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.