Happy Thanksgiving

Your weekend homework: Reread the Thanksgiving chapter in Love Like That.

I HAVE FAN FICTION!!!

A brilliant scribe, so well-versed in mockery that I can only respect her talent, takes Love Like That to the Harry Potter universe!

Seriously, check this shit out. It's hilarious!

The Saga of the Wine Bottle

For literally two months, I've been trying to open this bottle of Black Swan shiraz and after nearly twisting an arm out of the socket each time, have given up and gone the much easier route of uncapping a few bottles of beer. Only tonight, back on the Atkins Diet and trying to shed some of the pounds I've put on (drinking beer), after a particularly horrible trip to Smith's (I thought suburban moms were made aware by their ill-behaved, ill-bred children that Halloween was approaching long before its eve?)--I decided this fucking wine bottle was coming open whether it liked it or not. The problem? No, I'm not retarded--just faced by one of those rubber corks that refuses to be penetrated by a corkscrew bottle opener. Well, I'm happy to say that after stabbing myself in the hand and I'm pretty sure dislocating my left shoulder, I am now enjoying a delicious, tart serving of shiraz from the depths of a Roberto's Taco Shop plastic cup.

Sorry I haven't blogged in a while. I'll blog more later.

Work Sucks (But I Need the Bucks)

I just found out my friend got fired from our shared place of employment. That sucks because I would love nothing more than to pull a Jerry Maguire moment "I will go with you!" Now will you please buy my book, or tell all your friends to buy my book, and maybe send a copy of it to some movie star who might want to make a movie out of it--so I don't have to be a slave to small business America anymore? I'm just kiddin', of course. I know most of you have already exhausted your Love Like That promotion abilities! Still, it's a real pile of shit that my friend got canned. Let's just hope I'm not next in line for that honor because believe it or not, even with all my fame and fortune as a published author, I really need the $$$!

Please excuse the lack of updates, the blog went on vacation and forgot to tell everyone. No, really, I'm revising one book and waiting on comments and suggestions from my agent about another--which I will then be revising--so I haven't had a lot of time to post. I will tell you these things before I sign off for my weekend in LA:

-My guest blogger, Lisbon Sommerset, would like you all to know that she always abbreviates her name (and requests that her name be abbreviated) LB instead of LS (as would be expected) because in her knowledge of things, LS is a luxury car model and not a proper monogram;

-Las Vegas is beautiful, wish you were here;

-If you are so inclined I have joined the ranks of MySpace members, just don't be expecting constant profile updates or blog posts on my page because unlike some more successful writers, I am too busy trying to become a successful writer myself to continuously frequent MySpace;

-Ciao!

Introducing Lisbon Sommerset

Bored of writing about the chick-lit debate, insects, beer and my pitfalls as a struggling PR professional and who-knows-what-kind-of writer, I decide to welcome guest blogger Lisbon Sommerset--critically acclaimed, ultra-feminist literary author.

If only I could live in a world of smart prose, unfettered truth and the reserving of solipsistic sanctimony for those who really know...without having to live as witness and prisoner to the continuous violation of human rights

by Lisbon Sommerset

As many of you know, I was recently asked to be part of a panel discussion about the new book, So You've Got Tits and an Opinion--Good For Fucking You: An Exploration of Why Women Think Their Love and Hatred of the Self is So Fucking Special. Needless to say, all of us on the panel were appalled that this book has received so much hype and critical acclaim--but it was an honor to be joined by women of such brilliant feminist candor and be encouraged to share my thoughts. The following is a sample of what I contributed to the panel:

PL: You're recognized as a leader in the movement to distribute works of classic literature to female actresses of the porn industry. Can you explain why this is so important to you?

LB: Yes, I feel it vital that in facilitating the metriculation of those otherwise engaged in the vastly mysoginistic predication of degredation to the altruistic nature of fornication, there should be reason to punctuate limitations in the form of narcissistic evolution.

PL: I see. So what did you think of the book?

LB: I was shocked by the intrinsic pontification of the male author. This display only proves that in ignoring the essential qualifications, the juxtaposition of need is implied and therefore wrought with fraudulent claims of ignorance. Debilitating the prehistoric condition is no clear example of how to frequently concur that in our modern state, any ancient propaganda is a near-bohemian release of rife invidia on behalf of those affected. We're all affected.

PL: I see. Next guest?

Anyway, expecting that my review of James Frey's new tell-all memoir will appear in today's New York Times, I was just at the newsstand to retrieve my copy and was assaulted by tabloids. It is now apparent that Britney Spears has bestowed upon her second child, the moniker of Sutton Pierce. Admitting to a certain struggle with Ms. Spears' former image as a "sex kitten", I am only too happy that she is rendering her past mistakes by giving her son the chance at a genuine acceptance into the Ivy League.

I just got an email from my agent reminding me that Book Expo registration is right around the corner. Might I just profess to how GLAD I am that the event will be in New York next year. When it was in Washington this year, my whole experience was ruined the moment I walked into my hotel room and saw a magazine on the coffee table with Dubya's face on the cover. I think this year, I might skip the parties, too. Last year I got stuck talking to two chick-lit writers who kept telling me how much they loved my critically-acclaimed work of literary fiction, Penis Head. All I could think the whole time was, there's not a chance on Jane Austen's grave that either of them had actually read Penis Head. While they were out doing research at Jimmy Choo, I was deep in the trenches of the mysoginistic psyche.

That reminds me, though, of something I would like to address. For those of you who keep posting on chick-lit message boards that Penis Head is a lot like Gemma Townley's When in Rome...please stop it. I'll have you know that Penis Head was not only reviewed by the New York Times ("Deep in the trenches of the mysoginistic psyche, Sommerset takes us on a vivid journey through the conscience of man from the harrowing perspective of a modern woman"), but was also blurbed by Jonathan Franzen, J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown and Hillary Clinton. It is therefore too respectable to be chick-lit, if you couldn't tell by the missing high-heeled shoe on its cover.

Speaking of which, I've been invited by my alma mater to teach a graduate course, debunking the myth that women are obsessed with dating and shopping. I'm so honored to be given this opportunity. It'll put a strain on my relationship, and I'll have to acquire a whole new wardrobe...but it'll be worth it if I can save any number of young women from a potentially wasted life of enjoying all the unique, natural-born attributes men will never have.

This morning I came across a copy of my MFA dissertation, which was a brilliant, in-depth showcase on the similarities between the struggles of modern women and those of the sisters in Pride and Prejudice...and was tempted to burn it due to all the claiming of late that Jane Austen was a chick-lit author. I wish chick-lit authors would spend more time earning graduate degrees than edging out us literati with all their candy-coated drivel. Then perhaps I could find something to read, having already read every book ever written prior to the chick-lit boom.

For those of you who wish to escape the tawdry pleasures of cable TV after your long day of working for little money and no recognition, I'm doing a signing of Penis Head tonight at 7:30. Hope to see you there.

LB

Shameless act of self-promotion...kind of like this blog

Do you read my blog because you read my book and thought it was A-OK? If so, please share your positive thoughts with other readers on Amazon and write a stellar review of Love Like That! Real name optional, except for those ending in Hill.

(If I sell 20,000 more copies of Love Like That I might have a few hundred dollars to put into the "Amanda's Private Villa on the Cote d'Azur Fund" and you'll all be invited!!!)

And to think I once had a poster of this sanctimonious piece of shit on my bedroom wall

Brad Pitt makes a bold statement sure to get legislators SCRAMBLING to legalize all forms of marriage. I mean IMMEDIATELY. Brangelina won't wed until the dictatorial laws of matrimony have been abolished? This is a SERIOUS ISSUE.

Idol Worship

The diva of all divas writes:

I recently re-read Dangerous Kiss and can immodestly say that I loved it!

Fucking A right, Jackie. No apologies necessary!

I probably would have overlooked all the hype, conspiracy and speculation that Suri is a photoshopped to-the-nines composite of Tom and Katie/adopted Asian child if the VF cover teaser had actually read:

"Yes, Suri, She's Our Tiny Elvis Impersonator!"

More, More, More (How do you like it, how do you like it?)

Wow, two posts in one day. Either I have absolutely nothing intriguing to keep me busy at work or I have gone CRAZY FOR BLOGGING! (You guess!)

I just found this article about you know what, chick-lit is bad, courtesy of Bookslut. I was compelled to blog up a response.

It's my humble opinion (which is on the loose today, isn't it?) that the reputation chick-lit has garnered for itself is what's hurting writers--be those writers "literary" or other. I say this as a chick-lit writer who was relieved of her publishing contract due to my books not being chick-littish enough and also because if I were a more well-known writer, I'd be known automatically as a chick-lit writer because Love Like That was published under the screaming pink banner of chick-lit so that, naturally, categorizes it as a chick-lit novel. There, has, however, been some dispute as to whether Love Like That is really a chick-lit novel...which I tend to think has been somewhat harmful to Love Like That, and not because I would like to be known as a "literary" writer but because "literary" readers automatically shy away from chick-lit and chick-lit readers are prone to shy away from novels that have been branded as chick-lit, yet contain such vile, filthy and supposedly immoral practices as one would find within the pages of Love Like That.

But is it...or isn't it?

I could write a whole litany of reasons why it is or isn't...but I don't feel like it. (I will change my mind about that below.) This post is not in defense of chick-lit or myself being labeled as a chick-lit writer. (I will also take this statement back, below.) This post is about how annoying and embarrassing and upsetting this utterly retarded argument can be...and especially because certain chick-lit books are what unfortunately define the genre for all others and the opinions of certain chick-lit authors are what seem to represent the minds of all others.

Which isn't true, by the way. It's just unfortunate that it's taken that way. See below:


The only issue here is the one that the chick literati never address but instead try to obfuscate with the red herrings of feminism and elitism, which is that their writing is hackneyed and boring and bad. Point out to a chick-lit author that her writing is inferior and formulaic, and she will call you a vengeful, misogynistic stone-thrower.

Sometimes, this is absolutely true. It's what most bothers me about being grouped in with the chick-lit shuffle. I would never be so bold as to cry tyranny that Love Like That or any book like it hasn't been reviewed by the NYT. Nor do I claim to be a feminist or anything even close to it. I don't think my chick-lit writing's inferior, but I don't compare it to classic literature or modern greats, either. If someone dislikes Love Like That, I find it's usually based on several factors--the raw characters, the language, the rampant use of drugs and alcohol without tying either to a painful addiction or a sad childhood, the cheating, etc.--none of which lead back to a disgruntled reader being a vengeful, mysogynistic stone-thrower. Formulaic, maybe--Dalton does talk about what she wears and inserts designer labels, the story does revolve mostly around her troubles with boys and men, and she does dislike her job and her revolting ladyboss...but realistically, what urban, American woman at the age of 25 doesn't experience these things?

From the article, again...

It’s because the market is saturated by bad writers claiming to rep for all women, crowding the bookshelves, making sure their one marginal, vapid story is produced ten million times over, like some pretty pink version of hell.

Again, this sort of resonates--especially the first part of it. Not saying all the most successful chick-lit writers are bad writers, but as a chick-lit writer, I cringe when certain other chick-lit writers go on the crusade and nearly laud the assumption that we ALL share the same opinions. Especially when I, as a reader, disliked their books immensely. I won't name them because God forbid someone important stumble upon this blog and immediately bar me a sister-hater and an asshole for not liking all the most beloved chick-lit faves. Some of them, I couldn't even read past the first 20 pages. Some of them made me want to start fires.

So maybe chick-lit has made it all a little more challenging for non-chick-lit writers...but another way of looking at it is, chick-lit has also made it that much more difficult for chick-lit writers who don't exactly fit in with the reigning chick-lit regime.

By the industry standards, I write chick-lit. It can't be disputed. I write about young women who have romantic issues and live in big cities, experience frustration at work and love Louis Vuitton bags. However...it can be disputed that I don't really write chick-lit because some of the elements my books contain don't exactly speak to chick-lit readers. The men in my books are rarely dreamy, usually more like nightmares. The women in my books drink heavily, smoke, have mouths that would make Quentin Tarantino proud and engage in questionable sexual practices. I make cultural references that probably make a lot of readers wonder what the hell I'm talking about--such as, Jeremy likening his and Doll's relationship to Sid & Nancy and the characters in Only the Lucky being heavily into UFC. Some would say, that's me not being able to relate to my audience and therefore not being a chick-lit writer.

All the same...I write chick-lit. And so do a lot of other people. Some of it is truly awful. Some of it is pure entertainment. Where my chick-lit writing falls, so it does. Some people love it, and others choose to think of it as fluff, trash or a total waste of paper. So be it. I was the one who chose to put it out there.

Someday, when I hopefully don't have to waste myself on a paying career from dawn to dusk, I will probably get around to writing novels with a mainstream appeal. But until then, should I be: A) crucified for giving my characters the purses I, myself, wish I could afford, or B) considered a fucking moron because I would consider it a success if even just a handful of young women out there pick up a book I wrote and are pleased to find a little bit of themselves within its pages, while on a train, a plane, a treadmill or a strip of sandy seashore?

Should any of us?

Now it does sound like I'm posting in defense of chick-lit and myself as a chick-lit writer, so maybe that actually is what this post is about. Maybe I'm just very exhausted of having to make excuses for the kind of writing I do...or maybe I'm just very upset that because four or five books out there have virtually defined the genre, the rest of us are totally fucked.

I guess what I'm getting at, truly, is that I just wish ALL chick-lit writers didn't have to be lumped together as one high-and-mighty, indignant, literarily-challenged feminist who thinks she's saving the world by writing about many of the things that most (if not all) women love, hate, experience and think about at least a few times in their lives.

Some of us just like to spend our free time writing our silly little books, I guess.

Funny mocking of celebs and MHO

I've spent the last two days shamelessly laughing at the absolute hilarity of these two sites, galleryoftheabsurd.com and gofugyourself.com, and absolutely cannot get enough. Especially amusing are the artistic renderings of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears on the gallery (along with captions so scathingly right on it's uncanny) and the posts "from" Britney and K-Fed on go fug. This shit is pure genius. I only wish I didn't discover it a little sooner.

Even more funny, the hostile, angry, poorly spelled viewer/reader comments. "Leeve the Britsteer alonne! Your juste jeless!", "How daire yu make the funn of Brad Pitt? Hes a GRATE fother!!!", etc., etc. I will be the first to admit I read Star and US Weekly, among others, more often than I read the news (sorry Dad), but that's just because the news is depressing and bleak most times (thanks to the media frenzy surrounding that JonBenet wannabe killer sick freak I now know more about the horror that is pedophilia than I ever hoped to know) and celeb reporting is just comical. That said, it's too bad that so many people (and usually ignorant people, at that) can't see the humor in a society so truly obsessed by celeb culture, and furthermore the humor in making fun of people who have made it their lifelong ambition to stand in front of a camera and then scream about not having any privacy as soon as cameras abound. You cease to be "like a normal person" once you become a celeb, that is what is meant by the word celebrity. (Which I of course know because I am a FAMOUS writer!)

I guess what I'm getting at is my feeling that people need to lighten up. It seems like people get so upset so easily these days, then use posting as the vehicle for their illogical, not to mention grammatically incomprehensible ranting. Sometimes I read the message boards on IMDB just to remind myself to be thankful that I have a brain. Then I get sad because people who seemingly don't have brains at all are still allowed to use computers. If you're not supposed to operate heavy machinery under the influence of alcohol, which makes you dumb, then why should you be allowed to use sophisticated machinery under the influence of your own stupidity?

My thoughts on an otherwise dull day. (As I write about the senselessness of ranting on the Internet and then, you know, rant on the Internet...)

I apologize for being such a bad blogger of late. It's just that I don't really have anything in particular I feel like posting about. And, I highly doubt you want to know even more about my aviation phobia, the local insect population, my love of Mexican food and the frustrations of my writing "career". Maybe you do. Or maybe I should create an imaginary child to blog adorable tales about? Maybe I'll just blog about buying a blender, cleaning my apartment, doing laundry, emptying my fridge of old produce, being hot when I go outside and doing virtually nothing at work today. That's what it's really all about.

This whole This is Not Chick Lit vs. This is Chick Lit debate is the virtual embodiment of everything I dislike about being female. Why are we all so worried about what other people are doing? Just write your goddamn books--whatever category they happen to fall under or be classified within--and be grateful that you're a) blessed enough to know how to write and furthermore live in a country that allows you to write about whatever you want, and b) blessed enough so that someone actually thinks you're talented enough to have your writing published. Most people never get that lucky!!!

That's about it for the moment. Because who's going to Champions on Ice right now?

I'M GOING TO CHAMPIONS ON ICE RIGHT NOW!!!

One year after it was supposed to be published, Only the Lucky is finished.

Now that's what I call progress.

Mel

I have been shamelessly entertained by this.

Random Bits and Pieces

I don't like the word snarky. I think this is an unflattering word, vastly overused by women who subscribe to the "bitchy is in so let's all embrace this shit" philosophy. I have always been bitchy. I would really just like to remain bitchy, not snarky. (P.S. Ask most women outside of major--ahem, cough, LA and NYC--metropolitan areas what snarky means and they wouldn't have a clue.)

I am currently reading a book titled Fiona Range--one of those books I bought several years back when I had the kind of cash to blow on 6-7 books at a time in the Century City Brentano's--none of which I would get around to reading for several years--and amazingly, delightfully, I actually want to keep reading it. Too bad it's in my car right now and there are cockroaches and crickets claiming the sidewalk between my apartment and my parking lot...not to mention it's late and I have no business doing anything other than going to bed as soon as I finish this very compelling blog entry.

Right now iTunes is playing "New York State of Mind." What's up next, the Sundays' "God Made Me" and No Doubt's cover of "It's My Life." (Definitely one of my top ten songs of all time, this version.)

Chardonnay is good. But not Black Swan's version...because getting the cork out of there takes more skill than one has to offer when all they're really craving is a cold goblet of white wine.

Tonight I took a friend to the bus station. Now I know how to get to Fremont Street from my apartment. It is said the Las Vegas Club has the best "21" odds in Las Vegas. Maybe I should check it out?

Hey, starting this month, paying back what I borrowed to fund my education will be costing another $40 a month. Again, maybe I should check out those odds at the Las Vegas Club?

The Really Important Thing

Glaring headline on Yahoo! right now:

Lance Bass says he's gay

Tiny, insignificant news items lost beneath it:

Israel endures worst losses of campaign
U.S. could face showdown with al-Sadr in Iraq
U.S. gas prices seen at $3 through summer

Maybe I won't move the blog. I don't know. Maybe I'll just blog in both locations. Wow, wouldn't that be interesting? A dual dose of my thinly-veiled complaints about the genre that barfed me up and left me for dead, even more moaning about my complete psychological meltdown as a writer and double the tales of my apartment horrors. Speaking of which, it's pretty fucking awful that I now consider roaches to be a normal occurrence, or at least the lesser of two evils...now that I have spiders, that is. Seriously. My apartment may look, on the inside, like a civilized residence...but soon there'll be mosquito netting over my bed and a machete hanging on the wall by my bedside.

Now, if you're as depressed as I that the date of August 1 is looming and there won't be a new release by Amanda Hill available at your local book retailer as was the original plan, at least you may be able to comfort yourself by reading some of my dad's journalistic genius (and that of the many talented writers he works with) over at the Washington Post Writer's Group Blog. Just don't comment back to me, "Gee, why didn't you go into journalism?" because that's one of those questions I fear I'll still be asking myself years and years from now, when I've spent 340 nights of yet another year writing yet another novel that may or may not become published.

But hey, the good news is that if Only the Lucky were coming out next week, I'd probably be pretty embarrassed about it because it is actually set in Las Vegas and I've come to realize that prior to living in Las Vegas, I didn't really know crap about what it's actually like to live here. So I guess there's a positive slant to everything--even having your confidence as a writer crushed beneath the cruel heel of today's publishing market--such as now, I am at least able to go back and rewrite the story from the perspective of a native. Oh, and native I am...because just don't be forgetting about the mosquito netting and the machete.

Happy weekend!

It is officially too fucking hot to do anything.

Relocating

My blog will soon be moving to another location. Why, maybe because I'm retarded when it comes to these things and this could easily be fixed if I wasn't retarded about these things...but the simple fact is, I can no longer stomach that sickening, vomitous pink background that coincidentally goes so well with the sickening, vomitous pink that drenches the cover of Love Like That. Speaking of which, has anyone but me lately noticed that all RDI releases are now boasting adorable, illustrated covers of adorable, illustrated girls looking, well...adorable? It's probably yet another reason I didn't fit in with that crowd--when asked what kind of image I wanted on the cover of LLT, this is what I gave them:

Oh, and this:


So anyway, yeah, the blog will be moving to this address: barelypublished.blogspot.com, and when it does and I actually start writing some interesting posts there, I'll be sure and let all of you "regulars" know.

Gross

Protect Yourself from Germs That Lurk in an Unexpected Spot

The Fox 5 News station in Atlanta, Georgia, recently ran a Health Report on a study they performed on women's purses. Their health team went to a local mall and took samples from the bottoms of 50 women's purses. The purses were swabbed with cotton swabs along the entire bottom of the purses and the swabs were placed into special containers for processing at a local laboratory.The Health Report also showed where women place their purses: public restrooms (on the floor beside the toilet), kitchen counters and kitchen tables, on tables and chairs in restaurants, etc.The outcome of the laboratory tests contained the following most serious result: 1 out of 4 purses harbored E. Coli, which causes painful abdominal cramping and severe diarrhea.Other extremely serious bacteria and viruses also were listed, including Hepatitis.They recommended that women should DAILY wipe their purses (particularly the bottom) with a disinfectant wipe and to be extremely careful where you place your purse. Most importantly, do NOT place your purse on a table (anywhere) where you will eat or an a kitchen counter and do not put it anywhere close to a toilet.Remember, when you flush a toilet, the spray goes a distance that is unrecognizable by the human eye.WASH YOUR HANDS as often as you can! Keep an antibacterial hand sanitizer cleaner (no water needed) in your purse and use it often! And as soon as you get home from shopping (or wherever you have been and usedyour purse), immediately wipe it all over with a disinfectant wipe.

I freely admit to being a horrible blogger. I'm only writing this now because I'm taking a break from cleaning my hideously dirty apartment so my married friends who are coming into town this weekend don't shriek in horror when they see how the other half--the only half--lives. It's bad enough that I recently just noticed I don't have spare bedding and have had to tell them to bring some sleeping bags. Oh--and only just realized the contents of my refrigerator consist entirely of Michelob Ultra, Brita-filtered water, salad dressing and cheese.

I am living right. Or at least, like a struggling writer.

Today, I went to work. I ate a veggie works burrito from Del Taco. And it rained.

Must return to scrubbing my shower, now.

Time Capsule

In need of one more bag, I grabbed this little green duffel belonging to my dad just before leaving Virginia last September. Now, I keep finding all this cool shit in it that is literally from another time. After that Scottsdale wedding weekend back in April, I came across a receipt from a cafe in Gare du Nord in Paris, when the family went European Vacation for my college graduation present. Then, unpacking it this morning after using it for a weekend visit to La Bella Los Angeles, out fell a box of matches from the Halcyon Hotel in London's Holland Park. Since we didn't stay at the Halcyon as a family, I have to assume those matches are from a prior trip my dad had taken to London for business. What's next, I wonder? The remnants of a Russian cigarette? The stub of train ticket to Berlin? I guess some people wouldn't find any of this as interesting as I do, but I just think it's kind of neat that 9, 10 years later, I'm still finding artifacts from so long ago in this tiny, nondescript piece of luggage.

Or, my family's just really careless about unpacking.

Talking about writing again

I think if I ever become even minimally successful as a writer, I'll stop blogging and move on to a quarterly update or something like that. I guess because what speaks to me when I read other writers' blogs, especially the kinds of writers who only produce highly-anticipated hardcovers that go right to all the bestseller lists with no qualms or questions, is when they convey humility about the writing life--and not how loved they are, and how doted upon, and how much they deserve it.

That's not to say I think all of the above isn't just once a writer has met some success and wants to write about it, the Man Himself only knows they probably struggled as hard as the rest to get there and want to share their excitement and accomplishments with their friends, families and fans. It's just to say that I've always been more able to relate to writers (including those very successful writers, especially those writers, on remembering the early days) who talk about and admit to experiencing the things that have always resonated with me as a writer--the loneliness of living in your own world with a bunch of people who don't even exist, the feeling you may be insane for preferring to hang out with these people in place of the ones who actually do exist, the frustration of spending most of your time working at a job that will probably never pay you, the upset of reading a book that really sucks and knowing how well it's selling while every editor in New York just came back to say your book is the one that really sucks, the fear that you will die before you ever get there, the fear that you are actually a pretty shitty writer, the fear of hurting your friends and family if you write anything that even slightly resembles something they've said or done, the horror of thinking about your friend's uptight mother reading a raunchy sex scene you wrote...and then, the unthinkable, that when you finally do get published, your book will get nothing but one-star reviews and be described as the literary version of Gigli.
It's funny what you learn about being published once you actually get published. If you're like me, prior to it happening, you think your whole life will change once it actually happens. Then, if you're like me, you find out your life really doesn't change all that much except that you can tell people you had a book published. Even then, they usually think you mean that you paid a print-on-demand service to make your manuscript look like a book and you've got some copies for sale in your living room.

But, there are the upsides. I've made a few new friends. I've gotten to know what people other than my best friend think of what I wrote--good and bad, it's still interesting to see how total strangers react. Sometimes they get something out of it that I wasn't even trying to give them. Sometimes, they were hoping to get something out of it that was never even there.

Another upside is that now, when I attempt to get published again, I can say I've already been published and so, with editors I'll have a little credibility.

Now I just have to get back to writing books. Oh, yeah. Tell me how to do that again?

You may notice in my profile it now says age: 31. I am AGING.

I have a gorgeous new niece named Avaleigh Love...but my sister and brother-in-law will not be selling her photos to People for $4 million.

Today my co-worker and I engaged in a worthy debate about liberalism vs. conservatism. I can't believe I didn't get interested in politics until a few years ago. I'm sure I missed out on a lot of good arguments with some Dems I used to know.

Did you know that roaches eat their dead? The other night I saw one carrying another away on my patio. What was most disturbing was that they were of different roach species. I'm so glad to have been given this opportunity to broaden my zoological knowledge.

An Idiot

So today it was enthusiastically suggested to me, "Since your book's not doing so well, maybe you should get a job as somebody else's book publicist!"

Need I comment any further?

I didn't think so.

On Literature and Film

Right now I'm reading Into Thin Air, which is making me really want to watch Vertical Limit, and also giving me hideous nightmares about being trapped on a snowy mountain. Note to self: Watching Vertical Limit would probably, actually, exacerbate this condition.

Speaking of movies, we all know why we watched The Brown Bunny (at least I do, considering I was lying half-dead on the couch after a near all-nighter at the Luxor and Matt put it into the DVD player and pressed "play"), but what I'm now trying to figure out is why I actually watched The Brown Bunny. Call it art if you like, but I had a really difficult time trying to find the "artistic" parts when the guy spent most of the movie driving and the other half, taking a piss and unloading his motorcycle from the back of his van. Got good in the last 3 minutes when there was a sort of Sixth Sense kind of thing going on, but again...the guy really did spend most of the movie driving, and without the promise of the crucial scene in which Chloe Sevigny did you know what, I can't say I would have felt compelled to keep watching past the first 10 minutes of the fucking driving.

Now here's where a truly "artistic" person would criticize me for being your usual American idiot, almost immediately after watching The Brown Bunny I took in the last half of Team America: World Police and found it much more entertaining.

I'm now convinced it was actually a good thing that ye olde publisher refused to publish Only the Lucky, due to the fact that its August release would have introduced the reading populace to a main character named Shiloh and therefore, I fear, spawned message board comments such as, "This book was totally unoriginal--she used Brangelina's baby name!"

After finishing my current, uplifting read about people dying to reach the top of Mt. Everest, I may just go for the record of being the last person in the civilized world to read The Da Vinci Code. Yeah, I've heard it's pretty good.

If I have to read one more time that the birth of Angelina Jolie's baby is the most anticipated since that of Jesus Christ...I will probably just mutter, "Jesus Christ," and keep reading.

Brief Update

I started a new book. I'm not going to say what it's about because every time I do that, I jinx myself into not finishing what I started. I will say it's wry...and that it's supposed to be.

It's not as hot as it was the other day. It will be even hotter than that next week.

I'm almost 31. This may require some rum.

What a gripping life I do lead. Movie?

It's officially hot. What's frightening is that for Vegas, it's not officially hot. Still about 10-20 degrees to go (upward) before it'll be officially hot. Right now it's about 96 degrees outside.

I don't know why people care so much about having their phone calls recorded. To me, it's very similar to getting naked in front of a doctor. It's not an invasion of privacy. It's a procedure. Oh, well, what do I always say? People are stupid. Yeah, they sure are.

The Bottom Line

My royalty statement from July-December 2005 is a fine testament to faltering numbers.

More than 50% (looks closer to 60-70, actually) of the stock that was shipped out to retailers since March of last year has been returned. (Which answers the question, "How come I can never find LLT in Borders or Barnes & Noble anymore?")

I still "owe" Harlequin about $10K of advance money...which at this rate, will take a decade to "earn" and even then, probably won't be "earned" because with all those returns, LLT is basically, as they say, dying on the vine--or the shelf, in this instance. (Which answers the question, "Will it be anytime soon that I don't have to purchase furniture marked 'some assembly required' anymore?")

In six months, 1,153 copies of LLT sold, which on average is about 6 copies a day...which sounds really great except when you stop to consider how many people (even if you only factor women into that) actually live in the United States, Australia and Holland--and how many bookstores are spread across each country, and how many millions of visitors probably grace the pages of Amazon.com daily, if not hourly, if not by the minute and second. (Which answers the question, "Should I stop drinking?")

I am thinking about plagiarizing The Da Vinci Code.

Or writing a book about a fat girl who miraculously meets a male model or prince that doesn't have any sort of a problem with her image and in fact, welcomes it--and so teaches her to love herself through his lovin' of her.

Or going to law school.

I have honed my insect torturing skills with a new device--spray can air freshener! Works like a charm and you don't even have to get that close to the little bastards. The only thing that scares me is imagining that a colony of roaches is peeking through my vents and nudging one another to say, "Look what that bitch is doing to Johnny down there! Let's get her!"

I am having an exterminator come on Tuesday to assure that this will not escalate into a full-scale war between myself and my militia of six-legged boarders.

I'm still thinking about that "Opal Mehta" plagiarism thing. I don't feel bad for the "author" anymore because I think it's total shit that she didn't even write the book before she was given half a million bucks. Can it really be constituted as "writing" if someone else comes up with the idea and then reworks it and polishes it and, um, well...basically "writes" it? Not in my world. In my world, a writer spends all his/her free time either sitting in front of a computer, scribbing on a notepad or developing a story in his/her mind. For example, even though I haven't been typing on a keyboard or scribbling on a notepad much of late, every morning I drive past the Spanish Trail community in Las Vegas, just to inspire myself. I think internally, "That's where my characters in OTL live!" and imagine their lives playing out in one of those pretty houses. That's just me, of course, and some people would say I really don't know shit. But I do know that there is a huge difference between having people critique your work, and having them edit your work, than having them "package" your work.

I agree with something another writer said, too, and I think it was Valerie Frankel, something about this girl only being 17 at the time of her signing and subsequent "writing". I'll be the first to say, quite nonchalantly, that I was writing novels when I was 17, too. I was writing novels when I was 10. I thought they were good at the time and they probably are pretty good, or at least pretty cute and funny for the efforts of a 10 and then 17-year-old girl...but then again, I wouldn't go down to my parents' basement and dig up one of those handwritten manuscripts (on which all the letter i's are dotted with big, round circles instead of dots) and think I should hand one of them over to a publisher. I guess because with age comes maturity and that includes a more mature style of writing--or at least, a more mature style of looking at one's own writing. My juvenile manuscripts probably contain some winning plotlines that would actually be very acceptable these days--because back when I actually wanted to be a young adult writer, exclusively, it was unfortunate that the young adult market was pretty much dead and today it is alive and kicking. I still wouldn't grab one of my juvenile manuscripts and submit it to an editor without first rewriting it with the knowledge of a 30-year-old woman. At this point, I wouldn't even submit anything I wrote when I was 24 or 25 without editing them with the insight I've gleaned from my life experiences since those now (sigh) tender ages.

Of course, when I was 17 I thought I was a prodigy and that everything I was writing was spot-on. Maybe it was. Maybe being young sets you free just as being more experienced (er, old) can hold you back.

I still say--17 or 30 or 90 or whatever--if you don't write it from start to finish (and that includes giving pieces of it to someone else to mark up, and then you rewriting those pieces based on their suggestions), you did not really write it.

It is a beautiful day in Las Vegas, very sunny and bright and warm. I got a dose of religion from some church elders earlier today (it was a work thing) and now feel completely prepared to get my sin on.

Have a nice weekend!

Weighing in on the Plagiarism "Scandal"

Taken from an article in the NYT...

There are echoes in another scene in which one of Ms. Kinsella's characters threatens another, "And we'll tell everyone you got your Donna Karan coat from a discount warehouse shop."

In Ms. Viswanathan's version, Opal threatens another girl, Priscilla, saying, "I'll tell everyone that in eighth grade you used to wear a 'My Little Pony' sweatshirt to school every day."

Ummm...is it me or is that REALLY reaching? Come on, people. That's just fucking retarded. Kind of like the person on Amazon.com who said that this chick's book also contains startling similarities to Ulysses and uh, Paradise Lost.

I would feel bad for this girl, but I'm actually feeling a little worse for myself after finding out her advance was FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS.

I'll fucking copy an entire, international bestseller (make that Bridget Jones's Diary) and submit it word-for-word for that kind of money.

Of course, what would probably happen in my case is that editors would write back: "We're sorry, but this is a little too quirky and original. We're looking for something more mainstream."

Love Like That

Love Like That has a new review on Amazon. It's not a good review, but a review, so that in and of itself is in my opinion, good. It means people are still reading it and furthermore, that it continues to elicit an opinion.

It's a sometimes difficult thing, having a book such as Love Like That in the public domain, because I feel that I can't and actually, should not encourage everyone who asks about it to read it. In fact, I'm penchant to tell certain people they absolutely would not like it and then do everything in my power to actually dissuade them from reading it. It's not that I'm ashamed of what I wrote, it's just that I know some people absolutely wouldn't enjoy the subject matter and content. And that's fine because I knew going into it that Love Like That would be a hard sell in any market--even the one in which it takes place. Doll is just not a traditional woman--not even by LA standards.

What can I say. I like to pull the darkest parts of humanity from my characters and shade them in their most unflattering lights with unusual humor and odd morale. I like to show that bad people can be good people, too. If people don't get it, then that's their prerogative. Just like me not getting and not wanting to write the characters and stories that capture and impress the mainstream is my prerogative.

I can still pick a Love Like That kind of reader out of a crowd as sure as I can pick a whole handful of its potential critics. And that, in my opinion, is knowing my audience.

Home Invasion

I have now seen FOUR roaches in my apartment, and while all have been either dead or in the belly-up, legs-a-kickin' throes of death position--I don't like it. I really don't like it. I don't care if I live in a desert. I don't care if "it's that time of year." What's that they say about roaches? That if you see one, there's a hundred (or is it a thousand???) more where it came from?

Needless to say, there are now twelve roach traps spread out around my kitchen, my bathroom and my foyer's tile floor. Apparently these traps are supposed to bait the dirty little fuckers to come snack on the delicious roach food they contain so they can take it back to the nest and kill the whole community. (Seriously trying not to imagine a whole "community" of roaches "nesting" somewhere nearby.)

All I have to say is that if I go into my kitchen tonight and find 400-4,000 roaches in there enjoying a buffet, you may not be hearing from me again.

Home and Vast Improvement

I realized what the problem with my bedroom (and writing hub) was. The lighting was all wrong. So tonight after work I went out and bought a little nightstand and a blue-shaded table lamp, as well as a desk lamp and some candles. Now, I not only feel like writing (to Bobby Caldwell's Blue Condition, of course) but also visiting allposters.com to buy some new prints. And Mom and Dad, you will be happy to know that I invested in some little white plastic trash cans for the bathroom and kitchen so no longer have plastic bags from Smith's and Target hanging from all my drawer knobs.

Only the Lucky is experiencing an all-new creative surge--maybe because it takes place in Las Vegas and I now live in Las Vegas. Or maybe because I am ready to find it a new home and not worry about what's happening over at its supposed-to-have-been, could-have-been abode.

Las Vegas is getting warmer and starting to feel more like, well...Las Vegas. I still adore driving to work every a.m. with the Strip towering in the distance. It's comparable in neat to seeing the spires of Georgetown and all the D.C. monuments rising up from the other side of the Potomac while crossing it by bridge, or standing on a fourth-floor Hollywood balcony with a sweeping panorama of Los Angeles spread out like a glittering carpet below. I have lived in some pretty fantastic places.

There are a multitude of things to look forward to, including: the birth of my third niece, a potential visit from Mom and Dad, a tablecloth and some bookcases, fifth row (that's right--FIFTH ROW) tickets to Champions on Ice and the possibility of there always being another Royal Flush in my future.

XOXO

My iPod is broken. :(

I realize I haven't updated my blog much of late. But that could be because: A) I'm trying to write a new novel, B) I can't stop watching the movie Wimbledon, C) I really only started this blog to update my legions (legions) of fans about the meteoric rise of my writing career and its many perks or D) None of the above. (Test experts say that when in doubt, choose C.)

Mandy's March Madness

Spring has arrived, and with it a dumping of snow on the mountains surrounding Las Vegas. Weird, huh? I think so.

Love Like That is again climbing the ranks of Amazon.com. Not so strange, maybe, since my research yields that it is adored by seventeen-year-olds near and far.

Only the Lucky has driven me to the brink of insanity (i.e., turned me into a raging drunk), so I think I'll put it aside for a while and conservatively sip of the grape as I get back to writing something that doesn't make me want to run down the street screaming my head off.

My hair needs a trim but I'm not that crazy. If it's between looking like George of the Jungle or George Michael, I think I'll soon be swinging from vines.

I've been so busy being a successfully published author that I haven't had much time to blog, oh, but instead of traveling around on a book tour or even, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, working on my next release (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA), I've once again joined the ranks of those in pursuit of a steady career. It's a decent job, and a sight better than answering a phone line that leads back to every asshole in town.

Now I would just like it if when someone I've just recently met tells another person I've just recently met, "Amanda had a book published!" that person would A) know what that means and/or, B) say something like, "Holy shit! You wrote Love Like That? Not only did I love that book, I READ IT!"

And yes I do take figure skating very seriously!

Heartbreakers

Perhaps Matt summed it up best last night when he turned to me, bewildered, to ask, "What just happened?" after the ladies skated their long programs in Torino. Now, all these hours later, I'm still wondering what did. It was so horrifying--I've blocked most of it out. Seriously--I don't even remember Sasha's program after the two falls and Irina's performance resonates like a bad dream I just want to forget. So they medaled after all...but it's the looks of resignation on the faces of these two champions, just like the doubt in their eyes as each of them took the ice, that will forever haunt me.

Blog Excuses

Olympics. Laundry. Rewrite. Phone calls. Lovers & Players.

Farewell Michelle

She's never been my favorite skater, still how sad to see such an inspiring career turn desperate and then finally collapse in defeat.

I'm sitting here wondering--when is it officially okay (i.e., acceptable) to freak out, lose your cool, throw a fit, throw in the towel, act irrationally, make an idiot out of yourself, toss aside your inhibition, not hold back, commit a crime, start going to work in your pajamas, have a heated discussion with yourself out loud in public, run away/disappear to a foreign country, talk out of your ass, act as childish as you'd like and basically go bananas?

I was just reading through my well-traveled MS of OTL and was shocked to realize that it wasn't even read beyond, oh, page 40?

So it would seem that a contracted author's editor has about as much confidence in their work as, oh, an agent's intern does in the 4,000th total stranger's poorly-written query letter they've read that day?

Oh, well. That's what you say, right? Just like you say whatever, that's that, and moving right along.

Moving right along...the Olympics are starting RIGHT NOW!!!

Everything I'm Thinking Right Now

Michelle Kwan is overrated. I will get a job that doesn't require me to smilingly cater to self-important, self-made moguls as though it's my favorite thing ever. I will get Internet at home so I don't have to rely on Matt's technological hospitality. I will lose my taste for delicious, delicious beer. I will get back to wearing beautiful, white-tipped acrylic nails at all times. I will do what I must with Only the Lucky, so that I may see it published. I will polish up the LIB series so that each one is a bestseller. I will not read other authors' blogs and especially not those currently thriving under the name of You Know What, because that shit makes me insane. I will work out at least five times a week. I will not eat bread products or candy. I will buy shirts to wear under my shirts because the layered look is outstanding. I will start a revival of the word boss as in, "That's so boss." I will write more on my blog about what living in Las Vegas is really all about. I will send a copy of Love Like That to various celebrities and ask if they might carry it around all the time so that a picture may appear, of them, holding Love Like That, among the pages of Star, US Weekly, People or InTouch Weekly. What is the exact origin of when someone says that something is selling like hotcakes? I will develop a rockin' body so that on weekends I may work as a cocktail waitress at the new Hooters Hotel & Casino. I will return to the Cote d'Azur, and live there. I will return to SoCal, if only to buy shoes at the Charles David in Century City. I will always respond to people's e-mails and return their phone calls. I will own an Italian Greyhound and name him Fellini. This beer is good. A cigarette would go nicely with it. I think I will have one. Bon soir.

A word I’ve been using a lot lately: Exacerbate

Where I’d go tomorrow if I had the money: Rio de Janeiro

Something I’m sad about: Chris Penn’s death

Something I’m happy about: Mom and Dad coming to visit

Most recent rediscovery: Levi’s

What I’m wondering about right now: If there’s an apostrophe in Levi’s?

What I’m going to eat tonight: Probably broccoli

How my hair is looking: Still pretty hideous

What I’m writing these days: Ha ha ha, that’s a good one!

Movie I feel like watching: Legends of the Fall

Song I’ve been listening to a lot lately: “Everything Is Never Quite Enough” from The Thomas Crown Affair soundtrack

Book I’m reading: Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld

What I’m about to do right now: Leave work

No feel like bloggy. Come back later.

Babe in the Woods

Things forgotten after 5 years of living with spouse-like roommate who looked after all my interests, and followed by 2 years of living with generous parents who resumed the role of total caregivers to wayward child: apartment doesn't just come with electricity, you have to order it and actually pay for it; cable man doesn't plan to show up when it's convenient for you (Sunday afternoon 'round four, five p.m.) and also, you have to pay him to install your cable; washer and dryer in unit does not also mean detergent in unit; bathroom doesn't come equipped with towels and robe like in hotel; pans are necessary to cook; spices, condiments and cleaning supplies may be necessary at some point.

Crushing revelations at age 30: there's no IKEA in Vegas; maybe it's time to think about a rewarding career instead of taking cake admin jobs that "get the bills paid"; gambling can't really be classified as a "pastime" or a "hobby"; being "newsworthy" doesn't mean you knew about Brad and Angelina's love child before all your coworkers; your jeans aren't really shrinking, and drinking twelve pints of beer means you just consumed roughly 2,000 calories on top of all the foods you ingested that day.

Something that will never change: you would be insulted if your close friend didn't ask you to be a bridesmaid in her wedding, although, there's nothing worse than being in someone's wedding; stupid sporting event like basketball game delays showing of figure skating!!!

And on that note, what a weekend--hours of Nationals yet to be seen, the U.S. Olympic team yet to be determined, the drama, the fabulousness, Sasha finally getting her chance at gold!

That Frey guy's book is #1 on Amazon right now.

Love Like That is #429,475.

Maybe it's time to leak "the truth" to the Smoking Gun.

According to the gender test on Sparknotes, I'm a man.

Not surprising.

I've had two--two--frightening dreams in which I was being ambushed by spiders, all kinds of spiders, in the past three days--including the one last night, in which under even more scary circumstances, I was fighting off the spiders with one of those Super-Soaker toys, filled with some kind of homemade poison, around an ancient swimming pool brimming with mossy, murky water and with the help of--get ready--the cast of St. Elmo's Fire...in character.

Apparently spiders are omens of good luck in dreams but seriously...let's just say I don't enjoy dreaming about spiders and would rather just rub a fucking rabbit's foot.

Nothing much to report here from Las Vegas except that if anyone ever gets tired of calling me Amanda or Mandy, Superliver might be a fitting replacement.

Happy New Year