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

2006

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

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

Lost in Translation

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

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

Kiezen of delen? (Love Like That gone Dutch)

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Hihihihiiiii!' ("Neighhhhhhhh!")

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

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

Keep on carvin'

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

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

Mid-December Ramblings

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

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

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

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

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

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

And thinking LLT may have found its audience!

Last Christmas...I Gave You My Heart

There you have it. (Left)

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

Anybody Got a Wig I Could Borrow?

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

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

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

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

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

Royalty Statement

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think I'll go to law school now.

Nobody Does It Better

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

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

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

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

Lovers and Players will be out in February.

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

Oh, Jackie. Thank you.

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

That's funny.

Site Traffic

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

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

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

Why are people so angry at Sandra Scoppettone?

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

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

Sasha

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

Thanksgiving Proven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a sappy post, huh?

Are all these people (really) working today?

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

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

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

Some randomness:

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

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

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

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

I'm loving the return of Gaucho pants.

And that's about it.

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

Happy Thanksgiving.

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

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

Hi Dad

The Things That Hold Us Back

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

The question is, was I ever?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think I'll do that now.

On Second Thought

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

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

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

Busy

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

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

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

New Links

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

Out of Catchy Titles For the Moment

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

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

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

Marketing...or Lack Thereof

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's Going On

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

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

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

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!!!

Amanda's Blog

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

Even More Humbled

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

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

Me: "Chick-lit."

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

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

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

Gainfully Unemployed

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

I'm betting on my own conclusions.

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

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

Nothing in Particular

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until Nevada, then. :)

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

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

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

Your Brain's Pattern

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

What Pattern Is Your Brain?

You Are a Martini

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

What Mixed Drink Are You?

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

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

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

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

It might help if I had a job.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mum's the Word

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

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

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

I think.

(Not) Just a City

What is happening to New Orleans is unfathomable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Immediate Release

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

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

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

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

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

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

Burgers & Book Stuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mustang vs. Accord

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

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

Twenty Reasons

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

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

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

So here goes. Twenty reasons!

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

Sorry, But I Have to Get Political

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good"

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

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

I want to do an experiment. It goes:

Pizza is "good".

Key lime pie is "good".

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