NEW RELEASES
Not Really a Goldmine, Quite the Opposite Really
My house was beginning to resemble a sty. Sincerely. I even think the The Bandit’s nose was starting to pucker up like a snout. It will be bulk trash pick up this week at the Bright Compound, so My Honey was out cleaning up the yard and the terrifying area behind the shed in the back. There’s black widows back there, and there isn’t a book deal big enough for me to go back there and mess around with them.
I opted for inside the house. I dusted and vacuumed and steam cleaned the carpet. I washed windows and disinfected. I mopped. That is significant because in our pre-marriage counseling, it was well documented that I don’t mop. I would rather clean the toilets than mop. Don’t ask me why, the second chore is infinitely more disgusting and icky, but nevertheless, I REALLY hate mopping, but I did it. It’s better than black widows.
Because I was going to steam clean the carpets, I also moved all the furniture and did a really good vacuuming job. I even used the attachments to clean inside the couch and chair. Perhaps this particular job should be done more often. This is what I found in the living room furniture:
194 crayons of various lengths, 73 cashews, a Pez dispenser (empty), the missing telephone that now has a dead battery, a bread bag with 2 pieces of stale bread (thank you Roscoe), countless rubber bands, vacuum resistant glitter, 1 really big ass rock, 1/2 eaten apple, a shriveled but unpeeled tangerine (I think), 12.52 in various coins but mostly pennies, and 1 neighbor kid whom I sent home with the cashews.
Maybe I should have picked the spiders.
The ET Impression
I was looking everywhere for my assistant. He was nowhere to be found. Not under the bed, or in the closet, or asleep on top of the chest freezer in the laundry room. And then I found him, but I had to look twice.
That’s What I’m Sayin’
Amylynn would respectfully request that Ava read Isabella’s column below. If necessary, read it two or perhaps even three times. Since you are so keen on reading aloud to look for inconsistencies and such, feel free to read it aloud. Read it in a small voice, read it in a loud voice, read it with an English accent if you feel so inclined.
Thank you for being my champion, Isabella. You’re shining armor should be arriving via Fed Ex any day now. Some assembly required.
XOXOXOXO to you both.
Shameless
That’s me. Shameless. But I am strongly compelled to illustrate the relevance of a rat’s ass to the importance of creative license. Far be it for me to make a cake of myself, but with the havey-cavey business of getting published, wouldn’t it be better, indeed, to raise a breeze over the creative use of the hind quarters of a rodent?
Sorry, I lost myself in 1814 London for a minute. I have been researching Regency lexicon. And even though “I don’t give a rat’s ass” isn’t on the list of those recorded for the links of history, I found some others that surely indicate a tendancy toward such expressions.
For example. There are more ways to describe drunkeness than I ever thought possible. Was he just a bit drunk? He was a trifle disguised. Was the elbow-crooker moderately drunk? He was foxed, or in his cups. Maybe he’s been drinking all day. That would make the slowtop ape-drunk.
Let’s follow the drunkard as he wanders about London in 1814, shall we?
Now the bosky, jug-bitten, dicked-in the nob dudgeon was in the suds. Although he was fair gutfounded and wishing for more ale to fill his pudding-house, he seemed all too ready to sport his canvas and ring a fine peal over someone. If he wasn’t careful, he would land a facer and stumble into a mill.
He found himself surrounded by Haymarket ware and decided to kick-up a lark with the light skirts. Maybe some time with a bit o’ muslin was just was he needed to shake off his friday-face. Society never would have known he was so shakingly loose in the haft as to be so tap-hackled and looking for trollops. After all, he wasn’t a peep of day boy like his younger brother.
Just as he spotted a tempting armful, he started to feel like he had eaten a bit too much Hull cheese. Feeling as queer as Dick’s fatband, he lunged for the gutter and cast up his accounts. What a bacon-brained, properly shot in the neck rake he was. More hair than wit, he gave up the gig and went looking for a hackney to take him home. And he didn’t give a tinkers damn if his wife was waiting for him.
See what I mean? A rat’s ass would have fit right in.
Consider this a petition for creative license on behalf of writers everywhere. Especially Amylynn.
It’s a wrap
So I finally bribed Oven Man to return to finish the repair he started a week and a half ago. (If you haven’t read why, see here and here, I promise, it’s worth your time). This time I was prepared for his arrival. Bear was at work so there was no possibility of a tidy-whitey sighting.
I had the front blinds open, so I happened to see him pull up out front. Wow! On time again! The first time he pulled up in front of the house and walked briskly to the door…well, he got an eyeful. So this time, he must have brushed up on his How to Prepare the Half-Naked Client Handbook, version 4.0. As I waited for him to approach to door, my phone rang. Figures, right? That stuff always happens at once. But when I answered it was Oven Man letting me know he was here. I waved to him from the window where he could clearly see me talking on the phone to him.
And I waited. And stared at him. He wasn’t on the phone or doing anything that made him look busy. Just sitting and staring down the street. For 5 minutes. Whatever.
As I turned to walk into the kitchen, he started honking the horn. Seriously? Did a child venture in front of his parked truck? Was a bird mercilessly beating his windshield with it’s head? Maybe a car was careening down the road heading right for him. I rushed back to the window with morbid curiosity. And on the last honk, all he was doing was staring through the window at me.
“YES! I KNOW YOU ARE HERE! ALL FRUIT OF THE LOOM APPAREL HAS BEEN STASHED!”
With that, he finally got out of the truck and came to the door. Ha freakin’ Ha.
The oven is fixed.
Fighting the Impulse
Dear Readers. I’m slowly going insane. If you’ve been following this blog for at least a few months, you know that I’ve submitted two different short stories to a very well known romance publisher (samples here & here). I’m trying to be patient, but really, I’m not that good at it. In fact, I’m not even the least bit patient. I’m an instant gratification kind of person. That’s why I don’t have hobbies. I like to play pool, at least in theory, but when I play I find out that I’m not that good at it, so I get mad and want to hurt someone with one of those long stick things. I don’t play video games – I haven’t since those stupid ghosts ate my Pacman. I don’t play musical instruments because that takes practice and well, I’d rather be reading. I learned to read when I was four, I don’t remember having to work at it. My mother may have another story, but it seems to me that I’ve been a readaholic forever. I started writing in 3rd grade.
So these two stories are out….and I’m waiting. Something we’ve already established that I’m not good at. When I submitted them, I was told 3-4 months. So based on that projection, I really shouldn’t expect to hear anything until the end of this month or sometime in October. My email comes to my cell phone, so every time the blasted thing buzzes that I have an email, I stop breathing and I get a surge of adrenaline. It’s kind of exhausting, really, because this happens about 25 times a day. I’ll drop dead of a heart attack and never know if I sold the damn things. Today I got an email from eHarlequin thanking me for a purchase (I’m doing recon don’t you know) but, when I saw eHarlequin in the sender line, I very nearly had an accident in my pants.
Isabella does a great job of keeping my spirits up, and Ava tells it like it is. They are the yin & yang of nervous breakdowns. So I do what every professional writer/agent/editor tells you to do while you’re waiting to sell your book: keep writing. So I’m pecking away……and checking my email. Harlequin editors – if you’re reading this, give a girl a break.
Special Talents
I have found an amazing new use for my misspent youth. Who would have ever thought that those hours after school and all summer long in front of the TV would yield anything beyond a head full of useless trivia? I’m still waiting for the call from Jeopardy, but until then I’ve put my head to good use.
One of The Bandit’s most frequently requested bed time songs is “Gilligan’s Island”. How funny is that? And, really, how sad is it that I know all three verses by heart? Also, I can sing the songs from School House Rock. That should come in handy when Sassy starts learning about bills in government and conjunctions in English class.
I can also tell you the addresses of several local establishments by heart just because I can recite the darn commercials of my youth: “Szechuan Omi Restaurant, 2601 “Esa” Speedway. Just one block “Esa” Tucson Blvd. Come in – Try it. I know you try it, you will like it” (I tried to write the accent because that’s the way I hear it in my head)
Of course, none of this is important in the great scheme of things. And most importantly, it’s not keeping Thomas & Francesca apart so they can get back together, and Dalton and Olivia are still messing around before the wedding. I have a lot of plotting and writing to do. Instead, that idiot Gilligan is running around in there and he has no business what so ever in Regency England. In fact, I’m pretty sure that either Thomas or Dalton would kick his ass if he showed up.
Coffee and a Rat’s Ass
Anyone who knows Amylynn well knows that she is ridiculously funny. Her writing is sometimes no exception, even when that is not what she is striving for. In the middle of Chapter 4 of It’s Clearly Love:
Amylynn: “I don’t care a rat’s ass about scandal, Francesca.”
Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Pbbbbbbbbbbbt. (That is the sound of coffee coming out of my nose. Amylynn made that word up.)
I reread the line three times and laughed harder each time. I texted Amylynn to let her know how funny it was. I also let her know she couldn’t keep it. It stopped me cold, it still stops me cold every time I read. It’s really jarring and really, really freakin’ funny. It just comes out of no where! However, it doesn’t belong there – sorry Amylynn! You can’t keep it but feel free to use it again the next time you think my nostrils need a coffee cleaning . . .
My Mind is a Sick, Twisted Place
For me, writing is a very visual process and when I have a vision of a story opening, I have to get it down right away… while the character is still staring at me in awe, like I just pulled a Captain Kirk and materialized in their tidy, little, conflict-driven world. If I don’t do it just then, the moment passes and the characters disperse and are gone forever. Getting them down ensures that they be will frozen in time, impatiently waiting in the scene where I left them. And every once in a while, I re-open one of those stories and have a revelation of how to continue. I did so just last week with a short historical that I started back when my attention span was that of a pollen seeking honey-bee lost in an English Garden.
My hero, Steven, was thrilled to see me…at first. And Lila was ever so prim and grateful that I had returned and decided to let her speak. I will say, that this is the funnest story to write. But Amylynn’s blog reminded me that etymology is ever-present in my every thought. I am a bit rusty on the tedious details of Regency England. My novel, whose details I had extensively researched, is Victorian, and though there is a mere 37 year difference between my short-story and novel, I am back on google looking up muffins. Amylynn will know what I mean, I can hear her giggling already. But for the rest of you, here is an illustration of what happens in my head. Everyday. My thoughts will appear in italics. The words I actually manage to write will appear in bold.
Lila entered the library famished. Could one be famished in 1814? Maybe she was just hungry…hmm. There was definitely poverty back then. I’m sure someone was super hungry, and famish would probably fit if it were a street urchin. Come to think of it, I’m famished right now. But how would the daughter of a Viscount know what famish felt like? Oh forget it. I’ll google it later. She had chosen her favorite dress? gown? I think I remember Julia Quinn using the gown word. Or is a gown in 1814 just for debutante balls. I think it’s gown. I’ll go with gown. gown for the festivities of the day. It was pale blue, a color her mother had chosen for her because it brought out her eyes. The neckline was what? how were the necklines? It’s picnic season, so probably lower cut. What was Gwyneth Paltrow wearing in that Jane Austin movie? I think low cut. But not too low cut. She’s not a courtesan. Or was it prostitute in 1814? Nope. I think prostitute was later. Courtesan was earlier. Or maybe there’s a difference in their services. Are Courtesans just escorts? And when did Whore appear? For the love of god, how did I get onto whores? Well not onto whores, haha, but…Poor Lila. She is standing here in Starbucks staring at me aghast that I have only partially dressed her. Ok, back to the keyboard. Nevermind the neckline. The tiny pearl buttons surely that made pearl buttons…right? Haven’t pearl buttons been around forever? BAH! Forget the buttons. She had been the first to arrive at breakfast would she be by herself? She should probably have a chaperone, even for breakfast. With a lusty Duke around, surely no female was safe. Except for me. Did they call it breakfast? Maybe it’s just tea. But I’m looking at the table and there’s no tea. Wouldn’t there be a butler in here? Or is it a footman? Cook would still be in the kitchens, but there would be somebody in here sanding against the wall staring into space waiting for the Duke to burp. Hmm. Oh well. and she went directly for the biscuits and jam Now would that be bisquits? The English are always throwing in Q’s, aren’t they? Maybe there weren’t even bisquits/biscuits at all. They were around in 1851, but what about 1814? Maybe they were muffins. Or scones. Crumpettes? Weren’t scones the same thing as crumpette’s? Dammit! I want a scone! There is nobody in line. I’m getting a scone.
As I walked to the counter, Lila looked at me and threw up her arms. She’s frustrated that I am leaving her standing alone in the library two inches away from the biscuits/bisquits. Simmer down, missy. Simmer down.
Rodent bums and a Public Service Announcement
I love the English language. I especially love synonyms. Not all languages allow for the nuances of feeling like English does. I also find it fascinating the way the language has changed over the hundreds of years. Slang becomes accepted and thus English continues to evolve. We all know this happens, or we’d all be speaking the same way Shakespeare did. According to my daily calendar:
In the 18th century an educated Englishman would have considered this word to be vulgar American slang: scientist.
I’ve been in a fairly heated battle with Ava over a choice of words for the last couple of days. I’m heated – she’s busy spewing coffee out her nose. My phrase is uttered by a gentleman of the noble class, although he is an officer in the Royal Navy and he has just returned from war, and he’s in a very impassioned argument. He states, “I don’t give a rat’s ass….” Ava doesn’t want me to use it. She thinks that it’s hysterical, but not historical. I counter that it’s a timeless sentiment. I argue that people of the Edwardian/Regency/Victorian era were very creative cursers. I suggest that I find the etymology of the phrase and if I can prove that it is older than 1812 I get to keep it and she shuts her trap.
Easier said than done. I have been all over the internet looking. The internet seemed like just the place to find out such nonsense. I have not found out the etymology, but I have learned all kinds of stuff one never needed to know about rat’s asses. That’s for sure. Apparently, it’s a Chinese delicacy. Really? And I wanted to visit there pretty badly, and now I’m just terrified that I’d accidently order that on the menu.
Ava & I speculated that perhaps it came around with the advent of the Bubonic Plague. Seems logical. Rat’s carried the fleas; the fleas gave you the plague, right? If so, I win. The Bubonic Plague was most notable during the 14th century. For those of you keeping score at home, that’s considerably before 1812.
I did happen to find an especially good clearing house sort of site that links to a zillion others: www.bawdylanguage.com for all you out there desperate for euphemisms of various body parts (Ava I’m talking to you).
Isabella, the most creative curser I’ve ever heard, is fully on my side. When I say creative cursing, I’m not kidding. That girl can string together a collection of swear words that have never, in the history of swearing, ever been linked together before, into a invective that will blister your ears. Sincerely, I am often in awe and frequently in gales of laughter.
My Honey has now gotten into the discussion. I can see him over on his side of the office, listening to his iPod, and looking up “rat’s ass” on Google. And suddenly the skies part and angels are singing. HE FOUND IT.
I WIN I WIN I WIN I WIN I WIN – victory lap around the office. The Idiot Dog is baying up a storm. The windows are rattling.
Alright, I’ll freely admit that www.uncyclopedia.com is a comedic site with as much real information as The Onion. However, tonight I’m considering it gospel.
In case you’re interested, according to Uncyclopedia’s etymology of rat’s ass:
Since ancient times, both Inner Mongolianites and Outer Mongolianites have cultivated the rat for its tender and succulent ass meat. Mongolian legend is rife with obscure references to rat’s ass, such as when Attila the Hun gave one to the Romans after they requested that he stop destroying their empire. In ancient Greek times people would sacrifice rat’s ass to the gods. If someone didn’t sacrifice any rat’s ass than it was said they didn’t care about the god’s. So when someone says “I don’t give a rat’s ass” that’s where it comes from. (sic)
I can now get back to the business of ruining Thomas and Francesca’s lives. This has been a public service announcement.