From Me With Love: The Serenading Unicorn

My friends know me well. It's because they are awesome, and, also, because I am a simpleton with the taste of a nine-year-old. Zoe send me this link. Please enjoy "The Serenading Unicorn." I am in love.

The Serenading Unicorn sings Culture Club:



The Serenading Unicorn sings Boyz II Men:



The Serenading Unicorn sings Michael Bolton (!!) (with Special Guest The Guitar-Playing Owl) (!!!!!!!):

WHAT DID THE UNICORNS EVER DO TO YOU?

Friends, I see a shameful trend of unicorn-hate galloping through the internets. First there was this, and now this (via Regretsy):



Unicorns are magical creatures who spread love and awesomeness in the galaxy. They are not weirdos who sit in the park playing with faux fur and scaring children. He looks like a reject from a My Little Pony-themed furry convention.

Let us save the dignity of the unicorn. My only solace is that this guy will never get laid, ever.

Thank you to the fabulous Count My Stars for the link!

Things I Learned on My Summer Weekend Away-Vacation Thingie

1. That when you've spent a month or two slowly succumbing to the pressures of writing and attempting to sell a fabulous breakout novel (plus the pressures of general life stuff) and it manifests itself in tears several nights in a row in an existential eruption of mucus and whining, make sure you have a very nice husband who will suddenly whisk you away to the Queen Mary for the night to blow off steam and "for the love of God just please quit crying, you crazy person."

1b. That I shouldn't think of fun weekends away as a reward for having an existential snot crisis.

The ship's bell

1c. Ditto for unexpected presents of a super awesome Kindle.


2. That we should live in the now and have fun, like the puppies who play in the surf at Long Beach do. Run run run bark bark bark frolic! frolic! and then S H A K E!!




3. That when you go the Queen Mary you should bring (a) vintage clothes to wear because then you'll match the amazing gorgeous pre-war styling of the ship,






and (b) a ghost costume. Seriously, running down the empty decks saying, "woooooooo! WOOOOOOO!" was very fun, but I really should have had a ghosty-lady-in-white costume to go with.




4. That apparently no one cares if you carry around open containers and make out on the bow of the ship.




5. That staying up into the wee hours and running around the decks like a drunken moron with your equally moronic drunken husband is better than therapy.




6. That DAMMIT WHY DIDN'T I HAVE A GHOST COSTUME?


7. That the happily-ever-after at the end of the romance novel is not the end, but the beginning, if you're lucky. And I am. And I vow to remember that when I feel an existential mucus explosion coming on.

What Form Rejection Means to Me

Our friend the Rejectionist has done it again. She gave her minions an essay topic, and, as a good lemming, I follow directions. Behold, my essay:

What Form Rejection Means to Me
an essay by Lucy Woodhull

In considering the question at hand, it is important to understand what a form rejection is. Let us dissect the phrase "form rejection." First, we have "form," from the Latin "impersonalus," which has the double meaning of, "piss off, fuckwit" and "don't quittus your day jobbus." Next, "rejection," which derives from the Old English word "crusheth," specifically in relation to dreams. As we can learn from this etymology, a form rejection is one person's way of stomping upon the lofty dreams of another, often with great and resounding malice mixed with a dash of fun.

Upon reflection, I have reflected that form rejections suck. How can we, as writers, foil them? I have developed a multi-tiered approach for the obliteration of form rejections:

1. Don't send one to me.

Awesome, huh? I don't give a crap about the rest of you unwashed masses who probably should just resign yourself to being waiters for the rest of your life. But I have TALENT! GREAT AND LITERARY TALENT. This essay is about what form rejections mean to me... I don't care about the rest of you.

I shall direct the rest of my deranged tirade brilliant thoughts to the agents/ editors of the world and explain why I should never, ever get a form rejection.

A. I am awesome. Here's a chart outlining why, in case you don't already know.

Why Lucy is Da Bomb:

B. My book will totes make you four million American dollars, at least.

C: I'm excellent with the grammar and shit. You'll bearley have to edit my brilliant prose.

D. I can wiggle my ears.

E. I should never really get a rejection at all. If you send me back a letter that's not an immediate contract offer, it should read something like "Lucy, this book is so wonderful. Is it possible for you to fit even MORE wonderfulness into it?" and I will be all "Of course, smart and esteemed agent/editor! My Tank of Wonderfulness will never be empty."

In conclusion, I would like to compare my literary style to J.K. Rowling, Ernest Hemingway, Muriel Hemingway, and Oprah. I will outsell Stephenie Meyers, and the dudes who wrote the Bible. In interviews, I will be wittier than Jon Stewart, and prettier than Angelina Jolie. The movies made from my books will be fawned over by the likes of Roger Ebert, the Academy, and The Denver Post. When you sign me with your agency/ publishing house, you'll surely be given impromptu awards from your colleagues with titles like "Agent of the Epoch," or "Sexy Publishing Badass." You will own a yacht and two helicopters. It is highly likely that you will be elected "Emperor of the Earth." I guarantee all these things!

So, what do these insightful words mean? "What Form Rejection means to Me" is exactly nothing. I reject the notion.

I also reject a large portion of your "reality," which is obviously rigged.

* * *

(I hope this goes without saying, but I would like to note that the above is a joke. I have nothing but respect for the agents/ editors/ other writers of the world. Please send me not only one form rejection, but many, over and over again!)

I'm Up in Short Arms!

As of late, I've noticed a lot of short heroines in romance novels. It's about time that Hobbits got their own romances, and were not just shoved to the side as amusing, hairy-footed, ring-carrying sidekicks. This phenomenon is accurate, for did you know that there are diminutive ladies in real life? It's true! When my personal romance novel is written (which I have titled PASSION'S UNEXPECTED BELCH), it will star me as a 5'1" batty redhead with a heart of gold (and stomach of gas), and my husband as a 5'11" geek who lives to tickle her feet even though she kicks a lot.

But the covers, faithful readers! THE COVERS!?

Why do romance novel covers always feature an Amazon woman?

The hero must be six feet tall (like, duh. There are no shorter men in real life, unless they are villains or comical persons), so if you judge the heroine's height on the cover, you do it against the hero. And she's always only about two inches shorter than he is. TRAVESTY! FRAUD! ATTICA! ATTICA!

If they made a cover for PASSION'S UNEXPECTED BELCH, I would be played by Heidi Klum. She's nice and all (for a supermodel), but short people are people, too!

Hath not a shorty (small) hands, (miniature) organs, (scanty) dimensions; fed with the same food (well, maybe less of it) as a tall person is? If you tickle us (especially our freakishly small feets), do we not laugh?

I know that most romance covers do not match the characters' appearances, but replacing the short girl with a tall one feels like an insult. Sniff. It matters more than her hair color. It just does.

I've made my own cover for PASSION'S UNEXPECTED BELCH, so that The Man can't ruin it. Can you believe I did all my own art?




So there.

How to Be Patient, A Primer for Writers

How to Be Patient
A Primer for Writers
by Lucy Woodhull, Perfectly Patient Person

9am: Check Your E-Mail
Checking your e-mail should not cause anxiety. Just because one horrid little e-mail could dash all your literary hopes upon the craggy rocks to total despair is no reason for your heart to beat faster as you hit refresh.

10am: Click "Refresh" No More than Once an Hour
You are a bona-fide adult person who does very adult things like write novels, not some teeny bopper waiting for a missive from the "do you like me yes or no" guy from math class. Have some dignity!

10:15am: Check Twitter
Casually read your Twitter. Make sure to re-Tweet all the happy Tweets from your fellow writers who have actually sold a damn book. Do not feel bitter. This is beneath you. Just because you work just as hard as they do and are a misunderstood artist is no reason to not feel happy for them.

10:20am: Notice that Dream Agent/Editor is Writing Tweets
Well, look at that! Your Agent/Editor just Tweeted that they have a new acquisition!

10:21am: Check Your Cell Phone
Nope, the acquisition was not you.

10:22 am: Check Your Voice Mail
Still Not You.

10:23am: Eat Twinkie
...because Twinkies always love you.

10:32am: Do Not Check Your E-Mail
You have many things to fulfill you in life! Go smell a rose or something. They'll write soon, for you are brilliant and have written a novel for the ages.

10:35am: Eat Twinkie
...Because the first one was so good. And because they are a totally a breakfast food. Creative types like you owe it to themselves to break the rules.

10:36am: Wipe Twinkie Off Your Keyboard

10:37am: Hit Refresh
Oh, look! Mod Cloth is having a sale!

10:38am: Frown
...Because if you sold your amazing novel you could afford to shop at Mod Cloth

11:00am: Resist E-Mailing the Agent/Editor
DO NOT DO THIS, EVEN IF THE TWINKIES TELL YOU TO.

11:10am: Begin Composing E-Mail to Agent/Editor
Make it charming, but not desperate! You're so witty! They won't mind your adorable missive. After all - you're the voice of a generation.

1:07pm: Finish Brief, Fifty-Two Word Letter
Whew! That only took two hours. You should have been working, but your literary career cannot wait.

1:08pm: Convince Yourself Not to Send the E-Mail

1:10pm: Convince Yourself to Send the E-Mail

1:11pm: Convince Yourself Not to Send the E-Mail

1:13pm: Convince Yourself to Send the E-Mail

1:32pm: Send the E-Mail!
But first rub your special troll doll and turn in a circle three times. Shakespeare did this for good luck.

1:37pm: Hit Refresh
Have they responded yet?!

1:55pm: Attend to Real Life Things
It is healthy to do things such as go to the bathroom and feed yourself, even when you're a brilliant artiste.

2:17pm: Check Twitter
Your dream agent/ editor is OUT AT STARBUCKS? What the hell are they doing? They should be in the office, preparing their contract for your amazing book! Has the world gone topsy-turvy?

2:19pm: Hit Refresh
Have they responded yet?! NO? But they have an iPhone - they Tweet about using it all the time. They should be able to offer you a contract even if they are at Starbucks.

2:45pm: What's That, Twitter? Dream Agent/Editor is at Chuck E. Cheese?!?!
It's not even lunch or dinner time! Are they so lazy that they laze about, lazily, eating pizza with their kids instead of scooping up the Greatest Literary Masterpiece of the Twenty-First Century?

2:57pm: Maybe They Should Not Be Your Dream Agent/Editor
This person is clearly undeserving. You bet their five year old named Madison has more taste in her little finger than her parent.

3:01pm: Begin Composing Scathing Break-Up E-Mail
This one will be even better than the time you told off Time Warner Cable.

3:06pm: Finish Composing Scathing Break-Up E-Mail
Not only is the note in rhyme, to help drive home the message that you're the Most Amazing Writer Who Ever Lived, but it's addressed, "Dear Shit for Brains." Ha!

3:07pm: Maybe This is a Bad Idea
Hmmmmm.

3:08pm: But Someone Needs to Stand Up to These Arrogant Agent/Editors!
Grrrrr.

3:11pm: Take a Drink From Your Work Flask
For fortitude in the face of adversity.

3:14pm: Take Another Drink
It worked for Hemingway.

3:27pm: Hit "Send"
Take that, publishing establishment!

3:28pm: Freak the Fuck Out

3:29pm: OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD
Why doesn't G-Mail have a recall feature??!

3:33pm: Take Another Drink
They're not even checking their e-mail anyway, so it's all going to be okay.

3:35pm: Be Depressed
It worked for Sylvia Plath

4:02pm: Hit Refresh
O
M
G
You have an e-mail from them. Subject: Your Book.

4:03pm: Stare at Browser

4:04pm: Take a Really Big Drink
You should have brought your bigger flask.

4:05pm: Open E-Mail

4:05pm: Cry

4:06pm: Delude Yourself
They don't understand you, like your mother. You stood up for yourself, and you feel proud, really. Just because you've been called a "nut-job" doesn't mean it's true.

4:22pm: Finish Box of Twinkies
There are a million other dream Agent/Editors in the sea.

4:25pm: Wipe Twinkie Crumbs Off Boob

4:30pm: Check Twitter
Dream Agent/Editor is Tweeting. Uh oh.

4:31pm: They Can't Mean You
You cannot possibly be the new hashtag #howtonevergetpublished

4:40pm: Dream Agent/Editor Has Written a Brand New Blog
Uh oh.

4:44pm: Prizes!
Dream Agent/Editor has posted your poetic hatemail. They are holding a contest, asking writers to compose a response to you.

4:57pm: There are Forty-Seven Entries Already
...And they all start "Dear Shit for Brains."

5:00pm: Time to Go Home
There is more liquor at home. It's hard to be a writer.

6:32pm: At Least No One's Outed You as the E-Mail Writer

6:43pm: Shit
Someone just did. They were your Beta reader once upon a time, but you let them go because they didn't understand your deep, underlying themes.

7:43pm: You Are Famous, Which is What You Always Wanted
Congratulations. You are now an internet meme.

9:00pm: Learn Lesson About Patience
It's about time, shit for brains.

Ode to A Writing Area

The Rejectionist, my evil-gollum-lesbian-girlfriend, has issued a fun blog challenge to only her favorite author-friend-bloggers. Okay, fine, she issued it to everyone, and, since I am an "everyone," I have decided to play! (Bonus points to anyone who can tell me what poem I am parodying.)

I present:

Ode to A Writing Area

by Lucy Woodhull
(of the Infamous Writing Area,
as Mentioned in the Famous Ode,
Which is Below)

Thou much ravish'd bride of messitude,
Thou birthplace of hilarity and mania,
Cheez-It receptacle, who canst thus inspire
A silly tale more stupid than our rhyme:
What red-fring'd lady haunts about thy space
A layabout or dreamer, or one lost,
In Romance or the tales of Inanity?
What short lady is this? A maiden? Ha!
What mad stories? What struggle to create?
What puns and adverbs? What wild adjectives‽

O couch-ey shape! Squishy cushions! with blanket
To warm its mistress’ feet heatingly,
With laptop blinking ‘round the trodden word;
Thou, silent cursor, dost tease us out of thought
As doth “new document”: Hail, plot bunny!
When old age shall the giddy writer waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of living room
Of ours, a friend to woman, to whom thou say'st,
"You could stand to lose some weight,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

PS: Have you entered my Smurfy contest? (Heh heh -- I said "entered.")

PPS: Have a Smurfy Fourth of July, fellow Americans. USA! USA!

How I Love Thee, "Literature"

Mr. Fillion, I absolutely refuse to READ anything until you take off your shirt.

I'll wait.

Goodknight, Terrible Cliche

Isn't it time to retire the whole "knight" as "night" thing? Please? I'm starting a movement here and now.

I, as a content creator, agree to never use knight/night in a cutesy way. It's not original, it's just lazy, like eating microwave popcorn for dinner -- the first time, it was novel, but over and over again it's sad. I also agree to never give a character the last name of Knight, because Knight Rider did that better than I ever could and every further use of Knight as a last name is obnoxious.

Signed:

1. Lucy Woodhull
2. _________________

PASS IT ON

If You Want to Sneak Away to theWaterfall With the Dastardly Duke,Turn to Page 12

I recently mentioned to my husband that I was thinking of attempting a "Choose Your Own Adventure" romance. Awesome, right? I had been looking for one of the original 80s CYOA books in every thrift store I visited to no avail. Since it had been many years since I read one of them, I needed a primer on exactly what the format was and how the possibilities and choices unfolded for the reader.

Last week I began fleshing out a plot bunny that first attacked me months ago, and I considered that it would be especially fun as a Choose Your Own Adventure romance novel. Ricky to the rescue! After he visited his parent's house for a couple of weeks he came home and handed me this boxed set:


Isn't he the best? It's from 1981 and the set contains CYOA numbers 6, 8, 9 & 10. Poor number seven appears to be MIA. Perhaps it chose to be a lone ranger.

Number ten is The Lost Jewels of Nabooti.



It looks as if it will prove to be mildly offensive in that 1980s un-PC sort of way.

I intend to read them to get a sense of how they flow and how the stories loop back on themselves. They promise "You can read each of these books at least 100 times and never read the same story twice!" I'm curious to see how a story that could end 36 different ways could apply to a genre in which the story must end with a happily ever after.

And lookee! I had forgotten that these books had illustrations.



Just think of the possibilities in a romance picture book. Yeah, baby! I'll take the Duke on page 25, please - and the position on page 42.

SAVE THE UNICORN!

Friends,

I believe that you know, if you've read the blog for more than one minute, that I love the Unicorn. 'Tis a noble beast, and magical, and pretty to look at. Plus, they are super good at making those pretty rosette things out of radishes.

As such, it came as a great shock to me that Unicorns are being ruthlessly slaughtered for their meat:

Woe betide me! How can such a great tragedy happen here in America, land of the free and home of the braves? (Um, except that we slaughtered a lot of Native American braves, so maybe this shouldn't come as such a surprise.)

This disgusting verbiage comes straight from the murderers' website, ThinkGeek.com:

Pâté is passé. Unicorn - the new white meat.

Excellent source of sparkles!

Unicorns, as we all know, frolic all over the world, pooping rainbows and marshmallows wherever they go. What you don't know is that when unicorns reach the end of their lifespan, they are drawn to County Meath, Ireland. The Sisters at Radiant Farms have dedicated their lives to nursing these elegant creatures through their final days. Taking a cue from the Kobe beef industry, they massage each unicorn's coat with Guinness daily and fatten them on a diet comprised entirely of candy corn.

FIRST OF ALL - Unicorns fart rainbows, they don't poop them. Sometimes they vomit them (see Exhibit 1). What they poop is harmony. EVERYONE KNOWS THIS, EVILDOERS. How can you betray the beautiful Unicorn and not even get their sciencey biological facts right? It is a slap in the face to every Unicorn, which is not worse than slaughtering them, but is still not nice.

EXHIBIT 1

SECOND OF ALL - The fact that the Unicorn killers are nuns just makes it all the worse. Maria from The Sound of Music would never do that! She would sing to a unicorn, or at least dress it in a curtain, no matter how old it was. Would you, vile sisters of God Satan, want to be ground up for Nun Spam when you got too old to say a Rosary without spittle flying off your maws? I think not. Plus, how could you waste all that Guinness? Wasting beer is the ninth deadly sin. (Listening to the soundtrack to High School Musical 2 is the eighth.)

AND PART C OF MY COMPLAINT - Anyone can get their daily recommended dosage of sparkles at Joanne's Fabrics and Crafts, or by reading Twilight. (Um... better get it at Joanne's - fewer side effects.) This is the non-evisceratey way to obtain sparkles. If you need them to work quickly, you can always inject them. This is really basic sparkle knowledge, folks. Just go consult your food pyramid, Exhibit 2.

Exhibit 2

ThinkGeek, you may think you are blameless in all this, as you are merely the purveyors of the murdered Unicorn carcasses - BUT YOU ARE NOT! You are just as guilty! How can you sleep at night, or play Red Dead Redemption, knowing the calamity you are spreading in the world? And not computer-simulated calamity, either - real, actual calamity.

I want you to Think about this, Geek, every time you shill a glittery can of repugnance. Actions have consequences. Every time you kill a Unicorn:

- A Teen Miss USA cries.

- Eight puppies develop the horrible puppy-poison ivy/hemorrhoids hybrid. They don't make a topical creme for that.

- Hugs become 7% less effective.

- George Lucas fucks up another Star Wars movie.

- BP blows up an oil well.

- A typhoon wipes out an orphanage.

- Angelina Jolie wipes out an orphanage.

ANGELINA CAN ONLY ADOPT SO MANY KIDS, PEOPLE. The madness must end!

WHAT YOU CAN DO TO HELP

If, like me, gentle readers, you want to help protect the Unicorns so that your children and your children's children* may enjoy their sunshiney goodness, please do one of the following:

- Put down the Unicorn meat, asshole.

- Call your congressperson.

- No, to hell with that. Call Barack Obama. He is a special friend to the Unicorns. How else would an illegal Communist Nazi Kenyan AntiCrist Socialist kitten-kicker be elected President? **



- Sharpen your Nun Stabber

- While praying.

- Call Jesse Jackson. People pay attention to shit when JJ is involved.





* Even though I don't think that children should have children. That's gross. They should be, like, eighteen at least.

** I cannot take credit for the Obama/Unicorn pic. Whoever made it, I salute you!

I'd Make Short the New Tall

I'm back!

The intrusive real world took me away for a little while, blog friends. I had to work twelve hour days of actual day job work work, which is less fun than blogging nonsense, but currently pays more.

As I was slaving away and pleasing my masters like a monkey butler, I would fantasize about the good life.

So I pose a question to you, gentle author-readers: What would you do with J.K. Rowling kind of money?

Here's the scene:

The phone rings. It's your high-powered, yet friendly literary agent. "YOU!" she says, "I have a three book, three million dollar book deal for you with your dream publisher!" Kalu-kalay! The books sell out within days! Then they sell out their extra printings! You appear on Oprah, who has continued to do her talk show and book club just to feature you!

Soon, you have heaps of money, gobs of fame, and millions of book lovers the world over clutching your masterworks to their bosoms in pure, unfettered joy.

What do you do?

Yes, you help yourself, your friends, and family with money and debt and such. And you'd give your money away to needy causes, of course. Yeah, that's nice. We'd all do that.

But what else do you do? What crazy, maybe secret things would you do with it?

Here's what I would do.

• Get a unicorn. Yes, they are real. It's just that they are a rich people animal that you, as a plebe, have never seen, like the Fantastapotamus.

• I'd re-build the Pan-Pacific Auditorium.
  
  
  You may recognize it from the movie Xanadu - they used the exteriors for the Xanadu roller disco itself. It burned down ten years later. I'd house my unicorn in it, and, of course, it'd be a rollerdisco rink for me and my friends.
  

• My husband and I would travel.
  
  Lucy: Would we buy a villa in some glamorous foreign country?
  
  Ricky: Well, we'd have to do that.
  
  Lucy: Which one?
  
  Ricky: We'd have to test them all out first.
  
  Lucy: Naturally.
  
  Ricky: I'd buy a bunch of fast cars and race them through Europe.
  
  Lucy: With all that money, you could buy friendship with the Top Gear guys and drive with them.
  
  Ricky: Yes!

• I would hire someone with a great and slightly evil imagination to do nothing but annoy all the jerks who were mean to me or mine. Nothing really bad... just stuff like follow them to a movie and cough next to them the whole time, or randomly tell them they look fat in that outfit, or send them official-looking letters telling them they have $2000 in old speeding tickets and then set up a fake government phone number just to jerk them around. Stuff like that. Come to think of it, maybe I could set up a business like that...

• I'd have a vintage wardrobe to rival Dita Von Teese's.

• I would help women. Brilliant, creative women. Invest in their companies, mentor them, introduce them to the right people. I'd start an Old Women's Network the way the men have the Old Boys' Club. But I'd give it a catchier name, like "Bitches Be Taking Care of Business" or something.

Now tell me: WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

I Win at Punching.I Fail at Marriage.

I write romance. I hope that some day, some super smart person will publish my awesome romance, because it is awesome.

But there are days when I feel like a fraud, a sham, a sham-un-wow! Because while the husband and I love each other an epic amount, and I truly believe we are soul mates in manner of Han Solo and Princess Leia...

sometimes I punch him in the face.

It happens in the middle of the night, and I think it may be caused somehow by zombies. It's not my fault, no matter what Ricky says. Here's what happens.

* Indicates me guessing the events, since I am asleep *

Lucy: Zzzzzzzzzzz.

Ricky: *Rolls over. Scooches toward Lucy. Touches her lightly on the arm in a loving manner.*

Lucy: "Hgggnthhthg."

Ricky: *Sighs handsomely. Puts head on Lucy's shoulder. Whispers: "You're the most beautiful woman who lives, and who ever lived, and I'm including supermodels."*

Lucy: "GgGGGGGGrrrrrrr!"

Ricky: *Kisses Lucy's cheek.*

Lucy: LUCYSMASH!!!! FLAIL! KICK! PUNCH! OMG SOMEONE IS ATTACKING ME!!! PUNCH AGAIN AND THE FLAIL FLAIL FLAIL!!

Ricky: "Aaaaaaaaahhhh!"

Ricky flees to the edge of the bed, crying in horror and rocking and moaning "Why? Why? Why?"

The next morning, Lucy awakes refreshed! She tosses her raven locks and turns to greet her love, her husband, her little cuddle muffin!

Lucy: I love you, cuddle muffin!

Ricky: Cuddle muffin your face, stupid mean nasty... (random muttering). I hate you.

Lucy: What? How can you say these things, my darling one?

Ricky: You punched me in the face!

Lucy: That doesn't sound like me. Was it zombies?

Ricky: NO IT WASN'T FUCKING ZOMBIES! GRRRrrrrr.

Lucy: It must have been zombies. Kiss me!

Ricky: [Unprintable.]

About the 837582865th time this happened, I began to believe his version of events, despite its lack of zombie action. I punch him in the face when he tries to love on me in the middle of the night. I don't know why. You'd think he would stop trying, but every once in a while my fabulocity gets the better of him (naturally) and he tries again, only to be kicked in the elbow and/or thyroid.

I would like to put this in a romance novel, but I don't think an editor would let me.

So what have we learned today?

Punching is the opposite of romance. Don't punch!

At Least It's Not Farting

My name is Lucy and I have a problem.

Actually, I have a lot of them. In no particular order:

• I'm short.
  
• Really short.
  
• I have feet so small they only make Hello Kitty shoes for me.
  
• I have a pathological obsession with my blanket, Blankie.
  
• I think I'm funny.
  
• Really funny.
  
• Hahahaha I just thought of a terrible new pun.
  
• I have a short attention span, like my height.
  
• I never remember how to spell deliscious. Deliicius. Oh, fine YUMMY.
  
• I think gargly is a word*.

But the problem I am going to talk about today is my burping.

I burp. A lot. And I do it aloud. In a big, resonating, gargly* way. Now, I am a small lady, as I may have mentioned, and I love to look girly and flowery in dresses and heels. So there I'll be, bopping around LA LA LA and then BBBBAAARRRUUURRPPPPPPPPP!!1!

Oops.

Children flee in terror. Animals bark and/or roar. Old ladies shake their canes.

And I laugh.

Yes, not only do monstrous burps that sound like they ought to come from James Gandolfini escape my red-lipsticked lips, but then I think they're cute and amusing.

THEY'RE NOT, OKAY?

Everyone tells me they're not:

• My husband
  
• My co-coworkers
  
• Random strangers
  
• My cat
  
• Santa
  
• The cast of Battlestar Galactica

But I can't help it! Sometimes I try to stifle them and make the sound stop. But then, other times, they just fall outta me like spray tan oozes off the cast of The Hills. Uncontrollably!

I don't know what to do. Doesn't matter what I eat.

I am Lucy, and I'm a burper. THERE I SAID IT.

Stay tuned for my book "THE ITALIAN RICH GUY'S SHORT YET BURPY SORTA-VIRGIN BRIDE"!

Yeah.

Anatomy of a Home Improvement Project:Husband Edition

Step 1: EXCITEMENT!

Saturday, 1pm.

Ricky: You’re going to love it when I’m finished! It’ll just take a couple of hours.

Lucy: Wonderful!


Step 2: HANDY MAN... IS HANDY!

Saturday, 2pm.

Hammer, hammer, hammer. Grunt, grunt, grunt! Manly man wipes his forehead on his shirt, looking manly. Lucy approves and thinks dirty thoughts about her husband, but knows better than to interrupt the thump, thump, thump & drill, drill, drill sequence of events.


Step 3: CUE OMINOUS MUSIC

Saturday, 4pm.

Drilling gets louder. The hour grows later.

Lucy: What would you like for dinner, honey?

Ricky: What did you do with my drill bits?

Lucy: Drill whats?

Ricky: *growls*

Lucy backs away slowly toward the wall, in her best “Crouching Wife, Hidden Scapegoat” manner.


Step 4: WON’T SOMEONE PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!?

Saturday, 5:00pm.

Lucy jerks her head. What was that noise? She looks up. Tiny pieces of ceiling scatter, floating gently to the ground like snowflakes. A wire protrudes from the hole, slinking down, down, down. She holds her breath in the silence. Should she say something? Is the wire supposed to be there, in the middle of the ceiling? Deciding that the entire ceiling could fall in before she’d go upstairs and interrupt Captain McGrunty, she goes back to her yoga.

Ricky descends the stairs -- clop, clop, clop. His unfocused eyes, beneath dusty eyebrows, narrow at the cord dangling above. He lets out a breath and heaves in another gulp of air. Then, slowly, he releases a series of foul invective the likes of which the world has never known! Words so curse-ey, so profane, they are illegal in most countries, and not even allowed on Fox!

Lucy cowers on her yoga mat in rabbit pose, lest a stray “fucking” or “goatblowing assclown” pockmark her dewy porcelain skin. Even the cat has the good sense to flee and sit in the bathtub, like they tell you to do during a tornado.


Step 5: DENIAL

Saturday, 5:10pm

Ricky: [Expletive.] [Expletive.] [Expletive.] This was supposed to be easy! Why is the *&%$#@#@$%$ wire going through the ceiling?

Lucy: Because you drilled a hole there? You look very handsome, honey.

Ricky: I put two holes through the wall upstairs.

*Crickets*

Lucy: Is that a new haircut? Aren’t your muscles bulgey today!

Ricky glowers, clops back up the stairs, and slams the bedroom door. The skies crackle and open up, releasing a deluge of Heaven’s tears upon the unsuspecting apartment. (Not really, but that would have been totally poetic. And wet.)


Step 6: GIVING UP

Saturday, 7pm

Lucy dons her flak jacket and oven mitts.

Lucy: Dinner’s ready.

Ricky: [Expletive.]

Only one [expletive], thinks Lucy. Progress!

Ricky: This was supposed to be done by now!

Lucy: (Grabs a butter knife just in case.) I made pasta.

Ricky: Don’t go upstairs.

Lucy wonders what has become of her bedroom. She imagines a scene from Apocalypse Now, but with more pillows.


Step 7: PROGRESS

Sunday, 1pm

Ricky’s sandy brown hair gleams in the sunlight as he stands on the balcony, working. He tells something out there to “fuck off.” Lucy grins, glad she’s not that thing. He comes back inside and fiddles at the wall. A few moments later, he smiles and poses, hands on hips.

Ricky: Look!

Lucy: At what?

Ricky: It’s a wall jack.

Lucy assures Ricky that it is the most wondrous wall to ever jack! She has never seen such a wall jack! That wall jack will surely go on to cure rabies, and win the Nobel prize in physics!

Ricky: My hands are all sticky.

Lucy: That’s what she said.

Ricky smiles at Lucy.


Step 8: HALLELUJAH!

Turns out that Ricky has connected the bedroom and the living room DVRs. They have become MEGA-SUPER-AWESOME-ROCKET-POWERED DVR, with twice the capacity and twice the unicorn powers of a single DVR.




Lucy tells Ricky that she has always dreamed about, nay, lusted for a MEGA-SUPER-AWESOME-ROCKET-POWERED DVR, and that her life is now complete! Kalu kalay!

The happy couple sits upon the couch and browses the cornucopia of television available to them.

Lucy: What’s that on your shirt?

Ricky: Spackle.

Lucy: I can get it off for you.

Ricky: That’s what she said.


FIN

Vikings Do It Whilst Horny

Oh, bloggie friends. I think I may have found a new writer to lust after from afar. My beloved writing partner Fellatia sent me, for my birthday, this book:



THE VERY VIRILE VIKING by Sandra Hill.

Fellatia said she was sending me a great book, with the best title ever.

She was right. THE VERY VIRILE VIKING?! Poetry.

I'm only a few pages in now, but I'm loving it.

Ms. Hill, I hope you won't mind if I share the first few lines with my three readers.

In days of old when men were... whatever...
Magnus Ericsson was a simple man.
She loved the smell of fresh-turned dirt after springtime plowing. He loved the feel of a soft woman under him in the bed furs... when engaged in another type of plowing.

I don't think it's too early to declare my love for this book.

I read the above aloud to my husband and he said, "That sounds like something you wrote." I needed to hear/read this, especially on a night when I was wondering if my sometimes crazy voice was too crazy to ever sell. Yes, I get reassurance from plowing jokes. I am what I am.

Please Don't Read This One, Mom

Via Jezebel:



So many jokes.

SO MANY JOKES.

Okay, friends. Best "Big Dick" joke gets a gold star from Lucy. Give it to me! (...she said to Big Dick!)

Go Together Like a Horse and Carriage

You NEED to read this amazing article from Stanford Magazine:

Here's the title/blurb:

The Sex Scholar

Decades before Kinsey, Stanford professor Clelia Mosher polled Victorian-era women on their bedroom behavior—then kept the startling results under wraps.

By Kara Platoni

Here's a quote:

The Mosher Survey recorded not only women's sexual habits and appetites, but also their thinking about spousal relationships, children and contraception. Perhaps, it hinted, Victorian women weren't so Victorian after all.

Indeed, many of the surveyed women were decidedly unshrinking. One, born in 1844, called sex "a normal desire" and observed that "a rational use of it tends to keep people healthier." Offered another, born in 1862, "The highest devotion is based upon it, a very beautiful thing, and I am glad nature gave it to us."

I think Victoria was the only one who was really Victorian. Everyone else just pretended in order to fit in.

XO

Hello My Name is Weird and I Am a Lucy

From VeryDemotivational.com.



It's April Fool's Day. Do not get fooled by the draculas, ladies.

Hey Mom? I Wanna Be a Drug Dealer.

I recently re-read the first forty or so pages of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. It was Fellatia's copy, actually. She and I read Harry Potter when we need a boost, or just need that magical (pun intended) something from our for-pleasure reading.

I read the Harry Potter books before I ever began to write seriously. And I loved them. And I mean the word "love." Harry is my buddy and I'll kick your teeth in if you say otherwise.

Upon reading Book One anew, I was shocked to notice something I never picked up on the first time I read the book as a plain old "reader."

J.K. switches point of view (POV) FOUR times in the first chapter with no breaks or warnings of any kind. The book begins in an omniscient POV, talking about Mr. Dursley and Privet Drive. It then switches to inside Dursley's head. After a few pages, it switches to the cat sitting outside the house (Professor McGonagall). She doesn't even get an entire page before the POV switches one last time to Albus Dumbledore. You could argue that it switches more than that, as I felt her swerving into omniscient territory several times.

If you frequent, well, anywhere in the writing community nowadays, you realize that J.K. should have been strung up by her toenails for daring to attempt a POV switch mid-stream. I'm pretty sure the punishment for doing it four times in one chapter is death by paper cuts. It's CONFUSING to switch POV, dontcha know! It's ALARMING and FRIGHTENING, according to most out there. But funny, when she did it four times I wasn't confused at all. At all. I followed the story and I was hooked. She doesn't even get to the hero's POV until chapter two!

For all my bluster, as an unpublished newbie (especially when I'm writing straight up romance (as opposed to parody)), I do not attempt a POV switch mid-scene, lest I give some poor critique partner the vapors. I rail against the "rules" of writing, but I am cognizant of them, and break them only with intent and a reason, because I understand that these arbitrary things are partially (mostly?) the line items upon which I am judged.

But whither the story?

You've heard of it? Story. The entire reason I pick up a book. Not to count adjectives. Not to shake my head at gerunds. But to get lost in the story. J.K. tells one helluva story, and that's all that matters.

When I go participate in online writer on writer critique exercises, the story is almost never mentioned in the critiques. You'll see a critique like "never use the word 'quite' - it's unnecessary and shouldn't be used", or "try to challenge yourself to say the same thing in ten words." Basically, 100% arbitrary suggestions that miss the point of the story, intent of the scene, and the voice of the writer. Often, anyone with an unusual hook or a distinct idea gets clobbered.

I'm not saying we shouldn't try to improve as writers - all of us can (with the possible exception of Saint Rowling, blessed be) and should, but I hate to see the baby thrown out with the bathwater.

I'll leave you with a few thoughts by Moriah Jovan, author of The Proviso and Stay.

Moriah posts on a writer board I frequent, and the other day she posted this gem*. She's been at this a lot longer than me, so I'll let her take it from here:

In the early/mid 1990s, when I was going to all the conferences and attending the workshops and getting The Rules beat into me by my critique group and chapter mates (who didn't know any more than I did), the Shiny New Rules just coming on the scene were 1) getting rid of all "be" verbs (i.e. "was, were" ALWAYS equals passive voice) and 2) ceasing to head hop ("What's head-hopping?" "Dunno. There's a workshop on it next conference, though.") and 3) getting rid of all -ly and -ing words (regardless of if they were necessary and thus led to needlessly tortuous writing to avoid them).

All of us in my critique group and in my RWA chapter all struggled to change our wild, wicked "be"ing and headhopping and "-ly"ing and "-ing"ing ways. Unfortunately, the basic misunderstanding of the "be" verb ALWAYS equalling passive voice stuck, propagated, and now seems to be written in stone. Same with head-hopping, adverbs, and gerunds. Comes from amateurs teaching amateurs what none of them really know.

It was never about the story. It was always about the hook and the proper amount of tension (GMC before it was coined) and killing passive voice and head-hopping and what's HOT right now!!! I'll tell you what. I've never read a batch of more boring books in my life but they were perfect.

And...here we are 20 years later and nuthin's changed.

Whatever my personal feelings about the way Nora or Dan Brown or Stephenie Meyer write, for them, it's about the story. And the readers know that and respond to it because that's all the readers care about.

Readers are junkies and all they want is the next fix of their crack. They may even know it's BAD for them, but by golly, they want it and they'll do what they have to to get it. My goal is to be the drug dealer.

Yes. That's my goal, too.

Let's all be drug dealers!


*Re-posted here with her permission.

*Shhhh, We're Talking About Lady Things Today*

Whereas romance writers write about, well, romance; and

Whereas much of the time there is a great deal of virginity-taking in romance novels (of course, not the mens', only the ladies'); and

Whereas so-called ladies have a particular body part which is mysterious and terrifying (no, not that one): Now, therefore, be it

Resolved, that Romance Writers --

(1) recognize what the lady part known as the "hymen" is

(2) understand how it does and does not work; and

(3) appreciate all lady bits, because lady bits are awesome.

When I started reading romance novels, I was a tween miss who had never so much as kissed a boy, never mind anything naughtier. I read about the heroine "losing it" many a time in those books... and I now realize that most, if not all, of those writers had NO IDEA what the hymen is, where it lives, or what its favorite color is*.

So, to alleviate this problem (and to help educate young women who secretly steal their friends' moms' romance novels), I believe that all romance writers should learn about this unique body part, and its deep and often disturbing history in relation to feminism.

Please direct your eyes to this illuminating post on the wonderful blog "The Pursuit of Harpyness." It's called "Hymenology 101" and it's written by guest poster Pedimd.


*Purple