Are you still out there?
If so, thanks for waiting patiently. I checked in the other day and realized I haven't posted in four months!
Anyway, I pretty much abandoned the blog because I'd grown bored and frustrated with writing about writing when I wasn't even satisfied with writing itself, actually. Not to mention that I felt like I was becoming too outdated to be interesting as a writer because I've only had one book published and that was more than two years ago. It was kind of a self-imposed mind-fuck and pity party; as my man and many, many others are always reminding me, having even one book published is a seriously major accomplishment. And it is.
My agent made a good point recently, though, and that's that a lot of writers have trouble with the ominous "Book 2" because all of a sudden you're not writing for yourself, you're writing for your editor, your publisher, your audience--and all of a sudden it's very possible that you might start tripping yourself on what you think you need to be writing versus what you really do need to be writing. I envy, and applaud, all the first-time published writers who never let themselves fall into that trap. At the same time, therein lurks yet another trap--the horrible thought that if all of them can keep it together, then what's wrong with me?
And then comes the desperation of having to hurry and catch up--seeing writers who came out about the same time as yourself already releasing their third, fourth, fifth books.
But you know what, screw it. Prior to having LLT published, I didn't pay much notice to what other writers were doing and I never followed the progress of their personal publishing process. I never played these little mind-games with myself like: Would anyone actually read this? Why would they want to? What's my story got that's more interesting than any other submission? Is it stupid of me to assume that just because I spend a lot of time writing, I can actually write?
My point is, there used to a time when I wrote books because it was something I enjoyed doing. It was my favorite thing to do. And now when I go back and read some of my old stuff, I think to myself, did I really write that? Because it's actually good.
So after dabbling with the revision of some of my older manuscripts, I started sending them to my agent in hopes that something, anything, would resonate with her. But, nothing did. I'll be the first to say she's picky, and demanding, and not so easily impressed (all traits part of her job, actually)--but then I realized the desperation was probably showing through in my writing. Not that I think everything I've been writing lately amounts to crap, but there is a difference when you write because you love it versus trying to force it out of you, just to have something to sell. Of course, there could be another agent out there who would grab up one of my manuscripts without a question, but that's what's kept me from seeking other representation this whole time. Because if an agent is happy with something that I'm not even all that happy with, then what am I really trying to accomplish?
The bottom line is that I've finally returned to the realization that I don't need to write with a potential sale in mind, I just need to write because I want to. Who cares if I write a book and it never gets published. Actually completing a novel, from start to finish, is every bit as satisfying.
So to get out of my funk, I decided to write the sequel to Love Like That--never mind that I no longer work with its publisher and that there's been a somewhat lengthy lapse of time since its release. I'd actually written the first 30 pages back in 2005 in preparation for a third book with RDI, then let it go when that contract fell through. And I never really intended on finishing it until a couple of weeks ago when I gave a copy of LLT to my 22-year-old assistant and she clamored for more. So why not. I spent enough time staring at blank pages over the past two years, completing nothing new--so why not write a book I was actually interested in finishing?
Saturday, July 21, 2007. I wrote the last sentence of a new novel.
I forgot what that feels like. It feels great.
And now I remember why I've always written, why I've always loved writing--because it's fun to be somewhere else, living someone else's life, experiencing other environments and problems and just everything from the mundane to the major. I love writing. It's the only thing that's ever made sense to me, the only thing I've ever been truly confident about. So just forget the sale. If it happens it does, or maybe it doesn't. As long as I can still write. Which, as it turns out, I can.
The next installment to LLT is traveling to my agent right now, and who knows what she'll think when she's done reading it. Maybe she'll come back and say it doesn't really work. Maybe she'll come back and say, "Let's do this." Who knows. Who cares. I'm not done writing, or finished as a writer, just because I've run into some unflattering situations along the way. Not even close.
As my veteran journalist father is always telling me, writing is a tough business--and you have to stick with it.
And that, is my plan.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
My blog is boring and I'll admit it. The truth is, I forget about it on a regular basis. Also, for a time I actually forgot my new gmail log-in that Blogger forced me to create in order to blog on Blogger. Personal website pending with all new blogging capabilties.
Until then:
-I'm really glad they finally buried Anna-Nicole.
-I don't think rehab's going to help poor Britney, as she obviously got hold of some bad acid that will forever effect her behavior. (It must be incredibly difficult and taxing to be rich and famous. I can't imagine the horrors that await oneself after achieving such a state.)
-I think Angelina is addicted to adoption.
-I obviously read a lot of tabloids.
Until then:
-I'm really glad they finally buried Anna-Nicole.
-I don't think rehab's going to help poor Britney, as she obviously got hold of some bad acid that will forever effect her behavior. (It must be incredibly difficult and taxing to be rich and famous. I can't imagine the horrors that await oneself after achieving such a state.)
-I think Angelina is addicted to adoption.
-I obviously read a lot of tabloids.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Apparently this NYT column generated some anger:
MAUREEN DOWD: Heels Over Hemingway
I was cruising through Borders, looking for a copy of “Nostromo.”Suddenly I was swimming in pink. I turned frantically from display table to display table, but I couldn’t find a novel without a pink cover. I was accosted by a sisterhood of cartoon women, sexy string beans in minis and stilettos, fashionably dashing about book covers with the requisite urban props — lattes, books, purses, shopping bags, guns and, most critically, a diamond ring.Was it a Valentine’s Day special?No, I realized with growing alarm, chick lit was no longer a niche. It had staged a coup of the literature shelves. Hot babes had shimmied into the grizzled old boys’ club, the land of Conrad, Faulkner and Maugham. The store was possessed with the devil spawn of “The Devil Wears Prada.” The blood-red high heel ending in a devil’s pitchfork on the cover of the Lauren Weisberger best seller might as well be driving a stake through the heart of the classics.I even found Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” with chick-lit pretty-in-pink lettering.“Penis lit versus Venus lit,” said my friend Leon Wieseltier, the literary editor of The New Republic, who was with me. “An unacceptable choice.”“Looking for Mr. Goodbunny” by Kathleen O’Reilly sits atop George Orwell’s “1984.” “Mine Are Spectacular!” by Janice Kaplan and Lynn Schnurnberger hovers over “Ulysses.” Sophie Kinsella’s “Shopaholic” series cuddles up to Rudyard Kipling.Even Will Shakespeare is buffeted by rampaging 30-year-old heroines, each one frantically trying to get their guy or figure out if he’s the right guy, or if he meant what he said, or if he should be with them instead of their BFF or cousin, or if he’ll come back, or if she’ll end up stuck home alone eating Häagen-Dazs and watching “CSI” and “Sex and the City” reruns.Trying to keep up with soap-opera modernity, “Romeo and Juliet” has been reissued with a perky pink cover.There are subsections of chick lit: black chick lit (“Diva Diaries”), Bollywood chick lit (“Salaam, Paris”), Jewish chick lit (“The J.A.P. Chronicles” and “The Matzo Ball Heiress”) and assistant lit, which has its own subsection of Hollywood-assistant lit (“The Second Assistant”), mystery lit (“Sex, Murder and a Double Latte”), shopping lit (“Retail Therapy”), the self-loathing genre (“This Is Not Chick Lit”) and Brit chick lit (“Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging”).The narrator of that last, Georgia, begins with a note to her readers: “Hello, American-type chums! (Perhaps you say ‘Howdy’ in America — I don’t know — but then I’m not really sure where Tibet is either, or my lipstick.) ... I hope you like my diary and don’t hold it against me that my great-great-great-grandparents colonized you. (Not just the two of them. ...).”Giving the books an even more interchangeable feeling is the bachelorette party of log-rolling blurbs by chick-lit authors. Jennifer “Good in Bed” Weiner blurbs Sarah Mlynowski’s “Me vs. Me” and Karen McCullah Lutz’s “The Bachelorette Party.” Lauren Weisberger blurbs Emily “Something Borrowed” Giffin.I took home three dozen of the working women romances. They can lull you into a hypnotic state with their simple life lessons — one heroine emulated Doris Day, another Audrey Hepburn, one was the spitting image of Carolyn Bessette, another Charlize Theron — but they’re a long way from Becky Sharp and Elizabeth Bennet. They’re all chick and no lit.Please do not confuse these books with the love-and-marriage of Jane Austen. These are more like multicultural Harlequin romances. They’re Cinderella bodice rippers — Manolo trippers — girls with long legs, long shiny hair and sparkling eyes stumbling through life, eating potato skins loaded with bacon bits and melted swiss, drinking cocktails, looking for the right man and dispensing nuggets of hard-won wisdom, like, “Any guy who can watch you hurl Cheez Doodles is a keeper,” and, “You can’t puke in wicker. It leaks.”In the 19th century in America, people often linked the reading of novels with women. Women were creatures of sensibility, and men were creatures of action. But now, Leon suggested, American fiction seems to be undergoing a certain re-feminization.“These books do not seem particularly demanding in the manner of real novels,” Leon said. “And when we’re at war and the country is under threat, they seem a little insular. America’s reading women could do a lot worse than to put down ‘Will Francine Get Her Guy?’ and pick up ‘The Red Badge of Courage.’ ”The novel was once said to be a mirror of its times. In my local bookstore, it’s more like a makeup mirror.
But I had no reaction. Probably because tend to be a little more worried about so many people not being able to be read than I am about some people getting upset about what other people are reading.
MAUREEN DOWD: Heels Over Hemingway
I was cruising through Borders, looking for a copy of “Nostromo.”Suddenly I was swimming in pink. I turned frantically from display table to display table, but I couldn’t find a novel without a pink cover. I was accosted by a sisterhood of cartoon women, sexy string beans in minis and stilettos, fashionably dashing about book covers with the requisite urban props — lattes, books, purses, shopping bags, guns and, most critically, a diamond ring.Was it a Valentine’s Day special?No, I realized with growing alarm, chick lit was no longer a niche. It had staged a coup of the literature shelves. Hot babes had shimmied into the grizzled old boys’ club, the land of Conrad, Faulkner and Maugham. The store was possessed with the devil spawn of “The Devil Wears Prada.” The blood-red high heel ending in a devil’s pitchfork on the cover of the Lauren Weisberger best seller might as well be driving a stake through the heart of the classics.I even found Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” with chick-lit pretty-in-pink lettering.“Penis lit versus Venus lit,” said my friend Leon Wieseltier, the literary editor of The New Republic, who was with me. “An unacceptable choice.”“Looking for Mr. Goodbunny” by Kathleen O’Reilly sits atop George Orwell’s “1984.” “Mine Are Spectacular!” by Janice Kaplan and Lynn Schnurnberger hovers over “Ulysses.” Sophie Kinsella’s “Shopaholic” series cuddles up to Rudyard Kipling.Even Will Shakespeare is buffeted by rampaging 30-year-old heroines, each one frantically trying to get their guy or figure out if he’s the right guy, or if he meant what he said, or if he should be with them instead of their BFF or cousin, or if he’ll come back, or if she’ll end up stuck home alone eating Häagen-Dazs and watching “CSI” and “Sex and the City” reruns.Trying to keep up with soap-opera modernity, “Romeo and Juliet” has been reissued with a perky pink cover.There are subsections of chick lit: black chick lit (“Diva Diaries”), Bollywood chick lit (“Salaam, Paris”), Jewish chick lit (“The J.A.P. Chronicles” and “The Matzo Ball Heiress”) and assistant lit, which has its own subsection of Hollywood-assistant lit (“The Second Assistant”), mystery lit (“Sex, Murder and a Double Latte”), shopping lit (“Retail Therapy”), the self-loathing genre (“This Is Not Chick Lit”) and Brit chick lit (“Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging”).The narrator of that last, Georgia, begins with a note to her readers: “Hello, American-type chums! (Perhaps you say ‘Howdy’ in America — I don’t know — but then I’m not really sure where Tibet is either, or my lipstick.) ... I hope you like my diary and don’t hold it against me that my great-great-great-grandparents colonized you. (Not just the two of them. ...).”Giving the books an even more interchangeable feeling is the bachelorette party of log-rolling blurbs by chick-lit authors. Jennifer “Good in Bed” Weiner blurbs Sarah Mlynowski’s “Me vs. Me” and Karen McCullah Lutz’s “The Bachelorette Party.” Lauren Weisberger blurbs Emily “Something Borrowed” Giffin.I took home three dozen of the working women romances. They can lull you into a hypnotic state with their simple life lessons — one heroine emulated Doris Day, another Audrey Hepburn, one was the spitting image of Carolyn Bessette, another Charlize Theron — but they’re a long way from Becky Sharp and Elizabeth Bennet. They’re all chick and no lit.Please do not confuse these books with the love-and-marriage of Jane Austen. These are more like multicultural Harlequin romances. They’re Cinderella bodice rippers — Manolo trippers — girls with long legs, long shiny hair and sparkling eyes stumbling through life, eating potato skins loaded with bacon bits and melted swiss, drinking cocktails, looking for the right man and dispensing nuggets of hard-won wisdom, like, “Any guy who can watch you hurl Cheez Doodles is a keeper,” and, “You can’t puke in wicker. It leaks.”In the 19th century in America, people often linked the reading of novels with women. Women were creatures of sensibility, and men were creatures of action. But now, Leon suggested, American fiction seems to be undergoing a certain re-feminization.“These books do not seem particularly demanding in the manner of real novels,” Leon said. “And when we’re at war and the country is under threat, they seem a little insular. America’s reading women could do a lot worse than to put down ‘Will Francine Get Her Guy?’ and pick up ‘The Red Badge of Courage.’ ”The novel was once said to be a mirror of its times. In my local bookstore, it’s more like a makeup mirror.
But I had no reaction. Probably because tend to be a little more worried about so many people not being able to be read than I am about some people getting upset about what other people are reading.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
2007
The year has thus far been poopy, but I am trying to glean some good from all the poopiness.
On January 2nd, my father was hospitalized with complications from pneumonia. He is now recovering, which is wonderful. I don't think I could use words to describe what my father means to me.
When I got back from my impromptu trip to Virginia, I was two days later let go from my job. The management claimed financial distress, but I tend to think they had some ulterior motives. Anyway, what's the good from poopy about being fired ("laid off") from one's job? Now fully enjoying the perks of unemployment. Sleeping late, writing all day, going to the gym whenever I feel like it, watching the Travel Channel, and of course looking for a completely better job.
It is so cold in Las Vegas that I spent an hour looking for my gloves yesterday. I didn't find them, poopy to say the least, but the good is that since I'm no longer employed, I don't really have to leave my apartment unless I feel like it.
I was really pleased with this year's Golden Globes. Everyone looked smashing and nobody talked incessantly about politics.
I'm going to make some spaghetti now. I hope everyone is having a good year so far!
On January 2nd, my father was hospitalized with complications from pneumonia. He is now recovering, which is wonderful. I don't think I could use words to describe what my father means to me.
When I got back from my impromptu trip to Virginia, I was two days later let go from my job. The management claimed financial distress, but I tend to think they had some ulterior motives. Anyway, what's the good from poopy about being fired ("laid off") from one's job? Now fully enjoying the perks of unemployment. Sleeping late, writing all day, going to the gym whenever I feel like it, watching the Travel Channel, and of course looking for a completely better job.
It is so cold in Las Vegas that I spent an hour looking for my gloves yesterday. I didn't find them, poopy to say the least, but the good is that since I'm no longer employed, I don't really have to leave my apartment unless I feel like it.
I was really pleased with this year's Golden Globes. Everyone looked smashing and nobody talked incessantly about politics.
I'm going to make some spaghetti now. I hope everyone is having a good year so far!
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
2007
One of my resolutions this year is to update my blog more often. As you can tell, I haven't been much interested in it for the past few months. This could be for several reasons--among them less time blogging = more time writing--but anyway, I do plan to post more often and I know this news will bring all million+ of you faithful readers great joy.
I have many goals for 2007 (don't we all) but the most important one is to get back to loving my craft rather than viewing it as a burdensome curse that I must overcome by quickly obtaining another book contract. I used to write just for fun. Back then I never worried about all the potential problems involved in whatever I was writing (i.e., Will my agent like this? Will an editor like this? Is there a market for this? Will readers understand this?) I really want to get back to that positive, carefree mindframe. So right now I'm updating one of my more frivolous novels (but one I had the most fun writing, way back when) and planning to go by Target on the way home to stock up on candles and a new lamp. Lighting is very important--just like music and sometimes, wine.
Something I learned over the past year is that I worry so much and so often about what's going on (or not going on) with my writing that I tend to forget to enjoy all the other important things in life. So this year I intend to just relax about it and spend more time traveling and/or visiting friends and family, learning, appreciating film and keeping up with other people's literature.
Anyway, I'm supposed to be working but I'm not...so I should at least pretend to be working (for the last 1/2 hour of the workday) instead of rambling on here.
Happy New Year!
I have many goals for 2007 (don't we all) but the most important one is to get back to loving my craft rather than viewing it as a burdensome curse that I must overcome by quickly obtaining another book contract. I used to write just for fun. Back then I never worried about all the potential problems involved in whatever I was writing (i.e., Will my agent like this? Will an editor like this? Is there a market for this? Will readers understand this?) I really want to get back to that positive, carefree mindframe. So right now I'm updating one of my more frivolous novels (but one I had the most fun writing, way back when) and planning to go by Target on the way home to stock up on candles and a new lamp. Lighting is very important--just like music and sometimes, wine.
Something I learned over the past year is that I worry so much and so often about what's going on (or not going on) with my writing that I tend to forget to enjoy all the other important things in life. So this year I intend to just relax about it and spend more time traveling and/or visiting friends and family, learning, appreciating film and keeping up with other people's literature.
Anyway, I'm supposed to be working but I'm not...so I should at least pretend to be working (for the last 1/2 hour of the workday) instead of rambling on here.
Happy New Year!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
I HAVE FAN FICTION!!!
A brilliant scribe, so well-versed in mockery that I can only respect her talent, takes Love Like That to the Harry Potter universe!
Seriously, check this shit out. It's hilarious!
Seriously, check this shit out. It's hilarious!
Monday, October 30, 2006
The Saga of the Wine Bottle
For literally two months, I've been trying to open this bottle of Black Swan shiraz and after nearly twisting an arm out of the socket each time, have given up and gone the much easier route of uncapping a few bottles of beer. Only tonight, back on the Atkins Diet and trying to shed some of the pounds I've put on (drinking beer), after a particularly horrible trip to Smith's (I thought suburban moms were made aware by their ill-behaved, ill-bred children that Halloween was approaching long before its eve?)--I decided this fucking wine bottle was coming open whether it liked it or not. The problem? No, I'm not retarded--just faced by one of those rubber corks that refuses to be penetrated by a corkscrew bottle opener. Well, I'm happy to say that after stabbing myself in the hand and I'm pretty sure dislocating my left shoulder, I am now enjoying a delicious, tart serving of shiraz from the depths of a Roberto's Taco Shop plastic cup.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Work Sucks (But I Need the Bucks)
I just found out my friend got fired from our shared place of employment. That sucks because I would love nothing more than to pull a Jerry Maguire moment "I will go with you!" Now will you please buy my book, or tell all your friends to buy my book, and maybe send a copy of it to some movie star who might want to make a movie out of it--so I don't have to be a slave to small business America anymore? I'm just kiddin', of course. I know most of you have already exhausted your Love Like That promotion abilities! Still, it's a real pile of shit that my friend got canned. Let's just hope I'm not next in line for that honor because believe it or not, even with all my fame and fortune as a published author, I really need the $$$!
Friday, September 29, 2006
Please excuse the lack of updates, the blog went on vacation and forgot to tell everyone. No, really, I'm revising one book and waiting on comments and suggestions from my agent about another--which I will then be revising--so I haven't had a lot of time to post. I will tell you these things before I sign off for my weekend in LA:
-My guest blogger, Lisbon Sommerset, would like you all to know that she always abbreviates her name (and requests that her name be abbreviated) LB instead of LS (as would be expected) because in her knowledge of things, LS is a luxury car model and not a proper monogram;
-Las Vegas is beautiful, wish you were here;
-If you are so inclined I have joined the ranks of MySpace members, just don't be expecting constant profile updates or blog posts on my page because unlike some more successful writers, I am too busy trying to become a successful writer myself to continuously frequent MySpace;
-Ciao!
-My guest blogger, Lisbon Sommerset, would like you all to know that she always abbreviates her name (and requests that her name be abbreviated) LB instead of LS (as would be expected) because in her knowledge of things, LS is a luxury car model and not a proper monogram;
-Las Vegas is beautiful, wish you were here;
-If you are so inclined I have joined the ranks of MySpace members, just don't be expecting constant profile updates or blog posts on my page because unlike some more successful writers, I am too busy trying to become a successful writer myself to continuously frequent MySpace;
-Ciao!
Friday, September 15, 2006
Introducing Lisbon Sommerset
Bored of writing about the chick-lit debate, insects, beer and my pitfalls as a struggling PR professional and who-knows-what-kind-of writer, I decide to welcome guest blogger Lisbon Sommerset--critically acclaimed, ultra-feminist literary author.
If only I could live in a world of smart prose, unfettered truth and the reserving of solipsistic sanctimony for those who really know...without having to live as witness and prisoner to the continuous violation of human rights
by Lisbon Sommerset
As many of you know, I was recently asked to be part of a panel discussion about the new book, So You've Got Tits and an Opinion--Good For Fucking You: An Exploration of Why Women Think Their Love and Hatred of the Self is So Fucking Special. Needless to say, all of us on the panel were appalled that this book has received so much hype and critical acclaim--but it was an honor to be joined by women of such brilliant feminist candor and be encouraged to share my thoughts. The following is a sample of what I contributed to the panel:
PL: You're recognized as a leader in the movement to distribute works of classic literature to female actresses of the porn industry. Can you explain why this is so important to you?
LB: Yes, I feel it vital that in facilitating the metriculation of those otherwise engaged in the vastly mysoginistic predication of degredation to the altruistic nature of fornication, there should be reason to punctuate limitations in the form of narcissistic evolution.
PL: I see. So what did you think of the book?
LB: I was shocked by the intrinsic pontification of the male author. This display only proves that in ignoring the essential qualifications, the juxtaposition of need is implied and therefore wrought with fraudulent claims of ignorance. Debilitating the prehistoric condition is no clear example of how to frequently concur that in our modern state, any ancient propaganda is a near-bohemian release of rife invidia on behalf of those affected. We're all affected.
PL: I see. Next guest?
Anyway, expecting that my review of James Frey's new tell-all memoir will appear in today's New York Times, I was just at the newsstand to retrieve my copy and was assaulted by tabloids. It is now apparent that Britney Spears has bestowed upon her second child, the moniker of Sutton Pierce. Admitting to a certain struggle with Ms. Spears' former image as a "sex kitten", I am only too happy that she is rendering her past mistakes by giving her son the chance at a genuine acceptance into the Ivy League.
I just got an email from my agent reminding me that Book Expo registration is right around the corner. Might I just profess to how GLAD I am that the event will be in New York next year. When it was in Washington this year, my whole experience was ruined the moment I walked into my hotel room and saw a magazine on the coffee table with Dubya's face on the cover. I think this year, I might skip the parties, too. Last year I got stuck talking to two chick-lit writers who kept telling me how much they loved my critically-acclaimed work of literary fiction, Penis Head. All I could think the whole time was, there's not a chance on Jane Austen's grave that either of them had actually read Penis Head. While they were out doing research at Jimmy Choo, I was deep in the trenches of the mysoginistic psyche.
That reminds me, though, of something I would like to address. For those of you who keep posting on chick-lit message boards that Penis Head is a lot like Gemma Townley's When in Rome...please stop it. I'll have you know that Penis Head was not only reviewed by the New York Times ("Deep in the trenches of the mysoginistic psyche, Sommerset takes us on a vivid journey through the conscience of man from the harrowing perspective of a modern woman"), but was also blurbed by Jonathan Franzen, J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown and Hillary Clinton. It is therefore too respectable to be chick-lit, if you couldn't tell by the missing high-heeled shoe on its cover.
Speaking of which, I've been invited by my alma mater to teach a graduate course, debunking the myth that women are obsessed with dating and shopping. I'm so honored to be given this opportunity. It'll put a strain on my relationship, and I'll have to acquire a whole new wardrobe...but it'll be worth it if I can save any number of young women from a potentially wasted life of enjoying all the unique, natural-born attributes men will never have.
This morning I came across a copy of my MFA dissertation, which was a brilliant, in-depth showcase on the similarities between the struggles of modern women and those of the sisters in Pride and Prejudice...and was tempted to burn it due to all the claiming of late that Jane Austen was a chick-lit author. I wish chick-lit authors would spend more time earning graduate degrees than edging out us literati with all their candy-coated drivel. Then perhaps I could find something to read, having already read every book ever written prior to the chick-lit boom.
For those of you who wish to escape the tawdry pleasures of cable TV after your long day of working for little money and no recognition, I'm doing a signing of Penis Head tonight at 7:30. Hope to see you there.
LB
If only I could live in a world of smart prose, unfettered truth and the reserving of solipsistic sanctimony for those who really know...without having to live as witness and prisoner to the continuous violation of human rights
by Lisbon Sommerset
As many of you know, I was recently asked to be part of a panel discussion about the new book, So You've Got Tits and an Opinion--Good For Fucking You: An Exploration of Why Women Think Their Love and Hatred of the Self is So Fucking Special. Needless to say, all of us on the panel were appalled that this book has received so much hype and critical acclaim--but it was an honor to be joined by women of such brilliant feminist candor and be encouraged to share my thoughts. The following is a sample of what I contributed to the panel:
PL: You're recognized as a leader in the movement to distribute works of classic literature to female actresses of the porn industry. Can you explain why this is so important to you?
LB: Yes, I feel it vital that in facilitating the metriculation of those otherwise engaged in the vastly mysoginistic predication of degredation to the altruistic nature of fornication, there should be reason to punctuate limitations in the form of narcissistic evolution.
PL: I see. So what did you think of the book?
LB: I was shocked by the intrinsic pontification of the male author. This display only proves that in ignoring the essential qualifications, the juxtaposition of need is implied and therefore wrought with fraudulent claims of ignorance. Debilitating the prehistoric condition is no clear example of how to frequently concur that in our modern state, any ancient propaganda is a near-bohemian release of rife invidia on behalf of those affected. We're all affected.
PL: I see. Next guest?
Anyway, expecting that my review of James Frey's new tell-all memoir will appear in today's New York Times, I was just at the newsstand to retrieve my copy and was assaulted by tabloids. It is now apparent that Britney Spears has bestowed upon her second child, the moniker of Sutton Pierce. Admitting to a certain struggle with Ms. Spears' former image as a "sex kitten", I am only too happy that she is rendering her past mistakes by giving her son the chance at a genuine acceptance into the Ivy League.
I just got an email from my agent reminding me that Book Expo registration is right around the corner. Might I just profess to how GLAD I am that the event will be in New York next year. When it was in Washington this year, my whole experience was ruined the moment I walked into my hotel room and saw a magazine on the coffee table with Dubya's face on the cover. I think this year, I might skip the parties, too. Last year I got stuck talking to two chick-lit writers who kept telling me how much they loved my critically-acclaimed work of literary fiction, Penis Head. All I could think the whole time was, there's not a chance on Jane Austen's grave that either of them had actually read Penis Head. While they were out doing research at Jimmy Choo, I was deep in the trenches of the mysoginistic psyche.
That reminds me, though, of something I would like to address. For those of you who keep posting on chick-lit message boards that Penis Head is a lot like Gemma Townley's When in Rome...please stop it. I'll have you know that Penis Head was not only reviewed by the New York Times ("Deep in the trenches of the mysoginistic psyche, Sommerset takes us on a vivid journey through the conscience of man from the harrowing perspective of a modern woman"), but was also blurbed by Jonathan Franzen, J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown and Hillary Clinton. It is therefore too respectable to be chick-lit, if you couldn't tell by the missing high-heeled shoe on its cover.
Speaking of which, I've been invited by my alma mater to teach a graduate course, debunking the myth that women are obsessed with dating and shopping. I'm so honored to be given this opportunity. It'll put a strain on my relationship, and I'll have to acquire a whole new wardrobe...but it'll be worth it if I can save any number of young women from a potentially wasted life of enjoying all the unique, natural-born attributes men will never have.
This morning I came across a copy of my MFA dissertation, which was a brilliant, in-depth showcase on the similarities between the struggles of modern women and those of the sisters in Pride and Prejudice...and was tempted to burn it due to all the claiming of late that Jane Austen was a chick-lit author. I wish chick-lit authors would spend more time earning graduate degrees than edging out us literati with all their candy-coated drivel. Then perhaps I could find something to read, having already read every book ever written prior to the chick-lit boom.
For those of you who wish to escape the tawdry pleasures of cable TV after your long day of working for little money and no recognition, I'm doing a signing of Penis Head tonight at 7:30. Hope to see you there.
LB
Friday, September 08, 2006
Shameless act of self-promotion...kind of like this blog
Do you read my blog because you read my book and thought it was A-OK? If so, please share your positive thoughts with other readers on Amazon and write a stellar review of Love Like That! Real name optional, except for those ending in Hill.
(If I sell 20,000 more copies of Love Like That I might have a few hundred dollars to put into the "Amanda's Private Villa on the Cote d'Azur Fund" and you'll all be invited!!!)
(If I sell 20,000 more copies of Love Like That I might have a few hundred dollars to put into the "Amanda's Private Villa on the Cote d'Azur Fund" and you'll all be invited!!!)
And to think I once had a poster of this sanctimonious piece of shit on my bedroom wall
Brad Pitt makes a bold statement sure to get legislators SCRAMBLING to legalize all forms of marriage. I mean IMMEDIATELY. Brangelina won't wed until the dictatorial laws of matrimony have been abolished? This is a SERIOUS ISSUE.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Idol Worship
The diva of all divas writes:
I recently re-read Dangerous Kiss and can immodestly say that I loved it!
Fucking A right, Jackie. No apologies necessary!
I recently re-read Dangerous Kiss and can immodestly say that I loved it!
Fucking A right, Jackie. No apologies necessary!
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Thursday, August 31, 2006
More, More, More (How do you like it, how do you like it?)
Wow, two posts in one day. Either I have absolutely nothing intriguing to keep me busy at work or I have gone CRAZY FOR BLOGGING! (You guess!)
I just found this article about you know what, chick-lit is bad, courtesy of Bookslut. I was compelled to blog up a response.
It's my humble opinion (which is on the loose today, isn't it?) that the reputation chick-lit has garnered for itself is what's hurting writers--be those writers "literary" or other. I say this as a chick-lit writer who was relieved of her publishing contract due to my books not being chick-littish enough and also because if I were a more well-known writer, I'd be known automatically as a chick-lit writer because Love Like That was published under the screaming pink banner of chick-lit so that, naturally, categorizes it as a chick-lit novel. There, has, however, been some dispute as to whether Love Like That is really a chick-lit novel...which I tend to think has been somewhat harmful to Love Like That, and not because I would like to be known as a "literary" writer but because "literary" readers automatically shy away from chick-lit and chick-lit readers are prone to shy away from novels that have been branded as chick-lit, yet contain such vile, filthy and supposedly immoral practices as one would find within the pages of Love Like That.
But is it...or isn't it?
I could write a whole litany of reasons why it is or isn't...but I don't feel like it. (I will change my mind about that below.) This post is not in defense of chick-lit or myself being labeled as a chick-lit writer. (I will also take this statement back, below.) This post is about how annoying and embarrassing and upsetting this utterly retarded argument can be...and especially because certain chick-lit books are what unfortunately define the genre for all others and the opinions of certain chick-lit authors are what seem to represent the minds of all others.
Which isn't true, by the way. It's just unfortunate that it's taken that way. See below:
The only issue here is the one that the chick literati never address but instead try to obfuscate with the red herrings of feminism and elitism, which is that their writing is hackneyed and boring and bad. Point out to a chick-lit author that her writing is inferior and formulaic, and she will call you a vengeful, misogynistic stone-thrower.
Sometimes, this is absolutely true. It's what most bothers me about being grouped in with the chick-lit shuffle. I would never be so bold as to cry tyranny that Love Like That or any book like it hasn't been reviewed by the NYT. Nor do I claim to be a feminist or anything even close to it. I don't think my chick-lit writing's inferior, but I don't compare it to classic literature or modern greats, either. If someone dislikes Love Like That, I find it's usually based on several factors--the raw characters, the language, the rampant use of drugs and alcohol without tying either to a painful addiction or a sad childhood, the cheating, etc.--none of which lead back to a disgruntled reader being a vengeful, mysogynistic stone-thrower. Formulaic, maybe--Dalton does talk about what she wears and inserts designer labels, the story does revolve mostly around her troubles with boys and men, and she does dislike her job and her revolting ladyboss...but realistically, what urban, American woman at the age of 25 doesn't experience these things?
From the article, again...
It’s because the market is saturated by bad writers claiming to rep for all women, crowding the bookshelves, making sure their one marginal, vapid story is produced ten million times over, like some pretty pink version of hell.
Again, this sort of resonates--especially the first part of it. Not saying all the most successful chick-lit writers are bad writers, but as a chick-lit writer, I cringe when certain other chick-lit writers go on the crusade and nearly laud the assumption that we ALL share the same opinions. Especially when I, as a reader, disliked their books immensely. I won't name them because God forbid someone important stumble upon this blog and immediately bar me a sister-hater and an asshole for not liking all the most beloved chick-lit faves. Some of them, I couldn't even read past the first 20 pages. Some of them made me want to start fires.
So maybe chick-lit has made it all a little more challenging for non-chick-lit writers...but another way of looking at it is, chick-lit has also made it that much more difficult for chick-lit writers who don't exactly fit in with the reigning chick-lit regime.
By the industry standards, I write chick-lit. It can't be disputed. I write about young women who have romantic issues and live in big cities, experience frustration at work and love Louis Vuitton bags. However...it can be disputed that I don't really write chick-lit because some of the elements my books contain don't exactly speak to chick-lit readers. The men in my books are rarely dreamy, usually more like nightmares. The women in my books drink heavily, smoke, have mouths that would make Quentin Tarantino proud and engage in questionable sexual practices. I make cultural references that probably make a lot of readers wonder what the hell I'm talking about--such as, Jeremy likening his and Doll's relationship to Sid & Nancy and the characters in Only the Lucky being heavily into UFC. Some would say, that's me not being able to relate to my audience and therefore not being a chick-lit writer.
All the same...I write chick-lit. And so do a lot of other people. Some of it is truly awful. Some of it is pure entertainment. Where my chick-lit writing falls, so it does. Some people love it, and others choose to think of it as fluff, trash or a total waste of paper. So be it. I was the one who chose to put it out there.
Someday, when I hopefully don't have to waste myself on a paying career from dawn to dusk, I will probably get around to writing novels with a mainstream appeal. But until then, should I be: A) crucified for giving my characters the purses I, myself, wish I could afford, or B) considered a fucking moron because I would consider it a success if even just a handful of young women out there pick up a book I wrote and are pleased to find a little bit of themselves within its pages, while on a train, a plane, a treadmill or a strip of sandy seashore?
Should any of us?
Now it does sound like I'm posting in defense of chick-lit and myself as a chick-lit writer, so maybe that actually is what this post is about. Maybe I'm just very exhausted of having to make excuses for the kind of writing I do...or maybe I'm just very upset that because four or five books out there have virtually defined the genre, the rest of us are totally fucked.
I guess what I'm getting at, truly, is that I just wish ALL chick-lit writers didn't have to be lumped together as one high-and-mighty, indignant, literarily-challenged feminist who thinks she's saving the world by writing about many of the things that most (if not all) women love, hate, experience and think about at least a few times in their lives.
Some of us just like to spend our free time writing our silly little books, I guess.
I just found this article about you know what, chick-lit is bad, courtesy of Bookslut. I was compelled to blog up a response.
It's my humble opinion (which is on the loose today, isn't it?) that the reputation chick-lit has garnered for itself is what's hurting writers--be those writers "literary" or other. I say this as a chick-lit writer who was relieved of her publishing contract due to my books not being chick-littish enough and also because if I were a more well-known writer, I'd be known automatically as a chick-lit writer because Love Like That was published under the screaming pink banner of chick-lit so that, naturally, categorizes it as a chick-lit novel. There, has, however, been some dispute as to whether Love Like That is really a chick-lit novel...which I tend to think has been somewhat harmful to Love Like That, and not because I would like to be known as a "literary" writer but because "literary" readers automatically shy away from chick-lit and chick-lit readers are prone to shy away from novels that have been branded as chick-lit, yet contain such vile, filthy and supposedly immoral practices as one would find within the pages of Love Like That.
But is it...or isn't it?
I could write a whole litany of reasons why it is or isn't...but I don't feel like it. (I will change my mind about that below.) This post is not in defense of chick-lit or myself being labeled as a chick-lit writer. (I will also take this statement back, below.) This post is about how annoying and embarrassing and upsetting this utterly retarded argument can be...and especially because certain chick-lit books are what unfortunately define the genre for all others and the opinions of certain chick-lit authors are what seem to represent the minds of all others.
Which isn't true, by the way. It's just unfortunate that it's taken that way. See below:
The only issue here is the one that the chick literati never address but instead try to obfuscate with the red herrings of feminism and elitism, which is that their writing is hackneyed and boring and bad. Point out to a chick-lit author that her writing is inferior and formulaic, and she will call you a vengeful, misogynistic stone-thrower.
Sometimes, this is absolutely true. It's what most bothers me about being grouped in with the chick-lit shuffle. I would never be so bold as to cry tyranny that Love Like That or any book like it hasn't been reviewed by the NYT. Nor do I claim to be a feminist or anything even close to it. I don't think my chick-lit writing's inferior, but I don't compare it to classic literature or modern greats, either. If someone dislikes Love Like That, I find it's usually based on several factors--the raw characters, the language, the rampant use of drugs and alcohol without tying either to a painful addiction or a sad childhood, the cheating, etc.--none of which lead back to a disgruntled reader being a vengeful, mysogynistic stone-thrower. Formulaic, maybe--Dalton does talk about what she wears and inserts designer labels, the story does revolve mostly around her troubles with boys and men, and she does dislike her job and her revolting ladyboss...but realistically, what urban, American woman at the age of 25 doesn't experience these things?
From the article, again...
It’s because the market is saturated by bad writers claiming to rep for all women, crowding the bookshelves, making sure their one marginal, vapid story is produced ten million times over, like some pretty pink version of hell.
Again, this sort of resonates--especially the first part of it. Not saying all the most successful chick-lit writers are bad writers, but as a chick-lit writer, I cringe when certain other chick-lit writers go on the crusade and nearly laud the assumption that we ALL share the same opinions. Especially when I, as a reader, disliked their books immensely. I won't name them because God forbid someone important stumble upon this blog and immediately bar me a sister-hater and an asshole for not liking all the most beloved chick-lit faves. Some of them, I couldn't even read past the first 20 pages. Some of them made me want to start fires.
So maybe chick-lit has made it all a little more challenging for non-chick-lit writers...but another way of looking at it is, chick-lit has also made it that much more difficult for chick-lit writers who don't exactly fit in with the reigning chick-lit regime.
By the industry standards, I write chick-lit. It can't be disputed. I write about young women who have romantic issues and live in big cities, experience frustration at work and love Louis Vuitton bags. However...it can be disputed that I don't really write chick-lit because some of the elements my books contain don't exactly speak to chick-lit readers. The men in my books are rarely dreamy, usually more like nightmares. The women in my books drink heavily, smoke, have mouths that would make Quentin Tarantino proud and engage in questionable sexual practices. I make cultural references that probably make a lot of readers wonder what the hell I'm talking about--such as, Jeremy likening his and Doll's relationship to Sid & Nancy and the characters in Only the Lucky being heavily into UFC. Some would say, that's me not being able to relate to my audience and therefore not being a chick-lit writer.
All the same...I write chick-lit. And so do a lot of other people. Some of it is truly awful. Some of it is pure entertainment. Where my chick-lit writing falls, so it does. Some people love it, and others choose to think of it as fluff, trash or a total waste of paper. So be it. I was the one who chose to put it out there.
Someday, when I hopefully don't have to waste myself on a paying career from dawn to dusk, I will probably get around to writing novels with a mainstream appeal. But until then, should I be: A) crucified for giving my characters the purses I, myself, wish I could afford, or B) considered a fucking moron because I would consider it a success if even just a handful of young women out there pick up a book I wrote and are pleased to find a little bit of themselves within its pages, while on a train, a plane, a treadmill or a strip of sandy seashore?
Should any of us?
Now it does sound like I'm posting in defense of chick-lit and myself as a chick-lit writer, so maybe that actually is what this post is about. Maybe I'm just very exhausted of having to make excuses for the kind of writing I do...or maybe I'm just very upset that because four or five books out there have virtually defined the genre, the rest of us are totally fucked.
I guess what I'm getting at, truly, is that I just wish ALL chick-lit writers didn't have to be lumped together as one high-and-mighty, indignant, literarily-challenged feminist who thinks she's saving the world by writing about many of the things that most (if not all) women love, hate, experience and think about at least a few times in their lives.
Some of us just like to spend our free time writing our silly little books, I guess.
Funny mocking of celebs and MHO
I've spent the last two days shamelessly laughing at the absolute hilarity of these two sites, galleryoftheabsurd.com and gofugyourself.com, and absolutely cannot get enough. Especially amusing are the artistic renderings of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears on the gallery (along with captions so scathingly right on it's uncanny) and the posts "from" Britney and K-Fed on go fug. This shit is pure genius. I only wish I didn't discover it a little sooner.
Even more funny, the hostile, angry, poorly spelled viewer/reader comments. "Leeve the Britsteer alonne! Your juste jeless!", "How daire yu make the funn of Brad Pitt? Hes a GRATE fother!!!", etc., etc. I will be the first to admit I read Star and US Weekly, among others, more often than I read the news (sorry Dad), but that's just because the news is depressing and bleak most times (thanks to the media frenzy surrounding that JonBenet wannabe killer sick freak I now know more about the horror that is pedophilia than I ever hoped to know) and celeb reporting is just comical. That said, it's too bad that so many people (and usually ignorant people, at that) can't see the humor in a society so truly obsessed by celeb culture, and furthermore the humor in making fun of people who have made it their lifelong ambition to stand in front of a camera and then scream about not having any privacy as soon as cameras abound. You cease to be "like a normal person" once you become a celeb, that is what is meant by the word celebrity. (Which I of course know because I am a FAMOUS writer!)
I guess what I'm getting at is my feeling that people need to lighten up. It seems like people get so upset so easily these days, then use posting as the vehicle for their illogical, not to mention grammatically incomprehensible ranting. Sometimes I read the message boards on IMDB just to remind myself to be thankful that I have a brain. Then I get sad because people who seemingly don't have brains at all are still allowed to use computers. If you're not supposed to operate heavy machinery under the influence of alcohol, which makes you dumb, then why should you be allowed to use sophisticated machinery under the influence of your own stupidity?
My thoughts on an otherwise dull day. (As I write about the senselessness of ranting on the Internet and then, you know, rant on the Internet...)
Even more funny, the hostile, angry, poorly spelled viewer/reader comments. "Leeve the Britsteer alonne! Your juste jeless!", "How daire yu make the funn of Brad Pitt? Hes a GRATE fother!!!", etc., etc. I will be the first to admit I read Star and US Weekly, among others, more often than I read the news (sorry Dad), but that's just because the news is depressing and bleak most times (thanks to the media frenzy surrounding that JonBenet wannabe killer sick freak I now know more about the horror that is pedophilia than I ever hoped to know) and celeb reporting is just comical. That said, it's too bad that so many people (and usually ignorant people, at that) can't see the humor in a society so truly obsessed by celeb culture, and furthermore the humor in making fun of people who have made it their lifelong ambition to stand in front of a camera and then scream about not having any privacy as soon as cameras abound. You cease to be "like a normal person" once you become a celeb, that is what is meant by the word celebrity. (Which I of course know because I am a FAMOUS writer!)
I guess what I'm getting at is my feeling that people need to lighten up. It seems like people get so upset so easily these days, then use posting as the vehicle for their illogical, not to mention grammatically incomprehensible ranting. Sometimes I read the message boards on IMDB just to remind myself to be thankful that I have a brain. Then I get sad because people who seemingly don't have brains at all are still allowed to use computers. If you're not supposed to operate heavy machinery under the influence of alcohol, which makes you dumb, then why should you be allowed to use sophisticated machinery under the influence of your own stupidity?
My thoughts on an otherwise dull day. (As I write about the senselessness of ranting on the Internet and then, you know, rant on the Internet...)
Monday, August 28, 2006
I apologize for being such a bad blogger of late. It's just that I don't really have anything in particular I feel like posting about. And, I highly doubt you want to know even more about my aviation phobia, the local insect population, my love of Mexican food and the frustrations of my writing "career". Maybe you do. Or maybe I should create an imaginary child to blog adorable tales about? Maybe I'll just blog about buying a blender, cleaning my apartment, doing laundry, emptying my fridge of old produce, being hot when I go outside and doing virtually nothing at work today. That's what it's really all about.
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