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!!!