one thing leads to another

This Saturday (tomorrow!!) – Odd Duck Bazaar in Hollywood, FL from 12 PM to 6 PM.

Awhile back, I self published a collection of short stories and poems (called Never a Shout Out). I created a modified “sampling” version of that for this next project…

I’m a sponsor with Odd Duck and the first 100 people in get a swag bag with something from me…the sample of Never a Shout Out…a ‘zine like, low (almost no) budget D.I.Y. publication…yea!

a lot like you

My stomach does not feel well. Maybe it's food poisoning.

I was thinking the other day about the 'write every day' thing...to write and post something, anything each day, just to stay fresh, current, active. But, when you do that (if you can actually do it, as I don't seem to be able to maintain it), aren't you just putting something, anything out there? And sacrificing your craft? Quantity over quality? Or is it better to do something rather than nothing.

And how obnoxious am I, calling it "your craft?"

catch on, catch up

There's an email running around a few sites...a particularly long and cringey kind of email...from a guy who went out with a lady and said lady ignored him and he wrote off huge cringey email. And as amusing and sad as the email was to read, I'm sure there are two sides to this story and geez, how awful (for the sender and the receiver) to 'leak' that email around the internet.

But, if one incorporates the people that they meet (when they're walking down the street) into her blog posts or fiction (or emo-centric poetry), isn't that similar? I would never (ok, almost never) use real names, but I have used real events (frequently), more as a reaction, more of a "I can't believe that happened!" and less of a "look at the freak and what dumb stuff he did!" Is that fair to the other person(s)? Should a writer, upon first meeting someone, warn that anything the person may do or say might eventually end up in a lyric or a short story? Or is that just simply poetic license, taking liberties with stuff that happens and the people around us (and hopefully changing names to protect the innocent)? Or have I just been watching too many reruns of Dragnet?

Hi there, Odd Duck supporters and new Facebook fans...

So, if you are visiting from an Odd Duck link and/or from my Facebook page...welcome and thanks for clicking through!

I'm a former music journalist, now fiction writer, trying to get her act together to get some stuff e-published and self-published. For now, though, please read on through....this site is some old blog posts of mine as well as some new, random stuff. It's usually entertaining...

blam

Feeling under the weather and uninspired but must keep the daily/at least frequent postings up...

I found some of my old diaries/journals (more on that later) and, yes, they are the guide for the teenage girl - no one understands me, everything is horrible, etc etc...but, I was also under the impression that my writing was not just good, but grand - world stoppingly wonderful...that it would be studied (and not fully understood) by scholars years and years from now. I'd like to get that back - that cocky sense, that inflated sense of self (or at least talent), that swagger...

sha na na na (repeat)

So...

I like the holiday time for many reasons but mostly because it brings out-of-towners back into town...friends that have moved away and are coming back for a little bit to visit family who are still down here. And it's nice to see those friends and always good to have them remind me of my goals...and the fact that I am still procrastinating.

It'd be nice if I could be discovered...if (ala a Mr. Show sketch) a literary agent would just come knocking on my door...but, that is not going to happen.

A friend I haven't seen for awhile suggested that I write every day, that I blog something every day...that even if it's crap (not his words), at least it's something. Which is true. Since I found out I'm going to be an Odd Duck sponsor, I told myself that I really need to blog weekly, just to keep fresh content up, but, no, it needs to be daily. Like brushing your teeth or drinking that first cup of coffee.

He also suggested that I needed to find my 'niche.' I thought I had a niche - writing about me and all the things I find interesting...but I understand what he meant...I need to focus. I know that I like over analyzing myself and situations and how I performed in said situations, etc...but, is that a blog? Well, it is a blog, but is it a readable, interesting blog? Should being a readable, interesting blog even be my goal, since the whole point is to write daily? If I'm writing just to write, shouldn't I not care about an (imagined) audience? (see? over analyzing)

I also enjoy complaining...I mean criticizing...films and television and music and stupid people. A Simon Cowell of blogging/writing. Yup.

So, yes, that's it. In the past, I was leery of declaring something in writing, as that made it real and, inevitably, up for jinxing...but, yes, I am going to write daily here. And it will probably mostly be me, prattling on about past events or something...but that's ok...and once I get the e-book self publishing down, I'll start plugging it here too...

(bonus points if you guess the title reference)

again and again

[originally posted on myspace on April 12, 2010]

1. Ok, I know a handful of people who read my blog. The rest of us? I have no idea...but thanks? Cool.

2. I don't understand chick music journalists (I am excluding myself from this group, obviously). Yes, I am stereotyping, but let me explain.

Someone posted a review of a show the other weekend and I started reading through the article, then the rest of the blog the article was on. Seems it's written by a female. Cool, she goes to lots of shows. I haven't seen her around (because I am still in an anti-social frame of mind, so, yeah, I haven't seen lots of people around, technically). But, cool, someone who goest to shows, can write actual, full sentences. Awesome! Reading further through, I noticed how often she calls a guy cute (or variation), or talks about boys in general (mostly, in a self-knocking way, how none of them like her in that way, in a like-like way). I will absolutely give slack, as this is her personal blog. She just happens to talk about a lot of shows...however, I'd noticed that chick music journalists (or writers or bloggers or hanger-oners) tend to discuss: a) the cuteness of various musicians and/or b) eventually launch into some diatribe about how unsupportive/lame/unorganized our "scene" is (I'm not saying it's not...I'm saying we don't really have a scene here). Now, in my younger days (I'm older now, I'm allowed to say that), I definitely prattled on and on about topic b, but I don't think (I am going to say I am 99.9% certain) I ever, ever said, in print, how "cute" (alluring, hot, charming, rakish good looks) a musician was, in the midst of a write up/review/interview. Ever. Because, well, I guess I am from the 'old school,' where you stick to the point and the point is the music (and maybe the atmosphere, if people watching the other drunks is worth the word count).

3. (surprised you there, huh?) I finally watched Nick & Nora's Infinite Playlist tonight. I DVR'd it awhile ago but just never got around to watching it as: a) I tend to tape movies and never get around to watching them, as sitting in front of the TV for two hours straight isn't always where my head's at and b) the ads for the movie looked achingly sweet/cute/indier than thou and I was worried to actually watch the movie...as it may suck. It was actually cute. Kind of predictable and the music placement, sometimes, kind of odd...but overall, cute. What I did not understand was, at the end, why Nick and Nora did not stick around for the Fluffy concert. Wasn't that the point, to find them and see their favorite band? At first, I thought, 'oh, Fluffy symbolizes their former lives, their exes and by not staying, they show they are moving on.' But Nick's ex totally left. They could have stuck around. Maybe it was along those lines, like life is now, band worship is not as important as new love. Eh.

stupid girl (chick lit)

[originally posted on myspace on August 20, 2008, Wednesday)]

I temporarily gave up on reading my beatnik women memoirs (because they were very analytic and depressing, save that for another post) and read two (two!) chick lit books loaned by N. Mostly out of boredom. So, let's bitch about books!

I started with Getting Warmer (by Carol Snow, 2007), which was kind of cute. It's about a pathological liar (but in a cute way) who has wacky misadventures at work, with friends and (of course) with a guy. I did skim the last couple chapters, because you knew despite all the "bad" events (wackiness unraveling) that happened would be neatly wrapped up by the end. But, it was light, easy to read and not hung up in names, which I suppose is chick lit (and how come brainless literature is associated with women?).

Then I read Everyone Worth Knowing (by Lauren Weisberger, 2006), mostly because the same author wrote the Devil Wears Prada (which I didn't read but I kind of liked the movie). It's a huge book and the author just throws characters at you left and right. I just didn't care enough to keep track of who was who. And then the name drops and label conscious paragraphs (which I've mentioned before)…

Long ago, when I was a child, I used to read all my dad's magazines (I was an odd child). I remember once he got some sort of business magazine and the article on the back page (for some reason, this has stuck with me through the years) was about how to properly reference product names in writing. For example, the article told a story about a housewife running around – one version with generics (such as "facial tissue") and one version with brand names ("Kleenex©" – yes, they had copyrights and trademarks after every name). I don't remember if the point was about copyright issues or how to make a story relatable by using brands the reader knows. Anyway…when I read it, I thought it was a cool concept (I was also probably 6 at the time), that real brands could exist in a fictional world.

But, I hate that (most) chick lit is lugged down with luxury brands, crap most people can't afford (or really, shouldn't want or aspire to afford…I mean shoes for a few thousand?), a kind of brand name porn for women. Blame Sex in the City. This book was just bogged down with names and (I guess) "hip" places in New York City. Ugh. The sad thing was that it was a decent story line (lady quits boring job to work in PR firm, has to pretend to date this guy for the favorable PR, falls for a club bouncer…then it gets into she realizes who her true friends are preachiness, blah). Overall, the book aggravated me. And poor N, she spent $24.99 on it.

So, I decided to try (what I thought would be) an "anti-chick lit" book, Veronica (by Mary Gaitskill, 2005). The book came highly recommended (from real fiction readers, not chick lit fans) and it sounded good. Two friends, 1980s modeling scene, drugs, partying, etc. I was so disappointed by this book. It was incredibly difficult to settle into and even then, if you could get a few chapters in, things didn't make sense. The narrator (who apparently has some drug residue on the brain) reminisces yet springs forward to the now, sometimes mid-paragraph and while it sounds like a good writing technique, the execution failed miserably. In the end, you get a story that is hard to follow (filled with disease, blugh) about characters you don't even care about, hell, that you start to hate after awhile because they can't be followed. I'm up for a challenging read, but this storyline didn't even reward you for the attempt. The narrator was supposed to be poetic and stream of consciousness, but it just came off clunky and unapproachable. I gave up on it half way through and try as I might, I don't care to continue reading it. I haven't even skipped to the last chapter to see how things turn out (because I don't care and because, judging by the odd pacing of the book, the last chapter will probably provide no wrap up).

I have All We Wanted Was Everything (by Janelle Brown, 2008) on my to read next pile (but I am worried the book won't live up to the hype), but, first, to make up for all this fluff reading, I am currently plodding through The Working Poor: Invisible in America (by David Shipler, 2005), which essentially features case studies of different low income workers, ranging from Wal-Mart employees to sweatshop workers (and some economic and government analysis). So far, so good (but the author really likes to harp on the fact that spoiled American consumers need to understand how their goods get made). I mostly bought it because I was so disappointed by Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America (by Barbara Ehrenreich, 2008).

Did I mention that yet? I don't think so. I heard so much praise over Nickel and Dimed that I couldn't wait to read it. Essentially, it is a true story about a newspaper columnist/writer who went "undercover" to work minimum wage jobs. Again, fantastic concept, horrible execution.

My biggest problem is (I know, I was surprised at myself) that the author seemed to really pick on Wal-Mart. Everywhere else she worked got a generic name (I swear this one place she worked sounded like a Denny's but she called it Bobby's –something like that – I read this book six months or more ago, so little details are out of my brain), but Wal-Mart was flat out called Wal-Mart. I mean, be consistent. If you are going to use false names, use false names. Anyway, the other thing that bothered me is that the author was clueless. I suppose she lived a sheltered, cocooned life, but, I mean, she was surprised to learn minimum wage jobs were hard (duh), surprised to learn such jobs do drug testing (duuuh). She had an elitist attitude during the book and always seemed to keep herself separate from the jobs and the co-workers, which, I suppose (to some) it just proves you can never truly assimilate. But I think her attitude just encourages the stereotype that the "poor" (aka the working lower to lower-middle class on minimum wage, or not academic level, jobs) are different from you and I. No, they aren't. And in this economy, a sheltered professional could easily find herself out on her ass and having to take any job that would take her.

not an interview

[originally posted on myspace on October 28, 2008, Thursday]

There are some things I am particular about. And I have a cold so I'm grumpy.

A "Q&A" reprint is not an interview.

I hate when a publication (print, online, whatever) runs an "interview" that is just in a "question/answer" format, such as:

Q: Why did you decide to such and such?

A: When I was a young child, an angel visited me and told me that I needed to do such and such by my 21st birthday...blah blah blah.

I hate that format! That is not an interview.

Writing some questions and copying and pasting word for word the response (you emailed your subject those questions, didn't you?) is lazy. You should take the answers and weave it into a story. Take those answers and mix in background/bio info. That is an interview. And operating from a set list of questions (that is, everyone, no matter what, gets the same list of questions, in the same order) is so lazy. You run the risk of asking questions that aren't applicable and you miss out on the opportunity of a follow up - related to the subject's unique answer - question.

Ugh.

chick lit (part two)

[originally posted on myspace on Monday, February 4, 2008]

[I was dreaming when I wrote this ... again, another case of when I wrote this in my head last night, it made sense, but now...eh...]

Judy Blume turns 70 next week.

Yeah, wow, mull that one over.

Anyway, in a recent interview, she says she wrote Forever (one of the few Blume books I didn't read…I was probably too hung up in the Babysitters Club) because her teenage daughter asked her to do "a story about two nice kids who have sex without either of them having to die."

And it is so true. Especially the young adult/teen fiction of my generation, if the girl had sex, she was a slut and/or it resulted in pregnancy, a disease or death. Same for drugs/alcohol/smoking cigarettes or anything "bad" (fighting with your parents resulted in your running away and becoming a hooker that landed a mean pimp and got you strung out on drugs).

And I think it's true of most current fiction aimed at women, when not hung up in consumer trappings (see my last blog entry rant). The main character (sometimes an accessory character if we don't want to ugly up the heroine) will learn a lesson and have an epiphany and change her whole life. That's fine. Sometimes it takes a tragedy to wake a person up. But why does a person (in fiction) always have to have something major and bad happen? That's not reality.

Case in point: I've written (and rewritten, but that's another entry) two "novels." Written about five or so years apart.

In one, the main character is male and possibly crazy. He kills people (possibly). Yet, he has no real epiphany. Nothing bad really ever happens.

In the second one, the main character is female and, for all intents and purposes, "normal." She is a very, very loose interpretation of me (mostly, I took stuff that happened to me and stretched it extremely far, for story purposes). The girl drinks and has sex. No big deal. But I have worked on and off on this story for years and over time, over many edits, in several failed attempts to move the story along, the heroine has been through everything (dying estranged father, dead sibling, mentally ill sibling, drug habit, rape, abortion, DUI and resulting detox treatment, I can't even remember what else). I thought that was a necessary plot device, action to move the story along. My intentions were that she needed to have something "major" happen in order to change her life.

But, why should she?

Why can't my girl be happy drinking and liking boys? I'm not saying that the heroine should magically find herself in a fairytale setting, but, hell, she's been through the fictional wringer, while the male character in the other novel kills people and has no real aftermath. Yes, a person can make bad choices and yes, sometimes things occur because of it, but it doesn't mean that the worst possible scenario will automatically happen (i.e. the kids having sex resulting in disease, pregnancy and death).

So, yeah, I gotta go do some editing…

chick lit (part one)

[originally posted on myspace on Monday, February 4, 2008]

I don't remember if I've gone into this before or not (so I'll be brief on this point): chick lit today sucks.

I know this because of the books I had to endure during the short lived work book club. The storyline was almost always the same: cute yet quirky (but not too quirky) heroine is all happy with her cool job (usually as a magazine editor), with her cool friends (always one slutty one and one quirky/weird one), with her label obsession (brand name drop here) that involves shoes, purses, and/or Starbucks. The only thing missing is a man. Romantic snafus ensue and lo and behold, at the end of the novel, she's got herself a man. I blame Sex in the City.

The women at work that love these books (ranging in ages from 25-55, all married, most with kids –young to adult) also started raving about the show Cashmere Mafia (I'd make a joke about this being the poor woman's Sex in the City, but since SITC is now syndicated so you don't need cable to see it…). I tried to watch it (as I tried to also watch Grey's Anatomy…oh, but save that for another entry). It was awful. Again: high powered jobs (can a woman not have a job as a lawyer/doctor/magazine editor anymore?), SITC stereotypes, the worst dialogue/lines ever, same plot lines (ooh, one might be lesbian…how racy…in 1994, thanks).

So, why do the women at work love these shows and books? They certainly aren't a mirror to their own lives. Why do they want to watch/read about label-centric women rushing around trying to get a man?

That's when I came to realize – it's their escapism (their porn, if you will).They are working boring office jobs and drinking boring generic coffee in the kitchen. No personal assistants to make Starbucks runs here. They spend their money on kids/medical visits/mortage payments/boring stuff. No burnable income to spend with hot but not gay husbands on trips, Prada bags, shoes costing a few hundred dollars a piece, no weekly visits to the hair salon to stay current and blown out. So, why not escape and pretend?

And that's well and good, at times (seriously, one of my favorite guilty pleasures is a bad Jackie Collins novel). But it's quickly killing off any good, legit chick oriented literature because when only the crap sells, the crap will only get published.

I miss Judy Blume books.

I have more to this rant, but I'll continue in a second entry (as it kind of changes subjects).