Semi-Daily Scribbles

Pass the Hot Sauce

Pepper.
Mixed with ink.

Throughline -
Commuter spills it.

Signs.
Used to confuse.

Day, oh!

I prefer my music rough around the edges. When it comes to books, though? Ya shit better be tight. Mind your craft, mate. Clunky prose hurts my ear nubs, don't you know? And please, please adhere to the rules you've set up for your world. I can suspend my disbelief for days; no need to cave in to the sweet easiness of deus ex machina. Oh, and not every loose end can be tied up. We all have unresolved issues. See? Got my box of tissues right here! Anyway, had to say a few readerly words. Thanks for your time.

Promotion

Yeah.
Love him/hate him.
Hype: The Song of Life.
Blame fame.
Shame bleeds on white sheets.

Hard to Swallow

Tess told me she fought with her old editor to keep that part of the story intact. The teen pregnancy/baby makes two part of the novel. I didn't say anything. I simply smiled and nodded and poured Tess a fresh cup of tea. The middle child learns to keep her mouth shut and to play both sides of a fight. I could easily have said Beverly hates the baby angle. How Beverly feels the bundle of joy is a contrivance to make readers care about the protagonist. See, that is the sticking point. No one likes Clara, Tess's heroine (mouthpiece) because she's written as a girl with a genius-level IQ, dates the captain of the football team, and has a full ride to any university on the planet. Parents dead, but wealthy. A perfect, pretty, rich, megabrain. So much like Tess (except for the dead parents part, thank God!) but Clara has the advantage of being a fictional character. A mythical being I can hate instead of my little sister. But this crap is right in Beverly's wheelhouse. She's a writer, too, and works as a developmental editor at one of the three remaining publishing houses. Beverly has it on good authority (her best friend, Melvin, who works for one of the other guys and whom she plied with alcohol to squeeze the details out of) Wattley & Pragle's Young Adult imprint, elemental, would be interested in Tess's manuscript if she ditches the kid and explores Clara's college experience. Everyone loves their college days but babies are a buzzkill. Having this knowledge on the tip of my tongue made me bite down on it even harder. Tess would have to wait and hear the news from her agent. All I can say is I am so grateful I'm an accountant. Art is for people who like to quarrel and fuss every chance they get.

"Admittedly, I'm a coward."

Marnie avoided her best friend for the past two weeks. If she thought she heard Lettie's voice, or smelled Lettie's attar of roses while she was out running errands, Marnie ducked down dark alleys and hid in really spider-webby photinias. She began to get disgusted with herself. She should have just come out and said, "No, I won't read it." She should have told Lettie best friends don't make good literary critics. Not if the parties involved wanted to remain best friends. But Marnie accepted Lettie's single-spaced pages; their margins crammed with Lettie's handwritten notes/comments (Hell demons need a catchier name. Use silvery orb instead of moon? The deal with the baby explained in book 5.) And all the characters talked funny. Marnie didn't think Bronze Age people used that many adverbs when they confabbed around the fire.

Queasy Does It

For those following along, My Five Star Heart goes to the work that is fiercely authentic. I like it when My Own Private Icky Button is pushed by bloodlust and love's grotesqueries. Poetry that comes in great gushes and not dribbles. Make your piece so ugly it's pretty by sheer effort. Make me queasy and I'll put another nickel in the slot. Anything less than uncomfortable is forgotten before the end credits roll.

If You Must

Everyone is a writer. Everyone has a book to push. But who's reading this stuff? Here's a secret: very few people I met in the cubicles of Talley Insurance Company read. The reason is mostly a time thing, but most of the people I unscientifically polled had never been readers to begin with. If these people were able to squeeze extra minutes out of their 24 hours, the time was spent on the kids, or simply sitting in front of the TV to eventually nod off. When I told a colleague I write books, (yeah, yeah you've heard it before--insurance agent by day, writer by night) he asked: "Ew, why would you want to do that?" I think about this question a lot (with and without the 'Ew'). What is the answer? If I really must do it ... well, ... That thar be chicken scratch for another day.

SPECIAL EDITION

Extra words turned into special sections that told Lenore what she was reading was true. What's more, the e-reader she held in her hands was her lifeline (her tightrope) between fussy babies and dirty nappies, and the version of herself she left behind in English 102. But back to those extra words that played hide-and-seek amid the florid sentences of the third romance novel Lenore had read for the week. Those extra words floated or streaked by on her off-white screen. They turned into messages for Lenore's enjoyment and wonder. Lenore hadn't really given any thought to whether Sam and Kasey could read the same thing she did. If she ever decided to ask her friends to have a look, maybe they'd say it was a trick of the light. What were these extra words flickering across the e-reader screen which may or may not be for Lenore's eyes only?

     "Leave your worries behind and meet me at the Bee & Thistle tonight at 8:00."

Lenore thought she could still fit into the jersey knit, hunter green wrap dress that once garnered many an appreciative glance.

Sounds like ...

Sure Corrie felt shitty reading her big sister's diary. Did feeling like a degenerate make Corrie put away what wasn't hers and go do something productive like laundry? Hell no. All of the people Shelley wrote about in her big red book were thinly disguised real folk, like too-close-to-home-folk. Like who could this bitchy character called "Lorrie" possibly be? The queen at the center of this sweeping mega fantasy--five-sided love polygon--family drama was a beautiful brown-eyed maiden who answered to the name "Sherrie." Corrie had just read the passage where "Sherrie" discovered her sister, "Lorrie," in bed with "Sherrie's" on again/off again fiancé, Patrick. Corrie laughed. Patrick was Patrick. Shelley didn't give him a soundalike name. Corrie considered the significance of this particular authorial choice as she tucked the big red book under her arm and headed downstairs to heat up her leftover chicken and pasta.

Pre-order

So, if Myra appears somewhat dowdy these days, does that mean she's writing? Hair's gone natural, middle's thicker; the inside of her closet is black and blue. The clues all add up. Myra’s derrière has reacquainted itself with the desk chair. I believe a book is brewing. Somewhere out there an agent sings ecstatically the praises of Calliope.