Vote On My Next Novel
I’m ready to start my next writing project, but I just can’t figure out which one to do. I have several ideas. It’d probably be good to start something especially since I’m trying to find an agent for my memoir and that’s super depressing to say the least. The search for an agent is depressing, not the memoir.
A few years ago I asked you dear readers to choose the book I would write and post as a blovel. The result of that was ‘Tunnel Vision’…which is (I think) one of the best things I’ve ever written. So I thought I’d turn to you again. Can you help an unfocused writer focus?
It’s possible I could post this next piece as a blovel too, if there’s interest.
So. What book would you like me to write…or…which of these would you be most likely to read?
THE CONTENDERS:
1) A sequel to “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage” called “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Bad Curry” in which Pepper and her friend attend a dinner party when people start dying. They’re on an island so Pepper must solve the crimes before she’s dead too. It’s sorta like a “And Then There Were None” but with more food and less British stuff.
2) A sequel to “Foodies Rush In” in which the characters from the first book celebrate the holidays. We’ll meet new characters, see multiple layers of disfunction and bad holiday sweaters. This would, hopefully, be a comedy and a feel-good type of book.
3) A suspense/action novel in which a young girl discovers that her chemist father made her resistant to drugs so she’s the only one that can see that the happy world she lives in, isn’t really happy. She goes on an adventure to stop the poisoning and mind-control of her people. Lots of running, explosions, and a little darkness.
So. Help a girl out. Which book should I write? And if you know of an agent who wants a memoir called “Popsicle Toes” that’s in a similar style to “The House on Mango Street” lemme know.
POLL CLOSED
Thank you for voting!
#3 wins with 63% of the vote! Let the writing commence!
!!!!
Overexposed
In which I discuss my discomfort with promoting my work. It feels an awful lot like chafing.
Every time I come out with a new piece of writing or an audiobook, I feel pressure to promote it. It all makes me feel dirty.
I know. I know. You’ve heard it before, but if you’re a self-published author, or you have books with a small house, you do have to put yourself out there.
But every time I write a tweet or a status update where I’m like “Hey! Buy my book!” I sorta feel like I’m saying “Hey! Look at my nipple!”
I’m reading this book called “Quiet” where it talks about characteristics of an introvert and it’s sorta like reading my own sequencing of DNA. I might come off pushy and gutsy, but inside, I’m pretty much a shriveled raisin.
The truth is, I don’t want ANYONE to look at my nipples, let alone pay me to look. Ew. But I would like them to read my words, like them, comment on them, tell other people about them…but. It’s exhausting. And that’s a lot to expect from other people.
I went to do my newsletter and the stats were depressing. I had about a dozen notices that said “Aw! You lost a subscriber. Someone doesn’t like you.” I’m pretty sure that’s a quote. It’s Mailchimp’s way of being kooky, but for a super-sensitive person, like myself, it’s just confirming my worst fears.
So. Instead of constantly promoting, my wonderful Kealoha put a nifty tab on my blog that we’ll continue to update where if you want something of mine, you can click on the link and it will take you to it. BOOKS TAB HERE.
And if you have time and energy to write a review, that’d be great, or suggest me to someone, that’d be great too.
But as for now, I’m done with showing my nipples.
At least figuratively. I’ll still show my nipples to my hubby if he asks very very nicely. That’s probably more than you need to know.
Ah, Summer. No work. No income. Gah!
Around noon today, I’ll finish narrating the last novel I’m booked for. That means at 12:01 today, I officially begin my summer vacation. Well, sort of unofficially. I still have one day left of teaching, but that’s just exams and grading. I don’t have to plan anything. So. Summer vacation. Two months of not teaching…and no narration booked. Part of me is having a panic attack, I have to admit. Usually with narration I have something lined up, but nothing yet. It’s entirely possible I could go two months without work or income. I’m a little bit terrified. Both of not working (how DOES one relax?) and not getting paid.
At the same time, I’m really excited. I have two months to focus on reading, writing, and just recharging. It’s time to get my writing house back in order, and slip into some good novels. I’ve already started “Sarum” (a novel about England). When it came to me in the mail via Amazon, I opened the box and was shocked to find out that that muther is almost 1,000 pages of very small print. 1000 pages! And it begins with like the Ice Age or something. I guess there’s a reason it’s called the Novel of England. If I make it through that, I think I’m going to read some Carson McCullers and some other classics.
I should be excited. I really should. And I think I am it’s just…well…trying to find a home for the cats is depressing. There are no takers yet. My daughter is heartbroken, so is my son and Kealoha. Where are the Crazy Cat Ladies when you need them? And then the concept of two months without an income is terrifying to me. What if I’m never hired to narrate again? What if teaching falls through? What if I can’t write a single word in my new literary novel?
I’m trying to tell myself to shut up. I talk too much. I worry too much. But then I just start talking again.
I’m trying to use that whole ‘affirmation’ thing and remind myself that this is just a vacation. I can take a vacation. And someone, someone will want to give my cats a home. And my kids will start getting better. And Kealoha and I are going to have a great wedding. And I’ll lose the five pounds I’ve been trying to since I broke my foot. And my mom will find an apartment that works for her and she’ll stop stressing me out. And I do believe in fairies, I do, I believe in fairies so much that I’m just going to clap my hands right now! clapclapclap
Yep. I’ll just repeat these things endlessly until I get so tired of listening to myself obsessing that I just plain shut it.
I’m thinking that’s going to be at 12:01 today. At 12:01 today, I’m going to sit outside and just breathe for a while and enjoy the start of my vacation.
And I’m going to turn the next page in my book.
Review of "We Need To Talk About Kevin" by Lionel Shriver
For the summer, I've committed myself to my own plan to "Slow Down And Read" and I have a list of ten books I'm working on. They're a combination of romance, literary, mystery, historical, and just plain entertaining. This morning, I finished reading "We Need To Talk About Kevin" by Lionel Shriver. Here is my review (as posted on GoodReads)
We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
This is a brilliant novel. I don't say that lightly. I mean it. It's brilliant. And I think Lionel Shriver is a genius. Her work is like reading a mixture of Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, and Dorothy Parker. She is relentless, fierce, and writes about the underbelly of the psyche. She is also lyrical. "We Need To Talk About Kevin" is not an easy read. The subject matter is daunting (a woman reflects on the signs in her son's life that would lead him to committing a massacre at her school); the voice is ruthless (with lines like when my son was born "I felt nothing"); and still, the piece is utterly compelling.
It leads one to look at the root of evil. Is evil incarnate or is it created? Is a sociopath born or made? Should a child (essentially) be held accountable for his own monstrosity?
It also echoes fears every mother possesses from gestation to the adulthood of a child: What if I give birth to someone who is damaged? Is it my fault? How much of a child's behavior is because of the mother?
The novel plays on fears, but it also explores our own humanity.
A few years ago, I was booked to narrate Shriver's "A Post Birthday World". It was, like this novel, challenging but in the end, thoroughly rewarding both intellectually and emotionally. I haven't been booked to narrate another of her books (though I so wish I would be), so instead I'm vowing to read everything she's ever written. She is not a writer that makes you feel good. No. She challenges you. She gets in your face and makes you uncomfortable. She demands that you analyze your own life and your own choices. For this reason, I can't seem to put her work down. I'm completely, reluctantly, enthralled.
View all my reviews
Insomnia Causes Epiphanies. Big Ones.
It’s no surprise that I’ve been having (what I lovingly refer to as) an existential writer crisis for about, oh, a year. Well, I think it’s hit its precipice. At least I hope it has. It’s 12:57 AM and I can’t sleep. All I can think is ‘It’s time to do my work’. A rather annoying thought to have when what I’d really like to be doing is sleeping. I know what my brain is telling me. It’s telling me to quit whining, grow up, and write what I should be writing. (I keep thinking of the end scene in Uncle Vanya.)
These last two years on my own with the kids have been pretty chaotic. I’m constantly busy with teaching and narrating and then writing and more recently endlessly promoting my three small books that are out there. You can do a lot of things at one time, I’ve discovered, but you can’t do a lot of things well. I’ve given my all to my kids, my students, my audiobooks, and what little is left over, I give to my own work. There isn't a lot left over, actually. There's hardly anything left over.
Here’s where things get touchy.
I have a huge chip on my shoulder about why my work isn’t catching on, and why I can’t get an agent, and why I can’t get that elusive big New York publisher. Originally, I just thought the world was against me. Now I realize it’s actually more personal than that. My work isn’t good enough. I’m not saying this for pity; I’m saying it because it’s true.
I’ve thrown a tantrum over a colleague of mine and the accolades that he’s rightly receiving. I’ve thrown a tantrum because my alma mater GVSU said they wouldn’t let me do a reading there because the type of stuff I write (romantic comedy) isn’t supported by their department. I’ve thrown a tantrum as I’ve watched other writer friends get agents, book deals, readings at Schuler’s, etc. I threw a tantrum this week when the two agents looking at my new manuscript passed on it, even though they said I’m a good writer with a keen imagination. And I nearly threw a tantrum last night when I googled my college boyfriend, and discovered that he was on The Daily Show in January talking about his critically heralded second book on Detroit and the auto industry. The man is called a genius, and the truth is, he is.
What do any of these tantrums really accomplish? Why am I being such a baby?
Here’s the truth. I have a smidgen of talent and I’ve always floated by on that. I’ve never really tried at anything. Good grades came easy in school. I was a mostly A student. The same in college. Papers came easy, and later so did stories. Now if I’m being really honest, I’ll take it a step further.
Writing is a joy to me. An escape. So I don’t like to work on it. Work is, well, work. My three books out…they’re pretty much 1st drafts. Sure, I fix the typos and I add things here and there, but you’re pretty much reading the 1st draft. Why? Because I’m sort of just floating by.
So while I throw tantrums all over the place about the ‘world not recognizing me’…what kind of effort and work have I put into making them listen? Are my books the best work I’m capable of? No. They’re not. They’re just parlor tricks.
What would happen if I really took some time and energy and put it into a novel? What would happen if I stopped complaining, stopped looking at everyone around me and what they have, and just focused on my work? On those novels that I want to write? On the novels I need to write, but haven't had the energy for? What would happen?
I’m hoping for magic.
This is what I’m going to do. I’m finally at a place in my life where I feel loved and supported and safe. It has taken all my life to get to this point. (My childhood is the stuff of pained memoirs.) I have great kids and a wonderful fiancé and a wedding to plan. I don’t have to fight anymore to be who I am, or struggle emotionally or financially. Things are in place.
So now it’s time to shut up and do my work. I’m returning to a literary novel that I started a decade ago and didn’t want to put the time and energy into it because it was too hard. And I’m also going to rewrite “Tunnel Vision” and see if I can add depth and texture to it. If no one bites on “Foodies Rush In”, I’ll self-publish it and I’ll move on.
I’m tired of my own tantrums. It’s time to get serious about this.
It starts now…
Or, okay, it starts after I get some sleep.
Don't worry. I won't lose my sense of humor in my work, but I'm going to widen the scope a little. There are characters still waiting in Rusty's Bar and Grill, and a fortune teller has moved in above the restaurant. This is what I'm going to work on. Everything else around me is just noise.
Rah.
Question #4: Any Bites From Hollywood?
Bob Caustic also asked the following question: “Any nibbles from Hollywood yet? Who do you think should direct "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage"? Who should star in "Pepper"?”
TANYA: If anyone knows anyone in Hollywood, please send them my way. Especially if it’s Drew Barrymore and her company because I really think she should direct one of my books and make it into a movie. And then she and I should go out for drinks and appetizers and then she could pay for it because I'm just a struggling writer. And then if she could buy me a gift basket stuffed with wine and gourmet food products, that'd be great. Could someone get on that please?
Sigh. Well, since we’re talking dreams here, I DO have some of the characters in mind. I could see Pepper Wellington as Susan Sarandon and Sausage as Amy Adams or that Alison chick from Buffy and How I Met Your Mother. Actually, you could take the whole cast from How I Met Your Mother and put them in the movie. Pepper just needs to be played by an older actress who has sex appeal and a pair of balls. (One of those things is just figurative.)
Patricia Heaton would be great in one of my books-as-movie. She's doing a new web series called Versailles so surely around doing that she could have time to produce a TV series around "Blunder Woman". She'd be a great mom in that.
OR for something really fun, I'd ask Martin Scorsese to direct my online dating romance "Easy Does It". Joe Pesci could play Dan the Man and Meryl Streep could play Julie, but play her with a Slavic accent, and then they could just randomly kick stuff and it would all be filmed in a single long shot with lots of smoke and violin music.
Yep. I have great ideas on how to turn my books into films. Just waiting for that call.
And waiting.
And waiting.
Screw it. I'm going to go eat some cheese.
My Slow Down and Read Summer List
I’m sitting in my Intro To Lit class while students are writing. I’ve graded all my papers, prepped for next week, and suddenly realize, I don’t have anything to do. Is this true? Is this possible? HOLY SHIT!
Let me just breathe for a second here.
To look busy and smart, I’m blogging instead.
Remember when I talked to you about my Slow Down and Read idea? It’s shimmering just before me. I can almost touch the time where I will have real, actual time to read again. FOR PLEASURE. I have one more week of narrating to go and on the days I don’t teach, I’ll be reading. That’s right. Me, a book, and if the kids are at their dad’s then I’ll have a mojito sitting next to me.
Here’s my list of books I’m going to try and read this summer and why I chose them:
MY SUMMER READING LIST (so far)
1. “Sucker for a Hot Rod” by Joselyn Vaughn. I’m actually almost finished with this. The writer is in my writing group so I wanted to check out her work. So far it’s fun with great characters and it makes me wonder why you can’t find her work next to other bestselling authors that I narrate for like Susan Mallery and Debbie Macomber.
2. “We Need To Talk About Kevin” by Lionel Shriver. A couple of years ago I was booked to read Shriver’s “The Post-Birthday World”. I don’t know if I did the book justice, but it was a beautiful story. I still think about it. So I want to read all of her books, and I’ll start with this one.
3. “Sarum: The Novel of England” by Edward Rutherford. Someone suggested this one to me and it seems like a perfect summer read. I’ll read it while drinking a Pims. Huh. Maybe I should put a drink with all these books.
4. “Punished” by Brynn Paulin. She’s another writer in my group and is one of the topsellers of erotic fiction. No joke. Like #1 or #2. So I’m going to read Punished because every good girl likes to feel naughty.
5. “To Kill a Mockingbird” by Harper Lee because it’s been a good decade since I’ve read it and I’m curious how the nearly-forty-year-old me will compare to the twenty-something and the teenager readers I used to be (you know, the other times when I read the novel). I should probably revisit “Anne of Green Gables” too.
That’s it for now. I still want to read “Bridge of Sighs” by Richard Russo, and another classic novel, and stuff by C.S. Lewis, and there’s a couple new ones out, but I’m going to start with 5. Five books I can handle.
So what’s on your summer Slow Down and Read list? Have you made one yet?
And if you're wondering the drinks...
1.) Beer
2.) Scotch
3.) Pimms
4.) Any heavy alcohol served as a shot
5.) Long Island Iced (sweet) Tea
Random Thing #6: READING
#6
I miss reading. I used to read a book a week and now…well…blast. I’m narrating a lot and working on my own stuff, but I miss curling up with a book and reading. I’m going to add a new goal to this summer and read a book a week again. Because, yeah, I need more things on my plate.
Six Sentence Sunday 5/1/2011
And it was at that precise moment that the florid man with the enormous eyebrows made a peculiar sound like “Hrrrrrrrrrr”, clutched his chest, and pitched forward, straight into a rather large slice of prime rib that was so rare it seemed to be still pulsing with life.
The man, however, was not pulsing, with life or anything. In that brief moment, he was knocked stone cold dead.
“Well, I never!” cried Melody, as if angered that the man dared to behave so poorly at the dinner table.
Pepper Wellington jumped up, took the man’s pulse, and shook her head. “He never will either,” she said. “He’s expired, I’m afraid.”
From "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage" by Tanya Eby
Blunder Team Powers ACTIVATE!
Join Blunder Team! Get free stuff!
Blunder Team!(I don't actually know who these people are in the photo below, but you get the idea)
So I’ve created a little thing called a street team. What’s this, you ask? It’s just a group of you who like my work, want some free stuff, and agree to help spread the word about my books. Why? Dude. FREE STUFF. And you get to be part of a grass roots movement…if you like that sort of thing. Actually, you're more a part of a secret super-hero organization. Masks and all. Only you tell people about it.
Sign up now and I will give you a free download of the audio edition of “Easy Does It”. Really. You click on a topsecret link I’ll provide you with, and the files will download to your computer. You can then put it on your iPod or whatever.
Here’s what you do:
1. Email me at heyblunderwoman@gmail.com and say you want to be part of the team. I’ll add you to the email Blunder Team list so you’ll get insider information about the Awkward Book Tour…and occasionally…FREE STUFF.
2. All you agree to do is either tweet, post a facebook message, or tell a friend about my blog. That’s it. You can go a step further and suggest my book for a cool book club gathering (instead of a super serious one). Or whatever other ideas you have. Basically, all you do is spread the word. That’s it.
3. Once I have your email note, I’ll email you the top secret link for your free audio download. And don’t worry. There’s nothing creepy in the download. I don’t want to blow up your computer. I’m an awkward super hero. Not an evil one. Or even an actual superhero. I'm a writer in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, okay?
Join the team! Spread the seed! I mean, the word, about my quirky writing. Get free stuff!
-Tanya-
PS 12 of you have already joined. Let me know if you'd like the audio link as well. Audio link is active for five days, then disappears into the ether.
Melodramatic Writer Meltdown
I’m having an existential writer moment. At least I think it’s existential. Hell. Basically, I’m just throwing a tantrum. I get so tired of promoting all the time and then when I see my sales report (abysmal) it’s really hard not to take it personally. It reminds me of auditioning…even dating…where somehow you’re never quite good enough. To wax old-gold-digger: Tarnation!
I guess this is the modern life of a struggling writer, or any artist really. You have to produce work, believe in your work, constantly put it out there, and hope that it catches on. I wonder though, sometimes, at what point do you just give up? Not that I’d ever give up on writing, but I do think sometimes of giving up on trying to get a big publishing house, or even promoting my current work.
I just sent out a dozen free books to people in hopes that they’ll help spread the word about my work. There’s no telling if it will work. That all comes out of my pocketbook. I had to buy the books to give them away. Ouch. And I paid for some advertising. Promo stuff. Etc. etc. And now I’m looking at doing a reading/signing at St. Cecilia. I couldn’t get Schuler’s to call me back. A reading is a great idea, but it will probably cost me about $500 with food and promo materials. And there’s no guarantee that anyone will show up. (See the onion spoof here. It’s funny because it’s true.)
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been swept up in some massive scam that gets writers to pay for promotional material and even their own books. Then I immediately stop thinking about that because it’s too sad.
Wah. Wah. Wah.
I think this is just another temporary setback. I’ll get over it. It just comes at a time when I still don’t know if my teaching contract will be renewed and I’m not sure how many more voice over gigs I’ll get. If teaching tanks and I’m not selling books…dear god…what will I do then? It scares me. Deeply. Probably not the best time to watch the first episode of Mildred Pierece where she’s all starving and looking for work. I do not want to be a waitress again. I really don’t.
I’ll get over this and my tight pants. I’m not dieting, exactly, but I am upping my workouts. I probably need the endorphins. And I have wonderful friends and family who read my work and love it. And, of course, I’ve got my kiddos and Kealoha. It’s just sometimes I get tired of all the work and I want to see the fruits of my labor. And by fruits I mean ‘income’ and by labor I mean ‘writing’. That’s my dream, I guess. To one day see my writing pay off, literally.
It might never happen. So…guess I’ll just continue doing what I do. I might bitch about it every now and then, but sheesh, I’m endlessly flawed and human. And my zodiac sign is Cancer, so what can you expect really?
And Mildred Pierce eventually made some kind of fortune out of pies or something, didn’t she? I haven’t watched the whole thing. I’m afraid maybe she has some kind of confrontation with her daughter involving wire hangers. (I could be mixing up old movies here.)
I’m hoping all this will blow over when it’s finally sunny outside and I can get over my angst and put on a sundress and a pair of sandals. That’s all I really need. OR…I could pretend I’m in a 1950’s melodrama. I sort of like that idea. Let me go get a hanky so I can flit it around while crying dramatically, and without tears.
I leave you with some melodrama. Enjoy.
Win a book! For real! April 11 only.
Did you see the interview this morning with Emily Richett on Fox 17? If not, here it is:
To celebrate that interview and the release of "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage" I'm giving away TWO BOOKS for FREE! That's right. I won't include any ginzu knives though.
How do you enter? Simply leave a comment on my blog today (anywhere works) or tweet me, or send me a message on my author page on Facebook: Tanya Eby Narrator, Novelist and Numskull.
At the end of the day, someone wins. It's that easy. Winner chooses which book they want.
Excerpt from "Easy Does It"
Three chapters totally free of "Easy Does It"! Yay! Office reading. :)
A couple of years ago, I self-published my first book "Easy Does It". Why would I do this? Because I wanted that baby out there. And it's out there still. If you haven't checked it out, here's the first few chapters. I'm proud of this piece...and it's what got me started with the whole novel writing thing. Enjoy! EASY DOES IT
by Tanya Eby
Chapter 1
It’s not me. It’s you.
Julie held the postcard and read it for the hundredth time. On the front was a picture of a pig with wings and a caption that said: “Cincinnati. Home of the Flying Pig Marathon.” On the back, written with a red marker were the words: Cincinnati rocks! Cheers, Ronny.
This was the fourth postcard she’d received in the two weeks since Ronny had left her. He’d stood in the middle of her bedroom, cheerfully stuffing all of his band clothes into a couple of army duffel bags. She replayed the whole Day of Being Dumped once again, as she did every time she looked at another of his cheap postcards.
There he stood at the foot of her bed, and there were his army green bags, and there went his clothes. His clothing resembled the costumes of hair-band rockers in the late ‘80s complete with mesh t-shirts and too-tight jeans. “Look, Jules. I’ve got to be honest here,” Ronny said in his thick English accent, thicker perhaps because he was from Detroit and not England. “It’s not me. It’s you. You’re too dependable.”
“Dependable?” Julie asked. “That’s a bad thing?”
“Well, yes, actually. If I’m going to be a rock star, I can’t bloody well have a girlfriend. I’ve got to keep open. Be a sex symbol. I’ve got to be more like Bono.”
“Bono’s married.”
“Yes. Okay.”
“He’s actually super responsible.”
“But he didn’t start out that way, did he? I mean, he’s a rock star. Purebred. Like me. What I need is some spontaneous string-free romping. You stay home and watch the Food Network and Star Trek. It’s like you’re sleep walking through life or something. I want to tear life apart and suck the marrow from it, you know? And I would too if I weren’t a vegetarian.”
Julie couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d been dumped before, too many times to count, but they always tried to spare her feelings. True to form, Ronny spared nothing. “I mean, what’s the last really crazy thing you’ve done? Besides take up with the likes of me?” Ronny paused here and Julie realized he was waiting for an answer. She tried to think but she couldn’t come up with anything. Three years ago she’d taken Ronny home with her after his set. It was, truly, the last, first and only spontaneous thing she’d ever done.
“Look,” he continued as he rifled through the closet and pulled out his studded leather jacket and slipped it on. “It’s a terrific opportunity. We’re touring all of the Midwest including Cincinnati. Can you believe it? Cincinnati! We’ve even got groupies following us.”
“Meg and Marla?” Julie asked. She hadn’t meant to say anything, she was too numb for that, but the words sort of slipped from her mouth.
“Yes. Meg and Marla.”
“They’re not really groupies,” Julie said softly. “They’re your band members’ wives. And they’re in their fifties.” “What bloody difference does it make?” Ronny’s voice was high-pitched and tight. “I’m leaving, Jules, and that’s all there is to it. Maybe when I’m back, if I’m back, we can try again.”
“You mean after you get rich and famous?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
Ronny stepped up to her, pulled her in close to him, and kissed her; because she didn’t know what else to do, she kissed him back. “Later, Jules,” he said, and then left.
Now, just two weeks later, Julie’s apartment was empty of all traces of him, except for her four postcards from the Midwest with notes like “I’m living the vida loca” and “Flint is wilder than I ever dreamed.” And what was she doing? Flipping through her pictures of him, eating cold Indian takeout, and crying. She’d really thought Ronny was The One, or at least tried to convince herself of it. And just when she’d thought she’d gotten over him, she’d get another stupid postcard in the mail reminding her that he was on the road, and she was still stuck in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
She blew her nose into a tissue and tossed it on top of the pile at the foot of her bed. “It’s not me,” he’d said. “It’s you.” End of story.
Or was it?
Julie grabbed her cell phone and speed dialed her best friend, Eve. Dependable, huh? Living her life as if she were asleep? Julie Mills was about to change that.
Chapter 2
The only thing she knew how to cook was takeout.
Eve opened the back screen door to Bud’s Bar and barreled through, bringing the cool, crisp smell of leaves with her. Otis Redding was blaring on the jukebox, and Buddy Henderson stood behind the bar counting bottles.
“What?” Eve called. “No applause?” She struck a pose. Bud looked up from the glasses he was cleaning, wiped his hands on his watermelon belly, and gave a slow clap clap clap. With his graying beard, round glasses, and smiling face, he looked a bit like Santa Claus…if Santa Claus wore his hair in a ponytail, greased his handlebar mustache and wore a leather jacket.
“You’re looking good, old man,” Eve said. She leaned over the bar and gave a quick peck to his beard-speckled chin.
Bud sighed. “I tell you, Eve, it’s a real struggle for a looker like me to stay single.”
“Please. You’re still single because you haven’t let anyone know you’re on the market.”
“Ah,” Bud said, shaking his head. “I’ve been on and off the market so many times, I’m just plain tired out. I’ll give it one more try, though, when you’re ready.” He winked at her. “You know who we need to get back on the market?” Bud asked.
“Where is Julie anyway?”
Bud grabbed a beer, cracked it open, and handed it to her. “Where do you think?” He nodded towards the kitchen. “Can’t you smell it?” Eve took a deep breath. The bar (which usually smelled of stale beer and smoke) smelled warm, buttery and yummy. “Good God, she’s making bread?”
“She’s been here since last call last night…on her day off no less. And it gets worse. She’s got something in there with little pine trees and garlic.”
“Rosemary,” Eve said. “This is serious. All right if I check it out?”
“Be my guest. But be careful. She was working with chocolate earlier.”
Eve crossed behind the bar and walked through the swinging doors into the kitchen. When Bud opened the bar, he’d made an attempt at offering food, but over the years the menu had shrunk to whatever could be prepared in the deep fryer or microwave. Consequently, he only used one small corner of the kitchen. When Julie came in, he let her have the run of the rest of the place. During slow times in the bar, Julie would prepare warm meals with garlic and wine sauces for her and Bud to munch on. If someone happened to be in the bar, she’d feed them something too.
Eve’s stomach growled. The only thing she knew how to cook was takeout. She tried not to think about eating because she knew that if Julie were cooking up a storm then she was still upset over the breakup. She hoped this time Ronny was gone for good so that Julie could move on. “Julie?” Eve called. “You here, sweets?”
Eve couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The tiny kitchen was stacked with dishes of food: flourless chocolate cake, a steaming casserole of leeks and butternut squash, and a colorful salad with flowers and berries. Julie was slicing a loaf of French bread into thick chunks. “We’re having a little snack,” she said.
“More like a feast. Are you okay?”
Julie didn’t look up from the bread. She buttered one side and began layering the bread with red peppers, kalamata olives, and goat cheese. “Am I okay? No,” she said.
“Put the goat cheese down and come here.” Eve extended her arms; Julie turned around and gave her a hug.
“I hate him, Eve. I’m serious. And I can’t stop going over the whole breakup, and what he said to me. He said he wasn’t the problem, I was. I’m the problem. Can you believe it? So he’s living the life of a rocker with ‘string free romping’. Worst of all…do you know where he’s touring?” Julie didn’t wait for Eve to respond. “The Midwest! Dead-end bars. He’s left me for tight pants and Cincinnati.”
“Shhhh,” Eve said. “It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”
“Look at this!” Julie handed Eve the most recent postcard, and turned to face a sandwich the size of a skateboard. “I want to show Ronny that I can suck the marrow with the best of them.” She grabbed a butcher’s knife, and walloped the sandwich, splitting it cleanly in two. “Okay?” “Okay,” Eve said. “But no need to get violent.”
“I’d like to get violent with Ronny and I have a pretty good idea how.” Julie slid the sandwiches onto a hot griddle, placed a pan on top of them, and turned to Eve. “I call them Poor Man Paninis,” she said and smiled sweetly.
Eve laughed to herself. No matter how sad Julie was, if she was cooking food, she could always pull herself out of it. “It sounds divine,” she said. “Let’s eat, and you can tell me what you want to do to Ronny.”
“I don’t want to do anything to Ronny ever again. What I want is to do something to myself. And I will too.” Julie grabbed two plates, loaded them with French fries and coleslaw, and turned back to the sandwiches. “We’re gonna need some energy for this.”
Eve nodded. “Then I’ll grab this bread here. And this roast. And that cake. And you grab a bottle of wine because I don’t have any hands left to grab with.”
Chapter 3
I’ve always wanted to be a hermaphrodite.
Then I could have sex with myself.
Julie unfolded the piece of paper in front of her, smoothed out the creases and passed it to Eve. They were seated in their favorite booth near the back of the bar, huddled over the table. “I wrote it really fast. It needs work,” Julie explained.
“Seems kinda long,” Eve said as she reached for her reading glasses from her purse.
“Yeah, well, there’s no real word limit online. Glory of technology, I guess. Be honest, Eve. Should I really do this?” “You said you wanted to do something crazy. Though, I have to admit, online dating doesn’t sound all that wild to me, although it was wild like in 1994. Now everyone does it. I was sort of thinking you were going to do something wild and drastic like a sex change or something.”
“Yes,” Julie agreed. “I’ve always wanted to be a hermaphrodite. Then I could have sex with myself. You want some more cake?”
“Of course. So with this ad you want, what? True love?”
“No. No! I was thinking…maybe I want dating practice or something. I want to experiment with being crazy. I guess at the heart of it, maybe I just want to get over Ronny, or back at Ronny, or something, and I want to do it as quickly as possible. I can’t take any more of his postcards. I want to have postcards of my own! I thought…I don’t know. It’s stupid.” She reached for the paper and crinkled it in her palm.
“Give me that!” Eve said. “It isn’t stupid at all. What I meant was that when you said you wanted to do something spontaneous I thought you were going to go on a trip to Europe or have a radical make-over. But online dating is good. It’s a start. Give me your ad. And the cake.” She read:
Young Treasure Seeks Seaman on Love’s Sea
When I was young, I collected broken pottery shards
that had washed up on the beach. Each one, I knew,
was from a shipwreck. In my palm, a tiny piece of
white plate became the last dinner of a couple in love.
A brown half of a beer stein with edges smoothed by
sand and time became a sailor’s last drink just as the
swell of the lake surged and took him over. These
collected pieces of plates and bowls from the last
moments in people’s lives proved to me that all things
end: childhood, careers, and yes, even love. I am
resigned to this reality. Still, I am looking to date.
Casually. If you are interested, here I wait, at the
bottom of the sea, for you to find me and uncover me.
Eve wound a finger in a lock of her honey hair. “Okay, Young Treasure Seeks Seaman on Love’s Sea. That’s catchy.”
Julie couldn’t tell if Eve was emotionally affected by the impact of her personal ad, or if she had something stuck in her teeth. “Is it all right?” Julie asked again. “Oh, you hate it, don’t you? I sound boring, don’t I? Oh, forget it!” Julie took a huge bite of her sandwich. Her eyes were burning with tears.
“I don’t hate it. Not at all. It’s just…a little sad. It sort of makes it sound like your life is a shipwreck.”
“Exactly!” said Julie emphatically. “A complete and utter shipwreck.”
“Let me read it again,” Eve said. Julie watched her intently, looking for any reaction from her, good or bad.
She read it again, coughed, set the paper aside, and quickly downed her glass of water. “Julie…Look,” Eve continued. “I love you. To pieces, and anything I can do to help get Ronny out of your system, I’ll do. But you say here Young Treasure Seeks Seaman. It sort of looks like you misspelled ‘semen’, like this is a personal ad for semen.”
Julie gasped. “Eek! No. No no no. I was trying to be poetic.”
“It is poetic, but maybe you should just say sailor instead.”
“Okay. I can do that. Anything else?”
Eve hesitated. “Can’t you cheer it up a bit?”
“Cheer it up? Why?”
“Julie, you sound like you don’t believe in love. You’re posting an ad to find love and you’re saying here, quite effectively, that you’re obsessed with things ending and dying. Do you really think that all of life is a shipwreck?”
Julie felt a rush of tears forming. She was so emotional lately, and talking about love did nothing to help her. “Not all of life, just mine.”
“You’re smart. You’ve got talent. A wicked sense of humor, and, need I say, killer knockers. Your life is not a shipwreck. And I’m sorry to be such a hard-ass with you, but ever since Ronny took off you’ve been swimming in your own misery, and you’re better than that. Now write this down. We’re going to write you a personal ad that really works. That sings. An ad that will bring the man of your dreams to your feet.”
“Fine.” Julie said as she reached down and picked up her personal ad. She liked what she’d written. She didn’t think it was that depressing.
Eve leaned in. “Now take this down…”
Bud interrupted from the bar. “How about…Hot Mama Seeks Love Slave And Marriage. That would reel me in.”
Chapter 4
She laughed. She cried. She was drunk.
That night, Julie logged onto CoupleMe.com and began typing in her personal ad. She considered it again. What exactly did she want? Posting for a mate was sort of like ordering a pizza. Did she want another vegetarian, or something with a little meat?
Meat, she thought. This time I want meat.
She typed. Took a sip of wine. Thought: Mmmmm. Merlot is yummy. Took another sip of wine.
What was she supposed to say? The truth? I’m lonely. I’m in love with my ex-boyfriend. I’m totally dependable and predictable, which means…I’m boring. You could feel those things, but you couldn’t write them. She sipped her wine.
She looked at the picture of Ronny she still kept by her computer. It was her favorite shot of him on the night they met nearly five years ago. He was playing piano for his band, The Two Wets. He stood in a spotlight, head tilted up, his face pinched. It was a familiar expression to Julie since it was the same pose he struck when he had an orgasm, except without the spotlight.
Julie toasted the picture and gulped. Usually, she’d stop at one glass, because wine tended to make her loopy, but tonight was a special night. She was in search of loopy. She poured another glass, stuck her tongue out at Ronny, and slammed his smug orgasm-face on the table. She couldn’t look at him any more especially since she hadn’t had an orgasm-face in months.
If she were being honest, and drinking an entire bottle of wine led her to be pretty honest, Julie admitted she felt like that miscellaneous sock at the bottom of the laundry basket, the one you keep washing in hopes that its second half would eventually show up. “Thass me,” she slurred to the computer screen. “I’m a sock. A hole filled socky-sock-sock.”
Julie tried to pick up her cell phone and call Eve but she was having trouble seeing the buttons clearly. No need. She could post this ad on her own. She didn’t need Eve to hold her hand with everything. She would post this ad! She grabbed her “Semen” personal ad and began typing. Maybe she would change her ad. Cheer it up a bit, like Eve said.
She made a small change. Good. Then she thought: I’ll just erase the pottery shards and tweak it. Just tweak it a teeny, tiny bit. Tweak, tweak!
She wrote so quickly she barely knew what she was typing. Her words flew from her in a torrent. She laughed. She cried. She was drunk. She hit “submit”, and then slunk back in her chair for a very quick nap.
*
Five hours after Julie posted her ad, she awoke still sitting at her computer. There was a paperclip stuck to her forehead and a swollen mailbox brightly signifying mail. Oh my God, she muttered. She picked the paperclip off her forehead and slowly dragged the cursor over the screen.
114 messages.
Then Julie saw what she had done. “Young Treasure Seeks Seaman on Love’s Sea” became, with the help of her computer’s thesaurus and a fourth glass of merlot: “Easy Lady Requests Guy with Two Socks.”
--If you want to read more, you can order a copy at Amazon or see if your library has it. OR you can tell your library to order it. Click HERE to check it out.--
What I Learned at the Algonkian Conference
There’s so much to blog about, I don’t quite know where to start. I could start with our trip back and the turbulence in the plane, my sudden birth as a Catholic where I tried to pray and say Catholicly kind of things, or when our connecting flight was delayed because Frontier Airlines couldn’t find their 2nd Officer. I mean, he was missing. Gone.
But let’s go back a little bit. My trip to New York was mainly to attend the Algonkian Pitch and Shop Conference. Five days to work on a pitch for your novel and then about three minutes with four different editors to sell yourself and your work. And I do mean sell yourself. One of the main things I learned about the conference is that publishers aren’t just looking for a great story. They want a whole package. (More on that in a minute.)
The conference was intense. The first day my group of sixteen spent all day listening to each other’s pitches and offering criticism. My pitch was well liked, so I felt good that I had sort of pre-pitched it online with you guys (whoever reads the blog). The next day we met with our first editor.
For other writers out there struggling to sell a novel, I thought I’d share some info with you. Would I recommend the conference? Yes. Absolutely. But you’ll need to be tough and have your work together. It’s not a love fest that’s for sure.
So. Here’s what I learned at the conference:
1. Shorter pitches are more successful.
You really need to condense your entire novel into one of those back flap pages you read when trying to pick a book. You need to get through a sense of your voice, the uniqueness of the book, and hook the reader with wanting them to read more. Save long explanations for your novel. The pitch is more advertising than anything.
2. Begin your pitch with one or two ‘comps’, that is, comparing your work to someone similar.
I compared mine to Jennifer Crusie and Nick Hornby.
3. Publishers want writers with established platforms.
What does this mean? It means they want writers who are not only serious about craft, but about promoting themselves. In the first pitch, we listened as a group as each person talked to the agent and I noticed she got a little exasperated when people didn’t have a blog or were networking. On the final editor pitch, I was able to say that I narrate audiobooks, have two books published through the small press Champagne Books, and have a social networking following on Facebook, Twitter, and through my blog. The editors want that. So do what you need to to start building a following. Promote yourself. Have confidence.
4. Don’t defend your work.
When you defend your work to an editor, you sound confrontational. Accept what they say. They know what they’re doing.
5. They might like your pitch, but if they don’t represent your type of work, they won’t choose you.
So, focus your pitch to the right editor or agent.
6. Editors know within about thirty seconds whether they want your work or not.
It’s true. They either like you or they don’t.
7. If your story is amazing, then none of the above rules matter.
Truly. There was one woman in our group whose pitch was so engaging and the story so interesting, that I think every editor asked for her manuscript. It didn’t matter that she’s a new writer with no publishing credentials or platform. Rightly so. She has a great story. Her story also crossed a few genres. It could go into mainstream or multicultural or into a literary market.
I actually made some new girlfriends at this conference and that was also a benefit. Writing is such a lonely endeavor, that it’s nice to have a little support group. And if you read my blog, then you know I’m all for therapy and support groups.
Next blog, I’ll talk about the fun things that I did in New York and my adventures with Kealoha. Let’s just say I was serious quirky writer by day, but by night, I was full-fledged awkward (and slightly intoxicated) Tanya.
Would You Read This? UPDATED
Busy week for me. It’s supposed to be spring break, and I guess it is, but I’ve spent the week narrating and bemoaning that I feel tubby. It always happens when I narrate. I have to sit still for three days and eat gigantic meals and it makes me crabby. Ah well.
I’m also prepping for this conference I’m going to in New York. I’m going to meet 5 editors, and pitch my story to them. It’s a commercial fiction conference, and they’re looking for work that will sell. But how do you condense a novel into a one-minute pitch? You know those little back flaps on a books? They’re fucking hard to write. I hate to swear, but sometimes, you’ve just got to.
My question is…is this a book you’d want to read?
Here’s my pitch:
Foodies Rush In
Dana Kupiac is a single mom and certain that love has passed her by, especially since her husband left her over a year ago. With the help of Dana’s eternally-lactating sister Valerie, Dana takes a once in a lifetime trip to a food conference in Las Vegas where she learns a lot about her new foodie business, and also has a wild weekend with a quirky gentleman. Their adventure ends in an impromptu ceremony where they’re “married” by Elvis.
Dana returns home, thinking that what happened in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Life, though, has other plans. What happened in Vegas actually knocks on her door a week later, proving that maybe life has a few more surprises for Dana.
Dana's whirlwind romance is awkward and real and warm. “Foodies Rush In” is rich with quirky characters and realistic moments. It’s a story that proves that love can happen for anyone, even if your heart is broken. Even if you’re starting over. Even if you’re a mom with two kids. Even if you have a name like Theodore Drimmel.
***