AmandaHillOnline.com

Once again, don't forget that the blog is moving to amandahillonline.com.

But there's so much more, including: a first-time Q&A about Love Like That, an announcement of the forthcoming Love Like This and some resources and thoughts for aspiring writers!

Be sure and stop by!

My new website is amandahillonline.com

From now on I will be blogging at amandahillonline.com.

Please visit, and often!

After reading my last post and considering the length of time that has passed since, I realized that some of you might be under the impression that I really did stick my head in an oven. Alas, I did not. I'm just out of clever (?) things to write about. But here is some exciting news, now that Love Like That is pretty much out of print, I've decided it's time to have my own promotional website. I do realize that most writers don't wait to announce that they've "arrived" until they've actually, uh, left...but what can I say, I like to do things my way! Coming soon and details to follow.

I'm a month into my search for a new literary agent and I'm already bored and uninspired by it. Despite encouraging writers to send email queries on agency websites, email is obviously not the way to go if you want a response. (They warn that they might not respond if they aren't interested, but personally I've come to like getting those rejection letters back. At least its a break from credit card offers and Victoria's Secret catalogues!) It also seems to be a popular practice that agents won't necessarily respond even if you mail your query with an SASE. I hope some intern is at least steaming the stamps off to paste on the letters that don't come with SASEs, and are going back to the writers who probably never ever researched the politics of the query process but still managed to write the "right" kind of novel for publication.

I have had some encouraging nibbles--but it's still incredibly discouraging to get a request for sample chapters and then a rejection for the full manuscript. I think this is how writers eventually just give up and stick their heads into ovens.

I hate it when you're so exhausted all you want to do is sleep, yet you don't want to go to bed too early because what that actually means is you're going to work that much sooner. Ugh.

As I wait for agents to get back to me on Fabulous New Novel/Future Bestseller, I'm toying with the idea of doing a self-published version of the follow-up to Love Like That. My former agent wasn't too keen on it because we would have had to pitch it as a stand-alone tale and not a sequel--very difficult--not to mention that Dalton, as it turns out, has conservative (ahem, anti-liberal) political views and somehow I just don't see that "flaw" selling her as a character that most modern women could relate to. It does, however, seem a shame that her story continued and that nobody will ever read it. Surely those 10,000 women who read LLT--minus the ones who hated it--would like to know what happened to Dalton (spoiler alert!!) after she departed her life of sordid debauchery in LA and moved to D.C. to live as a respectable married woman?

I can't see there being any risk involved in this potential project. So hell, maybe I'll just do it. Beats sitting around wondering if anyone in NYC is actually reading my query letters or if they've just placed them in a stack with thousands of others awaiting a form rejection when time permits. And the way I see it, it costs a few hundred bucks to self-publish a book and the writer gets a decent percentage of each sale, so I could conceivably make that back. Especially if I ever get around to starting a promotional website. Now if only "Amanda Hill, Attorney at Law" would retire her snazzy homepage so I can claim my domain...

Now I really must be getting to bed. Night night!

The meaning of possessions

I once worked with a guy who'd spent the majority of his adult life moving from place to place, most of these locations extremely international when compared to the everyday sanctuary of Los Angeles. During one of our conversations about books he mentioned that Graham Greene's The Quiet American was among his favorites. I asked if I could borrow it and he said no. Why, because it was one of his most prized possessions and he said that once you start moving around a lot, you tend to forget about everything that has no meaning and instead become quite attached to everything that does. Never did end up reading The Quiet American, but:

I did happen to pick up this ashtray in a little sidewalk shop in Monte Carlo when I was 22, green and gold and in the shape of a turtle. I remember it being one of the first things I unwrapped when I moved into my first post-college apartment in my same-college town. Then, a most integral piece of decor in my first Hollywood apartment, back when it was acceptable to smoke in the residence, and then later an objet d'art in my second Hollywood apartment when we sophisticatedly moved onto the balcony for cigarettes. It drove with me from LA/California to DC/Virginia and then later from Virginia to Nevada when I moved to Las Vegas. And right after I moved into my apartment here, I dropped it on the patio and it broke. I remember thinking what a shame when this tiny ceramic sculpture had made it to so many places and so far, and so, placed its broken pieces on my kitchen counter in hopes that it might someday be glued back together.

Took about a year and a half to get around to buying the glue because I can be pretty lazy like that--but long story short, tonight I actually glued it back together. And isn't it strange how pleased I am about that?

Feels like an awakening, the rebirth of this artifact.

I love this turtle ashtray. Not for its purpose but because of what it represents. Me being 22 and traveling around Europe back when it didn't really occur to me that a month of vacation isn't a given but a privilege; me being 24/25/26 and living in Hollywood like everybody just does that; me being 28 and moving to Washington, D.C. just to "try something different," and me moving to Las Vegas for "the experience."

Funny thing about certain possessions. They really do mean something.

Why I only watch TV when I'm seriously fucking bored

I can admit to being slightly masochistic. I read blogs I hate to read, sleep late so I can dread having to go to the gym after work all day and lately, find myself watching a lot of TV that seriously makes me question American entertainment. The highlight of this last behavior has to be Jon & Kate + 8, my God, truly the most horrible program ever broadcast. The premise is this: married couple Jon & Kate decided to have kids, couldn't, turned to fertility treatment and then had twin daughters. Okay, great. Then Kate decided the twins needed a little brother or sister, and after another go at the fertility thing, she and her disturbingly browbeaten husband ended up having six babies all at once. Okay, fine, this same scenario makes news at least every few years--but never have I seen such gratuitous exploitation of it. Could be interesting, too--if Kate wasn't such a raving insane bitch and her husband wasn't such a complete pussy. Each episode is 30 minutes of sheer torture as Kate relentlessly harangues Jon, makes fun of him, treats him like a big piece of useless shit, complains about his physique (how it's possible that Jon isn't a skeletal bag of bones when all he seems to do is act as the slave to nine other people), belittles him and he just sits there and takes it on national television.

It gets worse, though--because when Kate's not berating Jon, she's bemoaning her lot in life as the mother of eight small children and reminding the TV audience that she deserves more recognition than any other mother in the world. Oh, but wait--because with every complaint about her hardship comes the disclaimer that she really loves her children and thinks they are miracles and she couldn't have asked for a better life, blah, blah, blah. Just like with every barb at Jon she reminds the camera that they really have a great marriage and this is how they "work." Meanwhile, in the background, two of the snottiest little girls ever to exist mug for the crew and vie for their parents' attention while six extremely ill-behaved toddlers scream without reprieve. Oh, and let's not forget the clever ad placement displayed across all the kids' clothing ensembles.

For a double-dose of Jon & Kate + 8 hatred I visit the show's forums on the network website and read the posts from all the mothers who think Kate is a super fantastic role-model because she does it with eight kids when they are struggling with two or three. Each seems to forget that despite Jon & Kate's many references to their tight budget, nobody gets on TV without getting paid for it--and usually, quite well.

Jon & Kate + 8 should be portrayed as a harrowing cautionary tale and not the amazing story of love and survival that it is.

On the flip side, I also like to watch those regular specials featuring the Duggar family. Now they are super-creepy--two happier-than-happy parents and 17 kids who all appear to have stepped off the Juniper Creek compound on Big Love. Mom and Dad Duggar have vowed to have as many kids as the Lord wills them and spend their family time reading scripture and singing songs. The children are homeschooled and all the girls do the women's work while the boys learn mechanics and handle the man-tasks.

But the strangest thing about it is that the Duggars are actually sweet. Whenever the husband and wife talk about or to each other, it's always with admiration, love, gratitude and reverence. The kids are all very well-behaved and are rarely seen crying. They never argue with each other and seem really proud to be a part of this abnormally large clan. Michelle Duggar, the mom, is very calm and gentle and never makes an ass out of herself. The dad, Jim Bob, is totally easygoing. And the most amazing thing is that the family is debt-free. They say they only accept their TV appearances to help other people realize the life of Christ. Maybe, maybe not...but it comes across as very sincere.

I don't even know what my point is. I guess that you don't have to act like a total asshole just because you've got a lot of kids.

Perez Hilton crusades to bring down Britney...or does he?

Yeah. I admit it. I read Perez Hilton. A lot. I've tried to get over this addiction (affliction?) but can't seem to break myself. Anyway, Perez wants the world to boycott Britney and judging by the thousand + reader comments, the world (at least, the world that's not slacking off at work) is now pissed at him for being so nasty and vowing to jump back on TEAM BRITNEY.

(That I'm even taking time to comment on this debacle is so embarrassing I can hardly stand it...but having just completed a novel about society's obsession with celebrity culture, I guess it makes some kind of sense.)

Anyway...

One of two things has to be going on here:

1. Perez really is just a spiteful pig who hopes to wield his star-quality gossip power by eventually driving one of his "favorites" to the point of no return, or,
2. Britney has actually hired a stealth team of crisis management experts to use the public's disappointment in her as a powerful tool--and actually paid Perez to talk a bunch of shit about her all the time until "the world" has grown so sick of it they are all salivating in Britney's defense.

Now the real question is...who's prettier?

What's it really all about?

It is said that one of the worst things you can do for yourself as a writer is read up on all the discouraging tales about trying to get published. I do that. I've also been known to engage in another practice that's bad for writers and that is to track the progress of other writers, especially those that make me seriously question the tastes of both the publishing industry and the reading public. It's kind of a mental condition, a self-imposed form of torture quite similar to looking at the profiles of people you dislike on MySpace and whatnot. (Oh come now...surely I'm not the only one who does that?)

I read on a blog or a plog or something of the equivalent once in which a writer said people only ever ask of a book, "How in the hell did this get published?" because their own failure as a writer led them to feel bitter about the success of other writers. It's probably true, but...I also read somewhere else, once, that writers are notoriously envious of their more successful peers. Why, because we're all trying to accomplish the same goal and just like musicians who probably think they're better musicians who've worked harder to make it than those musicians that actually have, well, it's just somewhat annoying when as a writer you read something that basically sucks yet have to accept its commercial success.

What I'm getting at isn't that I'm jealous of successful writers who write sucky books (even though I can admit I actually am, and fuck, why not, because it may be that I write sucky books, too, and can't figure out why their sucky books are being published and not mine), it's that I'm actually wondering what causes the yearning for recognition? Where does it come from? Musicians have the potential of living the rockstar lifestyle if they make it, but most writers can plan on keeping a day job unless they're the next Danielle Steel, Jackie Collins, Tom Clancy, John Grisham, J.K. Rowling...you get the picture, and the simple fact is that most writers aren't looking at that kind of success. I remember someone asking me at a previous job why I was working there after having a book published and me just having to laugh. Hard. I think I figured out that when all was said and done financially, I made about 8 cents an hour writing, querying, reworking, editing, rewriting, losing sleep over and wanting to shred Love Like That.

So every now and then I do kick around the idea of self-publishing because there's nothing dishonorable about it and I think done right, there's the potential to make a lot more money at it. Marketed well, any book could reach the right audience. (See sucky books getting rave reviews and idling happily on bestseller lists.)

So what stops me?

The recognition factor. That rush of having one of the keyholders/gatekeepers of the publishing industry come back to report that of all the many, many manuscripts he or she has slogged through lately, mine stood out. So let's go to task and sell it!

Seems ridiculous when I consider that editors are buying for 2009 right now and a self-publishing service could have my new novel for sale on Amazon before the end of this year.

Also seems ridiculous to justify traditional publishing versus self-publishing with the thought that only traditional publishers can really get books into bookstores. I remember when LLT first came out I visited every bookstore within a 20-mile radius of my house and was disappointed many times to find it missing from the inventory. (I was, however, cheered to find it at the Borders Express in Dulles airport last Thanksgiving. Who knew? It has since been sold...but not replaced.) Anyway, two and a half years after publication, LLT's bookstore presence can only be described as ghostly and its Amazon availability is fading fast.

So I'm thinking about this self-publishing thing more and more. As we move further into the age of online superstardom (see blithering idiot who screams in defense of Britney on YouTube is now getting is own TV show--wonder how aspiring actors who've actually studied the craft and are living on food service wages between auditions feel about that?), it seems to make more and more sense.

Of course, I'm still hoping that one of the agents I've queried will write back to say he or she wants to read New Novel and afterward, will call to say he or she also wants to represent it--because again, I digress...recognition. If I publish my book, hey, that's great--but it doesn't mean it's good.

Here I go digressing again, though...the simple truth in publishing is that all you need is one person to love your book even if a thousand of that person's peers have already deemed it sucky--so what's the reasoning, there?

I'll never know.

I can't think of any clever way to end this post so I'll tell you (what I think) is a funny story. After living in my apartment for a year and a half, I decided to use the oven for the first time. After about twenty minutes, I couldn't figure out why my frozen fish fillets weren't cooking.

Yeah, it probably would have helped to actually turn the oven on.

Rejection

This one was in a hurry. I mailed my query last Friday--from Nevada to New York--and received my response, by mail, today. That's an impressive turn-around!

I'm in a posting mood!

So today after getting my third rejection (not such an alarming situation, but slightly "get off your ass" when your closest local friend slash future publicist and 22-year-old assistant slash target audience test reader start to panic), I decided to switch tactics and target men in my search for a new literary agent. So fueled by the knowledge that my own boyfriend has been known to read Perez Hilton on occasion and that some of the top-selling women writers (among then Danielle Steel and the late Olivia Goldsmith) have retained male representation, I set out to write a series of what I hope are compelling query letters to male agents. Now let's just look forward to the idea that one of them will be interested enough to want to read some of the not-as-yet-publicly monikered "New Novel" and furthermore, come to represent it. I guess we'll see as my query letters take flight and land in New York.

Not looking forward to the new season of Nip/Tuck as much as I yearned for seasons 3 & 4 but I can't help but love this sexy beast all the same. In all his glory, Dr. Christian Troy:

Rejection, rejection, rejection

I'm on the hunt for a new literary agent right now. The search is exciting and distressing. So far I've gotten 3 rejections (out of 11 queries) and though I keep reminding myself that it's likely at least 95% of all those approached will come back with a "no thanks," I can't help but lie awake at night and wonder if this is the beginning of the end.

But of course it's not. Rejection is an integral part of every writer's life. And when I'm offering up a project that's edgy and wicked and chock-full of vulgarities, well, let's just say I do expect rejection.

I know someone is absolutely going to love this. Because surely there's someone out there who can appreciate my way with dirty words...right?

It was Jacqueline Susann who said: "As a writer no one's gonna tell me how to write, I'm gonna write the way I wanna write!"

By the way, Valley of the Dolls is oft-considered the bestselling book of all time.

Cheers!

Getting Back to My Roots

Are you still out there?

If so, thanks for waiting patiently. I checked in the other day and realized I haven't posted in four months!

Anyway, I pretty much abandoned the blog because I'd grown bored and frustrated with writing about writing when I wasn't even satisfied with writing itself, actually. Not to mention that I felt like I was becoming too outdated to be interesting as a writer because I've only had one book published and that was more than two years ago. It was kind of a self-imposed mind-fuck and pity party; as my man and many, many others are always reminding me, having even one book published is a seriously major accomplishment. And it is.

My agent made a good point recently, though, and that's that a lot of writers have trouble with the ominous "Book 2" because all of a sudden you're not writing for yourself, you're writing for your editor, your publisher, your audience--and all of a sudden it's very possible that you might start tripping yourself on what you think you need to be writing versus what you really do need to be writing. I envy, and applaud, all the first-time published writers who never let themselves fall into that trap. At the same time, therein lurks yet another trap--the horrible thought that if all of them can keep it together, then what's wrong with me?

And then comes the desperation of having to hurry and catch up--seeing writers who came out about the same time as yourself already releasing their third, fourth, fifth books.

But you know what, screw it. Prior to having LLT published, I didn't pay much notice to what other writers were doing and I never followed the progress of their personal publishing process. I never played these little mind-games with myself like: Would anyone actually read this? Why would they want to? What's my story got that's more interesting than any other submission? Is it stupid of me to assume that just because I spend a lot of time writing, I can actually write?

My point is, there used to a time when I wrote books because it was something I enjoyed doing. It was my favorite thing to do. And now when I go back and read some of my old stuff, I think to myself, did I really write that? Because it's actually good.

So after dabbling with the revision of some of my older manuscripts, I started sending them to my agent in hopes that something, anything, would resonate with her. But, nothing did. I'll be the first to say she's picky, and demanding, and not so easily impressed (all traits part of her job, actually)--but then I realized the desperation was probably showing through in my writing. Not that I think everything I've been writing lately amounts to crap, but there is a difference when you write because you love it versus trying to force it out of you, just to have something to sell. Of course, there could be another agent out there who would grab up one of my manuscripts without a question, but that's what's kept me from seeking other representation this whole time. Because if an agent is happy with something that I'm not even all that happy with, then what am I really trying to accomplish?

The bottom line is that I've finally returned to the realization that I don't need to write with a potential sale in mind, I just need to write because I want to. Who cares if I write a book and it never gets published. Actually completing a novel, from start to finish, is every bit as satisfying.

So to get out of my funk, I decided to write the sequel to Love Like That--never mind that I no longer work with its publisher and that there's been a somewhat lengthy lapse of time since its release. I'd actually written the first 30 pages back in 2005 in preparation for a third book with RDI, then let it go when that contract fell through. And I never really intended on finishing it until a couple of weeks ago when I gave a copy of LLT to my 22-year-old assistant and she clamored for more. So why not. I spent enough time staring at blank pages over the past two years, completing nothing new--so why not write a book I was actually interested in finishing?

Saturday, July 21, 2007. I wrote the last sentence of a new novel.

I forgot what that feels like. It feels great.

And now I remember why I've always written, why I've always loved writing--because it's fun to be somewhere else, living someone else's life, experiencing other environments and problems and just everything from the mundane to the major. I love writing. It's the only thing that's ever made sense to me, the only thing I've ever been truly confident about. So just forget the sale. If it happens it does, or maybe it doesn't. As long as I can still write. Which, as it turns out, I can.

The next installment to LLT is traveling to my agent right now, and who knows what she'll think when she's done reading it. Maybe she'll come back and say it doesn't really work. Maybe she'll come back and say, "Let's do this." Who knows. Who cares. I'm not done writing, or finished as a writer, just because I've run into some unflattering situations along the way. Not even close.

As my veteran journalist father is always telling me, writing is a tough business--and you have to stick with it.

And that, is my plan.

My blog is boring and I'll admit it. The truth is, I forget about it on a regular basis. Also, for a time I actually forgot my new gmail log-in that Blogger forced me to create in order to blog on Blogger. Personal website pending with all new blogging capabilties.

Until then:

-I'm really glad they finally buried Anna-Nicole.
-I don't think rehab's going to help poor Britney, as she obviously got hold of some bad acid that will forever effect her behavior. (It must be incredibly difficult and taxing to be rich and famous. I can't imagine the horrors that await oneself after achieving such a state.)
-I think Angelina is addicted to adoption.
-I obviously read a lot of tabloids.

Apparently this NYT column generated some anger:

MAUREEN DOWD: Heels Over Hemingway
I was cruising through Borders, looking for a copy of “Nostromo.”Suddenly I was swimming in pink. I turned frantically from display table to display table, but I couldn’t find a novel without a pink cover. I was accosted by a sisterhood of cartoon women, sexy string beans in minis and stilettos, fashionably dashing about book covers with the requisite urban props — lattes, books, purses, shopping bags, guns and, most critically, a diamond ring.Was it a Valentine’s Day special?No, I realized with growing alarm, chick lit was no longer a niche. It had staged a coup of the literature shelves. Hot babes had shimmied into the grizzled old boys’ club, the land of Conrad, Faulkner and Maugham. The store was possessed with the devil spawn of “The Devil Wears Prada.” The blood-red high heel ending in a devil’s pitchfork on the cover of the Lauren Weisberger best seller might as well be driving a stake through the heart of the classics.I even found Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” with chick-lit pretty-in-pink lettering.“Penis lit versus Venus lit,” said my friend Leon Wieseltier, the literary editor of The New Republic, who was with me. “An unacceptable choice.”“Looking for Mr. Goodbunny” by Kathleen O’Reilly sits atop George Orwell’s “1984.” “Mine Are Spectacular!” by Janice Kaplan and Lynn Schnurnberger hovers over “Ulysses.” Sophie Kinsella’s “Shopaholic” series cuddles up to Rudyard Kipling.Even Will Shakespeare is buffeted by rampaging 30-year-old heroines, each one frantically trying to get their guy or figure out if he’s the right guy, or if he meant what he said, or if he should be with them instead of their BFF or cousin, or if he’ll come back, or if she’ll end up stuck home alone eating Häagen-Dazs and watching “CSI” and “Sex and the City” reruns.Trying to keep up with soap-opera modernity, “Romeo and Juliet” has been reissued with a perky pink cover.There are subsections of chick lit: black chick lit (“Diva Diaries”), Bollywood chick lit (“Salaam, Paris”), Jewish chick lit (“The J.A.P. Chronicles” and “The Matzo Ball Heiress”) and assistant lit, which has its own subsection of Hollywood-assistant lit (“The Second Assistant”), mystery lit (“Sex, Murder and a Double Latte”), shopping lit (“Retail Therapy”), the self-loathing genre (“This Is Not Chick Lit”) and Brit chick lit (“Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging”).The narrator of that last, Georgia, begins with a note to her readers: “Hello, American-type chums! (Perhaps you say ‘Howdy’ in America — I don’t know — but then I’m not really sure where Tibet is either, or my lipstick.) ... I hope you like my diary and don’t hold it against me that my great-great-great-grandparents colonized you. (Not just the two of them. ...).”Giving the books an even more interchangeable feeling is the bachelorette party of log-rolling blurbs by chick-lit authors. Jennifer “Good in Bed” Weiner blurbs Sarah Mlynowski’s “Me vs. Me” and Karen McCullah Lutz’s “The Bachelorette Party.” Lauren Weisberger blurbs Emily “Something Borrowed” Giffin.I took home three dozen of the working women romances. They can lull you into a hypnotic state with their simple life lessons — one heroine emulated Doris Day, another Audrey Hepburn, one was the spitting image of Carolyn Bessette, another Charlize Theron — but they’re a long way from Becky Sharp and Elizabeth Bennet. They’re all chick and no lit.Please do not confuse these books with the love-and-marriage of Jane Austen. These are more like multicultural Harlequin romances. They’re Cinderella bodice rippers — Manolo trippers — girls with long legs, long shiny hair and sparkling eyes stumbling through life, eating potato skins loaded with bacon bits and melted swiss, drinking cocktails, looking for the right man and dispensing nuggets of hard-won wisdom, like, “Any guy who can watch you hurl Cheez Doodles is a keeper,” and, “You can’t puke in wicker. It leaks.”In the 19th century in America, people often linked the reading of novels with women. Women were creatures of sensibility, and men were creatures of action. But now, Leon suggested, American fiction seems to be undergoing a certain re-feminization.“These books do not seem particularly demanding in the manner of real novels,” Leon said. “And when we’re at war and the country is under threat, they seem a little insular. America’s reading women could do a lot worse than to put down ‘Will Francine Get Her Guy?’ and pick up ‘The Red Badge of Courage.’ ”The novel was once said to be a mirror of its times. In my local bookstore, it’s more like a makeup mirror.

But I had no reaction. Probably because tend to be a little more worried about so many people not being able to be read than I am about some people getting upset about what other people are reading.

Anna Nicole

This is how you should be remembered.

2007

The year has thus far been poopy, but I am trying to glean some good from all the poopiness.

On January 2nd, my father was hospitalized with complications from pneumonia. He is now recovering, which is wonderful. I don't think I could use words to describe what my father means to me.

When I got back from my impromptu trip to Virginia, I was two days later let go from my job. The management claimed financial distress, but I tend to think they had some ulterior motives. Anyway, what's the good from poopy about being fired ("laid off") from one's job? Now fully enjoying the perks of unemployment. Sleeping late, writing all day, going to the gym whenever I feel like it, watching the Travel Channel, and of course looking for a completely better job.

It is so cold in Las Vegas that I spent an hour looking for my gloves yesterday. I didn't find them, poopy to say the least, but the good is that since I'm no longer employed, I don't really have to leave my apartment unless I feel like it.

I was really pleased with this year's Golden Globes. Everyone looked smashing and nobody talked incessantly about politics.

I'm going to make some spaghetti now. I hope everyone is having a good year so far!

2007

One of my resolutions this year is to update my blog more often. As you can tell, I haven't been much interested in it for the past few months. This could be for several reasons--among them less time blogging = more time writing--but anyway, I do plan to post more often and I know this news will bring all million+ of you faithful readers great joy.

I have many goals for 2007 (don't we all) but the most important one is to get back to loving my craft rather than viewing it as a burdensome curse that I must overcome by quickly obtaining another book contract. I used to write just for fun. Back then I never worried about all the potential problems involved in whatever I was writing (i.e., Will my agent like this? Will an editor like this? Is there a market for this? Will readers understand this?) I really want to get back to that positive, carefree mindframe. So right now I'm updating one of my more frivolous novels (but one I had the most fun writing, way back when) and planning to go by Target on the way home to stock up on candles and a new lamp. Lighting is very important--just like music and sometimes, wine.

Something I learned over the past year is that I worry so much and so often about what's going on (or not going on) with my writing that I tend to forget to enjoy all the other important things in life. So this year I intend to just relax about it and spend more time traveling and/or visiting friends and family, learning, appreciating film and keeping up with other people's literature.

Anyway, I'm supposed to be working but I'm not...so I should at least pretend to be working (for the last 1/2 hour of the workday) instead of rambling on here.

Happy New Year!