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.