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February 28, 2005
And now...The moment you've all been waiting for...
From Michelle, Introducing The Wonderful Stephanie Lehmann!
Well, we've been teasing you for a bit about the identity of our first mysterious guest, and now the cat's out of the bag!
What can I tell you about Stephanie? Well, apart from being one of the nicest people I know, her third book THE ART OF UNDRESSING, is hitting the shelves as we speak. And who can resist a book that contains an exotic dancer mother, sex toys and pink feather boas? Certainly not me!
Rian Montgomery of chicklitbooks.com gave a great five-star review, and without any further ado, here is a little teaser and mini fun interview with Stephanie...plus, don't forget to pop back here to find out how you can win a copy of one of Stephanie's books.
Ginger's mother, Coco, used to be an exotic dancer, though now she makes her living selling sex toys and teaching classes like "The Fine Art of Striptease." A straitlaced, self-respecting twenty-five-year-old, aspiring pastry chef Ginger has no desire to follow in her mother's high-heeled footsteps. She's too busy trying to convince her sadistic French cooking school instructor of her talents in the kitchen.
When Ginger gets sweet on a fellow student, she finds herself ill-equipped in the art of seduction. And when she discovers she has a reputation for being "just one of the guys," suddenly, she's looking for some motherly advice on how to catch the man she loves.
FUN INTERVIEW WITH STEPHANIE
[Michelle] Have you ever taken stripping lessons or stripped for your husband?
[Stephanie] Like my heroine, I'm modest. Was born with exposure anxiety. My mom tells me I came out wearing a onesie. Problem is, I'm also an exhibitionist. Which is part of why I became a writer. I did take a stripping class once, hoping to loosen up a bit for my husband. But when I performed for him, my inhibitions got in the way. So I started out naked and gradually dressed myself. Then I made him watch me stand there in my clothes while we didn't have sex.
[Michelle] Did you have to visit any exotic dancer clubs as part of your research?
[Stephanie] Yes, I did have to. But, you know, writers must sometimes sacrifice themselves for their art. Actually, the decision to write this novel was part of an extremely elaborate plan to have a good excuse to go to strip clubs. I wanted to know what went on in these places. I went with groups of friends to a few different ones, and I have to say, it's a real eye opener -- in more ways than one.
I might mention that the ex-exotic dancer character of Coco gives a few lessons on how to strip in the course of the novel, so readers can learn all the techniques as an added bonus.
[Michelle] Did you take your husband with you?
[Stephanie] Are you kidding? I wouldn't want my daughter to see him gaping at those women!
Seriously. Some women like to go with their husbands or boyfriends, but I couldn't stand that. I'd just be sitting there fuming, thinking how dare he allow that woman to give him a lap dance?! What a sexist pig! But of course, I had perfectly good reason to be there as part of my research, so I could gape all I wanted. But no, I didn't get a lap dance. I'm too shy.
[Michelle] Do you know any exotic dancers?
[Stephanie] We all know exotic dancers. We just don't know that we know them...
[Michelle] Are you good at cooking?
[Stephanie] I am good at cooking. I have this uncanny ability to time out how long to microwave my Lean Cuisines so they're done perfectly on the first shot.
[Michelle] Do you get excited about stainless steel the way most women get excited about diamonds?
[Stephanie] I get excited about my stainless steel dishwasher.
[Michelle] Have you ever sold sex toys?
[Stephanie] Only when I auctioned off my old vibrator on Ebay. Just kidding! I did organize my own sex toy party -- as further research for the book, of course. It's enlightening to see your friends discussing whether they prefer the high-powered electric vibes or the more gentle models with less intense stimulation. Suddenly it's all fodder for casual discussion. It's a great bonding experience and really helps to "normalize" the idea of enjoying your sexuality.
* * *
Stephanie's going to be with us for the whole of the month of March, so don't forget to pop back tomorrow for her first entry!
Michelle
Posted by Michelle at 12:18 PM | Comments (0)
February 27, 2005
The Oscars
Alesia, from warm and rainy Florida...
I love the Academy Awards. I adore everything about it. I’m a total movie junkie, and this is the belle of the ball when it comes to award shows. I love the fashion watching, am fascinated by what’s in the goodie bags (and desperately covet one!), and love keeping my own personal scoresheet about which movie will win v. which one I thought deserved it.
Going out on a limb here . .
THE INCREDIBLES has to bag the award for best animated feature. The movie totally rocked! (And I don’t just say that because it’s so much like my Jax Abbott books about Jessie!) It was so much fun, for both kids and adults.
The rest? Sadly, massive deadlines and not much access to a babysitter means that I haven’t seen many of them. But I have a goal to see all the nominated films over the next couple of weeks. Tonight, though, I’m going to enjoy every minute, from the red carpet to the very last moment when Chris Rock says goodnight.
If you get a chance, drop a comment and let me know what movie/actor/actress/director you feel won who deserved it or – much more fun -- who got robbed and why.
Hugs and happy Oscar night,
Alesia
Posted by Alesia at 5:49 PM | Comments (0)
February 25, 2005
Taxing Tasks
From Michelle, Ruminating in Rotterdam...
Well, it's that time of year when we have to think about the dreaded "T" word. I hardly dare say it aloud...
Owkey, I'll stop being a wimp. Taxes. There, I said it. But before I begin compiling receipts, there are just so many things I have to do first...
Top Ten Urgent Tasks
1. Have a little snack. And a lie down.
2. Clean the toilets.
3. Scrub the kitchen floor. With a toothbrush, because you just can't beat a toothbrush for getting into all those germ-infested crevices. (But an old toothbrush, obviously!)
4. Do the ironing, making sure that all clothes, socks and underwear are pristine and crease free.
5. Have another little snack (tax season is definitely bad for my waistline--besides, all that ironing is hunger inducing!).
6. Gaze out of my apartment window and count and categorize the shipping that continually travels up and down the River Maas (gah! Have become a ship spotter!)
7. Clean behind the washing machine.
8. Alphabetize all books, CDs and Videos.
9. Have another little snack.
10. Answer all telemarketer calls and make an extra effort to see beyond the telemarketer to the person behind the call.
Well, after all that activity I'm pretty exhausted! Time for another little lie down...
Michelle
PS. And the mystery guest blogger is...watch this space over the next few days and all will be revealed!
Posted by Michelle at 12:05 AM | Comments (3)
February 23, 2005
Four Words
Lani, gearing up for the rant...
Before I get started, a choppy thought: I've decided I want this. Do you see how it actually burns the image of Hello Kitty into the toast? Maybe this is similar to how the image of the Virgin Mary keeps showing up in potato chips...
Now, for the blog. Some of you already know I've been teaching an actual bonafide university class this semester. Which has been loads of fun. I love having a captive audience and for the most part my students seem to endure their captivity with relative grace, so all is well. Anyway, one of the things I've learned is that lecturing is ranting you get paid to do. Very, very cool. So what I'm about to do here? Not a rant.
It's a lecture. And it's for the guys, and it will change their lives forever.
No. Really.
Guys, repeat after me:
"You're right. That sucks."
Four simple words. Change your life. Not kidding.
The other day, I hit on a bad moment while I was out and about, so I flipped open my cell phone and called Fish to be comforted. He then gave me a logical reason why I should not be upset, and when I continued to be upset, he got frustrated and I told him that gee, thanks, his yelling was so very comforting and then he said he wasn't YELLING he was just FRUSTRATED by the fact that I wasn't LISTENING.
We hung up. Neither one of us was happy. All of which could have been avoided if he'd just said, "You're right. That sucks."
Because here's the thing with men. We come to them with a problem, and they want to fix it, not realizing that we're just as capable of fixing it as they are (unless said problem is plumbing/insect-related, in which case, yes, we want them to fix it and now, please.) We are women. Hear us roar. We are capable of logic. We are not coming to you for logic. We are coming to you for four words.
"You're right. That sucks."
I don't know what it is that makes men incapable of saying this. The penis, the testosterone, the Y chromosome, latent resentment over having to both lift up and then put down the toilet seat. I don't know. But for some reason, it seems almost impossible fo them to just say, "Yes. I see you are upset, and rather than a) telling you why you shouldn't be upset using my Vulcan male logic or b) trying to fix your problem by giving you obvious advice as though you're an idiot or c) making some stupid joke in an attempt to distract you from the fact that I can do neither a) nor b), I'll just say, 'Hey, you know what? You're right. THAT SUCKS.'"
Yeah. It really is that easy.
But if Fish is reading this, and wants to buy me that Hello Kitty toaster, that's okay, too.
Posted by Lani at 8:21 PM | Comments (4)
February 22, 2005
The Classics
Alesia, from warm and rainy Florida...
I’ve been re-reading the classics lately and thinking about how well some books translate into whatever generation reads them. As I sat up until two in the morning one night last week, reading Cyrano de Bergerac (and crying at the end), I wondered about the elements that these books have that make them endure . . .
Here are a few things I came up with:
First, they have characters we care about. Cyrano was fierce and brilliant and tragically in love, but he was never a figure of fun (Steve Martin movies aside). We ached for his loss and his nobility and his ultimate sacrifice. In Pride and Prejudice (and the literary chicks have some very cool news on that front – stay tuned!), we so wanted to see Elizabeth triumph over Mr. Darcy’s reserve. (I’ll save any ode to Colin Firth for Lani – she wins for biggest Colin fan, definitely!)
Second, they have stories to which we can relate. Love, sacrifice, and nobility; or the darker side of emotion – jealousy, betrayal, and vengeance. They are larger than life (whose true love has battled 100 men with only a sword lately?) but reflect on our own passions and pain. Characters who battle their way through to a better life, love, or version of themselves.
Finally, they’re the ‘more’ books. More funny, more tragic, more romantic, or more poignant. Books that make us dig deep into the emotional core – that same core that is often left untouched in today’s more cynical world.
I want to write books that are ‘more.’ More funny. More emotional. Books that make you care about my characters and whether or not they achieve their goals. Some writers I know tend to avoid the classics of literature, because reading great books makes them feel insecure and inferior. I’m just the opposite – to me, they give me reasons to work harder. To dig deeper. To give my readers ‘more.’
And, hey – Edmond Rostand was a lapsed lawyer, too.
Hugs,
Alesia
Posted by Alesia at 9:48 AM | Comments (1)
February 21, 2005
The Magically Disappearing Woman
From Michelle, Apparently Invisible In Rotterdam...
Just to add to Lani's teasing comment about our mystery guest literary chick--all I can say is that she's absolutely fabulous, and we can't wait to let you in on the secret. Stay tuned to find out her identitiy! More on her soon, but for now...
Owkey. Some of you know how much of a beacon I am for the streetmarketers, who all instantly home in on me the minute I step outside my aparrtment.
Well, this completely reverses the minute I step into a supermarket, because I become totally invisible. It's true! Here's what happened...
Picture this: I am in the cheese aisle, but there are two people blocking my access to the Cheddar. They're very busy having a chat and haven't noticed me yet, but I need to get to the cheese, so very politely I say "Pardon" (Dutch for excuse me). And they ignore me and continue chatting. I say pardon, again, but they still don't appear to notice me, so I walk back down the aisle, along the next aisle, and come back along the cheese aisle from the opposite direction.
Two minutes later, picture this: there are two people blocking the aisle, again. Two completely different people. A completely different aisle. And all I want to do is get past them to the olive oil, and so I say pardon. And when they don't hear or see me I say pardon, again. Yep, they don't notice me. So I turn on my heel, stalk back down the aisle the way I came, go down the next aisle, and approach the olive oil aisle from the opposite direction.
This same curious thing happens to me a few more times when I attempt to procure (a) milk, (b) tuna, and (c) bread. So by the time I get to the freezer aisle I am getting just a bit paranoid when it happens again!
Finally, I get through the checkout without mishap, and then line up for the vending machine because I need to get some strippen kart--a vital acquisition because I want to take the tram home, and strippen kart is the strip card that the Dutch use on their public transport system.
The line is quite long, and about ten hours later when it is finally my turn, before I can move forward and insert my money into the machine, a woman steps in front of me and takes my turn. I just don't believe it.
I am invisible. I'm convinced I am!
Anyway, I was so stunned that I didn't say anything. I could only gaze at her with openmouthed astonishment. After she successfully purchased her condoms (yes, these machines also vend condoms--and tampons) I finally got my turn and bought my strippen kart.
As I left the supermarket and stepped out into the sunlight, a streetmarketer immediately cornered me and tried to convince me that I needed a subscription to his newspaper so that I could improve my Dutch.
I mean, what is going on, here? What? Is it just me?
But for once, I had the last laugh...
"No thanks," I told the eager young streetmarketer. "One of your telemarketers already caught me last week and set up my subscription."
Michelle xx
Posted by Michelle at 11:40 AM | Comments (3)
February 20, 2005
Tinker, Tinker, Putz, Putz
Lani, the website equivalent of a grease monkey...
It's 5:57 in the morning. I have been up since three. For no really good reason, just had a weird dream, and then as I tried to get back to sleep, I couldn't. Thinking, thinking, thinking. About the new book, about the old books, about the mysterious way that jelly actually jumps out of the jar and attaches itself to Light's face as she walks through the kitchen.
And then, I thought about my website, which needed tinkering. And this website, which needed tinkering.
Yeah. I know. I need help.
But, bright side, I've updated the site! Couple of new things, so here you go...
Alesia's young adult titles are now listed to the right - she writes as Jax Abbott, and her Super series is... well... pretty darn super. Check 'em out.
Also, forums go bye-bye. We're revamping a bit and reworking the forums as part of that process. But never fear, the first chapters will be up as part of the regular site soon.
As soon as I wake up at 3 am feeling guilty for not having this stuff done again.
In the meantime, this stinks as a regular blog, but at least, if you read this far, you'll get this little tidbit of inside information...
... we've got some new Literary Chick blood coming in for the month of March. And you're gonna love her. More later...
Posted by Lani at 6:03 AM | Comments (1)
February 18, 2005
Friday Writer’s Corner
Alesia, from her writing computer...
The Sound and the Fury
Readers and other writers often ask about the plotting. How do you do it? Are you an outline or a ‘pantser’ [a sort of short-hand for one who writes with no plan; by the ‘seat of her pants’ writing]? I’m definitely a plotter. I love the plotting process; it’s one of my favorite parts of writing. I usually get a fresh legal pad [only white; none of that hideous yellow paper I never even liked to use when I was practicing law] and go curl up in my big, comfy chair with my small, comfy puppy and play What If?
My book ideas always start with a character. For example, AMERICAN IDLE was ‘What If a woman who has never held a job for more than two years, and thinks she’s totally incompetent at work and in her personal life, is suddenly thrown into a situation where she’s the sanest one around?’ Then I start weaving in the twists and turns, fleshing out the characters, and getting to know them. This process takes time; kind of a fermenting process. I walk around, doing other things, with my characters rolling around in the back of my busy brain. Secondary characters, love interests, the final destination, and much of the journey go this way.
Finally, I’ll have the book all blocked out. Sometimes my outline is ten pages long. Sometimes it’s twenty. For my first legal thriller, there were so many intricate puzzle pieces, the outline is nearly 75 pages long. [My pantser friends are moaning at the thought.]
The one thing the outlines all have in common? The books never turn out exactly like them. For me, outlines are like life. Their very structure demands fluidity. A character may turn out in a way you don’t expect; demanding to take over more of the page, or demonstrating that his motivation is deeper and darker than you’d imagined when you started writing him. I love when that happens. That’s Magic Time. And Magic Time is the place that births all of the best stories.
So I write, and I revise my outline. And I write and revise some more. Then I get to the place – usually after page 300 or so – that I call the Sound and the Fury. My friend Suz Brockmann calls it being in avalanche mode. Either way, it’s the place where all of the plot threads and the characters and the Story with a capital S come together in such a crashing wave that your fingers can’t keep up with the ideas burning through your brain and up from your gut to the keyboard.
Then I swim up from typing The End and blink like a creature coming into the light; then I do all the things that the Sound and the Fury kept me from; then I rest a little and read other people’s books. But it’s not very long until my fingers are itching for a pen and a fresh legal pad, and I need to call Daisy and climb back in my comfy chair. Because I just had a thought – What If . . .
Hugs and happy weekend,
Alesia
Posted by Alesia at 6:21 PM | Comments (0)
February 17, 2005
Telemarketers!
From Michelle, Tortured in Rotterdam...
A little while ago some of you might remember that I developed a little plan to avoid all the streetmarketers in Rotterdam, because they somehow know on sight that I will be an easy target and will deliberately flock toward me (is there a large red arrow hovering mysteriously above my head?) So I cunningly added red danger dots to all streetmarketer danger areas on a map of the city center and found alternate routes. And guess what? It works.
Unfortunately, as I strongly suspected they would at some point soon, the telemarketers have now found me...
Is It Just Me, Or What?
So there I was earlier today, casually minding my own business, when the telephone in our apartment rang, so I picked up.
It was a very nice woman wanting to sell me a subscription to a newspaper because, she explained, it would really help me to improve my Dutch. Actually, not a bad idea...
A bit later, as I was casually minding my own business again, the phone rang again, so I picked up.
It was a very nice woman wanting me to change my expensive telephone service (she knew which company I'd signed with and quoted the Eurocents per minute at me) to her company's much cheaper, much much cheaper, telephone service. Um, that seemed like quite a good idea, too...
A bit later again, as I was casully minding my own business again, the phone rang again, so I picked up.
It was another nice woman wanting to sell me a subscription to a different newspaper, because (and I did explain about purchasing the subscription to the other newspaper) TWO newspapers meant TWICE as much help with my Dutch. How can you argue the logic of that?
Anyway, when the phone rang again a little while later, and it was another very nice woman wanting me to change my expensive telephone service to yet another cheaper telephone service, my head was spinning!
I needed a strategy...
A bit later, when the telephone rang again, my stress levels zoomed beyond the stratosphere.
"Hello," I barked down the phone in a really unfriendly manner, ready to be fierce and definitely not buy any more newspaper subscriptions.
It was, of course, my poor mother.
I need Caller ID. And voicemail. And as soon as I've gotten over the fact that I will have to call an 0900 number (10 EUROCENTS PER MINUTE) and spend at least five million Euros on the phone while I wait ten years and a gazillion ogenblicks for a real person to take away the piped music and talk to me, I will do it.
In the meantime, am strongly tempted to unplug the phone.
Michelle :-)
Posted by Michelle at 1:23 PM | Comments (2)
February 16, 2005
Lani's Favorite Things
Lani, feeling a little like Oprah...
I've been sick. Not sick sick, just cold sick. Headache sick. Don't-wanna-vacuum sick.
Oh, wait. That last part's pretty normal.
Anyway, I thought I would have some fun today and cheer up by doing some internet shopping for my favorite things. I wish I had Oprah's money and could hire a bunch of people to dress like elves and deliver these things all beribboned and whatnot directly to where you're sitting but... well. I think you knew when you clicked that these were the cheap seats.
Dunkin Donuts coffee. Every morning. Must have it. Best coffee on the planet. Seriously. And they're Oxfam Friendly. Yum-yum-yummy and socially conscious. Kinda like having a man who is good in bed and will actually make it. :::sigh:::
Victoria's Secret Bubble Bath. I don't know why, but I love the VS scents. While the lotions can get a little cloying, the VS bubble bath products are simply luscious. When I can afford $9 for a couple ounces of the stuff, I indulge.
TiVo. Okay. So technically, I don't exactly have TiVo. I have the dimestore knockoff version of TiVo that my cable company offers. Doesn't matter. It's the idea of TiVo that gets me, and I have nothing but Big-Sloppy-Kiss Love for the people who said, "I'd really rather watch Conan at 9 in the morning" and then found a way to make it happen.
Swatches. I didn't even know they made Swatches anymore until I saw the store in Times Square. And I got a Swatch there. And I still wear it. Why? 'Cause it's purty, that's why. And they have collections with names like Irony and Flik Flak. My next Swatch? I'm deciding between this one and this one.
Hello Kitty. All these years, I never got Hello Kitty. Now, I think it's the cutest thing. So pretty much anything Hello Kitty, I adore. But I specifically want this, and I really don't know why.
Well, it's not quite as lush as Oprah - okay, fine, not in the same universe as Oprah - but it was fun to share. Got some favorite things of your own? Comment below...
Posted by Lani at 5:18 PM | Comments (5)
February 15, 2005
Let’s talk movies . . .
Alesia, from FREEDOM central...
So did you hear the one about the writer who survived writing the book that almost killed her . . .
I’m DONE!! I wrote THE END and did my final edits and sent the book off to my O So Wonderful and Very Patient Editor, truly the Queen of All Editors, on Thursday. (In case you’re wondering, UPS overnight for a 5-pound manuscript to New York costs sixty bucks!)
Naturally, my attention now turns to all the movies I haven’t gone to see while I was on deadline . . . Can we have a moment of silence to appreciate Gerard Butler?
I’m DESPERATE to see PHANTOM, to see yummy Gerard (if anybody ever made me want to meet a vampire, it was him in DRACULA 2000) and also because there’s an opera singer in my new book so I’ve been researching the field a lot. (Right, it’s, like, work!)
Went to see HITCH Friday and it’s FAB! Very very funny and the always-delightful Will Smith was a scream. Talk about a great date movie!
I want to go see all the Oscar nominees, and all the very cheesy B horror movies (a secret vice of mine; I was one of the first in line to see RESIDENT EVIL, but don’t tell Lani or Michelle, or they’ll revoke my literary chick status!).
So, in the spirit of FREEDOM and the OSCARS and lovely BUTTERED POPCORN with REESE’S PIECES, please write and tell me your favorite movie you’ve seen lately and why – NO SPOILERS, PLEASE!!!!
Hugs and much salty popcorn,
Alesia, on her way to the movies
Posted by Alesia at 9:37 AM | Comments (6)
February 14, 2005
Valentine Virtuoso!
From Michelle, flying solo in Rotterdam...
Well, it's That Day, and Oh Patient One flew off to London this morning, and Teenager #1 flew off to the USA this morning, and Teenager #2 is out at a Valentine's disco, and no, I didn't end up lost in Germany or France or Belguim on my Ikea quest, because instead of going alone, the lovely Jef and Dan told me that they were going, anyway, and would I like to go too? Success, no more piles of clothes on the floor for me!
So what am I up to on my own on Valentine's Day?
Well, I am having a fine old time!
I have this to munch on, this to drink, and this to drool over on DVD. Especially the wet shirt scene :-)
The remote control is mine, all mine...
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!
Michelle, in heaven
Posted by Michelle at 3:24 PM | Comments (0)
February 12, 2005
Friday Writer’s Corner on Saturday
Alesia, from her writing computer...
Happy almost Valentine’s Day! If you’re in the mood to find out your Valentine’s Day Style (ok, this quiz is really for my teen and tween readers, but come on, be a little silly!), check out my quiz at the Smoochya website!
Question for the day: Since I just pointed you to my Jax Abbott quiz, I thought I’d tackle the ever-popular ‘Why take a pseudonym?’
It it’s good enough for Mark Twain . . .
I took a pseudonym (also known as a pen name) for the books I write for teens for a very specific reason. My chick lit novels – the ones I write under my real name -- are generally R-rated. I’m the kind of reader who, when I find a writer I like, wants to buy that author’s entire back list and future books. I sure didn’t want any twelve-year old girls who loved Super Jessie to go out and buy AMERICAN IDLE!
My pen name is an open secret – I link back and forth to/from my different websites and use my real name on the copyright pages. But I wanted to establish a very different look and feel for my young adult books, so that was my reasoning.
Also, some authors use different names for different writing sub-genres, like my friend who writes romantic comedies as Beverly Brandt and romantic suspense as Jacey Ford. She says her readers have different expectations; even the act of sitting down to write a Jacey book feels different.
I know other authors who want to keep their real identies secret; like Zane who writes erotica but is a suburban Mom in real life, and Mary Bly, college professor who just finally came out with the secret that she is NY Times best-selling author of historical romance Eloisa James.
If I’d continued to practice law, I may have done the same. Would have been tough to voir dire a jury panel if my prospective jurors were asking me questions about that adult toys in the airport scene. . .
Hugs and happy weekending,
Alesia Holliday/Jax Abbott/Mommy, depending on the time of day
Posted by Alesia at 9:09 PM | Comments (0)
February 11, 2005
Magical Mystery Tour!
From Michelle, on the never-ending tram ride...
Is It Just Me, or What?
Yes, here I am again with another little tale to regale. Not exactly a disaster, just one of those little curve balls (or should I say curve trams?) that life throws my way...
A few weeks ago, as some of you might remember, I ended up on the wrong tram through absolutely no fault of my own. The wrong Number #7 tram fooled me, because it was on the right route for the Number #1 tram (my regular) and was definitely not on the right route for the Number #7 tram, which is why I climbed on the Number #7 in the first place and ended up not at all where I wanted to be. I never did figure that one out.
Well, this week I ended up on not-quite-the-right tram, and it was absolutely all my own fault!
This is what happened...
My train had just arrived back in Rotterdam's central station. I had just seen off Teenager #1 at Amsterdam's Schiphol airport, so I was feeling just a bit sniffly and sad. It was late, it was cold, it was wet.
I had just missed the Number #1 tram and was in for a bit of wait in the late, cold, wet.
As the Number #8 tram sailed to the tram stop, I had An Idea.
See, the Number #8 tram route runs quite close to my apartment. Not quite as close as the Number #1 tram, but within a block of it. So I decided to get out of the late, cold, wet and take the Number #8 tram, just for a change...
Five billion hours later (felt like), after a complete tour of the entire city of Rotterdam, the Number #8 tram finally deposited me a couple of blocks from my apartment.
At least ten million Number #1 trams had made the journey to my apartment in that time.
Today, I am investigating the route to Ikea because the new apartment does not have walk-in closets like my American house did, and having piles of clothes all over the place is getting to be a pain. Knowing my luck, I'll probably end up in, oh, France or Belgium or Germany...
Michelle :-)
Posted by Michelle at 4:23 AM | Comments (0)
February 7, 2005
Is It Just Me, Or What?
From Michelle, Who Seemingly Never Gets to See Movies at the Actual Movies...
While Alesia is doing her wonderful Friday Writer's Corner, and Lani is regaling us with her fabulous Lani's Unpublished Stories, what is that other literary chick planning, I hear you ask?
Um, well I'm just going to regale you with my latest mini-disaster, because I seem to have so many of them...Is It Just Me, Or What?
Here's the latest...
Another Cinema Episode
As some of you may remember from an earlier entry, just before Christmas I went to see the new Bridget Jones movie and there was Trouble and the police were called and the performance was cancelled part-way through and we all got our money back. I kid you not. And I am now eagerly awaiting the DVD so I can finally see What Bridget Did Next.
Well, during Teenager #1's visit this last week, she decided that it was time to get me over my silly Cinema Disaster Syndrome. We would go and see a movie together.
Our movie of choice: Closer (well, Clive Owen is just so...so Clive Owen!) Fabulous!
So I found the website for the big movie cinema here in Rotterdam to get the movie times. But it was a bit odd (even in Dutch). See, there were absolutely no movies scheduled for the past few days. And absolutely no mention as to why there were no movies scheduled for the past few days. All current movies were scheduled commencing today (i.e., the day Teenager #1 departed Rotterdam).
What was going on? Were there no movies playing in Rotterdam, or was this just a computer glitch or gremlin or something?
In our wisdom we decided that it was some kind of computer glitch or gremlin or something. Mebbe the website hadn't been updated? Also in our wisdom, we decided to turn up in person and see what was happening. Surely the cinema was showing Closer, because it's such a current movie!
So we braved the tram and the freezing cold and when we got there...all regular scheduling was on hold until today due to the Rotterdam Film Festival. Unfortunately, they forgot to mention the Rotterdam Film Festival on the website. At least, there was nothing that I could see on the homepage mentioning it.
And whilst I approve of film festivals in general, and love lots of different kinds of movies, I just wanted to see Clive. Being Hot. This Weekend.
So, it is just me, or what?
Michelle, feeling just a bit paranoid
Posted by Michelle at 6:39 PM | Comments (4)
February 6, 2005
Eh, what the hell?
Lani, getting her groove on way early in the mornin'...
I've discovered something about myself. Well, actually, I already knew this so "discovered" is quite the Big. Fat. Lie, but still. I thought I'd share.
I'm really useless after 5pm.
I am, despite my inherent laziness, a morning person. If I don't start on a project by 10, chances are slim to none it'll get done. When I was working full-time, I did easily 3/4 of the day's work before noon, then by 3pm was struggling to drag my sorry ass all the way to 5. All this to say...
... why, on God's green earth why, did I schedule myself to write my Literary Chicks blogs the night they're due? Pretty stupid, huh? So, this morning, a day late and a dollar short, I sat down to write this at 6:54 am.
And it's now... 7:28. Took me a full thirty-four minutes to write just that because I had to have a heartfelt discussion with Light about Pink Care Bear and Orange Care Bear about why in the world they have these little heart-shaped plastic warts? growths? tumors? on their beeeehinds while Sweetness yells that she's trying to watch Garfield and she can't do it if everyone's not quiet. She's very intimidating for the tiniest five-year-old on the planet.
And this is, quite possibly, the most boring blog ever written.
So, while Alesia moves to a higher plane with her Friday Writer's Corner, I'm gonna descend to the lowest level of bloggin' lifeform as I shamelessly troll Lani's Unpublished Archives for stuff that might amuse you. Thanks to everyone who humored me when I did this last week, and if you feel like you should be blaming yourselves... well, you probably should. But this stuff is gathering dust around my computer, and I'm not likely to do anything with it, so I'm gonna put it here. For you. Because, and I don't think this will come as a surprise to either of us, my blogs suck when I'm working on a book. So, here we go...
Author's Note: I wrote "My Apologies, Mrs. Treetman" in 1999 or thereabouts as part of a writing exercise for an online workshop. I've kept it because I think it's a decent sketch for a possible book later, but I tend to gravitate toward the lighter side of things so I never developed it. Also, even though the abuse happened in the past, I can't write about kids getting hurt. It was during the writing of this short story that I learned that about myself.
I saw Christ today.
Twice.
He caught the corner of my eye as I got out of my car at the grocery store. He was a cliché Jesus -- long brown hair and beard, a cloak-like wool coat, and socks with sandals. The sandals were not in the Christ style; cheap blue nylon glued to a black rubber base that screamed Wal-Mart clearance sale. He finished the ensemble off with blue running pants and a worn t-shirt that had some kind of race car on the front. He seemed to be having a problem with the dome light in his car. He kept getting out, shutting the door, seeing that the light was still on, opening the door, playing with the light...
I knew of course that this was not the Son of God, but as I headed towards the store I playfully bounced the idea around in my head, the same way I had entertained monsters and Santa Claus when I was a little girl. Maybe Christ was battling dome light issues in a grocery store parking lot. Maybe he still lived, and traveled in cheap cars to unlikely places to save sinners from themselves. Maybe he was here for me.
Maybe.
As the automatic doors swooshed open, Jesus and his dome light issues blew away from me in wisps of so much fine smoke, taking my consciousness with them. Often, when I'm done, I don’t even remember what happened. I'll recall sneaking a purse into my cart, but I won't remember going through the cashier's line. I'll be in the car on the way home, bags of groceries in the front seat next to me, and I'll have no memory of having paid for them, yet I know that somehow I must have.
That's the secret, really. Business as usual. Take a purse, get some crackers. Snatch a wallet, grumble about the price of milk. It's amazing how little attention a woman like me gets in a grocery store. Perhaps it's because the entire place is filled with women like me.
Well, women who look like me, anyway.
I hit my third stop light before I even checked the purse. Twenty-seven dollars in cash. Damn. No one carries cash anymore, and using credit cards is too risky. They'll find us if I start using credit cards.
I glanced at the clock. 4:37. Miranda needed me home by five. But my take for the day, after my shopping, was only fifty-two dollars, and Miranda would expect thirty of them. I prayed that Miranda would understand as I turned the car right into the Safeway parking lot.
I hated the Safeway. It reminded me of the one back in Modesto, where I used to go every Sunday afternoon. At parties, back when I used to go to parties, the lawyers at my firm used to tease me about the time I drove all the way home, realized they didn’t charge me for the laundry detergent, and drove all the way back only to get laughed at by the assistant manager. They thought it was funny, my fierce sense of honesty and honor. They were amused by my Herculean adherence to ethics.
If only they could see me now.
Getting the wallet was easy. He was one of those business men who was too obsessed with his own importance in the world to notice a small, plain housewife bumping into him in frozen foods aisle.
I apologized and opened the door by the frozen juices. I mumbled under my breath about no-pulp orange juice, grabbed two cans, and moved on to the next aisle. The next thing I remember is pulling up into the driveway of my home. The living room curtains swished angrily into place as I got out of the car. Miranda was livid.
"I have my own things to do, you know, Ms. Anderson." Miranda waddled over to the coat rack and snatched her large grey coat off of it. It looked like a horse blanket, and it smelled funny when it was wet.
"I know, Miranda, I'm sorry. I had an appointment."
I held out the thirty dollars for her. She swiped it out of my hand. "When I tell you I have to be somewhere at 5:15…"
"… then you have to be there at 5:15." I smiled at her, reminding myself how good she was with Abby, how Abby had only started to really talk since Miranda's forceful entrance into our lives. Miranda was tough on me, but she was good to Abby. And for that, I’d walk through fire.
I followed her to the door and held it open for her. "Again, Miranda, I'm sorry. I got held up. I apologize."
She beat me down with a suspicious glare. My heart exploded into a gallop, and my inner voice rambled, “She knows, she knows, she knows...” Abby toddled over to my side and tugged at my pantleg, holding up her arms. I picked her up and held her close, closing my eyes as I inhaled her sweet baby smell. When I opened them, Miranda had gone.
I set Abby down and kneeled before her. "Did you have fun with Miranda today?"
Abby shrugged. I guess fun was a bit much to ask. "Did she teach you anything new?"
Abby nodded. She grabbed my index finger in her grubby palm and led me into her small bedroom, pointing up at a mobile of tropically painted wooden fish which hung from her ceiling. I lifted her up and she grabbed one of the fish.
"Shishie." She gleamed with pride. "Shishie."
I smiled. "Yeah. Fishies."
She looked back at the mobile with wonder and pushed the fish, watching it and all its buddies swim around in circles. "Shishie."
Later, when Abby was in bed, I pulled open my laptop, one of the few things I brought with me when we ran, and hooked it into the phone outlet. As usual, there was nothing. I searched under Abby Martin, Abigail Martin, and my own name, Holly Beeme. Nothing.
They didn't want her back. They weren't even looking.
I shut down the computer, my heart swimming in relief and anger. They weren’t looking for her. It had been almost a year. How could they not even look? What if she had been taken by a serial killer? Why didn’t anyone care where she was?
Probably because it was obvious where she was. No one was looking for me, either.
Thoughts sprinted through my mind, thoughts of doctored identification, of fake credentials mirroring the real ones I couldn't use, of new names for both me and Abby, of erasing the past and being her real mom once and for all.
I shot up in bed.
The wallet.
I hadn't even thought to check it. I raced to the living room and pulled it out of my coat pocket. It was a long shot, but three hundred would do it. I could get fake credentials with three hundred. And then I could get a job and a life for us and if anyone came looking, we’d just run again.
My hands shook as I tried to open the wallet and it fell, the soft leather hitting the cheap linoleum with a muted smack. Before I could pick it up, the doorbell rang. I froze for a moment and tried to reason away the ice that shot over my skin whenever the doorbell rang unexpectedly. My imagination flew to Miranda, calling the police. “Something suspicious going on with that woman...”
I snuck up to the door and looked through the peephole.
Jesus.
I opened the door. He smelled of a mix of cologne and cigarette smoke, and he had a small scar beneath his left eye. Probably from a knife fight with one of the apostles.
He asked to use my phone. His car had broken down in front of my apartment. I looked out and saw it, a small blue toyota emitting a soft glow from inside.
"Damn wiring," he grunted as I let him in.
I stayed still by the door, listening as he told the tow company that they'd better well get here in twenty minutes because he wasn't going to be freezing his ass off out there all night. He slammed the phone down and growled out the door before I could offer him a cup of coffee or a place to wait.
From the window, I watched as he stomped out to his car and kicked the tires. Curses left his mouth in short, white puffs of hot, angry air smashing against the frigid night air. I smiled to myself and wondered. What are the chances of bumping into Jesus twice in one day?
I picked up the wallet and reached inside. I counted eight one-hundred dollar bills and four twenties. I gasped and counted again. I was wrong.
There were nine hundreds.
I looked out the window. Jesus was hunched over on the hood of his car, trying to light a cigarette and not having much luck. I thought of the businessman who was likely suffering the loss of nearly a thousand dollars as most people would suffer the loss of a nail file. I thought of the woman, who was probably mourning the loss of her twenty-seven dollars and her favorite purse.
I took one of the hundreds and stuffed them in the purse. Tomorrow I'd return it to the store and say I found it in the parking lot.
Tomorrow I would do a lot of things.
I was waiting at the customer service counter while two old ladies argued with the assistant manager about the rising cost of cigarettes when Jesus sidled up next to me. He had taken off the wig and traded the cloak for a cheezy, light blue three-piece suit, but I recognized the faint mix of cigarette smoke and cologne.
A numbness spread over my arms as I fought panic and turned to face him, hoping it was my imagination and that Jesus of the Dome Light was not someone dressing up in disguises to tail me. But I knew it was him. I knew I’d been caught. I turned around to face him. "Well, hello."
"I'm sorry?" He painted an innocent expression.
“How’s your car?” I said. He shook his head at me with a confused smile. Faker.
“You’ve been made, mister,” I said. He nodded and smiled big, showing off some state of the art fake bucked teeth.
The cigarette ladies moved on and I stepped forward and handed the purse to the assistant manager. "I found this in the parking lot yesterday." I glanced at Jesus. He smirked slightly.
The assistant manager gushed about my honesty and how so few people had any honor nowadays. Then she smiled at Jesus. "Can I help you?"
"No," I said. "He's with me."
He smiled. "I'm with her. But I would like to say that you're absolutely right about honor. We need more people with honor in the world. Wouldn't you agree, Holly?"
My heart skipped. It had been a long time since anyone had called me Holly. I tried to keep my voice from shaking. "Yes. I would."
I thanked the assistant manager and walked out of the store with Jesus on my heels. I sat down on a bench, its coldness seeping into the bones of my legs. Jesus situated himself next to me, putting one foot up on the other knee to show off his special edition Scooby Doo socks.
"Have you taken Abby yet?" I stared out at the frozen parking lot. "Or is there time for me to change your mind?"
He spit the buck teeth out into his hand. "This isn’t about Abby."
"Then what is it about?" The petty thievery. The kidnapping. Pick a crime, any crime.
“Guess.”
“This isn’t a game, you son of a bitch,” I spat. “This is my life.”
“Point taken, but before you continue to impugn my mother’s honor, which is unimpeachable by the way, I think you should calm down and listen to me." I sighed, trying to rid my mind of the picture of Abby sitting in a police station, playing Go Fish with an officer and wondering where Mommy was.
"My name is Max." He held out his hand. I ignored it. He dropped it. "Max Treetman. I’m a private investigator, kinda like Magnum, P.I. only with much less glamour and very little cash. I come from a small town in Ohio that you've never heard of, and really, why should you care? Although you may want to look up my mom and apologize to her, but we'll get to that later."
He smiled. I didn't.
"I was hired by Sam Brittley to find you."
“Sam? Jesus.” I slammed my back against the bench, trying to knock my heart back into a regular rhythm. "That little shit."
“He’ll be pleased to hear about that reaction.”
I snapped my head to the side and hissed through my teeth. "Tell Sam that I'm not coming back, and if you tell a soul where I am-"
"Tell him yourself. He's sitting in the red Durango over there."
He pointed to a bright red SUV which sat humming patiently about five spots away. I held my hand over my eyes to block out the sun and squinted. A man was sitting in the front seat, wearing an Oakland A’s baseball cap. Sam.
"Oh, man," I groaned.
"I know," Max sighed. "I didn't think the red car was a good idea, too conspicuous, but Sam wanted an SUV and that was all they had and you know how he is when he gets his mind set on something.” He turned his eyes to me on the last beat, making a point about what Sam really had his mind set on. I stood up. "Tell him to leave me alone.”
I got up and started to walk away, but Max grabbed my arm.
"Hands off, Magnum…"
"Hey, look, lady, whatever is between you and Brittley is between you and Brittley, but I don’t get paid until he talks to you and I haven’t been freezing my ass off tailing you to not get paid." He looked angry. And he’d been tailing me. For a month. He held all the cards, and by the look on his face, I could tell he knew it.
I gently pulled my arm from his grip, but didn’t make a move to go. He sighed and squinted towards the parking lot as he spoke. "Look, the fact is that I found you once, and I can find you twice, and I will, because I'm just that good. All I want is for you to talk to the guy. Hell, you owe me. You snatched my wallet last week at the Chevron on 5th.”
I stared at him. “Oh, please.”
“No, I’m serous. You owe me $32.89 and a cheap nylon wallet with a picture of a bald eagle on the side.” My eyes shut tight. I remembered the wallet. I felt the nausea rise, and looked down at my feet. He put his hand on my arm and leaned over to speak softly to me. “It’s okay. You were just doing what you had to do.”
I looked up at him. “What do you know about what I had to do?”
He kept his eyes on mine. “Everything. But it’s okay. I don’t care, and I’m not going to tell anyone I found you. I just want you to talk to the guy, so he can pay me, and I can move on to warmer climes.”
I looked towards the Durango, and the man in it who was watching us. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”
“You always have a choice,” Max said after a minute. “We’ll come by tonight at seven, okay?”
I nodded. I can’t remember getting in my car and driving home. But I did.
The doorbell rang at 7:06.
"Abby, honey," I said as I squatted down next to her. "Go to my bedroom and put a movie in and Mommy will be there in a little bit, okay?"
She nodded. I gave her a kiss and waited until I heard my bedroom door shut before I started working the deadbolt.
The first thing I saw was the dozen roses in Sam’s hand. He was wearing jeans and a denim shirt and the Oakland A’s cap I’d bought him a couple years back. The casual look was hard on him; I used to tease him that I was sure he’d been born in a three-piece suit.
That first tense moment of silence ended in a self-conscious bear hug. "I'm so glad you're okay." Sam pulled back and gently touched my face. Every move seemed planned for dramatic effect. I wondered why I had never noticed Sam's deliberateness before.
"I've missed you," he said softly. Max coughed conspicuously and stepped into the house, closing the door behind him.
"Little chilly tonight." He rubbed his arms to warm up. The blue suit was gone, replaced by the classic Northwest look of flannel, jeans and work boots. It suited him. Whether it was the real Max or one of his personas, I didn’t care. I just wanted them all to go away.
I pulled myself away from Sam. "I'll make some coffee."
Max grinned. "Sounds great."
"So… uh, Max, is it?" I asked.
"Call me Magnum."
"Fine. Magnum. Why are you here? Making sure Sam doesn't duck out of town without paying you first?"
"I asked him to come," Sam said. "I thought it might make you more comfortable, having both of us here. Max said you guys really hit it off."
“Oh, really?” I shot a look at Max, then turned back to Sam. "If you were concerned about my comfort, you should have never hired him in the first place."
Sam's jaw muscles tightened. I forced a smile, remembering Max’s words. You know how he is when he gets his mind set on something. I knew exactly what I had to do, exactly how to play Sam to get him to go away, but I was so tired of playing people it hurt to even think about it.
"I'll go make that coffee." I turned toward the kitchen, which was little more than a breakfast bar attached to the dining area. Sam hit me gently in the arm with the roses.
"You might want to find some water for these."
I nodded and took them.
"I don't love you, Sam." I sighed and stared at my hands, as worn and cracked as the old linoleum table upon which they rested. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Max sitting in the dimness of the living room, trying to blend in with the couch.
Sam breathed in deep, preparing his next statement, much the way he did before he closed in court. I knew he planned on arguing for my affection, and I was too tired to hear it.
"Sam, I'm sorry, but I don't love you. I never did. In my defense, I never said I did. You've created this whole thing between you and me."
"So I imagined it all? There was nothing, then?"
"No, not nothing. Just not everything. You need to let it go."
His jaw muscles tightened as he bit back the words he travelled four thousand miles to say. Finally, after a strained silence, he spoke again. "I can help you. I can get you out of this. I can get your life back for you."
"Can you guarantee that I'll get Abby?"
He pulled off the A's cap and ran his hands through his hair. "Holly, you know I can't do that."
"Then you can't help me."
He slammed his fist on the table. "Dammit, Holly. You're throwing your life away. Forget me. Forget what we -- what I imagined -- we had. Think of yourself."
"That's what I'm doing."
"Holly – " He stopped. The lawyer’s rule. If you know you’re losing, shut up and pray for a miracle. I put my hand on his. "I'm sorry that you spent money hiring an investigator to find me. I'm sorry that you flew all the way up here. But I didn’t ask you to be my hero. I don't need a hero. I just need to be left alone."
Sam gave a short nod and pushed back his chair, scraping the lineoleum with a screech of finality as he stood up. He grabbed his coat, put one arm in, then stopped and looked at me.
"I won't tell them I found you. Is that heroic enough for you?"
"I think the question is, is it heroic enough for you?" I forced my eyes up to meet his, to give him the closure he’d come all this way to get. We locked on each other for a moment, then he opened the door and left.
I sat at the table and stared at my hands, feeling the numbness wash over me as my mind curled up in a fetal position. I had forgotten Max was still there until he took Sam's spot at the table across from me. He drummed his fingers on the table. "So, I guess you'll be packing now?"
There was a faraway sound of tires screeching as Sam made his final statement from the driveway. I looked up at Max. "Wasn't that your ride?"
"No. I predicted we’d need separate cars."
I took a sip of my coffee, too worn and confused to throw Max out.
He drummed his fingers again. "You sure don't let people get too close, do you?"
"Isn't your job done here, Max?"
"I don’t know. Is it?"
I threw my hands up in the air and leaned back against the chair. “Oh, for crying out loud...”
“What?”
"I don’t need a hero and I don’t need a saviour. Will you guys ever get over yourselves? I can take care of myself."
He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I never doubted that for a second. What I question is why you choose to go it alone when there are people out there who want to help you. And who can."
"Sam can't help me."
"I wasn't talking about Sam."
I looked up to find his eyes locked on me. "Oh, I see, you think you can help me?"
"Yes, I think I can."
I laughed. "You've known me for what, twenty-four hours, and you suddenly want to save me? I think your time would be better spent seeing a therapist."
"I've been on this case for four months. Studying you. Learning your background. Getting to know you."
My stomach turned. "So?"
He leaned forward and looked me squarely in the eye. "I read the background on Abby. I wouldn’t have let them give her back to the mother, either." I put my head in my hands. I wasn’t ready to talk about this.
"Look, Abby is none of your business, and now that Sam's gone, neither am I. To tell you the truth, you're freaking me out and I wish you would leave us alone."
"Well, okay, then." He dropped his hands down on the table and pushed himself up. He grabbed his coat and placed his hand on the door handle for a split second before pulling it away and turning back to me.
"I don't know why I want to help you. But I do. God help me." He sighed. "I know what happened to Abby. I know what her mom did. I know about the days she spent in closets, and I know about the boyfriend who – ”
I held up my hand. “Stop it. I can’t... I can’t talk about that.”
Max nodded, and slowly sat down at the table. “I think you did the right thing. I’m not going to turn you in. But if Sam hires someone else to come get you – and he will – that person probably won’t be as understanding as I am."
We sat in silence. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, and they were wide, and round, and begging for my trust. And for some reason which I couldn't explain, they won it.
"How exactly do you think you might help me, Magnum?"
He smacked his lips with a small pop. "I have no earthly idea."
I let out an exasperated chuckle. "Good night."
"But if you'll promise not to leave tomorrow, I'll promise to come up with something."
"Oh, you will?"
"Oh, I will." He stood up and held out his hand. "Do we have a deal?"
"Will you leave if I say we do?"
"I'll leave when you tell me to. We both know that." He pushed his hand forward and waggled his fingers at me playfully. "C'mon. Be a man. Shake on it."
I stood up and shook his hand.
"You realize," I said as his hand touched the doorknob, "that I'm a petty thief. My word means nothing."
He turned and eyed me for a minute, then smiled. "If your word means nothing, then I'm a bigger fool than you think. And, honey, my mama didn't raise no fools."
"So, I guess I owe the woman an apology."
"I guess you do."
A moment and he was gone. Fifteen seconds later, I collapsed in bed next to Abby and dreamed of train stations and lost baggage.
I had our bags packed by six the next morning, and left a message on Miranda’s machine that I was sick and she had the day off. I don’t know why I started to cry when I heard her recorded voice. She had been good to Abby, but leaving Miranda was the least of my concerns.
At the airport, I bought two tickets to Tulsa, Oklahoma. It would be nice to go somewhere warmer, and I'd never been to Oklahoma. The possibilities were open, though. I had some money left over from the tickets. Maybe I’d have enough to buy the credentials I needed. Maybe I could get a real job, and Abby could go to school, and we could live together and no one but me would ever know. And maybe I could forget.
Maybe.
I walked Abby over to an empty row of seats. She crawled up and planted herself, her legs dangling over the edge. Her eyes stared straight ahead in the blank weariness of a child whose sleep has been interrupted. Her face was flawless, her cheeks with a subtle blush and her lips perfectly red and not entirely closed. She had no questions about where we were going, nor did she ever have any about where we'd been. She had only the toys we could fit in the little pink backpack I'd gotten her on her second birthday. She had only the clothes we could put in the Blue's Clues suitcase I'd bought after lifting a wallet in Wal-Mart.
I didn’t even realize I was crying at first, until a tear splashed down on my hand. Once I started, though, it was like a dam breaking. My chest constricted as my heart broke, the sobs shaking my body in violent waves. Abby's grip on my hand tightened, and I tried to speak, to comfort her, but I had no comfort in me. A woman standing nearby handed me a package of travel tissues. I waved a thank you at her, and she moved away.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I didn't look up, fearing it was Magnum. Hoping it was Magnum.
"Ma'am?"
I tilted my head up. The kid from the espresso cart was holding out a cup of coffee. He was sixteen if he was a day, all elbows and knees and freckles and acne.
"This is on the house. Okay?"
I took the coffee and tried to smile. "Thanks."
He nodded and walked away.
Over the P.A. system, they announced that our flight was boarding. I tapped Abby on the shoulder and she hopped off the seat. I took her hand and we walked to the gate in silence.
copyright 2005 Lani Diane Rich. No part of this may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
Posted by Lani at 7:59 AM | Comments (2)
February 4, 2005
Friday Writer’s Corner
Alesia, from her writing computer...
I recently read a statistic that said another new blog goes live every 4.7 seconds. That’s a LOT of WORDS. Seriously, it feels like an awful lot of ‘Hey, look at me’ to me sometimes to even DO a blog (but of course I get over that quickly, or I’d never have become a writer!). So to switch off from any hint toward obsessive navel-gazing, I’m going to dedicate my Friday blogs as a Writer’s Corner. Any questions you may have about the writing life, or process, or anything else, just pop me an e-mail at alesia@alesiaholliday.com, or post them as a comment here, and I’ll answer as many of them on Fridays as I can reasonably make up answers for. (Just kidding! I can make up answers for WAY more than I’ll post . . .)
To kick things off, and in honor of the SuperBowl frenzy that has consumed my current hometown of Jacksonville, I’ll answer the Super Bowl of questions – the one I hear at least once at every conference I ever attend: WHERE DO YOU GET YOUR IDEAS?
I usually give a flippant answer, like ‘At Target, where I buy everything. Usually they’re on sale 3 for 10 bucks.’
Or: ‘There’s a catalog, but the subscription is invitation-only.’
The lame jokes are to cover up the truth, which is far more uncomfortable: I have no earthly idea. I am one of those who truly believes that normal people’s brains are in one place, let’s say Earth, and writers’ brains are in way another place, like, oh, Mars. (HUMOR writers’ brains are way the heck out in Jupiter, but that’s a whole ‘nuther story, as they say down here in Florida.)
We look at the world differently. I went through a health scare this summer that had me pretty sure I was looking at writing THE END in a whole different context, and all throughout the scary, painful, and embarrassing health procedures and surgery, I kept thinking, “Now THIS would be funny in a book.”
This is just twisted and wrong.
Writers go though life observing everything; processing it all to find a way to make sense of it – to make it a STORY. At the heart of it all, I’m a storyteller. Tell me you hated my book, but darned if it didn’t keep you up till 2 a.m. to finish it just so you could write and tell me about it, and I’ll be happier than if you liked it well enough, but were able to put it down.
Anything that happens to me or anyone I know; anything I read in the news or see on TV, it all goes into the room in the attic where my muse sits, turning random bits of information into story ideas. “What if?” begins all ideas for me, and turns a simple thought into an idea that could jumpstart a story.
A caveat: people are ALWAYS telling me that ‘boy, do I have an idea for you’ – as if one single idea makes a book. Well, it would be great for me if it did, but bore the heck out of my readers! My friend (and terrific writer) Jacey Ford would kill me if I didn’t let you know that it takes hundreds of ideas for a book. Because every plot twist, every turn, and every surprise has its own idea behind it.
The scary part about there not being an Idea Aisle at Target, or a special catalog, is that when you don’t know where ideas come from, you don’t know if they’ll stop coming. This is what makes writers neurotic people who wake up at 4 a.m. in a cold sweat sometimes.
But I’m pretty hopeful. Because just this morning when I went out to breakfast, I saw a table filled with really great-looking people. Exactly half of them had Eagles shirts on, and the other half wore Patriots shirts. Yet they were really friendly with each other! WHAT IF somebody has started a Sports Fanatic dating service? WHAT IF you got matched up by appearance and favorite football team? WHAT IF they were part of a reality TV show called SUPER BOWL BACHELORETTE? WHAT IF . . .
You get the idea.
Hugs and happy weekending,
Alesia
Posted by Alesia at 11:06 AM | Comments (2)
February 3, 2005
Rainforest!
From Michelle, currently generating oxygen and single-handedly saving the world!
I'm currently a bit distracted because Teenager #1 is over for a visit.
Now, Teenager #1 is also a writer. And so, of course, we talk about writing. A lot. And today, when we were chatting about the different genres we write, and generally brainstorming, and talking about everything to do with absolutely everything, she came up with this great science fantasy analogy of our writing differences (hers and mine).
Here's what she had to say...
You are a Great Rainforest of the world.
Your rainforest has happy talking sunflowers, cute magical bunnies, and a giftshop in which stylish momentos of the visit may be purchased at surprisingly reasonable prices. The natives are all coordinated in the latest naturalistic fashions, and worship the gods 'Manolo' and 'Blahnik'. After a hard day of hunting/gathering/building habitation, they like to gather in the treetops and drink cosmoplitans.
Mine on the other hand, is full of man-eating plants, three headed snakes, and gaping pits of doom. The natives frequently enjoy feasting on the raw flesh of tresspassers, and the only thing they'd do with a Manolo Blahnik is figure out which end was the pointy one so they could attack you with it.
All I can say is vive la differance!
Michelle, off to save the ozone layer...
Posted by Michelle at 3:00 PM | Comments (0)
Feelin' the Love...
Lani, grinning from ear to ear...
I know, I know, it's Thursday and I'm stealing Michelle's thunder (sorry, Michelle) but I have guilt for forgetting that yesterday was Wednesday until it was late and then I was tired and my entry would have been probably as lame, if not moreso, than my last entry. So, I'm just gonna hop on here real quick to say two quick things.
One - yay, Alesia, for the rockin' review, but I'm not surprised. Of course she loved Super 16. You rock, therefore, people will notice.
The second thing I'm here to say is that JENNY CRUSIE LOVES ME.
Okay. So she didn't actually say she loves me, but I choose to read between the lines like a lovestruck co-ed anyway. Why? Because it makes me happy. I've adored Jenny's work for years and I'm tickled beyond tickled that she had nice things to say about me. So, go buy all her books because they're worth every penny!
Posted by Lani at 1:15 PM | Comments (4)
February 2, 2005
The end and the beginning!!
Alesia, with a NEW BOOK OUT!!
And I mean that in a great way!! Four more days and I’ll be finally shipping NICE GIRLS FINISH FIRST off to my long-suffering and very patient editor. Four hurricanes, surgery, 3 different children’s illnesses, and 3 weeks of flu that put me in the ER messed up my deadline, but good.
So, since I have no brain cells left for anything else, and plus my arms ache from inputting revisions, I am excited to celebrate the end of one book and the beginning of another. SUPER 16 is out in bookstores today!!!! And here’s a fun note . . .
One of my first reviews for SUPER 16!! And the reviewer loved it!
Skyville, FL - Present Day
Jessie Drummond was just a normal teen living in a family of superheroes. Everyone in her family was super, she was the only exception. SUPER WHAT? tells the story of when she was fifteen, all her powers came in, and made her the strongest around.
It's now just three days before her 16th birthday and Jessie Drummond should be happy, but things aren't working out how she hoped; her super understanding boyfriend is going quiet, her mom is dating Sheriff Polyester, and worst of all she has to get braces! On top of that, the old superheroes at the League of Liberty want her to come in on her birthday and take a test. Not just any test, but one where if you fail, they take you away from your family. The last thing Jessie wants is to leave her home, so her super Grandma, E, is called in. Now it's up to E to train Jessie for the trials to come. Will she be ready in time?
SUPER 16 is just as funny, if not more so, than its prequel, SUPER WHAT? Jax Abbott really hit the nail on the head with her realistic portrayal of teenaged Jessie. She manages to make every situation unique and it's told from Jessie's point of view. Each character is special and has their own quirks that make them all the more endearing. The dialogue is extremely natural and the full effect is a story that comes alive. SUPER 16 is truly a score in the win column for Jax Abbott.
Amanda Roberts, Romance Reviews Today
So if you have teen or tween girls, check your local bookstore this week! I was so honored to learn that SUPER WHAT? was named to the Young Adult Librarian Society of America 2005 list of Recommended Reads for Reluctant Readers. What could be a better reward for a writer, than to help a kid love to read??
Hugs,
Alesia, happy happy happy
Posted by Alesia at 8:23 AM | Comments (3)
