okay, so maybe he's a shit and a fuck. . .

i love david brandt.

David Brandt, age 38, is a twice-divorced community college professor. He's also a selfish prick and he knows it. He says he doesn't give a crap but you can't put too much stock in that because he's a liar, lying mostly to himself. He's a seriously lonely fuck. He drinks Bacardi 151 to excess. He fancies himself an idiot. He fucks up more often than not. He dreams about bullets and black lace panties for God's sake. . .

I love him so much.

David Brandt is my main character in CHERRY. And the truth is, for much of the novel, he is all those things, but he isn't only those things and that's what makes him so interesting to me. That's what makes him human. He's floundering--trying to make sense of a world that sometimes make no sense. His misery is self-indulgent and insufficient because he's supremely unhappy, but not quite unhappy enough to call it quits.

Yet.

A complicated man.

I can safely say that David Brandt isn't the person at the end of the novel that he was at the beginning, but his transformation certainly isn't complete. It can be measured in degrees and may be temporary. Transient. The guy fucks up, he has in the past, anyway. Chances are, he will in the future and yet, he's willing to keep going, keep going, on the outside chance that the future holds some promise; that some good news might be waiting around that bend. He's willing to think that all may not be lost. It might be a case of a guy on the road to ruin, pulling the wool over his own eyes. Then again, maybe he's finally willing to accept some hard truths about himself, change some things that might not yet be cut in stone. 

Maybe.

I don't know, because I don't know how his story ends. CHERRY is a year in the life, as they say. Just like Brandt, I'm privy to his past, but not his future. I hope things go well, I hope he doesn't slip back into the skin of that selfish prick he was, but you never know. Maybe I love him precisely for that reason: he doesn't know either and grapples with that uncertainty. He wrestles with a past that seems hell-bent on fucking up the rest of his life.

How would I write his future? "Even when he loses the one person he loves, he's willing to consider a happier ending. Maybe not now, but at some point maybe something good will happen. Maybe. He's willing to stick around a little longer and see how it all pans out."

I love David Brandt because at the end of the day I believe he's still here, holding on to hope of better things.

"I missed my chance to poop in Cordoba." ~ Putputt

Before there was AbsoluteWrite, there was nothing.

I'm exaggerating. Before AbsoluteWrite, there was a little blue room and my computer and the cat.  There was a perpetual cup of coffee, perennially cold. There was one window, shade pulled down. There was the door, shut. There was a story in my head, and another one, and another one.

I wrote alone. Revised alone. The former was a furious endeavor. Exhausting. The latter was brief; cosmetic at best. When I finished a novel, I sent the file to OfficeMax and paid for a copy, brought it home and gave it to my husband to read. Then my mom. Then my sisters--oldest to youngest, as is tradition.

Then I wrote a query letter and sent it to some of the most well-respected, powerhouse literary agents out there. And waited for my big break. And waited. And waited. . .

OMG, I screwed up on so many levels. I shared my novels with people dear to me who were not writers. I drafted a query letter without having a fucking CLUE and squandered opportunity after opportunity, sending it out in droves, a plethora of qls flooding literary agencies coast-to-coast. Mind-numbing horror floating through cyberspace, landing on desks of agents who must have taken one look and (metaphorically) tossed that sucker in the trash, or lit it on fire, or slit their own throats. I had no significant feedback; ergo, I thought my shit didn't stink.

Then I found AbsoluteWrite. I won't bore you with accolades. And I won't say it's the perfect site, the perfect set-up. I have nits, I've gotten in some hot water, I've screwed up a few times, paid for it (still am). Not saying I don't screw up now 'cause I do, often--sometimes, spectacularly. But I am not a lonely, clueless writer anymore. Before AbsoluteWrite, I wrote in a vaccuum, or wrapped in gauze. Not anymore. I have learned so effing much it's not even funny, but it is mind-boggling: not only have I've learned so much, but I'm now aware that there is so much yet to learn about about the craft of writing, the business of writing. My writing has improved significantly: I'm more thoughtful, more careful with my choices, more cognizent of style and voice and consistency, tension, characterization. . .

I met writers.

Not actually. Virtually. Doesn't matter, they're there and this is what they do. They get it. All kinds of writers, too, some are so damn talented it's almost scary. Some are newbies learning the ropes. A lot are where I am and we help and support each other. I've posted my stuff, excerpts from CHERRY and EFFIN' ALBERT and I've received some great suggestions and comments. I've found beta readers who have read my work and given me such tremendous advice, unbelieveable. I've turned a piece of shit into a decent--more than decent--query letter, thanks to the folks at AW's Query Letter Hell forum. An amazing forum. Can't say enough about it. I just drafted a synopsis, for God's sake, I was scared to death but I hammered it out, thanks to the writers at AW. 

I met writers. It bears repeating because that's the best thing about AbsoluteWrite. I've conversed with a lot of writers for whom I've developed a real fondness. Some, I adore. I have a wall, I didn't even know what that was, this public message thingie. People can send you comments publically and you can respond publically and why am I explaining? I was probably the only person on earth who had no clue what the hell that was. I started a wall because AW is somehow getting me to open up, try new stuff. Like this blog, for instance.

Back to the wall thing. My first message was from me, to me, saying, Hey, if nobody writes to me on this thing I'm writing to myself. I shouldn't have worried. Right now, on my wall, there are over 240 messages from a bunch of different people, telling me all kinds of stuff, offering support, bugging me, joking around. It's fun, you know it? Plus I write on walls, leave my mark, as they say. Thinking of three, four writers right now with whom I often converse, for whom I'm so indebted, of whom I can't say enough wonderful things. Even though they sometimes drive me nuts, I think I love these people. I never met them. It doesn't matter. How can you not love somebody who writes, "I missed my chance to poop in Cordoba"?? I mean, really.

So thankful that I found AbsoluteWrite. So strange to think I didn't know what I was missing.

what the hell is an "anorack"?

blogging when you don't know what to say.

I'm depleted today. I didn't sleep worth a crap last night, finally got up at 2:45 a.m., totally uncomfortable, in every way imaginable. I couldn't bear to be in my own skin. I fell asleep on the daybed and woke up soaked in sweat. I drank some Diet Vernors to ease my nausea and forced down four chunks of watermelon because I thought I should eat something. Physically, I feel like hammered shit. Emotionally, I'm as flat as a sheet of OfficeMax multiuse copypaper. Mentally, I'm fuzzy as a kiwi.

Welcome to my world.

So I was thinking, all right, I'll just post some quotes or something. I've been perusing different blogs since starting mine and I've noticed a trend. Seems like people who don't know what to write about just post what other people already wrote about. But honestly, I think it's kind of a cop out to do that. If you don't have anything to say, why say anything?

Hmm.

Fuck it, here's a quote about blogging:

"Blogs are for anoraks who couldn't get published any other way."

That quote from somebody named Janet Street-Porter, btw.

First thought: Hey, Miss Janet Street-Porter lady, that ain't very nice, being as I'm writing a blog AND I'm trying to get my novel published. Who is this Janet Street-Porter anyway?

Turns out, Ms. Street-Porter is a writer/former journalist and broadcaster, now "editor-at-large" for a British online journal: The Independent. From across the pond, I see. I shall keep my thoughts about THAT to myself, being as I don't want to rankle the few friends I have.

Anyhoo, Ms. S-P has a website, holy shit: http://www.janetstreetporter.com/ It's really quite something, I must admit. If I had the gumption, I bet I could spend all day dissecting that thing. I don't have the gumption. Perhaps you do, my beloved readers, assuming you're out there, and if you do, that's fine with me.

Back to the quote now. What the hell is an "anorak"? I can't help but think it is something unsavory. If you already know what an anorack is--you Brits might know--the following will likely bore you to tears, much as the preceding has already, in all likelihood, done. In that case, I think I should apologize to you twice.

I did a little digging and found an incredibly lengthy posted discussion about anoraks. Someone asked a question and a shitload of people answered, some quite passionately. I invite you to read or don't read. I shall not proclaim you an anorak, either way.

As for me, I'm going to bed.

What do the British mean when they call somebody an "anorak"?

Peter Post, Boston USA

• It is a term of mild abuse directed almost exclusively at men. Such men are usually obsessively interested in an obscure subject and/or activity - the archetypal one being trainspotting. Such activities often require the participant to spend hours out of doors doing not much and occasionally writing something in a little book. Hence, such people often wear anorak because they are (a) cheap (b) practical (c) have lots of pockets for flasks, notebooks, pencils, other pencils etc. Obsessive participation in such activities into later life is often regarded with derision by soi-disant normal people, whereas in fact it has actually been linked to a mild form of autism.
  Simon Blake, Shrewsbury England

• An 'Anorak' is the name given to someone who has an obsession with a particular hobby i.e. football statistics, trainspotting etc. I presume that the word itself derives from the rows of sad looking people standing every weekend and evening in the rain at the train station in their anoraks with their thermos flasks of tea while they tick off the numbers of trains as they go past.
  Jon Wereik, Welwyn, Herts UK

• The nearest equivalent non-British slang term might be "nerd". An anorak is literally a hooded waterproof coat, and the slang term was originally applied to trainspotters - people whose hobby is hanging around railway stations, monitoring the arrivals/departures of various trains and writing down their serial numbers in little notebooks. I swear there are such people, and their hobby requires them to wear suitably draught-proof clothing. By extension it has become applied to anyone with an obsessive interest in a subject that is too technical or boring for anyone else to know much about. By the way, the title of the film Trainspotters is a reference to the interest the characters had in the traffic up and down the lines in their arms!
  Leo Hickey, Barking UK

• It is a disparaging term for someone who goes trainspotting, can tell you when each episode of Star Trek was originally broadcast, and has no friends other than fellow 'anoraks'. This is their chosen outergarment, whatever the weather, and they always still live with their mothers. They can quote 'Red Dwarf' scripts vebatim, and know all the boring and unimportant stuff about how computers work. Will that do?
  Jonathan, Lancaster UK

• To clarify, an anorak is a waterproof jacket, typically with a hood, of a kind originally used in polar regions.(derived from Greenland Eskimo 'anoraq') These garments found favour with those pursuing outdoor activities, most noticeably 'trainspotting' (collecting railroad train numbers)and during the 1980's it became a general derogatory term for an obsessive person with similar unfashionable and largely solitary interests. The modern day trainspotter is an altogether more sophisticated creature, most likely to be found wearing a Polyester microfibre mountaineer's jacket which boasts excellent wicking properties, a waterproof laminate skin and big enough pockets for voice activated dictation machine and a pair of high quality German binoculars. However, the epithet still applies and if anything, is more appropriate than ever.
  John Midknight, Harrow UK

• It's due to the type of coat worn by trainspotters whilst they scribble frantically into their notebooks on the end of cold, lonely railway platforms. The appeal of trainspotting is a mystery to most of us so if someone hints at rather too much statistical knowledge of something mundane or trivial, the epithet "anorak" is jofully applied. I suppose the american "nerd" is an equivalent.
  Austin Fisher, Auckland New Zealand

• The term "Anorak" refers to anyone who is obsessed with a hobby to the point of fanatacism. It comes from trainspotters (a term that can be freely substituted for anorak) who traditionally wear anoraks to keep toasty while noting down train numbers on windy platforms.
  Dan Whaley, Amsterdam Netherlands

• "Anoraks" are coat-like garments that (according to a rather cruel stereotype) train-spotters are seen to favour as they stand at the end of railway station platforms noting down the train numbers that pass by. The term "Anorak" has evolved to mean a person who partakes of what may be seen as rather a odd hobby or subject.
  Matt Jones, Croydon UK

• An "anorak" is someone who is either very knowledgeable or interested in a subject. The subject is usually one which would not interest other people - e.g. trainspotting, science fiction etc. The term comes from the deeply unfashionable plastic anoraks of the 70s and 80s, which supposedly people who obsess about such subjects would wear. (Since they're into "sensible" clothes and not fashion).
  Rick Webber, London Uk

• The term anorak is used to describe someone who has an avid interest or expertise in something most people would either find boring (train spotting) or is very complex such as quantum physics.
  John Ness, Glasgow Scotland

• An anorak is a derogatory term meaning the anal retentive accumulation of miniscule, arcane, and quite often useless bits of information. I believe it was used first around the indie music scene of the mid eighties. The item in question refers to the preferred clothing of those followers of that great British pastime - trainspotting. Knowledge for knowledge's sake, if ever there was.
  John , New York USA

• These answers are getting me worried. As a child in Melbourne (where I didn't need an anorak), I kept what I called my "tram collection", a list of numbers from 1 to 1200 that I used to carry around with me in my mother's car. Does anyone know where I can get help?
  Andrew Leslie, Stuttgart Germany

• I don't believe it...only one day on the site and 10 people fell for this question. 10 anoraks.
  Matthew, London

• The first use, to the best of my knowledge, was due to the waterproof clothing worn by the people who would charter small boats to see the offshore pirate radio stations that were moored off the Essex coast. The presenters would look out of the studio window and talk to their listeners about the latest boat load of anoraks coming towards the ship.
  Mark Morton, Leeds UK

• As a nerd, permit me to comment on comparing "anorak" with "nerd". In American slang an "anorak" would be properly known as a "geek" rather than a nerd. In short, a nerd is a geek with some social skills. Bill Gates was notorious for his unwashed hair, eyeglasses held together with tape, and for having "virtual dates" (he and another would go to the same dinner and movie in DIFFERENT CITIES, then discuss this over email). Now, Gates has an attractive wife (also a nerd), gives billions to charity and built a house like God would if God could afford it. Gates used to be a geek, now he's a nerd. Ralph Nader is a geek, Al Gore is a nerd.
  David Dreaming Bear, Horsethief Canyon, California USA

• Anorak is a term of abuse applied to trainspotters because of the clothes they wear when pursuing their supposedly pointless hobby. The people who enjoy giving such abuse often have much more thrilling and fulfilling interests such as milling around with crowds of semi-drunk hooligans all wearing identical multi-coloured scarves while watching overpaid prima donnas trying to propel a plasticised pig-bladder substitute in between two sticks.
  Mike Baldwin, Waltham Cross England

• Just out of interest I did a survey of a randomly selected group of Notes & Queries participants and categorised them into anoraks and non-anoraks based on a sophisticated questionnaire. The proportion that were anoraks turned out to be significantly higher than that of the general population at a p level of <0.001 using a binomial exact test. I can send you a copy of the results if you want, in a PDF attachment. Ooh here comes a train...
  Roger Humphry, Inverness Scotland

• To support Mark Morton's point, this is from www.offshoreradio.co.uk Andy Archer is the only DJ to have worked offshore in the sixties, seventies and eighties........Andy has been credited with inventing the term anorak to describe an enthusiastic, if slightly obsessive, fan. It dates from 1973 or 74 when four boat loads of listeners went out on an excursion to visit the three radio ships then anchored off the Dutch coast. On Radio Caroline it was decided that they would mark the occasion by presenting a programme not from inside the studio as normal but from out on the deck to give the fans something to see. It was a chilly day and the visitors had sensibly wrapped up warm against the elements. The listeners heard Andy say that he was delighted that so many anoraks had come out to see the ship. From this one, off-the-cuff, remark, thousands of enthusiasts across Europe came to be known as anoraks and a new example of modern English usage was born.
  Pete Watt, Twickenham

• To make the anorak/geek/nerd thing even more difficult, here on the East Coast, it's generally accepted that geeks are nerds with social skills, not vice versa. So I suppose that my tech-head husband is a geek in the eastern USA, a nerd in the western USA, & doesn't qualify as an anorak in the UK.
  Karen Abbott, New Jersey USA

• Do people who compulsively read and submit to N&Q qualify as "anoraks?"
  Mark, Heidelberg Germany

• The answer is: of course, geeks. pathetic, arn't they? no one in the U.S spots trains...ours are much more intense, usually bordering on insanity or C.O. disorder. I personally count patterns of flashing lights (turn signals, traffic lite changes, ect.)
  charles nelson, detroit, michigan. usa

• Charley, I spot trains! I go to the station, and spot trains. It's actually quite fun. And I have been called an anorak by my Brit friend. I don't take it as too much of an insult, although it's meant to be one. Then again, I take geek and nerd as compliments as well. To use the definition in a britspeak dictionary, "A socialy inept person, obsessed with a hobby or intrest. Has little or no fashion sense, and errs towards eccentricy."
  Jen, New Jersey USA

• Eddie Stobart lorry spotters.
  Matt Hill, Wednesbury, UK

• Reading the replies above it has become clear to me that a train spotter who stands at the centre of a warm platform while the wind is not blowing is not, in fact, an anorak.
  Dave, Swindon, UK

• Having a boyfriend who enjoys trainspotting I would say that he is considerably more interesting than many men who can't be dragged away from the TV or games machines.
  Sue, Essex, UK

• The term also applies to people who can recite the correct order for the reading of the shipping forecast.
  Hamish McSmall, Dundee Scotland

• I recall from my university days that a geek was defined as a circus perfomer who bit the heads off of live chickens. Part of the great American circus and freak show traditions of my land. (although these traditions were doubtlessly inherited from superior European cultures.)
  PeterR, New York US

• I am a builder with an obsession for astronomy and space science related subject's my friends and family often call my an anorak. I am proud to be a member of this exclusive lifestyle, and would like some ideas for 2008 anorak color's.
  Craig Evans, Barry Wales, UK

• Anoraks, Nerds and Geeks have something in common However Nerds interests tend to be 'intellectually based' thus they can recite the complete works of shakespeare tell you the date they were written. Can solve the most complicated mathematical problems etc. Thus Alan Turing is a typical Nerd. Geeks tend to be more technically based and interested in things like science fiction Anoraks tend to pursue outdoor hobbies such as train spotting bird watching and so forth. The things that bind them are their complete lack of anything to do with fashionable interests and a general lack of social awareness.
  Chris, Edinburgh United Kingdom

• We all seem to be getting on the wrong bus hear they are more than just "sad old men standing on a platform". In the hobby you have photographers that can be seen all over and 'Bashers' - people that ride the trains. I mean, I am a trainspotter. I don't hang around a station and I do not own a note book but I am still a trainspotter. Get you facts right before answering questions please.
  Adam Jackson, Nuneaton, England

• Reading the above, I've guessed that you can be an anorak without trainspotting and without actually wearing or owning an anorak, but can you be a geek if you have only the interest but not the technical skills?
  Kay Rivera, Philippines

• My name is John ... and I'm a ...Trainspotter. I have an black anorak with a brown furry collar which I wear most autumn/winter/spring days. I always carry a black notebook and a pencil (pens run out). During my lunchbreaks I'm usually to be found on a railway bridge near where I work. If I finish work on time you'll see me either at the station car park or at another bridge. I will always have my camera with me in case I see an 'interesting train'. My current aim is to photograph all Class 66 locomotives. I have few friends - work colleagues yes - but few friends. Weekends are split between my gorgeous lady (she's lovely) - who lives some distance away - and an early start to view a visiting charter train in the area or just the run of the mill freights of the former GW main line between London and Birmingham. Evenings I'm monitoring the 'gen' web-sites to see what trains are running where and planning how I can juggle my time to maximise my rail viewing pleasure. I cause none harm ... and yet I am ridiculed. I've been a rail enthusiast, trainspotter or ferro-equinologist, and yes, an anorak for over 45 years and will continue for many years to come. The railway scene changes - the days of steam are but a memory - a vivid memory but just a memory. Beeching's Axe fell and decimated our iron roads. The demise of the ill-fated diesel classes of the 1955 Modernisation plan was long ago. And our beloved Westerns, Whistlers, Peaks, and of course Deltics exist only as museum pieces - albeit finely preserved and living examples. And now in the seemingly never ending stream of 66's we nevertheless derive as much pleasure as ever. DRS, Freightliner, EWS, Metronet, Shanks - all different liveries powering different trains. We still love 'em. And always will!! My name is John .... AND I'M A TRAINSPOTTER - A PROUD TRAINSPOTTER !!!!!!!!!!!!
  John, Oxford UK

• All of the above sound a lot like my husband and 13 year old son. My wonderful husband is obsessed with the 2nd World War and my gorgeous son is vey heavily into anything that has wheels and is fast, in particular Ferraris, Lamborghinis,etc. They have both been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, a mild form of Autism. Social skills not so good, obsessive interest in one particular subject area, fashion sense- total lack of interest. Bill Gates has some of these traits, so I believe it's not an entirely negative thing to have.
  Ineke, Brisbane, Australia

• Supporting answers from Mark Morton and Pete Watt, the term "anorak" was originally created by "pirate" offshore radio DJs in the early 70's, who used the term widely on the air to describe the boatloads of fans who used to visit the ships. I quote: He made a complete description of how the word ‘Anorak’ came in use originally in the Offshore Radio World. It’s Andy Archer who wants to comment on this: ‘ I just like to correct you on one point about "anoraks". We originally called "anoraks" the "anorak and Acne Brigade, because all of the fans that waited for us on the quay at Scheveningen seemed to wear anoraks and a lot of them had acne. Later we shortened it to "anoraks". The meaning has since expanded to include anyone with similar traits to these original obsessive fans. (Train Spotters, etc).
  Keith, Costa Calida, Spain

• Anorak = my son. He collects door numbers.
  Paul Boswell, Widnes, England

• Closely related to this is the word 'anoraknaphobia'. Nothing to do with a fear of spiders, but a term for the collective derision that our dumbed down culture has for anyone who is interested in anything or knows about something in detail (other than Premier League Football or TV reality shows).
  Mike Hyde, Solihull, UK

• Can we look at this slightly diferently. Are anoraks necessary in the battle against 'dumbing down'? What if we said that being an anorak wasn't confined to a particular garment or lack of fashion awareness (whatever that means?)nor the pursuit of a hobby but was a state of mind or being that made others think you were a bit of a loner. Don't we all need to be a bit of an anorak from time to time and stare out to sea?
  David, Eastbourne, Britain

• Why pick on the train spotter, my friend was a Plane spotter in the 70's + 80's and discovered numerous interest facts about the different types of planes while acquiring the autographs of international singing stars like #demos rusos on the back of a bus schedule so there are advantages of being an anorak
  GERRY, THURLES IRELAND

• I notice another contributor said that Trainspotting can (not always) be a mild form of autism. I just caught a train from Exeter, and a lad was not only trainspotting, he was speaking loudly along with the platform announcers announcements, and my first reaction was "that's Aspergers if ever I saw it". The link between transpotting and autism hadn't crossed my mind before. And please no one read this as offensive, or a generalisation, it's just an observation.
  John Davis, Plymouth UK

• I can definitely confirm that the first usage of the term "Anorak" was used aboard the "Mi Amigo" off Holland in the second coming of Radio Caroline. It is credited to Andy Archer, but was probably actually in use amongst the Offshore Radio Community before then. I know this because I am one. http://www.radiocaroline.co.uk
  Steve Rowlandson, Warwick, UK

• An anorak is basically a pretty decent insult. For example, I have a friend called Josh, who appears to display anorak tendencies from time to time. Thus for, I often label him an anorak. E.g. Josh: "I challenge you to a game of chess." Me: "Erm... why?" Josh: "Because I feel that we will tesselate nicely within the chess community" Me: "Mate, you're a bleeding anorak". As you can see from the above example, when "anorak" is used in the correct context, it is a blinding vituperation. The use of the word often fills the "insulter" with a delectable sense of satisfaction and achievement. Meanwhile, the "insulted" is left red-faced and dejected. So next time you feel someone you know is inclining towards the "anorak" school of thought, be sure to bedazzle them with this classic British insult.
  Jacob Swatton, Grantham UK

• Please keep in mind, Asperger's Syndrome/Autism are, clinically, incipient stages of a Psychopathic personality disorder, JMcA.
  Jacke McAllister, New York New York

• The term 'anorak' is a mark of separation and used by those sad critics who stumble through life, unable to find an interest outside of their dreary work-bound existence. Anorak refers to a person who has developed a fringe interest which nearly always had it's origins in childhood and is no less useless than the crossword, jig-saw puzzle, TV soap addiction or a marriage vow. Get a life. Get an interest!.
  P.Wood, Derby UK

• A weatherproof coat or colloquially, someone who has a hobby that isn't deemed 'cool' by some idiotic comedian or the media. Work this out: Knowledge of computer workings = anorak Sports stats knowledge = cool Train Spotter = anorak Football programme collector = cool Ham radio enthusiast = anorak Facebook user = cool Watching birds/wildlife = anorak Reality TV Watcher = cool Stamp/chess/sewing/etc. club meeting = anoraks Drunked night out with possible fight = cool Sensless or what. Live and let live. The mild mannered interests that people undertake are seen as boring, nerdy, anorakious but the loud, garish, boisterous, offensive, dangerous pastimes are seen as cool!! Stupid rules made up by a stupid minority of people in the media. Anyone who thinks these people are 'anoraks' are the boring and ignorant ones.
  Joe, Pembroke Dock Wales 

http://www.guardian.co.uk/notesandqueries/query/0,5753,-19185,00.html

in a pig's butt. . .

love will go anywhere.

In CHERRY, a young male prostitute loves a self-destructing, self-centered pig. Eventually, the pig loves the prostitute back.

How the hell does that happen?

Grandma used to say, "Love will go anywhere, even in a pig's butt." Sometimes, without rhyme or reason, people find love. Despite themselves. Despite everything.

When I first thought of the story for CHERRY, I knew the type of asshole my mc Dave was going to be. He admits early on he doesn't give a crap about people, least of all himself. He hates himself. He's self-destructing. He's one seriously lonely fuck. He has no friends, no one on earth loves him and no wonder: he treats people like shit.

Then he meets this kid who, for some unfathomable reason, cares about him. Makes no sense why, makes even less sense that he's incredibly turned on by this kid. He isn't gay--he's been married twice, for Christ's sake. Dave tries everything to push Cherry away, even as he's fucking him two, three times a week. He uses and abuses the kid. Taunts him. Hurts him emotionally. Physically. Doesn't matter--Cherry loves Dave unconditionally and forgives his trespasses, including an act of betrayal so devastating that he's heartbroken. And Dave nearly blows his own brains out. 

But the more Dave gets to know Cherry, the more he realizes that this kid is different. Special. He's an enigma: uncommonly sweet, incredibly naive and yet he sucks cock for a living. And he's as nutty as a fruitcake--Cherry believes his mom came to him in a vision when he was twelve. He's going to kill himself before he turns nineteen because he believes his mother told him to do it. His one goal in life is to be with his dead mother and he's planning for it, practicing by strangling himself and playing chicken with oncoming traffic.  

 

The closer Cherry gets to D-Day--Death Day--the more panicked Dave becomes. He  tries everything he can think of to change Cherry's mind. Dave's feelings are all over the place: one minute he want to fuck the kid, the next, he's seriously considering adopting him. He resorts to threats: he'll kill himself if Cherry doesn't listen to reason. But despite his best efforts, Cherry remains steadfast, determined to go through with his plan. No amount of begging, cajoling, or bullying by Dave is going to change his mind. 

At some point Dave stops thinking about himself. At some point, he accepts responsibility for Cherry, realizing that only he can stop the kid, except he can't; and when Cherry disappears, Dave finally admits the truth: he loves that kid, loves him more than he's ever loved another human being. It's not about sex anymore, not about himself anymore, it's about this other person who saw something in Dave he didn't see, couldn't see; loved him despite everything. . .

What possessed Cherry to love Dave? Sometimes there's no logical explanation for loving a person. Love doesn't care if a person is saint or sinner, alive or dead. Love doesn't care why, doesn't need to know why.  And sometimes, when you're hopelessly lost, love will find you. Even if you can't believe you deserve it.

Even when you don't.

confessions of a crappy spellre

i sukc. . .

I am the proud owner of a bunch of letters. BFA. MA. Okay, five letters. Worked my little butt off for those damn five letters. Cost me thousands, no lie, and I can't tell you how many hours of HELL I suffered through, getting those two degrees. 

I can write, but I can't spell. 

My god, I am a crappy speller. I've spend countless hours pulling up dictionary.com, checking the spelling of a stoopid woid I should know by now. The enorimity of my disfunction borders on mind-boggling, and makes me want to cringe, or hide under a slimy rock. Or both. Craziest part of the equation is the fact that I've now written--let me count--over 282,500 wirds, I mean. . .

Is this insanity? What the hell am I doing?

Truth is, it doesn't matter. I'm lucky in that I can craft a decent sentence, and another one, and put those two together in a meaningful way. I've written four complete novels and I'm working on number five. Not saying their all good, they ain't. But they're decent, and with more effort on my part, they may be viable one day. Look how I just wrote "viable." No problemo. Sometimes there's no ryme or reason to it. Sometimes I think my little pea brain takes a mini-vacation that I don't know about. Later I pull up something I'm written and think, what the hell? I know how to spell "voratious." I think. Looks funny. Let me look that bad boy up. Oh, crap. J. C. Penney with a damn second e, for chrissake. Ridiculous, how bad I spell.

But like I said, it doesn't matter. In the long run, my mistakes will stick out like a sore thumb. Somebody will catch the screw-ups--if not me, then my betas. If not my betas, my dear husband. He's a voratious reader, a really good speller and if not him, maybe one day, if I'm lucky, an editor will grab that perverbial pen and vomit red all over my beautifully written manuscript. Guess what, folks? That'll be okay with me.

That's what keeps me going, you know it? The thought that one day my manuscript will cross the desk of an editor, on its way to getting published. I gotta believe that. Everybody has there cross to bare, don't they? Maybe I suck at spelling but dammit, I can right.

"happy birthday to me. . ."

. . .with a CHERRY on top.

As the clock struck twelve last night, I sat in bed, lights off, hunched over my laptop at the behest of a fine writer over at AbsoluteWrite ( http://absolutewrite.com/forums/index.php ) who is struggling with her WIP. She'd sent the thing to betas and received conflicting feedback, which has caused her much distress. She asked if I would share with her my beta experiences relative to CHERRY; seeking from me answers to questions she wasn't even sure how to ask . . . but she did her best, and so did I.

And so, in the early hours of my birthday, I sat in the dark, deconstructing CHERRY.

I wrote CHERRY quickly, as I had my first three novels. The story came to me in a flash, nearly intact, so odd, but I knew the thing from beginning to end, and wrote it, and knew it was good. And thought it was done.

It was good, but it wasn't done.

That realization came to me when I read the critique from my first beta reader. This person and I had started off on the wrong foot over at aye-dub, due to my impatience and arrogance. But I apologized and he gave me a chance, even offering to read CHERRY for me when I was ready. After that rocky start, he and I developed a good report. I critiqued some of his work. I realized he was a thoughtful, insightful writer, and a good one. He was honest and I trusted him.

I sent my manuscript as a word file to this person, sent it half-way across the world. He read my novel and proclaimed it good, but not good enough. But, he said, it could be. I had to decide if I wanted to take it to the next level. He thought it was worth the effort. He thought I could do it.

His critique was a compilation of impressions he'd had whilst reading my novel, then thinking about it afterwards. He offered nothing specific, no specific suggestions as to how to fix my book. Didn't matter. I knew what he was saying: to make CHERRY better, I would have to rework it big time. Rewrite. Cut. Add whole chapters, my God, revamp the thing and I thought it was done. I wanted it done. Dammit.

But this person believed CHERRY was worth the effort, and after I ceased the weeping and gnashing of teeth, I reread CHERRY with his comments in mind, and came to the same conclusion.

He was but the first of a string of betas--all bright, insightful people; good writers, honest--who echoed that man's belief: CHERRY was decent but could be more than that. My final beta reader, another amazing person from AW, challenged me to dig deeper, take my main character to a place I was hesitant to go. He recognized my hesitation before I did, called me on it, told me I had a choice: make my mc a richer, deeper character, or leave him as is. How far was I willing to take this character?

Ultimately, I reworked my ms yet again. When I finally proclaimed CHERRY done, I felt a sense of awe and pride, and still do. I believe I've written something of value, I truly think I have. I couldn't have done it without those people who helped me so selflessly. I wouldn't have done it, I know it. These people had confidence in CHERRY and in me, when I had neither. 

I am blessed and truly grateful to the people who helped me, who believed in me. I shall do my best to return the favor in kind, as I tried to last night, in those wee first hours of my birthday. And on my birthday, I'm thinking of those special people, and thanking them, and wishing them every good thing.

With a cherry on top, of course.

"tweet, tweet"

a little boid told me she was taking queries again. . .

I've been waiting a long time for a certain agent to open the floodgates again. And she has. And I learned about it on Twitter, which is totally ridiculous.

For me, I mean. 

Before I reveal this literary agent's name and provide a couple of sobering stats (just to keep myself grounded), I want to talk about this Twitter business.

I've mentioned I'm a luddite, right? But I thought it was important to start putting myself out there in the virtual world, step out of my comfort zone. Hence, this blog. Funny thing about having your own blog: you start checking out other people's blogs. Fascinating how many literary agencies and agents have blogs.

I happened to be reading a certain literary agent's blog and caught a tweet off to the side, from another certain literary agent who just started accepting query submissions again, after a long hiatus. Months long. During that time, she made a significant life change, leaving one agency to join another, and she took some extra, needed time to regroup. Catch her breath.

Her name is Sarah LaPolla. Her new agency is Bradford Literary Agency: http://www.bradfordlit.com/ . And Sarah has a blog: http://glasscaseblog.blogspot.com/ . It is from her June 13 blog that I pluck the following sobering statistics:

Total number of unsolicited queries received from January - April of this year: 1,182

(Note: "Unsolicited" does not include referrals, conference/contest requests, or revisions I had asked for previously.)

Total number of manuscripts requested out of the 1,182 queries: 17

Total offers of representation out of the 17 manuscripts requested: 0

Since January 2013, I signed 1 new client, a YA author who I met through a blog contest.

Sarah is a kind person who added the following, just for me:

But don't be discouraged, querying writers! The year is only halfway through and I just re-opened to queries. I'm at a new agency and am actively growing my list. (snip)

I sent CHERRY's query today to Sarah LaPolla, along with a hastily written synopsis (!) and Chapter One. Chances are slim that Ms. LaPolla will request further chapters but I figure it's worth a shot. Seems like Karma almost, seeing that tweet. 

Gotta believe in something.  

happy father's day, dad.

i remember. . .

It was a long time ago, but I remember bits and pieces. Flashes. Sitting at Kresge's deli counter eating ice cream sundaes. Snuggled in his lap watching Big Time Wrestling. Standing beside him in the bathroom, our faces slathered with shaving cream, father and daughter laughing. Snippets of my dad, the man he was. Imagining the man he might have been. Missing him.

I woke from a sad, sweet dream today. Remembering my father. 

i forgot.

oh ye of little faith. . . 

I'm knee-deep in my WIP and querying my last novel, CHERRY. Both endeavors have been a challenge, nothing new for writers. Trying to write the next great novel whilst trying to sell the last tends to weigh on a writer's mind. Personally, it's been tough for me to keep my mind on anything else and with that came a sense of foreboding and panic; wondering what the hell I'd gotten myself into, this perpetual mobius strip of writing and querying and waiting and wondering and worrying. Especially, worrying. Is it good? Is it good enough?

I mentioned the agent who took a pass on CHERRY and my subsequent . . . what? Loss of confidence, maybe. Loss of hope. Which, in retrospect, is silly. He's a great agent but as I've said, he's just one agent. And waiting to hear back from agents or publishers is part of the game. I know that intellectually but emotionally, that agent's pass threw me for a loop. I found myself wondering if I was fooling myself. I'm not talking about getting published. I'm referring to the caliber of my writing, the caliber of my novels, specifically CHERRY.

People who read CHERRY told me it's good. This was after I implemented changes suggested by such phenomenal betas at AbsoluteWrite. I agreed with most of what they said and even though it was difficult to cut some of the narrative, move text around, add new chapters, I listened because it made sense. My novel was the better for it and when I finally proclaimed it 'done'--as done as an unpublished novel can be--I was satisfied with it.

Truth is, I was more than satisfied. I thought it was good. Really good. Should I be humble and say, I thought it was okay, hoping. . .   No, I think the first champion of a writer's work should be the writer. How do you sell your work if you don't believe in it, right?

And I did believe in it, swear to god. I sent the query and sample pages to those few indie publishers and my dream agent--that's what I called him in my heart of hearts--and dared imagine best case scenerios. I actually pictured the agent writing me an email: I'm liking it, kk. A lot. Send me the rest. Then a week went by, and another, and another, and I felt my confidence wane, and then I started doubting myself, doubting my work, wondering, What was I thinking?

My WIP suffered for it. Doubt begats doubt and squelches creativity. And I found myself dreading the prospect of opening my emails and seeing a message from one of those publishers or that agent. And then, there it was. I clicked open the agent's email with trepidation. Truth is, my heart was hammering. I was expecting the worst and he delivered, giving validation to every crud thought I'd had those last two weeks. He didn't want to read the rest; ergo, my writing sucks, my story sucks, I suck and I'm fooling myself to think I wrote anything good, anything worthwhile.

Not a good place to be, so what did I do about it?

I mentioned the disappointing news on my query thread at AW. Some really, really nice people wrote to me, offering their support, saying kind things which I truly appreciated. Then I wrote a blog about it, which helped. Then I spent a really nice evening with my husband at a metropark by our house. We saw some deer and a pair of nesting ospreys. We shared a bottle of cheap wine. He listened as I lamented and told me not to be disheartened. Doesn't matter if the damn thing never gets published, he said.

But it does. I decided I was going to start querying again and I shall do so, next week. Then, yesterday, I grabbed a blanket, beer and my laptop and headed out back. Spread the blanket beneath our apple tree and opened my WIP, and started to write. I'd been at an impasse but the words came easier for some reason. Then I sat back and enjoyed the evening and thought about CHERRY. Was it good?

I used to think so. 

This a.m. there was an email in my inbox from a certain individual who's read another one of my novels. He's an award-winning author, an excellent writer, very generous of his time and expertise. He gave me me great advice which I kept in mind when writing CHERRY. I'd sent the ms to him a while back but he got caught up in all of his own stuff, he has a new book coming out and other wonderful things going on. Anyway, he wrote to me early this a.m., telling me he was finally able to get back to reading my manuscript. And I started wondering, oh man, what have I done? Sent this guy my novel, my God, is it a pile of crap? I opened the file this morning and started reading the thing, and I didn't stop until I was done. 

I finished reading CHERRY a little while ago. It made me cry, just like it did the first time I read it. I love the characters and the story. I think the dialogue's good. I can't believe I wrote it, to tell you the truth. I feel like it's a gift given to me and I shall not squander that, I won't belittle that, I won't discount that. I wrote a good book. I know I did. 

I just forgot.  

this too shall pass.

please mr. fantasy, send me an email. . . 

I read your first five chapters of CHERRY, kk. How long have you been writing again? Just a couple of years? Wow. Well, I'm really impressed and I definitely want to read the rest of your novel. Send it as an attachment, attention me. Personally, yep. . .

Like a backhand across the face. What the hell happened?

He read my query and liked it enough to ask for the first few chapters. He read the chapters and took a pass. Nope. No thanks. Good luck and all that. An email, just a couple of lines, succinct, professional.

It knocked me on my ass.

Intellectually, as soon as I read that email I was working it, putting a positive spin on it. Patting myself on the back for making it that far. Telling myself he's only one agent. It wasn't meant to be, that's all. I know CHERRY's good, I just need to find the right fit and I will, it's just a matter of time.

But emotionally, I was wrecked yesterday. Funny how fast one can slip into that sickening, self-indulgent mode: it's crap/I suck. . .

Today I'm sorting through my feelings. Tossing the most ridiculous maudlin shit which serves absolutely no purpose. Filing assorted bits and pieces of the experience away--just in case, for future reference. Stepping back, putting the thing in perspective.

I considered marshalling the troops today, meeting my disappointment head on, searching and querying. But I decided to give myself time. As David Brandt says, I need to process this, so I shall allow myself a couple of days to digest that email, let it work it's way through my system. I shall absorb what's of value and shite the rest.

Yep. This too shall pass.

technical difficulties, can i get an amen. . .

i don't like those gear thingies, lord.

When the bulk of your writing is with a keyboard, technical difficulties are a distinct possibility. In fact, they're part of the game. Problem is, when weird shit starts happening I'm pretty much screwed, being as I am not computer savvy. When something goes bye-bye or locks up or starts smoking, I have no clue what to do.

Case in point: I just typed what I suspect was a bomb blog, which is my nerdy way of saying I think it was pretty good. I wanted to preview the thing before publishing so I hit that little 'preview' button. The gears on the screen start turning. And turning. And turning.

I don't know how to make 'em stop so I'm gonna pretend they aren't there. I think they are, though.

I lost my nifty blog due to technical difficulties. The gist was, I've reached an impasse with my work in progress, EFFIN' ALBERT. I'm getting to the end of the thing and I have to decide which way to go, which way to take it. Leaning toward Plan A but I'm vacillating, darn it. Right now the boys are sitting on their rock, 5:15 blasting through, power from that train rumbling through the rock and into their bodies, making 'em positively giddy, screaming at the top of their lungs, feeling like Superman.

But the reality is, they're in a world of hurt. Only divine intervention is gonna save their scrawny little butts from that cop. 

My dilemma is one of plausibility. If I go the way I'm thinking, it has to be believable. As written, I'm shaking my head. Close, maybe, but I got some rewriting to do, Lucy. If I'm taking Mike and Albert down the path of righteousness I have to do it right. I have to make the implausible, plausible.

Bottom line, I need to think about this some more. I'm at a crossroads, just like those two boys. Where I take the story next is gonna make or break us both. Lord, show me the right way to go here.

And please make those gear thingies go away.