Welcome back

I haven't shown any crazy 70's ads in a while, so here you go. We'll focus on food today.

I like this ad because of the shared moment between the dad and son, but . . . have you ever in your life seen a burger that big at McDonalds?? They shipped that thing in from Canada.

And I love the tagline in this ad, "Get down with something good . . ." I also love the placement of everyone in the picture. The kid's expression in the far left window of the van can't be beat.

This one caught my eye with its different fonts and continuous line on the drink. Sweet!

Raisin pudding pie? Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. No man's gonna come home to that. Except for this guy, and I'm not so sure I'd want him anywhere near my residence. Maybe it's the way he's holding the fork. No. It's him.

Gotta love a one-word campaign.

And to wash it all down, my favorite, Dr Pepper.

Strange

Last night, American Masters on PBS featured The Doors: When You're Strange. Johnny Depp narrated it—a good choice really, as his voice has that same deep and dreamy quality of Jim Morrison's. The content he was forced to read, however, was poor. Yes, Morrison was strange. He, at times, was known to slither around on the stage like a lizard. His words were trippy, and much of the time he stood with eyes half-closed; living in a cerebral cocoon with only a momentary glimpse into reality to recharge, or see where he'd traveled. But they painted a picture of a man who everyone hated, who destroyed a band, and who was such a freak that audiences only came to see out of curiosity only, and not as lovers of music. Wrong. I think the music, more than anything—more than Morrison—was what made people then, and now, come around in fascination.

I did like one line in the show, "The shadowy realms of dreams." Julia and I repeated it a few times to each other. She was busy making the needle from the spindle wheel in Sleeping Beauty. She had this whole thing set up in the other room with chairs and books piled up high, but then little Liam came and destroyed it all and ran off. Poor Julia. When she wanted him to be the prince, he refused and pretended to be asleep on the floor, so she bent over and kissed him (reversing the story completely, but she was desperate). Nothing. "OH! Liam won't wake up!" "I know," I said. "He's in the shadowy realms of dreams." She wasn't happy.

What American Masters failed to point out, was the fact that the strangeness of The Doors was not a tragedy. Morrison's life became a tragedy, but the band as a whole, was a success. Morrison was not a monster, and his strangeness was poetry to us listening strangers. He was art and poetry and we love(d) it.

I did enjoy the clips of Jim driving around in his '67 Shelby GT though. It weaved in and out of the documentary, and worked very well. I also enjoyed seeing Jim's interaction with fans; it showed how soft spoken, and nice, he was.

I think too many stories on The Doors have focused on the negative side of their career. But look how many songs were recorded, and their quality overall. Manzarek was a genius, playing bass with one hand on his keyboard and chords/solos with his other. Robby Krieger was a master of words, even teaching Morrison how to insert a double meaning into each lyric.

Much more could be celebrated, instead of inspected. All these years later, people are still being affected; drawn in; moved. Nothing strange about that.

Love this song. And Robby's black eye.

Stepping back from the abyss

I realized what a contradiction my last post was to its previous post. Reject me I love it, then . . . screw it, I'm outta here! Typical me.

I have this weird habit of giving great advice and then allowing myself to take a different route. Like the person in the movie who sprains their ankle and then declares, "Save yourself!" Yeah right. Just get up, you idiot.

To be fair, when I said I was considering self-publishing, it wasn't out of defeat. It was me thinking of a new plan—out loud. Sometimes it's okay to do that. I've always been an idea person and a go-getter so, for me, self-publishing would be a natural fit. However, I am very grateful to Talli and all of you for suggesting I try querying just a bit longer. I really appreciate you guys.

So, out goes the query again. Thank you, all of you, for the friendship and wisdom.

And hey, if this writing thing ever fizzles out, I could always start my own band like The Partridge Family. Just gotta get my hands on a big, ugly bus.

Sometimes you win nothing, but you gain everything

As you might have guessed from my last entry, I was rejected by the agent I re-queried last Friday. She said my writing was good and clever, but is passing on the story. I feel really stupid for bothering her like that again, because I remember now that it was the story she passed on last time as well. Listen to those agents folks! At least she was fast—I'm really grateful for that.

I think the reason my book did not appeal to her is, perhaps, the element of a cult-like religion. But it's what I grew up with. My dad was, basically, in a religious cult and I remember very specifically he and some other men standing on the street corner in our small town—they were all wearing suits and horn-rimmed glasses. It's a very striking memory, and it's who I am. Earlier this year, I was thinking really hard about how to change the book, and while shopping one day, was approached, again, by a group of men in black suits and horn-rimmed glasses. One of them stopped, really looked me in the eyes and said, "Hi," then they all walked off. Weird, right? It freaked me out, big time. But then I thought about it, and realized that it was a sign. A sign to hold onto my truths and keep going.

So. Now. I'm considering self-publishing. Why? Because, one, I'm very independent. Two, I have this vision and it isn't being met by outside sources. Things have always been this way for me. I need to stick to this vision and produce it in such a way that my audience—the audience that was meant to read my book—will profit.

Well, anyway, I was bummed out yesterday, but today I am moving ahead without reserve. And listening to Bread. Guitar Man

Rejection Inspection

When I started working on my manuscript last year, I bought a book at a bargain store called, Reject me I love it. Admittedly cheesy, I thought, "Why not? I may need this someday." And I was right. It is the best little book, especially for aspiring authors. It deals with all the usual self-criticism that keeps us from ever even trying to reach our goals, and the defeatism that comes with rejection. We're so afraid of being turned away that we won't even try. In the book, author John Fuhrman stresses to embrace rejection, because it is a healthy part of growth and not something to be afraid of as we are usually taught. In fact, no success can ever come without a small amount of rejection. Those who learn from it are the winners. Those who try, and fail, and then try again will eventually succeed.

The next time someone rejects your project, say to yourself, "This is good, because now I will fix what is wrong and then the next time there will be less to reject."

Another book I had close at hand was The Secret, which many of you might have heard of already via Oprahworld. It is realized thought in action. If you dream it, it will come. Well, that hasn't been my experience. I think hard work brings success, and maybe not the exact kind you want, but the kind you need. Success doesn't have to be owning an expensive yacht and living on your own private island. Success should be you being able to do the things you love. Consider this: most authors whose books you see at the bookstore have day jobs. So, you either do this and love it, or don't do it at all. I appreciated The Secret but thought it was just a romantic bit of idealism that preempted actual work. Yes, it is good to have a dream to work towards, but you have to get your hands dirty or it simply will not happen.

My last point comes, again, from Reject me I love it. Fuhrman writes about audience. There is a small portion of people that are going to hate you and the work you produce, although dislike is a better word I guess. There is nothing you can do to make them like you. Period. Don't waste your time. Now, there is another small portion of people who will absolutely love you. You could have flaming cold sores and listen to Barry Manilow all day and they would adore you. This is a good thing and you should appreciate it. Moving on. There is a big portion of people who are undecided. These are the people you want to concentrate on. These are the people who could buy a copy of Paul Blart: Mall Cop next to the register if it looked pretty and the sun was setting right. It's your job to promote your work to these folks and hope for the best. You got the good, forget the bad.

Life isn't perfect. But you can make it okay. Good even. Thank all those bullies in school, and the teachers who gave you an F, and your older brother who said you were an idiot. They did it to help you. At least, I think they did . . .

Sunday Night Goodness

I don't even want to type anything. Listening to this is pure joy.

Hey, you look a lot like . . .

WILL

Alain Delon has some of Will's dark, good looks—sans the cigarette. Ghosts don't smoke, you know? And then, a running joke in the book is the way Emma refers to Will as Superman—because he looks so much like the man of steel, as pictured below. You know I love Superman, right?!
He's a writer and has just a little bit of Jack Kerouac in him—perpetually surrounded by books.
And he'd have amazing blue eyes like Gerard Butler . . .

Emma

I always thought Amanda Seyfried would make a great choice to capture Emma's hippieish persona. She's a little bit Joni Mitchell . . .

And a little bit Supergirl—just to even things out, of course!

Happy Saturday!

YA Just Never Know . . .

Hey YA peeps! Sent in a query this morning and received a full manuscript request this afternoon. To be honest, it was a re-query so the agent knew me already. She is so sweet and gracious and she has a great eye for YA. Let's just hope this works out!

The only problem is I was all ready for querying and now I have to be content to just sit on my hands and wait things out a few months. Oh darn, right? But . . . I have the second book already half-written and can now concentrate on finishing that, and then the third one. And then there are some short stories and memoirs I'd like to put down. Other than that, I feel like celebrating!

You know, I am really happy to be done with this first book—again. I put so much into it, ya'll know I did. First it was about the love—I loved it, the whole idea, the concept, the characters, the setting, but something was missing. Now that I have bled my heart and soul into it—so much that I literally can't think of another thing, another way, that I could make it better—I am content. Other than a few technical things that have probably missed my attention, I'd be ready to have it published tomorrow.

Now the second book. When I left it, Emma and William had transported back to 1956 using his stored memories, only during the transport he forgot everything and now Emma has to take care of the whole mission. She just made a visit to the church and was even going to buy a gun. Wicked. I love that Emma is going to kill a Soul Seeker. Or is she? Hahahaha. Only I know. And I love that there is a dance coming up in the old town square! Ooh, I've been dying to write that scene. The Retro Seekers: Can Emma help William remember their happy married life in 1980, or is she doomed to watch him turn into a ghost in 1956? And what happens to her . . . if he does?

Repost- The Game of Life

I wrote this back in February and as my brain seems to be in edit mode today, I thought it would be okay to repost another one of my favorite pieces. I never told anyone, but the day I wrote this the Reeve Foundation contacted me and then featured this on their Twitter. I was so proud I can't even tell you! It meant a lot to know that my blog was reaching those that needed it the most. So here it is again- The Game of Life.

I want to speak about Christopher Reeve again, as I've thought a lot about his life and the parallels of his injury to the role he played. He scoffed the idea that he was a real-life Superman, but we would all agree he truly was, in every way a person could be. Of course, every advance he made was earned with immense pain and minute to minute struggle, so to him it wasn't a great, magical thing. It was work. It's all how you look at it: most of us saw the overall result--the end result, but he experienced it as it unfolded.

In life, we often get caught up in what might be rewarded in the long run, forgetting it's what we do now that creates the end result. We're reaching with outstretched hands, skipping over the path. I think of someone playing Monopoly without stopping at any spaces. That person reaches the end faster, but without having played the game, they arrive empty. It is the little things we do every day that makes us winners.

When Christopher Reeve was told his head had been separated from his body--held on only by the muscles of his neck, and that he would have to go through countless surgeries, pain, all that with no promise of ever having movement below the neck again--he looked up at his wife and said, "I guess we should just let me go." And she said to him, "But you're still you. And I love you." Those words changed his life, and brought on a new one.

Every time you feel like quitting anything in your life, or life itself, remember that no matter how difficult things are, you're still you, and somebody loves you. Don't give up. Then take each moment for what it is, knowing it will lead to success.

Life is like a game board. You're riding high, rolling the dice. You own all the squares, have a pile of money, and you know, you just know you're going to win. Then someone hands you a card that says, bankrupt, start at go. It's what you do then that defines who you are. Live like you're always at go.

When the Cool Summer Breeze Sends a Chill Down My Spine . . .

This is total awesomeness. I finished my synopsis last night!!! Oh sweet Jesus I did it. Now it's time for a full manuscript edit and I also have to refine my query. Let's just say I will be doing a few all-nighters this week.

Edits, as painful as they are, really do not bother me half as much as writing a synopsis or query. I can put on some records and just turn my brain into technical mode. I like reading my book—it's fun. The worst thing that happens is when I get too critical and start to turn fatalistic. I am allowed no more book rewrites unless sanctioned by an agent!

When I heard this song in the car last summer, I about flipped for joy! William has been stuck as a ghostlike eighteen-year old since 1956 and Emma is the first human to be able to see or hear him (though neither of them realize this at first which creates a certain amount of fun). He fades at night, and in one scene Emma goes to look for him in the town square. She is caught in a breeze that whispers her name, "Emma . . . Emma . . ." A soft touch can be felt on her lips, but it disappears too quick. THE WIND.

Happy Sunday!

Saturday Excerpt

Excerpt from a new WIP, Gossamer Boy.

"Smiiiile."

I did. At least, I made an honest effort. Smiling wasn't one of those easy things like breathing or throwing up. Smiling was actually pretty hard to do. Well, for me it was.

"Thanks honey. Get up so I can shoot someone else."

It was picture day at Hell High, er, Hellman High. Right before going into the guillotine two girls looked at me and said, "You're gonna have you're picture taken looking like that?"

There's no answer to give in a situation such as this. I did my usual blank stare and they left me alone. Hey, it worked for skunks, and now it was working for me.

I knew my hair looked awful. How was it possible I could make it worse than it usually did, especially after hours of gel, flat irons, hair pins, and aqua net? A greasy burn spread through my stomach when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the angle of Haley Dodd's compact. I saw a pale thin face with freckles on the nose, stringy auburn hair and tired-looking brown eyes. The compact snapped shut.

But they had to like the shirt I was wearing, it was bedazzled like a sick Vegas girl. My mom had several hobbies that kept her—and me—from going nuts. She bedazzled everything, even the towels, she played online poker, and she collected Star Wars glasses from Burger King, circa 1979 . . .