2006

So far I haven't made any resolutions other than to finally get around to watching La Dolce Vita.

Probably because I'm pretty sure that's one resolution I can keep.

Lost in Translation

Actually that Dutch phrase means something like "To Choose or Share", according to some German guy I know. Not that he actually speaks Dutch or is from Germany, but, it seems more plausible than "Molars or Parts".

Research has yielded some extreme weirdness about this whole Dutch thing. Not only is there a British author by the name of Jill Mansell who already has a Dutch-translated book Dutch-titled: Kiezen of delen, but also, according to Altavista's Babel Fish translator, Kiezen of delen actually means "Molars or Parts".

Kiezen of delen? (Love Like That gone Dutch)

Mijn braaksel was blauwig. (My vomit was teal.)

'Vind jij het niet moeilijk om dat wijfie van je zo vaak niet te zien?' ("Is it hard to be away from your fine-ass woman so much of the time?")

'O ja! Hm ja, zo! Dat is lekker!' ("Oh, yeah! Uh huh, that's right! Give it to me, baby, give it to me!")

'Haar vriendinen zijn echt van die rotwijven.' ("Her friends are such bitches.")

'Pf, al sla je me dood.' ("No shit.")

'Ik sla dat wijf op haar bek!' ("I'm gonna kick that bitch's ass!")

'Hihihihiiiii!' ("Neighhhhhhhh!")

'Ach, flikker toch een eind op!' ("Go fuck yourself!")

As you can see I still think like a ten-year-old. (Me, to myself: "Ooh! Love Like That in Dutch! How do you say 'fuck' in Dutch? Ooh!")

Keep on carvin'

I'm still reeling from last night's Nip/Tuck season finale. Maybe because all in one episode we got: a man born without a penis (despite his being portrayed as a successful, albeit bisexual womanizer); a man posing as a woman having his penis chopped off, with a boxcutter, by a boy he/she had not only had a fling with but also got gay-bashed by and then subsequently bashed but then ended up becoming friends and going shopping with; a brother and sister turning out to be not only lovers but also a serial maimer/rapist/killer and his accomplice--never mind the weird bit about them being from Maine even though he was, uh, I think Cuban and she was, uh, British; Julia's baby (which may or may not be Sean's baby--who really knows with Julia, eh?) possibly being retarded in utero and btw, no remorse yet for her smothering that plane crash victim with a pillow when she was actually trying to kill her mother, oops; everyone in Miami apparently recovering from plastic surgery within days if not hours; Kimber showing up looking like Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th with his hockey mask off, basically hinting that she wanted to get pretty again and then, after a miraculous marathon of surgery saying that being beautiful basically sucked and she couldn't be with the hottest mofo in the world anymore because they were just too lovely together, wtf; Quentin/The Carver getting shot and then jumping out of his body bag and I guess just walking out of the morgue with Kit/Sis and nobody noticed, after which they just flew to Spain and set up shop so's he could start carvin' again and I guess not be suspect even though the law found out that he was The Carver back in Miami and probably might be able to put two and two together when he starts carvin' in Spain; oh yeah, and Matt shooting his ex-girlfriend's white supremacist father and I guess just wiping his hands off and heading home, kind of like how Cherry (the transvestite) just leapt up with no problem after having his/her penis chopped off; and then of course everyone just sitting down to dinner at the McNamaras' house like nothing really happened.

Now if only Patrick Duffy had stepped out of the shower and told someone it was all a dream...

Mid-December Ramblings

Today I was in a bookstore and could find absolutely nothing that I wanted to read. That got me thinking…hmm, I wonder whatever happened to Heather Cochran’s second RDI release (her first being the wonderfully unique and not so genre-oriented Mean Season) that was supposed to be out in November? It’s December, no? Oh, well, maybe I’ll call the customer service # and ask.

I officially hate the holiday season. It reminds me of Disneyland—crowds of rude people, long lines, buying shit just to buy it and some bizarre need to eat like a hog just because there’s food everywhere. I will be glad when it’s over.

Today one of my coworkers said I look like one of those kids in Village of the Damned with this haircut.

Your weekend homework: Rent Village of the Damned and have a laugh.

Okay, okay...I promise to stop posting exclusively about my hair.

Instead I'll get back to posting mostly about LLT and writing/publishing-related topics. Like how interesting is this, my mother told me the publisher sent copies of LLT by mail the other day, in Dutch. I'm now imagining it in the hands of young women from Amsterdam.

And thinking LLT may have found its audience!

Last Christmas...I Gave You My Heart

There you have it. (Left)

If you really want to see what my haircut looks like, go check out George Michael's 'do on the cover of your old Wham! Make It Big record.

Anybody Got a Wig I Could Borrow?

I have a new name for my pain and it is Supercuts.

Now some of you may be compelled to ask: "Amanda! Why in the f--k did you go to Supercuts?"

To which I would be compelled to reply: "I don't f--king know!"

At any rate--and this one would be a cheap $11--I can see (literally every time I look in the mirror and subsequently shout in horror, "Who is that?") that my impulse to pay $500 to fly back to Virginia and visit my regular stylist was correct. Because at the moment I can't decide if my hair more resembles Meg Ryan's in Innerspace or Julia Roberts's when she played f--king Tinkerbell in Hook.

Note to all the people I've been urging to come visit me in Las Vegas: Why don't you actually put that on hold for a few months.

Royalty Statement

The good news is, I got it. The bad news is that I most likely won't be seeing but a $10.00 profit on Love Like That--and even then, it probably won't be until Love Like That is out of print.

Now here's where it might be nice to have some writer friends. See, I always thought that once a book made back the author's advance in retail sales, that was when the author started earning his or her percentage off the cover price.

(As D-list published authors, the world over, laugh hysterically...)

More good news is, in the first three months of its release, Love Like That sold about 10X more copies than I expected.

More bad news is, if I'd been correct about my uninformed thoughts on the royalty structure, I'd be: buying lavish Christmas gifts for all my family and friends, planning a spring vaca in Paris, going straight to Louis Vuitton after work and maybe looking into putting a down payment on one of those luxury high-rise condominiums that that are going up all over Las Vegas right now.

But hey, why dwell? I don't do it for the $$ anyway, I do it for the art.

I think I'll go to law school now.

Nobody Does It Better

Bored during my last hour of work tonight, I visited all the sites I regularly haunt in search of something new. Then remembered I hadn't checked in on Jackie Collins in a while and so headed to her site. At first thought, after reading Jackie's December 2005 entry, it occurred to me that my idol leads a far, far, far more exciting life as a writer than I. Then came the obvious revelation: Jackie has been publishing books for about 35 years, and I only just published my first about 8 months ago.

This led to a more inspiring revelation, as I realized, doing the math, that Jackie was around my age when she was writing her first book to be published, The World is Full of Married Men. And it was then that I remembered when I, at the age of twelve (or maybe thirteen), after reading my first Jackie Collins book, Rock Star, thought to myself: "When I'm old enough, I'm going to write like this."

Now I'm old enough...and have spent the last month or so considering myself "finished" because I can't seem to do chick-lit right and actually, don't really want to...which makes me feel kind of icky and abnormal, considering that my one published book thus far can only be classified in the chick-lit category.

Anyway.

I don't deign to think that I could ever be as successful as Jackie Collins (and for those that would scoff and say, "Oh, please--Jackie Collins writes shallow trash," let's not be forgetting her 400 million books in print and have you ever allowed yourself to be so entertained?), I guess I'm just pleased to remember anew that she as a writer inspires me as a writer--always has, always will.

When I was in middle school, reading Rock Star--how Jackie inspired me was to show me a wild world beyond the quiet seclusion of my hometown, and beyond the frustrating trappings of my age.

How she inspires me tonight, with the thought that Jackie probably wasn't typing up The World is Full of Married Men while consumed by a paranoia that she was getting too old to make her mark, and by a worry that she couldn't possibly keep up with her contemporaries.

Well, it's been decades since her first book was published and she's only gotten better with time, and when you think about it (or at least when I think about it), Jackie Collins doesn't really have any contemporaries. She's just Jackie Collins.

Lovers and Players will be out in February.

I will be in the midst of a whole 'nother submission process.

Oh, Jackie. Thank you.

When you search for Love Like That on the Barnes & Noble site right now, the first book that comes up is The Book of Us: A Journal of Your Love Story in 150 Questions.

That's funny.

Site Traffic

I didn't realize that linking to SS's original post would put me on her page like that. So I guess that either makes me a totally inept blogger or a complete nitwit, maybe both.

Either way, welcome. And, I apologize in advance if my own personal blogging about the ups and downs of writing and more importantly, publishing, upsets you.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Why are people so angry at Sandra Scoppettone?

Yeah, there's a reason I rarely write exactly what I'm thinking on this little-known blog. That reason being, a reason just like this. A writer writes truthfully about the pitfalls of being published and speaks candidly about her fears for her future as a writer--and suddenly she is not only evil incarnate, but also the stupidest person who ever lived. And a lynch mob of total strangers gets in line to call her names and snidely (smugly?) tells her to shut up, while industry peers/colleagues chide and patronize her for so "dimwittedly" and offensively speaking her mind.

'Tis true that if you post your thoughts and opinions in a public forum, you're opening yourself up to be criticized by the public. But so much for writers writing about the writing life, huh?

Sasha

My girl at the Trophee Eric Bompard, where she got totally ripped off. True, the little tumble toward the end didn't make for a technically perfect program--but what a stunning performance!

Thanksgiving Proven

Thursday morning dawned cold and still, with me debating if I should lug my laptop to Denver and fearing the worst at McCarran. A decision made, I drove north on Las Vegas Boulevard, sans laptop, as the first of the day's departing planes lifted into the brightening sky. At the airport I parked my car, took the shuttle to the terminal, and as expected--met complete chaos.

I figured I would check in curbside, where there were only 2 people in line versus the 8,000 waiting inside. But unfortunately was turned away when the skycap informed me that since I'd just bought my ticket the day before, an agent had to confirm my credit card. I went inside and made camp behind 8,000 people. Then, was tapped on the shoulder. And there was the skycap from the curbside check-in, who said, "Come with me, sweetie, I'll get you through the line."

We cut all the way to the front, where he hopped the counter and saw that not only was I checked in right away, but that I was assigned an aisle seat. I gave him five bucks--and was pleased to have been born blonde, blue-eyed, and blessed with considerable assets. Shallow? Not when it means avoiding airport stress!

On the plane I was seated beside a middle-aged couple. But the man's seat wouldn't stay upright so the flight attendant moved them to another area of the plane. I was left with an entire row to myself.

Takeoff was smooth. The pilot made a comical welcome speech--relaxing me into the belief that we were really in no danger of going down. The beverage cart was still stocked with many tiny bottles of Finlandia by the time it got to me. The flight was shorter than I thought it would be. In Denver, my bag was riding around on the carousel at the exact moment I got there. Outside, my sister was just driving up.

At Lisa's house, three-year-old Maddy eschewed her traditional behavior of hiding from me, and instead jumped instantly into my arms. It was, as it always is, a joy to see six-year-old Savannah. Thanksgiving dinner was delicious--all but my brother-in-law's hideous gravy, which was all the better because it brought to mind another Thanksgiving, and another failed attempt at gravy, and a lot of laughs about other times we've spent together.

I thought many times over the weekend, how proud and lucky I am to have such a fine sister, and how happy it makes me that she has such a wonderful family and such a good life.

I got to see ultrasound pictures of the new baby! And discuss the potential of probably 1,000 names.

I got to meet Lisa's friends at a Friday night cocktail party, and they were all completely nice. We saw Pride and Prejudice yesterday, and it was really good! I helped my brother-in-law put up Christmas lights. And got to snuggle with Maddy in her feet pajamas, and sit by Savannah at every meal.

My sister has a gorgeous house and a grand hairdryer. She is so easy and enjoyable to talk to. I love that we can discuss anything and everything and that we never disrespect each other. We have so many of the same opinions. She's so smart and so funny and I love spending time with her. I love that we have shared our lives. She never makes me feel like less. She always makes me feel so much better than I did before.

My visit was rounded out by this morning's tasty brunch at Mimi's cafe. Then, at the airport in Denver, having not yet been assigned a seat...the boarding agent was kind enough to upgrade me to First Class. And obviously, my plane landed safely on the ground here in Las Vegas.

It was the best weekend. And my only sorrow is that I can't do it over again.

What a sappy post, huh?

Are all these people (really) working today?

To start this rather lengthy post, I plead guilty to first-rate blog neglect. Part of my defense is that I've not yet been able to gauge if Internet use is okay at my new job--and to keep myself sane (i.e., not let the writing lag), what I try to do when I get home at night is immediately write at least 2-3 pages that I'm hoping will eventually be bound in a novel. On that note: another part, lately all I've really felt like writing here is a bunch of negative crap about the so-called ethics of publishing, to include some "why her and not me" type comments about some other chick-lit writers out there (in particular, the ones of similar association, and maybe even the same association, who are treated to glorious parties, fabulous promotional events, and invitations to exclusive writing engagements when some of us can't even seem to get our hands on a royalty statement). Perhaps that last part is due to the kind of quiet jealousy that I believe exists inside of every writer, published or not--you love to read, naturally, and there is no other place in which you feel so at home--but still you feel the let-down of your own unrecognition, the yearning silence of your own unique voice, every time you enter a bookstore. Or perhaps it is just that even as adults, we never quite grow out of that playground self-consciousness that makes us wonder why some kids are, simply, so much more popular than others.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, the American holiday in which we gather to feast in celebration of all we should be thankful for. And while I do really love Thanksgiving--as may be evident by the Thanksgiving chapter in Love Like That--today I was thinking that it's actually kind of sad that most of us, really, only use this one day as a means of appreciating what bits of goodness we may forsake on all other days. Even sadder still, what about all the people who really don't have anything to be thankful for? Still they are expected to celebrate Thanksgiving--the same as the loveless are expected to welcome Valentine's Day and the socially-challenged are expected to party ("like it's 1999"...sorry, I had to do it) on New Year's Eve.

I still love Thanksgiving. And I do, indeed, have a lot to be thankful for, every day of the year--from knowing how to read (and write) to having clothes to wear (for as often as I longingly yearn for more, more, more!) to what will undoubtedly be my best 31st birthday present (and yes, I do realize my sister is not giving me her baby for my birthday), a new niece or my first nephew.

Some randomness:

Today I used the word "blockhead" to describe a jackass and found it to be very effective, therefore I think I will start referring to all "jackasses" as "blockheads".

I could easily live in peace and satisfaction without having to see these celebrity catch-phrases: Brangelina, TomKat and the even more LUDICROUS TomKitten (which is what the media is calling Katie Holmes's and Tom Cruise's alleged unborn, in case you didn't know) and Dashmi (at first I thought it was a new religion, not the coupling of Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher).

I'm about to start reading L'Affaire by Diane Johnson, the same scribe who penned Le Divorce.

I have to fly twice in the next several days and can't say I'm really looking forward to it.

I'm loving the return of Gaucho pants.

And that's about it.

Now I'm going to drink some Shiraz, pack a bag and watch last night's recorded episode of Nip/Tuck.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Check out this article at the Sunday Herald online. It's an examination of the destructive relationship between writers and alcohol.

As I sit at my laptop, writing--a bottle of beer within easy reach.

Hi Dad

The Things That Hold Us Back

It's kind of ironic, or maybe poetic, that just the other day I was biting my tongue (not wanting to offend "my own" per se) about how much it bothers me when chick-lit writers make certain complaints...and now, today, I can successfully say I'm not really a chick-lit writer anymore.

The question is, was I ever?

Well, I don't know. It seems that more and more, chick-lit readers only want heroines that they can relate to...and that more and more, those heroines should be clean and kind.

The problem is, I don't write clean and kind heroines. In fact, if I write clean and kind characters at all, they are usually made a mockery of by my dirty, mean heroines.

So maybe the peeps at RDI were correct when upon cancellation of my contract for Book #2, they said I'm not aware of the audience I'm writing for...but it would be better said, I think, to say that maybe I am aware of it--but just don't want to write for it.

That's certainly not to say that I think there's anything wrong with women wanting to read fun stories about likeable girls that represent the kind of company they wouldn't mind keeping. It's just to say that it's my preference to keep company with the kinds of gritty bitches that you will always find between the pages of my books.

And maybe that leaves less room for me to write for the chick-lit market...but if it does, then maybe there's a lesson to be learned here.

A successful writer told me something very important once. She said: "Forget about what everybody else wants. Write a story that you would want to read."

I think I'll do that now.

On Second Thought

Maybe I won't labor my thoughts about that ludicrous debate I mentioned in my last post. It's just that I'm so exhausted of it--that and the fact that almost everything I want to say will end up offending Jennifer Weiner. I doubt Jennifer Weiner reads my blog. I doubt anyone who reads Jennifer Weiner reads my blog, actually. But just to be safe, I'd rather not inadvertently make a name for myself as yet another female writer who simply stated her opinion and somehow in the process, had that action misconstrued as an attack on Jennifer Weiner and therefore, the entire chick-lit genre and most women in general.

To those of you who could give a fuck about the chick-lit debate; I apologize, as that paragraph likely meant nothing to you.

Maybe what you really want to know is more about what it's like to live and work in Vegas, yeah? Well, I'll tell ya. I'm not twenty-one anymore--as I proved on Monday night when after a classy dinner at Il Mulino in the Forum, Matt and I headed for the neighborhood locale of Last Call and proceeded to consume mass quantities of Bud Light over multiple hands of video poker. Yeah, that was just me acting twenty-one. Thirty kicked in the next morning.

Busy

I apologize if you read my blog on a regular basis, I've just been too busy lately to update it. Isn't it amazing how you must learn to practice time management skills when you actually have a job to go to?

More later...and likely my thoughts on the current round of "Chick-Lit is the Very Representation of Modern Feminism vs. You Chicks Who Write Chick-Lit Need to Get Over Yourselves."

You'd be surprised to learn which corner I actually stand in...but then again, maybe you wouldn't.

New Links

(Warning: Shameless plugs ahead!) I've put up some new links, most importantly the one to www.mynewcompany.com where you will find out everything you need to know about starting your own business and www.postwritersgroup.com where you will find out everything you need to know, period.

Out of Catchy Titles For the Moment

As I go through the process of revising LIB, I can't help but ask myself if there is a place in today's women's fiction market for a wealthy heroine whose main romantic dilemma is that her dude doesn't like that she has so much $$$? So if you're one of today's women and you read fiction (along with this blog), by all means let me know if it's: A) more important to read about a heroine you can relate to, or B) more important to read a compelling story that allows you to lose yourself and forget your own woes/issues/b.s. for a few hours?

On a personal and totally non-book-related note, it is with great joy that I report my glorious, beautiful and amazing mother has come through her hip-replacement surgery (yesterday) well (or, as well as one can be after a hip-replacement surgery) and ready for recovery.

And for those of you considering a move to Las Vegas, here's some fine print when it comes to your apartment search (since on your paltry LV salary you'll not likely be buying a SoCal priced house!) They may advertise that the security deposit on your soon-to-be posh pad is only $200, but what they're forgetting to advertise is that they will also expect a non-refundable $40 just to fill out the application, and a non-refundable $200 (on top of that sweet, cheap security deposit that made you want to shout with "What a deal!" type happiness) that will be explained quite nonchalantly as a "redecorating" fee. Hey, way to find an all-new method of screwing the common man is all I have to say. Well done!

Marketing...or Lack Thereof

I'm starting to notice a disturbing national trend. It goes like this:

Los Angeles, CA: Young, hip, modern women find out I've had a book published. They ask about it. I explain. They claim to be avid readers, yet seem surprised to learn that there's an entire market of fiction that's written almost exclusively for young, hip, modern women. They've never even heard of Red Dress Ink.

Washington, D.C.: Young, hip, modern women find out I've had a book published. They ask about it. I explain. They claim to be avid readers, yet seem surprised to learn that there's an entire market of fiction that's written almost exclusively for young, hip, modern women. They've never even heard of Red Dress Ink.

Reston, VA: Young, hip, modern women find out I've had a book published. They ask about it. I explain. They claim to be avid readers, yet seem surprised to learn that there's an entire market of fiction that's written almost exclusively for young, hip, modern women. They've never even heard of Red Dress Ink.

Las Vegas, NV: Young, hip, modern women find out I've had a book published. They ask about it. I explain. They claim to be avid readers, yet seem surprised to learn that there's an entire market of fiction that's written almost exclusively for young, hip, modern women. They've never even heard of Red Dress Ink.

Seriously...I really think I could be onto something. And no, it's not that the "avid reader" claims are false.

I think I'm going to do an experiment. I will run an ad in every newspaper and magazine in America guaranteeing every man who buys Love Like That a lengthy look-see at my hottest friend's naked body. And though it may seem like a cheap gimmick for me to want to expose my hot friend like this, she will likely agree to pose because like me, will know that after this ad has gone public, sales of Love Like That will reach stratospheric heights and we'll both be living in large villas on the French Riviera with all the shoes and booze we've ever dreamed of forever and evermore.

Never mind that it's not a man's book or even a man's market. My point is, it's all about marketing.

What's Going On

I apologize for the lack of posts lately, I've been so caught up in trying to get a job that I haven't much felt like doing anything else except lie around and wonder why I couldn't get a job. Anyway, now I've got a job so I guess instead of lying around I'll go work there. The job is that I will be employed by an architecture and design firm (conveniently located just west of the Las Vegas Strip, behind the Bellagio and barely a hop-skip-and-jump from the Rio, ahem...) in an administrative position. True, I came to Las Vegas with the thought in mind that I would resurrect my PR career and get into something snazzy at one of the major hotel/casino chains...but true also that my PR career wouldn't leave much room for my writing career and it's your best guess which means more to me.

Speaking of my writing career, though, I've had a sort of epiphany about this whole impasse that's had me basically hating the alphabet for about a year and a half now. And that epiphany is that I was a better writer when I didn't allow the politics of the publishing industry to plague me. So now it's my geniune plan to say fuck whatever's going on in the publishing industry and just get back to writing because it's what I really, really love to do. That said, I have hopped back into revising the book of mine that I most adore and now do truly remember all the reasons I've always enjoyed being a writer. So what if I can't think of what genre it belongs to--I will let my agent worry about that when the time comes to shop it. So what if it contains themes and elements that have been squeezed to the brink of dry, brittle death in today's contemporary women's market--I will let whoever decides to publish it worry about that when the time comes to market it. And until then...won't concern myself about anything except what's actually going on in the story.

You may or may not be pleased to find out that what's not going on in the story is the lengthy repertoire of a single girl who hates her life and is desperate to find out what would make her feel satisfied. No, LIB (not the actual title but the title's monogram) is the story of an idyllic vacation in which a group of friends garner the wisdom to make life-changing decisions from observing each other and sharing their secrets.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!!!

Amanda's Blog

I changed the name of my blog to reflect my current mode of creativity. I didn't like my other blog name, anyway, I only chose it because it was the first thing that popped into my head the day I signed up on Blogger. So there you have it. Just the basics. Amanda's Blog.

Even More Humbled

So this morning I was sent by one recruiter to meet with one of her colleagues at another branch of their company. At which point a good discussion ensued about: why any employer should trust me when I left my last job after only seven months, why any employer should trust me to stay in Las Vegas when I've "moved around so much" (i.e., to D.C. 2 years ago and then to here 2 weeks ago, Christ that's a lot!), and finally, my favorite...

Recruiter: "Oh, what kind of books do you write?"

Me: "Chick-lit."

Recruiter: (Laughs) "Oh, one of my friends reads that stuff. I call it trash. Personally I never read anything unless it's going to better me intellectually."

Me: "A-ha-ha-ha...well, er...you see, sometimes people just like to have something light to read at the gym or you know, to take their mind off of the stress of their day-to-day lives...er, uh, but, uh, I also write science fiction?"

Recruiter: (Raises Eyebrows) "So anyway, how would you feel about an entry-level receptionist position?"

Gainfully Unemployed

Is it normal to become irritated of looking for a job only two days into one's search, or does that just mean you're impatient? Is it possible to find a job that's fun, exciting, unique, fulfilling and that pays top $$$--or in even hoping so, does that just make you a hopeless dreamer?

I'm betting on my own conclusions.

So today I was called to the Bellagio to visit their employment center on the belief that I was to be interviewed re: my online application for a job in their PR department. I was, most unfortunately, wrong. And even more unfortunately, the only person there wearing a suit. What you actually do at the Bellagio employment center is flash your I.D. and confirm that you did, indeed, submit an online application. Then you leave. And then, drive to the mall to find something that doesn't make you look as fat as you think you are. Which is actually pretty difficult since it appears that you are, actually, as fat as you think you are.

But enough about me. I know you're really reading this blog because you're dying for updates about Love Like That. So here's an update. Love Like That has not been optioned by a major studio.

Nothing in Particular

In my quest to write meaningful, in-depth stuff instead of my own dopey thoughts about nothing important, I will say this: I had forgotten how fabulous this dry desert air is for my hair!

Now I have to go look for a job so I'll have less time to formulate my own dopey thoughts about nothing important. And less time to wonder about the status/fate of my 2006 RDI. Oh, and less time to read up on industry happenings that a) make me feel crazy because I never seem to know as much as my peers, and b) make me feel crazy because the more I know the less I want to know. Oh, and less time to worry about not having any income. Yeah, I think that's the most important one.

Bright Light City Gonna Set My Soul...Gonna Set My Soul On Fire

This will be my last post for who knows how long, because tomorrow I am setting out for the great westward yonder and after that, setting out for something even more frightening--a full-time, permanent job. Huh, so what's so frightening about that, you ask? Well...it's been more than a year since I've had one and all that leisure time (ahem, sloth) has made me forget what it's really like to get up every day and go somewhere, and actually have to put a little effort into something other than deciding what to eat for lunch and if I'd rather watch reruns of The Nanny or The X-Files, and actually have to pay to keep living in my living environment. Woe is me, I know. And at the age of 30 it's high time that I "remember" these things.

I have two major concerns about settling down in Las Vegas and no--one isn't that I'm going to have to take a second job to pay for my gambling expenses. But one is that I might have to take a second job to pay for the weekends I'll surely spend with friends who are entertaining the ruse of visiting me when they're actually visiting Las Vegas. And the other is that after a while, I'll start to dislike all the things I like about Vegas because it will become mainplace. Just like Hollywood became mainplace when I lived there, and suddenly everything that had attracted me to it made me want to get away from it fast. Those concerns aside, I've always wanted to live there...so why worry about it. What made living in Hollywood spectacular was that I'd always wanted to live there, too--and just because I couldn't find anywhere to park for 4 years didn't diminish everything that was filthy-lovely about it. There will never be another view to replace the one that was seen from my balcony four stories above Sunset Boulevard, either.

In writing-related news, I was a little thrown to find out my grandmother has mistaken the title of my science fiction epic for Deliverance and been lauding it under this title accordingly to all my relatives. Its title is not, actually, Deliverance. Ahem.

In reading-related news, I'm this close to being done with Hand-Me-Down and when I'm done, probably won't be reading much of anything because I neglected to separate the books I wanted to start reading from the books I've already read when I packed. I'm very much enjoying Hand-Me-Down but have been a little surprised to find that the story is less about Anne getting together with Ian and more about Anne herself. Which is sweet, but which makes me realize that back cover descriptions aren't always telling the whole story. So now I kind of get it.

Anyway, I guess that's enough talking about me for now, or, er, I'm hungry and want to watch TV?

Until Nevada, then. :)

Yesterday I drove across the Potomac from D.C. for the last time as a local. It made me a little sad and more than a little appreciative of the view I've often taken for granted--the river glinting in the afternoon sun, such landmarks as the Watergate and the rooftops of Georgetown to one side, planes touching down at National Airport on the other, greenery abundant from all directions. Washington is a beautiful city, and one I used to criticize as having no soul. But that was before I knew it. So, in retrospect, I am truly sorry to leave it, and shall always be a little wistful to say it just wasn't the life for me. Or maybe just not the life I wanted to live forever at this very moment, the same as I felt when I drove away from Los Angeles for the last time as one of its own.

Right now I can't get enough of this "More, More, More" song by the Andrea True Connection. I keep playing it and disco-dancing all around my parents' house like some freak. I knew I should have bought that jumpsuit at Rampage the other day! Then I could have thrown on some cork sandals, feathered my hair and done up teal green shadow and coral gloss and really had a good time. I know, I'm weird. But in all honesty, I think this look could really work for my 2006 RDI photo. I'm debating whether to have that taken today or wait until it's called for. Seems like having it done today could be me getting a little ahead of myself and just wanting to have my picture taken, but then again, the last time my photo was called for I literally had to have it done that day. (By a photographer who obviously specialized in Senior Yearbook Portraits...)

Off to find something to eat and watch TV. And yes...I do lead a very exciting life.

Your Brain's Pattern

You have a dreamy mind, full of fancy and fantasy.You have the ability to stay forever entertained with your thoughts.People may say you're hard to read, but that's because you're so internally focused.But when you do share what you're thinking, people are impressed with your imagination.

What Pattern Is Your Brain?

You Are a Martini

There's no other way to say it: you're a total lush.You hold your liquor well, and you hold a lot of it!

What Mixed Drink Are You?

Look, look, it's my darling Val in a new movie!!! Isn't that exciting? I think it is!

Breakthrough Discovery: Hurricane Katrina Was MAN-MADE!!!

He (Michael Moore) tells the New York Daily News, "There is much to be said and done about the man-made annihilation of New Orleans, caused not by a hurricane but by the very specific decisions made by the Bush administration in the past four and a half years..."

I find something charming about this big, beautiful shoe. I think I might have to buy it. And maybe the one that goes with it.

It might help if I had a job.

But at least I know people are still buying Love Like That because they are writing negative responses to it on one of the more popular chick-lit discussion boards.

Shit. I just realized it's actually going out as one of the Red Dress Ink freebies right now.

Excuse me while I go throw a penny into a fountain.

Anyway, back to the negative responses to Love Like That. Hey, it happens. I'm well aware that one woman's trash is another woman's treasure. But would like to say...

It is written in glaringly obvious detail, right on the back cover, that Dalton Moss has it going on with two men.

So when readers gripe in offense to discover that the main character is (GASP!!!) cheating on her would-be main squeeze, all I really want to know is did they even read the back cover? I mean, isn't it basically outlined there that despite being engaged, Dalton's carrying on with a whole 'nother dude?

Meet Dalton's boyfriend, Roman: charming, intellectual, worldly; he lands in L.A. just long enough to slip a two-carat diamond on her finger before flying right off again.

Now meet Dalton's other boyfriend, Jeremy: perfect in his imperfection, surly in his attraction to her and can match her beer for beer; she doesn't want to love him, but can't help herself, despite Roman...

I guess it's kind of like when I ate that Mexican Pizza today. No disclaimer on the box, but I was still fully aware that its ingredients were fatty.

The difference being, I thought the Mexican Pizza was delicious!!!

According to my scale, I've gained 7 lbs. since Saturday. Which seems, you know, impossible. Especially when you consider that since Saturday, I've been visiting the gym with a dedication that surprises me. Especially when you consider that I haven't entered any eating contests in the past few days. To gain 7 lbs., doesn't that kind of mean I would have had to consume around 25,000 calories over the weekend? And to do that, wouldn't I have had to eat at least 10 large pizzas or something comparable? I didn't. I swear I didn't. At any rate (weight?) I don't think I'll be taking that scale to Las Vegas with me.

I'm currently reading Hand-Me-Down by Lee Nichols. I like it. It's cute. I'm thrilled to find that all the good word-of-mouth about this book is actually true.

Must get back to packing now. Or at least, looking at all my crap and thinking, "You know...I should really start packing that."

Mum's the Word

I likely won't be posting for a few days because I'm irritated, I'm disgusted, I actually support the President, I can't stand ignorance, I'm most definitely of a feisty take on anti-American sentiments both international and domestic and for this I'm afraid I might say way too much about the political fallout from Hurricane Katrina.

I'm as disappointed as the next person that we can scramble to aid other nations and let our own fall to neglect. I'm as horrified as all the other people out there to learn of the civil unrest that's currently raging in what is supposed to be a civilized American city. I'm as amazed as anybody that reporters can get right in there, but somehow relief operations have been waylaid.

But like the saying that Rome wasn't built in a day...well...you get my point.

I think.

(Not) Just a City

What is happening to New Orleans is unfathomable.

To it, I dedicate this precious song of my youth. It's called "Just a City" and to me, has always perfectly described (especially if you hear it vocalized to the music) one's inexplicable love of a place, for the reason that places, unlike people, are nearly always guaranteed to be there.

it's so near to me
it's so dear to me
i see it in my sleep
and i always know if i've nowhere to go
it's somewhere i could be
and i see you at night in the city lights
but it could change so easily

it's just a city
and on nights like this i feel small in this world
it's just a city
i am just a girl

it seems to me that once you stop walking
you don't want to know, you stop wanting to see
your eyes get used to the same old story
once you stop talking to strangers

it's just a city
and on nights like this i feel small in this world
it's just a city
i am just a girl

out of place, out of time
nothing to hold me, nothing mine
but i'm always told "there's no hurry don't go
there's nothing but time"
how do they know?

it's so near to me
it's so dear to me
i see it in my sleep
and i always know if i've nowhere to go
it's somewhere i could be

it's just a city
and on nights like this i feel small in this world
it's just a city
and i am just a girl

One of my little sorority sisters e-mailed me last night to report that while traveling on a Honolulu-Los Angeles flight, she sat in the same row as a woman who was reading Love Like That. It is said that the woman had red hair, looked like she was in her 20's and didn't appear to put the book down once. Isn't that darling? And by that, I mostly mean how Marissa included a description of the passenger.

I'm so depressed about the hurricane making such a mess of the Gulf Coast. I'm especially saddened to see images of New Orleans choking in floodwaters. New Orleans is one of my favorite cities to visit, and one of my favorite cities to have my characters visit. I think it could actually be one of my author trademarks because it is somehow mentioned in every book I write, even if the characters don't ever go there in the story.

Lately I've been suffering a seriously horrendous bout of writer's block. I keep thinking and thinking about what I want to give my agent to shop around next instead of writing and writing it. I feel that this could be due to several circumstances. One being that I don't feel it's in me just now to write another book that's in the same vein as Love Like That and Only the Lucky, which is the book I just finished for RDI. Two being that so many topics have now been covered so extensively in the chick-lit genre that I feel if I were to write another book in that same vein, I would have to give it an alien twist to make it even slightly interesting (which, as it would seem, actually might not be interesting at all. To me, at least. To each, their own, if you happen to currently be writing a chick-lit novel with an alien love interest!) Three being that if I try to navigate away from chick-lit, does that mean I have to write something "literate" and if so, does that mean the heroine has to be a brooding (but not self-absorbed!), man-hating, nonconformist genius-woman who never refers to herself as a girl, had her ovaries removed at the age of 16 (by choice) and is still wearing her kindergarten clothing because she does not believe that shopping can be a legitimate pastime of an intelligent female?

All kidding aside, these are serious creativity stilters. And despite the logical advice that I should stop worrying about all this gobbledygook and just write, for some reason I just can't bring myself to do it.

Maybe I just need some inspiration.
Maybe I just need a drink.

Katrina makes landfall and threatens New Orleans. It is predicted that the ensuing disaster will be of Biblical proportions. Many may be made homeless, historical structures may be swept away. It is said New Orleans may never be the same. Now what saddens me most about nature's savage attack on The Big Easy? Reading an escapee's blog this a.m., only to find out she had left some of her cats behind.

For Immediate Release

Reston, VA--Obscure Author Bored at Temp Job, Spends Free Time Reading Random Crap on Internet and Getting Irritated by Overwhelming Masses of Silly People Out There

Example #1: You've somehow figured out how to turn on a computer and access the www. While there, you've somehow managed to take your smarts even further to: a) post on a message board, b) start your own blog, c) write user/customer reviews, d) all of the above. Good for you, really--but has anyone ever told you that what's most amazing about your savvy is that you still can't fucking S-P-E-L-L? Note: The cost of a public education would likely be comparable to that of your Internet subscription.

Example #2: You're a raging feminist. You take so much offense to books written by women being called "chick-lit" that it is your position that books written by men should be called "dick-lit" to compensate. Interesting idea, really--but to stay true to form, that would mean we would have to start calling chick-lit, well, something along the lines of snatch-lit. Wait, what's that? You might be willing to accept vagina-lit in place of chick-lit as long as we can start calling man books dick-lit? Note: You might find volunteer work rewarding.

Example #3: You've filed a complaint against your doctor because he hurt your feelings by suggesting that you should lose some weight. You're pretty sure you're, you know, not as thin as you could be--but that doesn't mean anybody should be allowed to say it. And that includes the licensed medical professional who was probably hoping to save you from the debilitating effects of high blood pressure, coronary artery disease and possibly diabetes. That fucker. Note: Invest in a Tae-Bo DVD, it will cost less than a lawsuit and may result in a healthier body and happier mind.

*It might be that I've offended somebody. But just so we're clear on this, I was offended first.

Wouldn't you know that the date of the Season 3 premiere falls during my cross-country driving excursion? All I have to say is that I hope nobody's TV recording capabilities crap out on September 20th.

Burgers & Book Stuff

I think I've made the awesome discovery of the world's most efficient McDonald's drive-thru right here in Northern Virginia. You drive into the line and there's the menu so you can look at it. Then, standing in front of another menu is an actual, physical person who takes your order and asks, "Cash or credit?" before telling you your total. Then, you pull up and another actual, physical person is standing there to take your money. Then, you get to the window where they hand you the food and not only is the food prepared and bagged just like that, but the person inside the window hands the food to yet another actual, physical person standing outside the window so there's no risk of dropping anything in transition, not to mention two chances to ask for extra ketchup, napkins, etc.

*In other McDonald's musings, I find it very strange that a double cheeseburger only costs a penny more than a cheeseburger.

One of my much (squared to like the millionth power) more well-known colleagues has poked some fun at the "Eight Reasons" jackass by insinuating that he/she still lives with his/her parents (and sleeps in their basement!) What I'd really like to say in response I won't say, this person being sort of the Godmother of the Chick-Lit Mafia--but what I will say is that there's actually no shame in living with one's parents, despite the stigma associated with it. I guess it's kind of like saying there's actually no shame in writing chick-lit.

*Yes, I do live with my parents. But I don't sleep in their basement.

Due to the sky-high cost of insuring the GT convertible in Las Vegas, I will likely be driving a slightly-used Honda Accord in the near future. And, despite my overwhelming desire to be seen cruising around the west in a seriously bad-ass ride, the current Amazon.com ranking of Love Like That (364,212) doesn't lead me to believe that my financial situation will see that much improvement in the future.

*Maybe I'd be more comfortable not knowing Love Like That's Amazon.com ranking.

Mustang vs. Accord

The way the dealer put it to me was this. "You came for the Mustang, you saw the Accord, now you're confused. Well, that's like being with a man for 10 years and thinking you want to marry him--but then meeting another man that you're suddenly wild about. There's the magic. You should listen to your heart."

Unfortunately, what my heart is really calling out for is a Land Rover.

Twenty Reasons

I'll be honest here. I might be a traitor to both my genre and my sex. I say this because unlike some of my contemporaries, I wouldn't compare chick-lit bashing to being raped, nor would I balk at a literary author's blithe insinuation that me and mine are all a bunch of sluts.

I do, however, feel it necessary to address the jackass who wrote this lame so-called essay titled: EIGHT REASONS WHY CHICK LIT AUTHORS SHOULD BE KICKED UNTIL THEY’RE DEAD* (*Or at least banned by law from writing anything, ever)

Okay, jackass, your opinion's allowed thanks to everyone's favorite Constitutional amendment (which allows me to shout fuck as often as I please, even in public--hey, thanks, founding fathers! FUCK YEAH!!!), but at the same time, you don't even know me. And really, if someone wants to kick me until I'm dead, I'd much rather it be for another offensive trait I possess than me dashing off a little pulp and having it stuck inside of a pink-and-white cover by the people who offered to publish it for me.

So here goes. Twenty reasons!

1. I smoke.
2. I don't think there's anything otherworldly special about your children.
3. I'm a Republican.
4. I'm writing this nonsensical b.s. at the expense of my employer, who is paying me to work--not abuse my Internet privileges.
5. I don't own a pair of Manolo Blahniks.
6. I don't even know if I spelled that right.
7. I thought Sex and the City was stupid.
8. I freely use the word retarded.
9. I've littered.
10. I think it's moronic when people see a random number on their cell phone screen, then call that number and accusingly say to the person who answers, "Yeah, someone just called me from this number."
11. If given the choice to marry Val Kilmer or become the first woman President of the United States, I'd marry Val Kilmer.
12. I don't wax my facial hair--I shave it.
13. I don't believe that smoking marijuana makes a person "dumb".
14. I think of a $10+ bottle of wine as "expensive".
15. I buy Louis Vuitton knockoffs from street vendors and then tell people they're the real thing.
16. I love it when I catch a man surreptitiously checking out my rack.
17. I wholly expect my man to check out other women's racks.
18. Grease 2 is one of my favorite movies.
19. Baby...One More Time is one of my favorite songs.
20. I'm a nerd...and I'm pretty proud of it.

Sorry, But I Have to Get Political

This month's issue of Glamour runs an interesting comparitive piece on Hillary Clinton and Condoleezza Rice as potential Presidential candidates in 2008. What doesn't throw me is that they both dress in Oscar de la Renta, step on Ferragamos. What does throw me (and in my opinion, should throw a lot of women) is that Hillary's allegedly best selling point is that she's a "survivor" because she's still married to her hubby after his many extramarital liaisons.

Umm, yeah, but doesn't it kind of go against today's whole burgeoning, in-your-face, down-your-throat concept of female empowerment for a woman to (repeatedly) put up with her man's infidelity? Not to mention undermine the very definition of feminism? Umm, yeah. Yeah, it does. Especially when it's spun to the sentiment of, well--look what it's done for her own political career!

All I ask is that if women want to admire Hillary, they please do so because of her educational background and her obvious capabilities as a public figure.

But can we please stop with this "survivor" shit. Because shit like that is the reason men are still laughing about how retarded women are.

**This post is in no way meant to be an endorsement for Hillary 2008. I don't vote in that direction and wouldn't encourage anyone else to, either.

You know you're not in California when in the produce department of a supermarket, you ask the nearest employee where you can find the edamame and he looks at you like you're some freak before leading you to the aisle where they shelve the dried legumes. Not that I actually thought I was in California during my earlier grocery shopping trip. I just really wanted some soybeans.

Not to undermine the seriousness of that airline disaster in Greece--anyone who knows me (among all the unlucky strangers who've gotten to sit next to me on flights) knows how I feel about flying, God, no, don't make me do it--but isn't there something kind of hideously weird about a plane being able to fly around by itself? It's sort of comforting for the nervous flyer because it does pretty much prove the old meant-to-be-reassuring adage of, "Oh, you've got nothing to worry about--those things pretty much fly themselves!" that seems to dance from the merry lips of all the people who aren't getting on the plane with you as you succumb to the state of panicked hysteria. But it's also really, really creepy. Really creepy.

To all the pet lovers out there, I say please love your pet(s) as much, if not more, than it is possible! I say this because I am currently suffering the devastating loss of my precious dog, Chief, who died suddenly on Tuesday night from complications of congestive heart failure. Chief was a nine-year-old purebred Dalmatian that I acquired the summer before my senior year of college. He was truly my treasure and my joy and will be always missed, remembered and completely irreplaceable.

It's my heartfelt sentiment that every pet that offers its unconditional affection and trust to its owner(s) deserves an adored life until the end. So please, please--everyone just love, cherish and pamper your pets as the word pet implies.

Chief is survived by Annie, a Beagle mix of about 15 (can't be sure, we found her as a stray), and Rugsy, a cat who at the Jurassic age of 19 (and a half) is still amazingly able to jump to great heights.

Today a friend e-mailed me from the Denver area and mentioned that she'd seen Love Like That in Costco with a "Bestseller" sticker on it. Uhhh...that's nice and all, but I kind of have to wonder what kind of deranged prankster thought an amusing gag would be to go around sticking "Bestseller" stickers on random paperbacks at Costco. I also have to wonder how LLT ended up in a Costco in Colorado when previously, I could not locate it at one B&N or Borders in the booming metropolis that is Las Vegas.

I know, I know. I talk about my book a lot. But that could be because every time I talk to someone, the first question out of their mouth is usually, "How's the book doing?"

Just finished reading Valley of the Dolls. An absolute classic and totally un-put-down-able as long as you're not put off by drugs, drinks, multiple sex partners and other "shocking" behaviors. Which, um, I'm not. Let's be friends.

Now that I've finished my second RDI, I'll probably get back to posting on occasion. But today, I really have nothing to say except that I can't decide what to work on next. An outrageous and outlandish comedy, a dark and pensive analysis of a friend's death and its effect on the friends she leaves behind or the sequel to Love Like That? I'm leaning toward the second choice, the third being the easy one and the first being the one that worries me--because satire can so easily be taken the wrong way. Alas, until that decision is made, I'm giving Valley of the Dolls another read.

At some point I hope to get posting about important things like politics and the alarming state of the world today. But first I have to finish draft 200,000 of my 2006 RDI and find some way to avert my eyes from the many glaring and newsworthy stories about Lindsay Lohan's weight, Brit's pregnancy and of course the progression of Hollywood's new "It" couple. (See "TomKat" motorcycle photo below. Am I a fan, you ask? No, no, and no--I just thought that image was a scream. And would like to add that whilst watching Dawson's Creek many moons ago, I often fantastized that the whole gang would stage a lynching of Joey so that she met Laura Palmer's same fate back in Twin Peaks.)

What I'm reading right now: Atlas Shrugged. Which I fear I'll still be reading ten years from now. But I really do want to know who John Galt is.

What I'm listening to right now: Sophie Ellis-Bextor on the iPod. One of the finest offerings of the U.K. since William Shakespeare. Thanks, U.K.!

What I'm watching right now (and I literally mean, at this moment): Willow. Val Kilmer as the warrior Madmartigan, spouting words of love. Leaves me speechless every time.

In literary news: In a recent NY Observer article about the life and progress of bestselling author Jennifer Weiner, Curtis Sittenfeld declined to comment on the backlash of her now infamous "My thesis of this review shall be, to prove that this book is chick-lit and therefore, kinda sucks" NYT review of Melissa Bank's The Wonder Spot. My comment? Damn, I can't remember. Must be all that chick-lit I've been writing. Next up, my attempt to channel Hemingway and write something as boring and critically acclaimed as The Old Man and the Sea.

Does it get any more lame than this? Maybe if this were the poster for Top Gun 2. Maybe.

"Good"

It seems that more and more often, reviewers are spewing their own personal recipes for what goes into making a "good" book.

I'm just glad those reviewers know! Whew! Because seriously, if I didn't have reviewers to presume that they possess the knowledge to ascertain what makes a book "good", I just might never be able to figure it out for myself!

I want to do an experiment. It goes:

Pizza is "good".

Key lime pie is "good".

Pizza and key lime pie are not made from all the same ingredients.

Here's a sampling of the notes I wish I would have had handy for distribution on my recent visit to New York City:

Dear Mr. Taxi Driver,
That I got into your taxi as it was facing west instead of east and then asked you to drive me to an eastbound address, I realize, was totally inconsiderate of me. What I should have done was walked all the way around to the other side of Penn Station and gotten into a taxi that was more conveniently positioned to drive eastward. I'm sorry I had to pay you to drive me around. I guess I was mistaken in thinking that was your fucking job. Sincerely, Amanda

Dear Ms. Food Service Worker,
I knew you were facing a serious hardship when I ordered the #4 combo with the chicken strips and you sighed heavily and then screamed that I would have to wait AT LEAST 3 minutes. I could see the strain of your shoulders as you were forced to open the tiny bag of frozen chicken strips and pour all 3 of them into the fryer. I could feel your pain as you realized a drink came with my meal and you were going to have to not only ask my beverage of choice, but also fill a cup with it. I suppose I was also asking a bit much when I inquired about the location of the napkins. But really, shouldn't you be asking a higher price for 3 fatty chicken strips, a pile of grossly undercooked fries and a small cup of watery lemonade? Only ten dollars? Cheers, Amanda

Dear Fellow Train Passengers,
I realize it's imperative that all three hundred of us try to get to the train at the exact same time, immediately following the announcement that we can begin boarding. I suppose if this frenzied struggle ever results in a fellow passenger being trampled to death underfoot, falling down an escalator to his/her mangled doom or being knocked onto the tracks just prior to the arrival of a speeding locomotive--well, that wouldn't be our fault, would it? As long as each one of us gets priority, right? Oh, and by the way! Congratulations to many of you for having a cell phone! Really, I'm sure nobody was trying to sleep, read or enjoy a peaceful viewing of the world outside as you were loudly blabbing to your friends and family for hours. I'm sure it crossed absolutely nobody's mind that you were being rude and thoughtless and basically an annoying asshole. And even if it had, would it have mattered? Of course not. Because the laws of common courtesy don't apply to you, actually. YOU are the ONLY person in the universe, aren't you? You seem to think so. Pleasant Journeys, Amanda

I find it encouraging that Love Like That currently holds the Amazon.com rank of 270,606. Really. I think it could be closing in on bestseller status. Possibly a movie deal in the works. Because if you think about it logically, holding at 270,606 means that only 270,605 other items are ahead of it. Only 270,605! I should be getting a call from "The View" any day now...

In other book-related news, one reader recently came to the conclusion that Love Like That was not written "to" her.

I have to wonder why she thought it would have been.