blog reader, email, other email, Facebook, Twitter, and around it goes, until I come across Thesaurus.com opened in a window, and I remember that I was actually stuck on word choice in Chapter 6.
It is a perfectly ordinary and relaxing Sunday afternoon, made extraordinary by open windows and a breeze.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
What Do You Like To Read?
I started thinking about publishing a novel just as the shift in the publishing industry began. Back then, the mid-list to which I aspired was shrinking and self-publishing was still taboo. The traditional publishing machine claimed that only those novels guaranteed to strike gold could make it through the gate-keepers because publishing houses could no longer afford to foster new or average selling authors. And I get that. Business is business.
But when I got over being a disappointed writer, I went back to being a reader, and I found myself disappointed there too. Am I alone in this? I have no interest in celebrity memoirs. I must be the only person not buying them. I know vampires and paranormal romances are everywhere you look. Dystopian, post-apocalyptic stories with zombies and teen angst are apparently the essential elements that catch the attention of an agent or publisher. But they don’t always catch my attention.
Oh, I’ve bought a few of them. Every once in a while I start thinking that I’m missing something, or the the hook really hooks me. But for the most part, I don't finish them. Not the memoirs, not the YA zombie romance. In fact, without strong recommendations from friends, I might have missed out on Hunger Games altogether because sometimes I get dystopian YA fatigue and I want something else.
I guess my reading tastes largely depend on what’s going on in my life. Two months ago, I wanted to read about rocky mother-daughter relationships and women who fought to overcome some adversity and found they were weaker and compromised for doing it. I would have turned up my nose at a happy ending.
Right now, I want to read a book about people whose dreams come true. I want to read about the rock band that makes it big. The writer whose book gets published and turned into a movie. I want to read about the model discovered while shopping in the mall. The girl who gets the guy.
I don’t care if those stories aren’t popular right now. Honestly, I don’t really care about typos or even unsophisticated use of language. I’m looking for the escape of a story that entertains me and gives me some satisfaction that I may or may not get in my real life. But I still want to be able to relate to some of the things I read. And my real life doesn’t involve being a hot teenager, or zombies.
I am so grateful for this shift in publishing. I’m grateful to goodreads.com and all of the writers on sites like authonomy.com and youwriteon.com. Now I have a better chance of finding something to read in a few minutes than I ever did after spending hours in a book store.
And thank you Amazon. Now I can wade through pages and pages of books to find something I like rather than have my tastes dictated to me, or worse, just lose the desire to read altogether.
My questions for anyone reading this:
• What do you want to read?
• Do you have a hard time finding good books?
But when I got over being a disappointed writer, I went back to being a reader, and I found myself disappointed there too. Am I alone in this? I have no interest in celebrity memoirs. I must be the only person not buying them. I know vampires and paranormal romances are everywhere you look. Dystopian, post-apocalyptic stories with zombies and teen angst are apparently the essential elements that catch the attention of an agent or publisher. But they don’t always catch my attention.
Oh, I’ve bought a few of them. Every once in a while I start thinking that I’m missing something, or the the hook really hooks me. But for the most part, I don't finish them. Not the memoirs, not the YA zombie romance. In fact, without strong recommendations from friends, I might have missed out on Hunger Games altogether because sometimes I get dystopian YA fatigue and I want something else.
I guess my reading tastes largely depend on what’s going on in my life. Two months ago, I wanted to read about rocky mother-daughter relationships and women who fought to overcome some adversity and found they were weaker and compromised for doing it. I would have turned up my nose at a happy ending.
Right now, I want to read a book about people whose dreams come true. I want to read about the rock band that makes it big. The writer whose book gets published and turned into a movie. I want to read about the model discovered while shopping in the mall. The girl who gets the guy.
I don’t care if those stories aren’t popular right now. Honestly, I don’t really care about typos or even unsophisticated use of language. I’m looking for the escape of a story that entertains me and gives me some satisfaction that I may or may not get in my real life. But I still want to be able to relate to some of the things I read. And my real life doesn’t involve being a hot teenager, or zombies.
I am so grateful for this shift in publishing. I’m grateful to goodreads.com and all of the writers on sites like authonomy.com and youwriteon.com. Now I have a better chance of finding something to read in a few minutes than I ever did after spending hours in a book store.
And thank you Amazon. Now I can wade through pages and pages of books to find something I like rather than have my tastes dictated to me, or worse, just lose the desire to read altogether.
My questions for anyone reading this:
• What do you want to read?
• Do you have a hard time finding good books?
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Zombified Version of My Old Self
So this is what it’s like? I mean, I knew I was getting old. I’ll be 40 in a few years. And I have gray hair that I don’t have time to keep covered. But I’ve always just joked about it and blamed my kids.
Besides, in my lifetime, I would estimate an 80 to 20 ratio of days that I hate the way I look to days that I’m not that worried about it. This is to say that vanity hasn’t been a real concern for me. In fact I’ve said more than once that being cute isn’t my specialty. I always wanted to be the smart one, yes I know… aka the annoying know-it-all. Well I had to be that. I grew up with five female cousins living across the street from me. They all had their own brand of beauty, but I was the too-tall skinny mousy one. Vanity, not a luxury in which I’ve ever dared to indulge. I didn’t think.
But starting this new job has somehow brought my age into focus. And not just because a co-worker made a joke about it, or because my boss looked at my gray hair and then called me “young lady.” (In fairness to him, I might have imagined that.) But it suddenly got real driving home that first day when I pulled down the vanity mirror in my car. What I saw looked like someone used the Age My Face app on me. And since that moment, I have been walking around painfully embarrassed for anyone to look at me when I look like this.
I’m still hoping it’s just stress and exhaustion from the job change. Evidence in support of that hope: I’ve been getting up early, commuting an hour each way, and spending all day trying to accomplish work in a place where I can’t do a single thing by myself without needing to ask a dozen questions. I’m exhausted and my eyes burn like crazy from being wide-eyed and overwhelmed.
The alternative to blaming the new job is to believe that I really do look like a slightly zombified version of my old self, and that I have all along. And if that’s the case, why the hell didn’t someone tell me? I could have gotten treatment sooner. (And, oh yes, I will get treatment… if I can afford it.)
Or maybe, two weeks ago, I didn’t care. And maybe, by tomorrow, I’ll be over this insecurity. That would be a lot less expensive. And, really, being cute isn’t something I’ve ever been good at. So what if I’m not just plain, but old too? I mean, if I can’t be Halle Berry, what’s the point?
Of course, the next blog post will be over my insecurities about my intelligence and then probably there will be another one over my social skills. There is always material for introspection there. This new job is making me take a hard look at myself from a lot of different angles. And I guess that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It might be painful, but it’ll probably be healthy in the end.
Besides, in my lifetime, I would estimate an 80 to 20 ratio of days that I hate the way I look to days that I’m not that worried about it. This is to say that vanity hasn’t been a real concern for me. In fact I’ve said more than once that being cute isn’t my specialty. I always wanted to be the smart one, yes I know… aka the annoying know-it-all. Well I had to be that. I grew up with five female cousins living across the street from me. They all had their own brand of beauty, but I was the too-tall skinny mousy one. Vanity, not a luxury in which I’ve ever dared to indulge. I didn’t think.
But starting this new job has somehow brought my age into focus. And not just because a co-worker made a joke about it, or because my boss looked at my gray hair and then called me “young lady.” (In fairness to him, I might have imagined that.) But it suddenly got real driving home that first day when I pulled down the vanity mirror in my car. What I saw looked like someone used the Age My Face app on me. And since that moment, I have been walking around painfully embarrassed for anyone to look at me when I look like this.
I’m still hoping it’s just stress and exhaustion from the job change. Evidence in support of that hope: I’ve been getting up early, commuting an hour each way, and spending all day trying to accomplish work in a place where I can’t do a single thing by myself without needing to ask a dozen questions. I’m exhausted and my eyes burn like crazy from being wide-eyed and overwhelmed.
The alternative to blaming the new job is to believe that I really do look like a slightly zombified version of my old self, and that I have all along. And if that’s the case, why the hell didn’t someone tell me? I could have gotten treatment sooner. (And, oh yes, I will get treatment… if I can afford it.)
Or maybe, two weeks ago, I didn’t care. And maybe, by tomorrow, I’ll be over this insecurity. That would be a lot less expensive. And, really, being cute isn’t something I’ve ever been good at. So what if I’m not just plain, but old too? I mean, if I can’t be Halle Berry, what’s the point?
Of course, the next blog post will be over my insecurities about my intelligence and then probably there will be another one over my social skills. There is always material for introspection there. This new job is making me take a hard look at myself from a lot of different angles. And I guess that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It might be painful, but it’ll probably be healthy in the end.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)