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

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

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

Anyway...

One of two things has to be going on here:

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

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

What's it really all about?

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

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

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

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

So what stops me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll never know.

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

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

Rejection

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

I'm in a posting mood!

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

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

Rejection, rejection, rejection

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

Getting Back to My Roots

Are you still out there?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I forgot what that feels like. It feels great.

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

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

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

And that, is my plan.

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

Until then:

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

Apparently this NYT column generated some anger:

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

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

Anna Nicole

This is how you should be remembered.

2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year!

Happy Thanksgiving

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

I HAVE FAN FICTION!!!

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

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

The Saga of the Wine Bottle

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

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

Work Sucks (But I Need the Bucks)

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

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

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

-Las Vegas is beautiful, wish you were here;

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

-Ciao!

Introducing Lisbon Sommerset

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

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

by Lisbon Sommerset

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

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

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

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

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

PL: I see. Next guest?

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

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

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

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

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

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

LB

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

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

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