Monty Python circa 1975

I watch a lot of old news clips and read through tons of archived newspapers (I love the ads!) and found this gem from 1975. First of all, the intro with its syrupy sweet music is like some stoned composer's idea of what America should be singing in their shower every morning after five cups of Folgers. Then you have the perky little redhead who is a perfect foil for the Monty Python Troupe (sans master Cleese). They all but take over the ABC studios, and by the ending credits--with that same syrupy music, although slowed down to a hypnotic drugged pace--are tearing apart the set with occasional assaults to that perky redhead. One last shot focuses in on a maniacal Terry Jones, mustache askew. I'd love to see the show in its entirerty, commercial breaks and all.

My favorite part though, is Peter Jennings. He looks none too happy to be part of the fun with his serious reports on all that war-stuff business going on in Saigon. Wawawa. Oh, and I love the little time breaks. Why can't morning television be like this again?

Time and Patience

Like many emerging writers, I thought the mere act of writing a book would bring me cash flow and semi-fame. I figured most people never finish writing theirs, and those that did would probably never submit. I'd have it made by finishing mine, giving a good, clean edit and sending it off to the magic world of agents. They'd read the first couple of pages and go, "WOW!" and contact me immediately with a big contract. Sheesh. How wrong was I?

Writing a book is hard, but there are loads of people out there with not only one, but multiple manuscripts waiting for representation. Finding an agent is one of the most difficult things one can do on this earth, but I've heard being on submission is even worse. And money, if any, isn't going to start pouring in. It may trickle, it may spurt, but it isn't going to be like an avalanche of green. The publishing industry is in a weird state presently, and money is following along in cautious step.

And patience. I wrote my first manuscript in a month, but it took years to shape it into something I could be truly proud of, then another year of working with an editor. It takes months to hear back from agents, it takes time to be on submission; if you're a short story writer it takes many months to hear back from journals, and even longer to see your work in print. Any writer who believes they can bypass all this waiting will only find themselves on the losing end. Remember what happened in the Tortoise and the Hare?

And it's no different for those who self-publish. I've witnessed the process and can say that while a SP book generally has a faster release date than that of someone who has followed a more traditional route, there is still much waiting to be had, and a lot more pressure to promote. Bookstores and libraries are often less willing to stock a self-published work.

So, go into writing with realistic expectations. Instead of placing your enjoyment on the idea of money and instant fame, put it where it really belongs: the actual writing, the joy of your character's actions, the satisfaction of a job well done. That, in the end, is what matters.

Another Monday

I couldn't sleep last night worrying if I was too tough yesterday, but honestly, I do feel like a person has to say no sometimes. Wouldn't it be nice if we could all just live together without ever having to say 'no' or 'you can't?' I mean, I preach peace and love, but even I have my limits. It probably stems from my childhood where I was the most polite, quiet, rule-abiding child known to man. So, pretty much any kid acting bad gets on my nerves. And kids who act REALLY bad turn me into the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld. "No soup for you!"

Coco has figured out how to get out of the box, even after I tried to make the opening higher with taped-on panels. So now . . . kittens are running wild!!! It's never going to be enough for Coco. No wall, no door, no gates, no windows. She wants out, and out is anything that she's not in.

Grape plays kind of rough with her brood. It's quite scary to see. She grabs them with her paws, and wraps her teeth around their neck. Then her back feet start kicking, like she's killing a bunny. There's been a few times where I felt the need to intervene, but I've also seen where the kittens seemed to enjoy it and I just stay back.

All this kitten talk has probably scared off a huge percentage of bloggers. It's that crazy cat lady blog! What can I do? I could talk about writing every second. I could give you a play-by-play of every word I type, or the loathsome thoughts that run through my mind after reading back a day's work. Do you want that? No, you really don't. I can tell you about marketing. It's going fine. I have a blog tour set up, book reviewers have gotten back with me. That's about it.

Now back to cats!

Coco

Picasso

And kids!

Liam

Liam and Julia

Julia

Are you still here? I thought you'd flatlined. Tomorrow, I PROMISE I won't talk about cats and kids.  

Not Mister Rogers' Neighborhood

On Saturdays the neighbor kids ring the bell after lunch and ask for my kids to come over. After they leave I get to work cleaning and vacuuming because Julia can be extremely messy with all her art stuff and little cooking experiments. By the time I go over to tell them to come home, I have the place looking spectacular.

The neighbor kids like to come over too when I pick the kids up. It's like a reciprocation, and I have to agree that it's a nice trade for being able to get the house clean for a few minutes. 

But as previously stated, there have been problems with kids taking food without permission. First of all, no one is starved at home, and second, I love to feed kids but after a while I need some 'thank yous' or I get annoyed. There has been A LOT of food taking and no 'thank yous' lately, so much that I have started hiding food. The thing is, if you've ever given a kid ice cream, and they ask for more and start screaming when you tell them no, you have a problem. When they both asked for ice cream yesterday I decided to use a new tactic, "Can I have ice cream when I come to your house?" The little boy was like, "Uh . . . ." The girl said, "NO. We don't have any." The little boy interrupted her, "Yes we do! We have those candy popsicles!" She gave him a look that said, "SHUT UP." I just wanted them to think about what it feels like to give. 

But it backfired on me. When their grandmother came to take them home the little boy said, "Amy wants to come over and eat ice cream." Geesh. Kid. 

Whoops. 

Really, it was so bad yesterday that I may have a lockdown on visits. Julia was upset and wanted to go over there and tell them to behave so they could all still play together. As it was, she didn't need to, they came back and rang our bell because Julia had forgotten something at their house. She met them at the door saying, "You guys can't keep taking food without asking! And don't throw all the toys on the floor anymore!" They both looked at her like she was paste. "Go in the house, Julia!" Then Liam stepped on a bee and life took a different turn for a few minutes. Ah kids. 

The Capture

It was early summer and early in the afternoon. My sister sat talking on the phone with an ex-friend, Mom was at work, and I stood at the kitchen counter making little pizzas out of English Muffins. A rift had started between Cathy and Becky, a girl who lived down the road a few blocks. Becky had borrowed Cathy's roller-skates, the nice ones Mom had bought from a garage sale. She'd yet to return them and was now claiming amnesia over their existence.

While spreading pizza sauce on a toasted English Muffin, I listened as Cathy argued over and over for the girl to just return her skates so she could forget the whole thing and get back to her summer. The voice in the receiver came out with screeches and angry denials. 

I had always wondered about that Becky. She was kind of bossy and mean, always saying things with an authority that didn't seem genuine. And sure, she could come over and play with our stuff whenever she wanted, but the second we went to her house she'd snap at us not to touch anything! I was glad Cathy didn't hang out with her anymore. But I did think it was stupid to argue so much over the skates. Mom could deal with it, or maybe Becky would have a change of heart and return them after all.

Another thirty minutes passed, Cathy was not going to give up. Suddenly she turned to me with a vivid expression, clamping a palm down on the receiver. "Amy, would you do something for me? Walk down to Becky's house and stand outside. She has this other girl there and they're saying stuff about me, but I can't hear all of it. You go down there and listen outside her window, then come back with a report."

I stood for awhile, debating this awful plan. Why was I always made the scapegoat? Cathy used all my nice clothes, usually ignored me, and now I was supposed to do her dirty work? 

"Hurry, or they'll catch on!" A look of annoyance crossed her face, so I agreed to go. The only thing worse than my sister ignoring me was when she was mad at me. She could real be evil sometimes.

I left the house and walked up the street. It was a nice day, some boys were out playing ball in their front yard. A man leaned over his motorcycle by the ditch, pieces and parts of greasy metal in his smudged hands. By the time I made it to Becky's house though, clouds had gathered, and the day looked ominous. 

I approached the house and stood under the front windows, which were open. I heard two voices inside talking fast. They spoke of Cathy and I grew upset. No matter how mean she was to me, she was still my sister! Then I heard them laugh. Someone mentioned the skates. Becky still had them! They were in her garage at that very moment, hidden behind a pile of boxes. I looked to the garage, but it was locked. I'd just go home and tell Cathy and let her deal with it from there. At least we knew the truth. 

Quietly, I crept away from the house. But in mere seconds two angry girls rushed out the front door and grabbed my by the forearms. "A spy! We knew it! We knew it!" They dragged me inside, not at all gentle with their hands. "We'll beat you; we'll kill you prisoner!"

My stomach rose out of its holdings and I felt everything solid turn to quivering jello. Would they really kill me? What kind of people said things like that? It was awful. 

"What did you hear?" they asked, grabbing a jumprope and tying me to a wooden chair in the kitchen. I winced as the rope pulled tight, cutting into my skin. Becky searched the kitchen for something else. She decided to use saran warp on my ankles, then with a smile, wrapped a dishtowel across my mouth and tied it behind my head. "Cathy will have to come get you herself, and then we'll capture her too."

I watched her pick up the phone and dial a number. "That was real stupid of you sending your sister to spy on us. We've kidnapped her and we ain't gonna let her go. Shouldn't have accused me of stealing your skates!" The receiver slammed down.

Sitting there all tied up like a pork loin, I tried to figure out if I wanted Cathy to come save me, or if I should just try to escape somehow. I didn't want her to get caught too, but at the same time, I really had to pee. 

She did show up. It felt like hours later, but when I heard her familiar voice at Becky's front door I about fainted. Then I heard her come inside. "NO! NO!" I tried to yell, with yeasty dishcloth stuffed in my mouth. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, then there was a scuffle in the kitchen. With fists batting at her, Cathy worked hard to untie me from the chair. She'd barley gotten the towel from my face before yelling for me to, "Hit it out the back door!"

We both ran. Becky's porch had some loose boards, but we got down and made it halfway across the back yard. But then I felt two hands clamp down on my arms again. They pulled so hard that a scream tore from my lips. A feeling of hopelessness knifed through me as I watched Cathy head through the alley to the street. I had the sick realization that Becky might actually kill me. I could hear it in her voice. She was the kind of human that would actually kill. She had a deformed soul. 

I was desperate. I lashed and whipped out of her grasp. She swore something and I jetted forward. Then the most amazing thing happened, when I got to the alley I saw Mom's car coming down the street. Cathy must have called her before coming over and everything had worked out in perfect time. We grabbed the door handles before the car even stopped, and Mom sped off the second we clicked them shut. "That girl's crazy! Don't hang out with her anymore." 

I peeked out the window and saw Becky standing in the alley, completely out of breath. For a nanosecond I studied her face: a maniac, a killer. It gave me chills. 

Later I asked Cathy if she still wanted to get her skates back, and she shrugged. She hadn't yet apologized for sending me over there, and I hadn't yet thanked her for saving my life. But I knew, and she knew. It was just the way we were. 

Jealousy

The beautiful, talented Jessica Bell wrote about jealousy on her blog yesterday, as she's had some comments lately that were less than kind. I wanted to touch on the subject just for a little bit because I think all us creative types have been, or have been creators of, this ugly green monster called jealousy. So, what I want to say is that, first of all, allowing yourself to feel jealous over someone else's success is probably one of the most unhealthy things you can do to yourself, both emotionally and physically. Second of all, it makes the success that will eventually be yours (when it's your time), less than divine.

I learned this because, back when I started to pursue music and was trying to spread my wings so-to-speak, I met a young woman who had a lot of problems. I tried to help her out, and she in turn, seemed to become indebted to me. What I didn't see was that she was modeling herself after my ambitions of music and, like the movie All About Eve, would try to become me, but only a better me, and with so much strength that I would never really recover. That probably doesn't make any sense, but it's the best I can do to describe what happened. She learned how to play guitar, and began to cover all the songs I had in my reporatoire. Craziest of all, she had a fantastic voice. When she told me her plans of getting gigs at all the places I had spoken of, I tried to let go my feelings of alarm so that I could wish her success without sounding bitter. After all, I was glad to see her doing something positive that would help bring her out of drugs and depression. But then the worst thing happened: I couldn't get any gigs. No one at these places wanted me, because she had covered all the bases and volunteered herself to almost every single opening they had for live music. She was voracious. Another factor was her mother, who had decided to act as manager. She was hungry for her daughter to become the next big thing in music, because it would mean fame and moola. I made the mistake of saying that I was going to venture into another town to play, and low and behold, the mother wasted no time in booking this girl into the exact venues I mentioned. It felt as if I was being pushed out of everything I had ever dreamed of. It hurt me terribly. But life is like that, and sometimes there's nothing we can do but bow out and rethink what's really good and deal what's left after everything else dies away.

So that's what I did. I stepped away. I let her have what she wanted so bad. In the end, I knew--and this made me so mad to be wise like this!!--that she needed this fake glimmering thing called success and attention more than me. I could survive without it, but maybe she couldn't. There was nothing about that to be jealous of. 

And now I'm actually grateful for having gone through all of that because perhaps I would have been jealous of my own daughter. She's a very talented kid, and who knows . . . maybe I would have been bitter. All I feel is love for her. And I feel great love and admiration for those who are my competitors and colleagues. The thing is, we may all write, we all may be musicians and artists, but none of what we do can ever be compared because the mere fact that we are each our own separate human makes what we do unique. There's always going to be someone better, someone with a higher level of success, money, charm, you name it--so if you're looking to be on top, good luck 'cause the top is constantly changing. Just be happy for what you have and how much you have to give. And bless those that seem to have it all, because they probably don't. 

Death and Doom and Kittens

Last week the world breathed a sigh of relief when an extended Mayan calendar was found, this time with no hint of our demise in just a few short months. But the same day I read that, someone on Facebook posted a story saying a Mayan skull had fallen down in a laboratory, meaning we were all going to die again. As long as my book comes out before the Apocalypse, I'm good.

School's almost out, although Liam has a social group two mornings a week in June, and Julia has summer reading classes four days a week. So, I still have to get them up and ready just the same as always. Bummer. I was kind of looking forward to taking it easy for awhile. Darn education!!! Just kidding, I'm glad they are getting this educational advantage. We can still go to the pool and library and park in the afternoon. 

Grape's babies are now four weeks old. They look like real kittens; all fluffy and meowing. Coco has already tried to get out of the box, so I taped in a cardboard panel. But as she grows the panel, for her, keeps getting lower, haha. This weekend I sat and watched as Grape guarded the box by laying in front of it. Anytime Coco tried to get out, Grape would bat her in the head and knock her back into the box. Oh! So rough! And we talk about spanking. Grape is one tough Mama. Poor Coco though, she doesn't get it. She's determined to get out and find out what this life stuff is all about. 

Hopefully she has past December 21 to learn. 

Tanned, Toned and Totally Faking It

One of my fellow writers at WiDO has just published her debut novel TANNED, TONED AND TOTALLY FAKING IT, a story about a beautiful young college student who is thrust into fame and fortune too fast. She has a multitude of problems under the surface—a cheating ex-boyfriend, crazy manager—and must find a way to sort everything out all while being photographed by the paparazzi, and swathed by screaming fans. You can purchase the book at Amazon now in paperback or for Kindle.

I asked Whitney a few questions the other day and she gave great answers. So, if you have a little time, help a new writer out and head on over to her fabulous blog for a little fun.

Thank you Witney for taking the time out to do this! And much success on your book TANNED, TONED AND TOTALLY FAKING IT. I have my copy and can't wait to read it!

Beautiful Mothers

Happy Mother's Day to all you mommies out there! I got up early so that ruins breakfast in bed for me. Anyway, if I let Julia cook she'd mix up a huge bowl of flour/salt/sugar/eggs and then throw in some rose petals and coffee grounds. So, yeah, best that I not encourage the kids to cook!

What are some of your favorite moments as a mother, or that you member spending with your mother?  I always loved watching my mom garden. I loved the sight of her bent over the tall rows of corn or dill with the evening sun coming down. I also loved watching her roll out cookie or pie dough on the kitchen table.  Simple things, but they left a deep impression. I'd always sneak a tiny piece and she'd say I was going to get worms from uncooked dough. That must have been from her days of using beef lard instead of Crisco, and I'm sure her mother said the same thing to her!  

Have a beautiful day!

Oh Shazbot!

Are you lonely? Sick of your iPod? Well, I have just the thing for you: a very human looking robot that can sing, kick a ball (hmmm . . .) and even talk to you. Have you seen this? She looks so real-ish. All you men out there who are sick of us nagging women following you around with our hair in ponytails and no makeup on, this is your lucky day. Don't worry about making a male robot for us though, we're too busy cleaning up your crap. I'm sure there's the same unbalance in the system as there is in real life, and while you get a cute, adoring little chick, we'll get a guy with leaking oil and a bad tick. Yours will sing pretty songs and pour your beer, ours will have major malfunction in the worst of moments. That's okay, I'm not bitter.

Anyway, Robots in Motion, that's what they're called. Start saving.

The Elements

There was a huge storm the other night, and when I say huge I mean 'tornado a few blocks away' huge. Yeah. It sucked back up into the sky, thank goodness, but the storm that came afterwards was where the real actions was at. Hail, tons of it, rain, rain and more rain, wind, you name it. Had to carry the kittens downstairs when the sirens went off. But . . . I'm—we're—still here. Mwahahahahaha. It was pretty much like the video I posted yesterday.

The only thing worse than coming close to a Dorothy and Toto event is the door knockers that show up on the following days. Roofers. No, I don't want a new roof. I just had the one replaced in the fall. Yes, I know it hailed. My answer is still no. NO.

Now it's sunny and gorgeous.

And how about you? How's the weather in your neck of the woods (I stole that from a famous morning talk show)?

Bill Viola - The Raft - 2004

Here is a film recently shown at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City. It goes on forever, but that's pretty much the point.

Fan Friction

Okay, so I read the first few pages of FIFTY SHADES OF GREY just to see what all the fuss was about. I wasn't thrilled with the writing. To be honest, I don't know how it got past an editor. Yes, I know the history of it being fan fiction, but I still feel like it could have been polished before being released with a major publisher. And just to let you know, I didn't go into it looking for mistakes. But it was just very sloppy, and that's all I'll say.

Anyway, there's a story today about some libraries down in Florida refusing to carry the book because of its erotic content. My problem with this is, there are already books on the shelves that are just as erotic, if not more, only without all the media attention to make them stand out. Funny enough, there used to be this older guy that came in to the library who would stand in the back corner panting over all these types of books. Ick. He'd come up to the checkout desk later with stacks, and Iaintkiddingyou, stacks of hot, sweat-covered books. Oh my lord, it was so creepy. I hated checking out that guy's books. Buuuuutttt, this is America, and we are adults. We can check out whatever we want. No one should be able to decide what someone else can check out. Should there be a label on it? Maybe. Just like movies. But one person's opinion of what is morally acceptable should not interfere with a county, tax-fed institution.

And, okay . . . no, I wouldn't want my daughter to go check out the above mentioned book, but more because of the insane number of "Holy Cow's" being used throughout. It was extremely annoying.

What do you guys think? Have you read it? Should it be banned from libraries?

Shirley MaClaine

You know, I'd like to see a pole dancer try these moves!

Stressful Job

I used to work retail every evening and weekend of my life, then I worked catalog, and then I worked at a library which was my favorite job until I had the boss from hell. You know those people, they never actually work, they just sit around drinking diet soda and thinking up ways to make your life a living hell. They make friends with the head honchos and pitch their slimy ideas so that you—swamp moss—go home every night depressed and clutching books such as "Macrame Nooses for Dummies" or "How to Meditate Yourself into a Better Job" or "Chicken Soup for the Suicidal Soul."

This boss I had, she would roll her eyes anytime a library patron asked for help. Checking out books, handling books, answering phones—it was all beneath her. And so we were beneath her as well, because it was our destiny to do all that awful stuff of work and human relations. She disliked our very existence. Her door remained closed most hours of the day. One in a while I'd see her slip out to get another diet soda, aloof expression nailed to her face. She'd walk by, ignoring the low staffing, long lines, phones ringing off the hooks. One day a newbie asked her for help, because it was in this boss' description to contribute to the desk at least 20 hours a week, and she gave the newly hired young woman a brow beating. I myself had learned never to ask. The next day the girl was gone.

The worst came on a day when no one came in to work and I had to run the place alone. Lunchtime came and went. Someone from another department told me to go in the back and take a quick break, because it was the law. So I did. I ate as fast as I could, but the phones started ringing. I could hear customers' voices getting louder out front. From the break room I could see her office door, and never once did it open, never once did she pick up the phone. 

There's a lot of politics at your local library. I had to quit that job because of rules and egos. I still miss working there. I miss the books, the people, the atmosphere. But she's still there, so . . .

Anyone else have stories of a boss or job from hell? 

Puppy Dog Tails

What was your very first pet? Cat, dog, hamster, bird, turtle? Or were you not allowed to have any? Mine was Butch. I have no idea what his breed might have been, but he was fairly large with a tan coat and a big snout. I remember being taken to the open field behind our block where a crowd of people had gathered. Up on a slight hill were puppies and children, the mixture running together in a heavenly sort of dreamish joy. Next thing I knew I was up there on that hill, and puppies were licking my face and we were all—kids and puppies—running and rolling together. What is a parent to do when a child falls in love with a pet? God opened her palm and handed my siblings and I a clearance to happiness. Then we were off to our home, usually a dark and miserable palce. We spent every living moment immersed in the glow of water-mushed Purina, that red-checkered brand with the chuck wagon and chasing mutt. Puppy breath, like sweet elixir, woke us each morning. But soon came nibbles, then bites, then fleas and ripped dolls. Butch changed from tiny pup to a full-fledged Marmaduke. I tried walking him myself, to alleviate the trouble, but ended up being dragged across all the gravel streets of our block. After a few years of terrible behavior, Mom loaded Butch up in the car and told us he was going to live in the country. He'd be fine, just fine. I still don't know if that's true. Actually, I don't want to know if that's true. Long may he have lived.