The Book Lady

To the average reader, it would seem as if I have been neglecting my bloggerly duties. After all, I haven't posted in, oh, a while. And what more is there to blogging than posting?

The average reader would, however, be deeply incorrect. In addition to beginning an astonishing number of posts that went nowhere and arranging a special surprise for next weekend, I have been wandering around, lost and blindfolded, in the land of web design. Turns out when you value quality control (or, okay, are an anal perfectionist) like me, web design becomes an obsession, creating hollow-eyed zombies out of (fairly) normal people. Even now I find myself fighting the urge to tweak one more line of code on my shiny new homepage, add a tenth widget to my brand new blog, or install yet another show-offy plugin on my radically improved photoblog. I could also change the fonts. Or perhaps the link colors. Or the wording on the welcome page.

See? I am now a crazy person. CSS did that to me. Robin and Pam do share part of the blame, though, since I was forced to watch longingly from the shadows while both of them obtained pretty new websites. In the meantime, I languished here in the land of free hosting. And so, yes, when I obtained the freedom that came with setting up my own webbly home I went a little nuts. On the blog alone there will be footnotes! And polls! And cool subscription options! And many other unnecessary frills to astound and delight! I'd like to think it's worth it. And if the universe is willing (please make it so!) this will be my last big move ever. Yeehaw.

And now, without further segue, the boring, practical stuff...

Feeds:
If you already subscribe to this blog using an RSS feed, you may or may not have to change your subscription. If you use the Feedburner feed, no modifications are necessary. I can take the feed with me, so for a few days it will still show information for my old blog. When I have a new post up, I'll switch it over to start displaying info for the new blog. (Feedburner is cool like that. If you don't use it for your own blog, I recommend it.) And, of course, if you subscribed using my regular feed address then click here to change to the Feedburner subscription. Or you could just get email updates. Your choice.

Links:
New website: http://www.caryncaldwell.com
New blog home: http://www.caryncaldwell.com/blog
New photoblog: http://www.caryncaldwell.com/photos

Note:
If you have blogrolled this page, I thank you from the depths of my soul. In a while I'll put up a redirection from this blog to my new one. However, if you're feeling kind, changing the links would be great.

Hope to see you over at my new home on the internet!

1) This post has been stickified, which means it will remain at the top. All other entries are below.
2) But if you want to get technical, the real posts (and most of the comments) are at my regular blog, which is at http://booklady.wordpress.com.
( Read more... )

I had the pleasure of meeting debut author Joanne Rendell at a conference this summer and hearing all about her new book The Professors' Wives Club, which is coming out today. Not only is she a lovely person with a fantastic blog and a great accent (she's originally from the U.K.) but from the reviews and the premise of both this book and her next it appears she's also a terrific novelist with a promising career ahead of her. I already ordered a copy for myself and can't wait until it arrives. Please help me in welcoming her to the blog and to congratulating her on her well-deserved success!

Hi Joanne. Thanks for coming. I know I've already put my copy of The Professors' Wives Club on order, but for those who don't know anything about it yet, what is it about? What inspired it?

The Professors’ Wives’ Club tells the story of four women doing battle with a ruthless dean at Manhattan U – a university in downtown New York which looks a lot like NYU, where my husband teaches. The power hungry dean is set to bulldoze a beloved faculty garden. What he hasn’t bargained for, however, is the guts and will of the four professors’ wives who are determined to halt the demolition plans. In their fight to save the garden, the women expose the dark underbelly of academia – and find the courage to stand up for their own dreams, passions, and lives.

That sounds like an interesting premise. You just don't read that much about university life, even though so many readers have been to college or are there now so they can relate. What inspired you to delve into this subject and write The Professors' Wives' Club?

I actually came up with the idea for the book when out with a friend, another professor's wife like me. We were gossiping about other professors' wives who we both knew and it struck me then what interesting characters professors' wives would make.

These women – and, of course, there are professors' husbands and partners too – are in an interesting position. They are often deeply connected to the university world. They live in faculty housing, take their kids to university childcare, and work out at the university gym. However, when it comes to university decisions, they have little power.

I liked the idea of pitting these seemingly powerless women against a dean who, in his little kingdom of the university, has so much power.

In addition to being the wife of a professor, you yourself have a very strong academic background, including a Ph.D. in English, yet you write (and, I presume, read) commercial women's fiction. Some might see that as a difficult leap, especially with the focus so many English departments put on high-brow literature. Was it hard for you to break out of your academic shell and just write and read for the fun of it?

Not at all. I’ve always been a big reader of commercial women’s fiction. Even when I was at grad school, I always had a stack of such books by my bed. Some of my peers and professors might have frowned on my well-thumbed copies of Bridget Jones’ Diary or Weiner’s Good in Bed but I didn’t care. I ate them up!

Popular fiction by women, for women, and about women has always gotten a bad rap. Romance novels continually get stereotyped as “soft porn for desperate housewives.” Chick lit has been dismissed by the literati as throwaway “fluff” obsessed with shopping and shoes. And even women writers like Jodi Picoult, ones who tackle more serious issues, are often labeled “hysterical” and “melodramatic” by snooty reviewers (if they get reviewed at all!).

It has become one of my missions to expose just how sexist and elitist this is. Why is it that women's fiction gets such a bashing? Women do most of the reading these days, yet still the fiction we write struggles to be taken seriously? It makes me so mad, but it also makes me a fierce defender of popular/commercial women's fiction of all kinds - from romance to Picoult!

I can definitely relate to that, especially since I experienced the same thing in my own academic career. So since not everyone is so englightened, how do you feel about your friends, family and contemporaries from your academic life reading your work? What about reviews? Are you worried about them, or do you just plan to ignore them?

I love it. It makes me a little nervous too, of course. You can’t help wondering what everyone will think when they read it and whether they will like it. I particularly love the idea of academics reading this book – if they dare! So far, there are few books out there that explore the private lives of women on campus. Novels like Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys or Zadie Smith’s On Beauty have looked at university life, but mostly from the male perspective. When literary fiction sets a book on campus it invariably tells a story about a male professor who’s either sleeping with or contemplating sleeping with his students! I’m tired of this story and maybe other people are too?

Reviews can be the best thing in the world if they’re good and a real kick in the teeth if they're bad (especially when they’re posted on Amazon for the world to see!). But it’s all part of the roller coaster ride of publication. I’m learning that a thick skin is essential. As writers, we have to remind ourselves that reviews are just one person’s opinion. Furthermore, we have to appreciate that those people in powerful positions who get to say what is a “good” or “bad” book (in other words, the reviewers in the press or book trade) are often white, male, elite, and are not necessarily interested in the kind of books we write! In short, we can’t take reviews too personally; there’s too much politics and personal taste at play.

Yes, I can see how once again a propensity toward literature can affect reviews of women's fiction. Although you are a great champion of women's fiction -- including romance, the most popular subgenre of women's fiction -- The Professors' Wives Club is not a romance novel. Nonetheless, you were at the Romance Writers of America conference last month. Why? What did you take away from it?

My publisher was the one to suggest I go. At first, I was flummoxed. Me? There are no bodices or billowing pirate blouses on my cover after all, and when I looked at the RWA’s criterion for membership my novels didn’t fit the bill: “Books catalogued as romance” and “A main plot centering around two individuals falling in love.” My novel has romantic elements, for sure, but it’s more about women learning, growing, and finding happiness from themselves and from their friendships with other women.

But then I perused the RWA’s website further and was reminded of the staggering success of the romance industry. More than a quarter of all books sold are romance and in 2006 romance fiction generated $1.37 billion in sales (outselling every other market category). In the current climate where book buying is on the decline and where authors are increasingly expected to do the lion’s share of their book’s promotion, a new writer would be foolhardy not to want to learn something from the perennial success of the romance world.

Thus, I signed up and at the end of July jetted off to San Francisco for the conference. It was a blast! The Romance Writers of America are such a supportive and generous group of (mostly) women. They are so smart and professional too. Plus, they’re eminently welcoming. They don’t care if your book doesn’t fit the genre exactly. In fact, it was rare to meet anyone who wrote a standard romance, if bodice ripping and ravishing princes are what you were looking for! I met young adult fiction writers, chick lit writers, and other commercial women's fiction writers like me. One woman I talked to wrote books about aliens, another about elves; others about panthers and vampires.

Mostly, I had a great time meeting wonderful and encouraging women. I also learnt so much about the publishing industry which I would never have known if I hadn’t attended. I’m going to the RWA convention every year from now on!

Yes, it was a wonderful conference, wasn't it? Although my first attempts at writing were in the romance genre, I'm not longer solidly there, and yet I have learned more about writing from the romance community than from any other. Those women really know how to band together and help each other, and they've analyzed what does and doesn't work in storytelling. What better place for a writer to learn? So other than joining RWA or similar organizations, what other advice do you have for unpubbed writers out there who are hoping to become published someday?

Join a writing group, either on or offline. Other writers are often fonts of wisdom not just about the craft of writing, but also about the publishing business.

Keep reading. Whichever genre you intend to write in – whether it's mystery or literary fiction – make sure you know it inside out.

Keep writing. I really treat writing as a job. I sit down at my desk and tell myself I must write 500 words a day. I then get going. Often I trash a lot of what I write the next day, but at least I have words on a page to work with.

Keep learning about writing. Even now, with two books published, I continually go back to my books about writing (such as John Gardner’s Art of Fiction). I have to keep learning about, and reminding myself, what makes good dialogue, or how to transition well into a flashback scene, or how to go easy with the adverbs, or how to show, not tell. Writing is a craft and thus something you must keep working at.

You mentioned above that you are about to have two books out, and I noticed on your website that your second one will be released in the summer of 2009. I'm curious now! What's it about?

The novel tells the story of two women, professors this time, who work in an English Department. One of the women, Diana, is older, very serious, and extremely established in the academic world. She’s only interested in very serious literature and has written a number of books on Sylvia Plath.

The other professor, Rachel, is new to the department. She’s young, enthusiastic, and her scholarship looks at popular women's fiction. Her scholarship ruffles a lot of feathers in the academy because people see the books Rachel looks at as trashy and unimportant. Diana is particularly adamant on this point and really doesn’t like it when the young professor comes to the department.

The book basically looks at the tensions between these two very different women and also shows all the repercussions in their department and in their lives when they are forced to work side by side. A handsome visiting professor from Harvard and some high-profile, misbehaving students only serve to make sparks fly even more between the two women.

It sounds fantastic, and I love that it addresses the idea of literary fiction vs. women's fiction. It reminds me of some of the essays novelist Jennifer Crusie has written in defense of genre fiction.

Thanks for visiting, Joanne! Now I'm off to see if my copy of The Professors' Wives Club has arrived yet. And if others are interested, they can pick up copies everywhere, including Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, Target, and their local independent bookstores, starting today. Happy reading!

It is a coincidence that I contracted the flu yesterday, just hours after a library copy of Breaking Dawn -- the fourth and final book of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series -- fell into my hands. The fact that it is also a weekend (which means I don't have to feel the guilt associated with staying in bed for two days in a row, sucking down grape juice, popping pills and reading the 754-page tome) is just one more bonus but, yes, it is still a coincidence. If my weekend were a recipe it would require the following ingredients: one part restlessness, two parts reading machine, and four parts cat bed, since the three felines have apparently decided either that sleeping on The Couch of Death is passé or that I am more generously padded than said couch. (And, let's face it, the latter is probably true.) The past two days have also been comprised of stoic suffering and an attempt to be a pillar of strength in the face of adversity. (How am I doing so far?) Also, I've been watching way too many Vlogbrothers videos.

This means difficult times are ahead for our house. Remember that vacation I just took? The California one that not only necessitated camping supplies, beachwear and winter clothes (since, hello, San Francisco is really cold in the summer) but also a full conference wardrobe and makeup? Well, since Thursday was a catch-up day (which mysteriously did not include unpacking) and Friday was a work day, my bags have spent the past several days sitting in my bedroom, conveniently located at an angle guaranteed to make hubs trip if he should get up in the middle of the night. And since moving makes my skin hurt when I'm sick, unpacking isn't going to happen this weekend, either.

The good news is that I can't procrastinate forever because my work wardrobe is severely limited while most of my favorite clothes are wrinkling inside a garment bag. So what's the holdup, other than my schedule, my symptoms, and too many meds? Laundry. Because all those suitcased clothes are destined for a good washing. It is ridiculous to hate doing laundry. I have it so easy compared to anybody else in the history of the universe. For one thing, I have machines to do it. For another, said machines are located in my kitchen, which is just down the hall from a closet that houses a large stash of empty hangers. Also, long ago I made it a policy to never buy anything that requires an iron. And, finally, it's a weekend, so I can stick around to change over loads. See? Not a big deal. Except it kind of is somehow. So while I feel like an over-entitled gen-X middle-class American whiner for saying that I hate to do laundry, well, there it is.

As for writing about the trip itself, well, I stink at trip reports. I usually find them boring to write, and if I'm bored, you definitely will be. The good news is that you have lots of options if you want to know what hubs and I were up to. For one thing, I've already processed many of the 950+ photos from our trip and uploaded them to my phlog. (Phlog = photoblog.) So as a bonus not only do you get visuals, but I also have inane little paragraphs captioning them. The first picture is, predictably enough, of the Golden Gate Bridge. The next one, which is much cuter and lacking both the color orange and any sign of motor vehicles, will be up on Monday. Until then, this link probably won't work. New photos up every Monday, Wednesday and Friday from now until my photos, the internet, or I end.

And if your nosiness concerns the conference I attended in San Francisco, you could revisit the links given in this post or the blogs belonging to the lovely and talented Alyson Noel, the vivacious and scarily elusive Melissa Blue, and the super-sweet Melina Kantor, all of whom I also had the pleasure of meeting at RWA and with whom I wish I'd had the chance to spend a lot more time. By now some of them have probably addressed the conference more thoroughly than I. Either way, their blogs are still worth the visit.

Disappointed by my reticence? Fine. If you have a specific question about our vacation, put it in the comments and I might answer it. Unless, you know, you want me to just write about the whole thing, in which case I earn a free pass to ignore you. And if there are no questions then I'm off the hook, so yippee.

So I'm strolling down the hotel hall* in my new black flipflops, and as I round a corner it occurs to me that I’m humming “It’s a Hard Knock Life” from the musical Annie (which, by the way, I haven’t seen since elementary school). Suddenly I’m searching the area for a crowbar, a jackhammer, a radio – anything that will pry, pound, or flush the bubbly tune from my cranium. Nothing. I’m stuck. Only hurrying with my ice refill, slapping back down the hall, and throwing myself at my exhausted iPod or the hotel room's tiny clock radio will do the trick. Until I find out my husband has Phil Collins’ “One More Night” in his head. Goodbye, show tune. Hello sweet, sappy '80s ballad.

Most of the time it seems like my life is accompanied by a soundtrack not of my own choosing. In college, I once underwent three months in Mexico singing either “Celito Lindo” or the original version of “Macarena” in my off hours. A couple years ago, I spent a weekend rafting on the San Juan River doing everything in time with the decidedly uncatchy “Amie” by Pure Prairie League. Infectious melodies regularly add to my insomniac misery as I sigh through hours of wakefulness with songs ranging from Jack Johnson’s “Good People” to Beck’s “Hell Yes” running an endless loop in the background. And I can never think of the musical West Side Story without suffering a deluge of show tunes, most especially “America”. It’s amazing how often that Romeo and Juliet adaptation comes to mind simply because I try to resist all thoughts of it.

My brother recently proved to me that the best way to lodge a song in someone’s head is to sing only part of it, stopping midway through – preferably in the middle of a word. This way the person’s brain is forced to continue the melody, starting over and over, until it finds a satisfactory ending. Like Sisyphus and the rock, a satisfying climax never occurs. No wonder it's death to my peaceful mind when I switch stations partway through “The Milkshake Song”. I assure you, however, that I haven’t listened to “It’s a Hard Knock Life”, either in whole or in part, since a friend last subjected me to her cheerful off-key rendition months ago. So what brought it up?

I’m sick of my usual “ear worms” as they’ve come to be called, and am hereby suggesting a trade. I tell you what I have in my head, and you tell me what you’re singing. (Chances are, it’s now one of the songs I’ve mentioned above. I’m so sorry. Truly.) Or are you one of those lucky people who isn’t subjected to fourteen straight hours of “It’s a Small World After All” just because a coworker finishes a story of running into an old classmate in the deli section of her grocery store with a cheerful, “It really is a small world, isn’t it?” If so, not only are you part of the lucky 2%, but you’re really missing out. I mean, you actually have to turn on a radio to hear a little music. Really, I feel so much pity for you.

*Yes, we're already on vacation, and have been for a while, which is why I haven't been haunting the blogosphere as much as usual. Expect more of the same over the next several weeks. Not that blogging's been totally off my mind, of course. Hubs and I already stayed several nights with the delightful, talented Robin, and I'll meet up with a few others at the RWA conference next week. If you're going, too, maybe I'll see you there! (In the meantime, though, be sure to check out Pam's posts on preparing for Nationals.) So, really, you are far from forgotten, even when I myself am far from a good network connection.

I had a wonderful weekend, full of great company, beautiful weather, delicious food, and gorgeous scenery. But who wants to hear about all that? The best stories are about adversity, not seamless perfection. They also have at least one antagonist -- which we'll get to shortly.

On Friday afternoon we pushed off a muddy shore in southeastern Utah for a three-day rafting trip down a flat section of the Green River. Hubs couldn't make it, but we had a full crew nonetheless: my parents, my brother, his wife, and her parents as well as a frightening number of provisions, including two rafts, a kayak, forty-eight tortillas (or possibly more), twelve bananas, four cans of bug spray, and a dog. (As you can tell by the number of links in this post, I also packed my camera. But then, that shouldn't be a surprise. Just click on the links sprinkled throughout this post to see accompanying photos, all of which are mine except the one of the Mineral Bottom road.)

We spent a gorgeous summer afternoon drifting lazily along the river, watching the herons fish, the swallows dive, and the shadows grow longer. We read and chatted and swam. We laughed. We napped in the sun and admired the scenery. In short, it was everything a river trip should be. A freakin' stereotype. We could have starred in a beer commercial or an REI catalogue.

Until we pulled ashore for a short but much-needed break.

The mosquitoes smelled us coming before we hit the shallows. Within seconds we were stormed by swarms of blood-hungry bugs, all desperate for a drink in a sparsely-populated land. We dug into our bags, searching out DEET, which had little effect on the tiny fiends. It was our first indication that weather, timing, and sheer bad luck had led us into a mosquito infestation of epidemic proportions, the likes of which I can safely say I have never before seen. We did our business quickly, slapping at the bugs while trying to balance, then scurried back to the boats and pushed off, swatting the mosquitoes that followed in our wake.

Night brought us to our doom. We unloaded the boats, made and ate dinner, and set up camp, followed all the while by clouds of insects. My sister-in-law's mother (my mother-in-law-in-law?) selected a spot for her tent, then asked the rest of us about our evening plans. Since everybody knows that mosquitoes go away at night, my brother, his wife, and her father informed her that we planned to sleep outside. Shaking her head, she set up her tent while we prepared our islands of serenity on a rock slab far from the water's edge -- and, we hoped, far from the accompanying mosquitoes.

As you have probably guessed, this brilliant strategy did not work. The setting sun brought mild relief at best. Only campfire smoke had any effect on the unholy creatures, and we could not leave open flames unchecked while we slept. Instead we used the only armor available to us, swaddling ourselves in clothes and pillows and sleeping bags despite the heat, then bracing for the next attack. It did not take long. This time, however, it came in the form of wind, as a sudden gust ripped my pillow off my head with the force of a camp counselor waking those too tired to face the day without help. My fleece flew off next. Sensing an opening, the tenacious insects dove in under the cover of night, zeroing in on my ears and neck. Despite the wind, which by all rights should have sent the tiny aerialists halfway around the world, they landed on the targeted areas with ease and hunkered down for a nice, long drink.

Invigorated by the snatched pillow incident, I recovered rapidly, again shielding all skin from wind and bugs, tucking in with extra vigilance to protect against my newest enemy: the wind. Only two square inches of skin remained open to the elements, allowing me to breathe. I braced myself against the buzzing as the bugs tried to worm their way inside my armor, and against the breeze as it blew my fleece against my face. And then it happened: a single brave mosquito landed on my lips. Spluttering, I sat up without thought and slapped it away, my carefully arranged protection spilling off around me, all hope of sleep vanishing into the night. I have had my share of adventures and handled them with varying degrees of poise, but I could not, would not sleep like this. Ever. Which left me with two options: insomnia or escape. I made my decision as another hot breeze tore at my hair.

Although I woke my mother-in-law-in-law from a dead sleep, she greeted me cheerfully and ushered me into her tiny abode, a self-proclaimed two-person tent built for one-and-a-half. She cut off my apologies with thanks for making her feel better about her choice of accommodations.

Before we'd even drifted off to sleep, my brother had carried his tent to our end of the field and created shelter of his own in four minutes flat. His wife arrived moments later, tanked up on Benadryl and dragging the rest of their camping supplies.

The next day we rushed through breakfast and the loading of the boats. Terrified at the thought of another night like the one we'd just experienced, we set out to make miles: thirty of them, to be precise. After ten hours of rowing under the desert sun against an upstream wind, we slid into takeout with enough time to sling everything onto the trailer, pile into the cars waiting for us, drive up the legendary Mineral Bottom road, and find a campsite -- all well before sunset, thanks to the summer solstice. We feasted in peace on top of a mesa, our mosquito-free existence marred only by a misplaced cactus, a horde of harmless gnats, a stink bug and, for some inexplicable reason, a couple of horses looking for food and attention. But, thank God, there were no mosquitoes.

This afternoon when I got home, I showered off a half dozen alternating layers of bug spray, sunscreen, and grime, then took an iron tablet and dropped into bed. The last thing I remember thinking was, the next time someone warns me about insects when I plan to disappear into the wilderness for a while, I may just listen to them. Though even as I scratch my bites, I still can't find it in me to regret the trip. Other than the mosquitoes, we had a wonderful time. And as for the little buggers, what doesn't kill us gives us something to blog about.

My sister-in-law's leg early on the first evening

I’m married to a crazy person. I’m sure he’d say I drove him to it, but the truth is he’s always been this way. A hike is never finished until he has explored every available square inch of the terrain we’re crossing -- especially the ledges and the high spots. For some inexplicable reason, his motto seems to be “When in doubt, go higher. Actually, whenever possible, go higher.” The good news is that this only applies to elevation and not to drugs. The bad news is that elevation has its own dangers.

In contrast, my motto is “If I pause to take a picture here, no one can tell that I really just want an excuse to stop and catch my breath.” Which is why this picture is so typical of our relationship. We were in Canyonlands National Park on the winter solstice a few years ago. He’d just dragged me all over creation in search of God knows what, and I'd let him because I needed the exercise. While I stopped to take a picture of more rocks, he decided to go out onto them. I didn’t realize he was crossing onto the boulders until it was too late -- to get a picture of him in mid-air, that is.

If you thought I was going to write “too late to stop him” up there, you were incorrect . That would never work, so I barely bother anymore. I just cross my fingers and take a picture in case I need an alibi. “Really, Your Honor. I didn’t push him. See? I was over here the whole time, taking a picture.”

By the way, if this photo looks familiar, that's probably because I originally posted it on Playing with Pixels quite a while ago. I ran across it yesterday and thought I'd share, since I've been yearning for another trip to Canyonlands, despite the summertime heat. Click here or on the picture for a larger version with abbreviated text.

Every year when NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) rolls around, I stand on the sidelines like an outcast kid, watching while everyone else gets to play. Because let's face it -- if there's an inconvenient month to write 50,000 words, it's November. (Actually, 50,000 words is nowhere near convenient, no matter the month.) That's why when I found out that the New Zealand group Kiwi Writers claimed June for their own novel-writing month, I waited and debated and finally signed up. June's still a busy month (and, blast it, it still has only 30 days instead of 31 like some months I could name -- yes, I'm looking at you, January), but at least it doesn't contain Thanksgiving and Christmas preparations. Not that I have cause to whine, since I'm cheating anyway; I only have about 43,000 words to go on my current book, instead of 50,000. Even that means 1,434 words per day, however, with no days off. I'm nervous and excited and already counting down the days until July.

Pain, suffering, and daily writing sound like a good way to spend the next month? If so, check out the Southern Cross Novel Challenge (SoCNoC). It's free, and includes access to forums with a wealth of resources and plenty of people to encourage you. You can even friend people, since this is the age of social networking. (My user name is caryn.) Plus you don't have to be a Kiwi, since New Zealanders are a welcoming sort.

Even if you don't join, feel free to throw a few tips my way in the comments for this post. I could use some. (And, no, Don't do it! doesn't count.)

In other news, I seem to remember that there was a contest on here a few days ago, for which debut author Jess Riley donated a copy of her new book Driving Sideways. Well, this afternoon Random.org declared Ilana Stephens the winner! Please visit her blog and congratulate her. And if you haven't picked up your own copy of Driving Sideways, rush right out and grab one because it's a wonderful read.

P.S. Someone e-mailed me today (Tuesday) using the link on the left-hand sidebar. My stats tell me that they filled out the form, sent it, and got the thank-you screen, so I know it wasn't spam. However, I had an e-mail glitch (which is now fixed, thank goodness!) and did not receive it. Could you please try again? I don't handle suspense well, and I'm dying of curiosity. I just know you were writing to tell me I won a million dollars or you want to give me a book deal or something. That's it, right? Right?

I’ve decided not to blog today. I thought I’d announce this decision, so you’d know that you were being neglected, instead of just suspecting it. It’s a beautiful May morning, and I plan to enjoy it. But just so you know what you’re missing, I’ll fill you in on a few things you will won't learn on here today.

I won’t share my new secret knowledge: ring-billed gulls (commonly -- though incorrectly -- known as “seagulls”) practice kung fu when we're not looking. Maybe I’ll mention it another time instead. If it comes up.

If only I were blogging today, I could mention in passing that hubs requested a pie in the face for his birthday and a rutabaga for Christmas, and now I’m terrified and intrigued -- what will he ask for next? But since I’m busy elsewhere, I will be forced to disclose that tidbit another time.

On this fine morning, I will not share my suspicions that Echo the Cat looks like an Olsen Twin. This is especially clear in the link I would post if I were posting a photo to back up this information which I will not share today. Which I’m not. Or something. Now I’m all confused…

I hereby refuse to admit that our other two cats are unusually close. Often.

On a day like today, when many of you are probably hard at work on your novels, it would be far too embarrassing to reveal that I take pictures of random objects when I have writer's block. Much better for you to suspect that I dedicate 100% of my attention to my book whenever I’m not at work or blogging.

And, because I’m afraid of public humiliation, I will never -- today or any other day -- reveal that I refer to this picture as “Cactus Itt” and am desperate to take scissors to the plant’s shagginess. I fear you might disagree or, worse, laugh at me.

So there you go. I bet you feel as if you’re really missing out, with scintillating topics like these available if only I were willing to take the time. Maybe on a day when there aren’t flowers to enjoy and books to write, and cats to tease, I will go more in-depth. Or perhaps not. In the meantime, if you're feeling bereft of bloggie tidbits, I suppose you could always stop by my photoblog, Playing with Pixels. To navigate through the album, just click the right or left side of each picture to go backwards or forward, respectively, or use the arrows beneath. Or, if you haven't done so already, read the post below and then enter to win an autographed and personalized copy of Jess Riley's hilarious and poignant debut novel Driving Sideways. Or find some other way to entertain yourself. You're resourceful; I can tell that about you.

Ever get lost in your calendar and become convinced it's another day? Several weeks ago I spent an entire Thursday sure it was only Tuesday. Every time I remembered, it was like this little bonus. Today, however, it didn't work out so well, as it was Friday in my mind while everyone else was slogging through another Wednesday. Every hour or two something would happen to remind me that I was the one who was confused. The frequent jolts back to the Land of Reality were unpleasant at best.

If anything, this evening's activities made the condition worse. Nothing says the weekend has arrived like an evening get-together on a friend's back porch, complete with margaritas and snacks. I'm now at risk of not going in to work at all tomorrow morning, and have instructed one of my coworkers to call me if I don't show up. I almost hope she doesn't; I could use the sleep.

Please understand -- I really like my job, and I love most of the people I work with. But, Lord help me, I do despise my alarm clock. And so I yearn for the weekend with every fiber of my being, just so that I can wake at dawn out of habit instead of obligation. Which probably explains my confusion about the days -- it is my body's way of telling me I need a Saturday, no matter what the calendar says.

The chronological confusion has only worsened since our evening margarita consumption, not because of the alcohol but because of an incident that occurred shortly afterward. Now I'm not even certain what year it is. 1989? 1991?

Here's why, and this one's really embarrassing, so be gentle. Turns out there's a New Kids on the Block, version 2.0, complete with a group blog wherein each member signs his name with an exclamation point. (Yes! You, too, can read blog entries from Danny!, Jonathan!, Donnie!, and Joey Mac!! Isn't it exciting!) They even have new music, which is where my chagrin kicks in, because to my everlasting shame I found myself almost sort of kinda tempted to tap my foot to "Summertime" when it played on the radio a few minutes ago. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to go buy the cassette tape and listen to it forty-eight times in a row like, uh, some people I know. (Hey, I never claimed to be proud of my middle school years.) But it was kind of catchy. It also whisked my right back to the late eighties, a time I try not to visit all too often.

Before being reintroduced to NKOTB this evening I knew what year it was, even if I couldn't always pinpoint the day with 100% accuracy. Now I can't even be certain of that much. At least I have music and margaritas to console me. Sing along with me, will you?

 

 

In an unprecedented -- and totally warranted -- act of aggression, I am about to use my current computer to purchase its replacement. We require little in a new system. In addition to the very basics, we'd settle for the following features, none of which our current beast has:

1) A monitor that does not make heavy breathing sounds.
2) Volume control that does not sweep up and down at the computer's whim.
3) The ability to turn it on more than once a week.

Unfortunately, comparison shopping is tough because none of the above qualities are listed as options. I am hoping that means they are now standard, along with enormous hard drives, high-tech flat-screen monitors, and Vista, none of which we need but it seems we're going to end up with anyway because all but the lowest-quality computers seem to have them now. (Note to self-appointed Mac missionaries: We are not getting one, so don't bother suggesting it. Thank you.)

Alas, this means new couch for us for a while, since that would make for a pretty scary credit card bill, but the Couch of Death affects me most when I'm also suffering from other allergies (way to kick me when I'm down), so things should get better here soon, and I'll aim for finding a replacement by next spring instead.

And while we're more or less still on the subject of computers (Ha! How's that for a segue?), I have broken down and started another blog, because I quite CLEARLY do not have enough to do. See, much as I like to write, I have other hobbies, too. One of them is sleeping in. Another is eating cookies. And yet another is photography. Since the first two do not make for an interesting series of blog posts, I decided to create a photoblog. After all, as anyone who's ever known a proud grandparent has learned, photos are more fun when you share them with strangers. Not having any grandkids, I've had to settle for taking photos of landscapes, flowers, and other elements of nature. As a nod to my inner grandparent, I've even indulged in a few cat photos, although I promise not to overwhelm.

I have eight or nine images on there right now, just to get started and give people an idea of what they'll see, but I've scheduled many more; a new one will appear each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, which is really a good deal compared to the biweekly updates on here.

If you're curious, you can check out the blog, Playing with Pixels, at http://carynsphotos.wordpress.com. To navigate, just click on the right-hand side of the picture to move through to the end of the album, or use the left and right arrows below. You can even subscribe to the RSS feed or receive email updates, just like for this blog, because I like to get fancy like that.

Blogging memes are like recommendation letters: I'm flattered when someone asks me to write one, but the execution of said assignment is usually more difficult -- and often more tedious -- than it at first seems. Which is why I never do them. Memes, at least. I'll still write a recommendation letter, and take a horrifying amount of time making sure that every phrase is perfect and every comma is in its proper position. If you don't get the job or the college admission, I'd rather not have that on my conscience. A meme, though? I usually just read everybody else's answers and hope the person who assigned it soon forgets that they tagged me. If I can't make it interesting, I don't address it.

Because of this I've gained a reputation for lack of follow-through when it comes to blogging memes and email forwards. My friend Katie recently sent around an internet questionnaire in which she answered the question "Which of the recipients of this message is least likely to pass it on?" with, of course, my name. And she was right, because while I read all her answers and even intended to answer them, I never actually brought myself to follow the rules and send it on. Soon it was buried under all the new fodder in my inbox -- and, until this very moment, it was buried in my memory, too. (Sorry, Katie.)

This is why when my friend Natalie tagged me for the meme in which I describe my life in six words, it's no surprise that I vowed to do it and then promptly (almost) forgot about it. But when thoughts of it floated into my mind this afternoon as I was driving home from work, and I realized that the following sentence had exactly six words, I knew I had to follow through. It was too easy not to. Plus, I also don't like to break promises, even though I knew Natalie was too nice to keep score. So here you go. My life in six words:

Memes and forwards end with me.

And, yes, for such a short meme, I managed to write a lot of words about it. But my task is officially almost over. I've done it. And if I can, you can, too. If you're lucky, maybe you already have. And if you're unlucky, you're one of the following people, and have now been given the task of defining your life in six or fewer words: Katie (it's only fair), Robin, Christa, Emily, Mel. If I didn't tag you, it's not because I don't love you. I do. But I had to stop before I got tag-happy.

Okay, go to it, ladies! If you want. After all, who am I to retaliate if you don't? Here are the guidelines:

1. Write your own six-word memoir.
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like.
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4. Tag five more blogs with links.
5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play. (This last step is optional.)

By the way, if you enjoy six-word memoirs, you check out the book Not Quite What I Had in Mind. It's a collection of six-word memoirs by some famous -- and some not-so-famous -- people. I haven't read it yet, but it sounds intriguing.

Well, we are now nearly three full months into 2008, and guess which one of the following I still have not done? Go on, circle one:

a) Licked an envelope and received a paper cut on my tongue.

b) Roasted Peeps over an open campfire.

c) Started my diet yet again.

d) Stood under a dripping eave to photograph the snow covering my newly-hatched crocuses, just like a photojournalist in a war zone.

e) Used my cat's paw to kill a spider when he wouldn't get around to killing it himself.

If you guessed c you are, unfortunately, correct. And I did so well last year, losing twenty pounds, developing a rather scary craving for veggies, and upping my exercise tolerance by a factor of ten. Turns out such habits take maintenance — unlike a habit of scarfing chocolate and lounging on the couch, which comes naturally.

Oh, no. I just realized where this post is going. See, now, this is the problem with blogging. I start out with an innocent little quiz about my ever-increasing girth, and suddenly I realize that I now must promise to improve, since there's little point to baseless whining. (Okay, there is — it makes me feel better — but I do try not to subject you to it. Which means I need a point.)

Fine, then. Here's my vow: By the middle of July I will lose those seven stubborn pounds that sneaked back over the winter. And since I'm announcing it to these here internets and, more specifically, to you, that means I've got some accountability. Okay. That's fine. I can take it. You now have permission to ask me at any time how my healthful lifestyle goal is going, and I promise to try to answer nicely. In the meantime, I'm slinking back to Sparkpeople to begin my diet and exercise regime again. Here's hoping they'll take me back.