Blog Archives - Second Quarter '07
June 2007
[Friday June 29] - Harboring a fugitive
So, since I have all this free time on my hands, what with my novel finished and all, I've been working on my herb garden. So far, so good.
I was wandering around outside a few nights ago, admiring my little basil buds, when what leaps out of the pot but a startled baby snake. Well, when I say baby, I mean a two footer, which is small when you consider that said baby is a mappipire, or fer de lance, a pretty lil' diamondback which can grow up to be wayyy bigger than two feet, let me tell ya. It's also venomous.
Anyway, he scuttled as fast as his little non-feet could carry him, and last I saw him he was settling under one of my planters. Okayyyyy. Now, I'm not all that keen on venom, but I'm strongly opposed to killing snakes, which we in Trinidad do for no damn reason at all, other than ignorance and some sort of misplaced religious zeal. So I've decided to let him be.
He's too small yet to do us any harm, and there isn't a whole heap of stuff to eat at my place, so I'm guessing he'll soon get bored and just mosey on out of there. Haven't said a word about him, in case Rawle has a mind to come rushing out with a cutlass. After all, God's likkle creatures must be protected.
Will let you know how long he hangs out.
[Tuesday June 26] - Time machine
I sent off my latest baby, The Lying Game, to my editor today, and walked around humming "Oh Happy Day" for an hour or so thereafter.
Tonight, free as a bird from any and all contractual obligations, I idly looked trough one of my old archive disks. I found my diaries from 1997, and have been engrossed in it. I feel so impressed by that young lady's drive to be a writer. The me of 10 years ago could talk of little else. But I feel so sad for her, too. She hadn't been published yet, but was trying so hard. Querying everyone and everywhere, even when she didn't know a damn thing about the business. And so fearful of never being published. A line from my diary reads, "If only I could get published just once, just one little thing, so that I would know that I'm good enough. Then I'd have the courage to keep on writing."
It's times like this that I, as the author of 12 novels, wish I could climb into my time machine and assure the 31 year old me that everything would be okay. And I wonder too, what the 51 year old me will wish she could tell me....
[Sunday June 24] - Thank God for procrastination
'Member how I said I'd finished my novel? Well, in typical me style I've procrastinated about sending it on to my editor. And thank God for that.
For starters, I almost sent it on without writing my Dear Reader letter, you know, the letter you find at the back of the Kimani books? Panic. I always value the letter as it's a top-notch way to write directly to any reader willing to read that far into the book. It's not an opportunity to be missed.
Secondly, I was drooling on myself yesterday afternoon, unable to slip into an afternoon doze even though the tile rodents were both asleep, when I had a wonderful, fabulous brainstorm. I was so pleased with it I could have kissed my own ass. I figured out a way to fix a major problem that had been bugging me about my final chapter. And now it reads just the way I want it to.
So I'm all happy and chuffed with it now. And just think: it's all because I was dragging my feet on sending it off. Hooray for lazy!
[Tuesday June 19] - Boys will be....girls?
Kids are just so funny. Even when you want to smack 'em and send them into the naughty corner for a week, they're still funnier than Chris Rock and John Stewart combined.
My son has always known that there are biological differences between boys and girls; after all, I've never been shy about walking around my bathroom starkers. But he's now sussed to the fact that there are, shall we say, other accoutrements that accrue to the tender gender...and he's jealous. He's given up wanting to be Spiderman. His great ambition these days is to be Supergirl, mainly because she's cute, she can fly, and she can lick Batgirl in a fight.
So, as a sort of dress rehearsal for his intended role, he paraded out of the bathroom tonight in his 2 year old sister's bunny-tail panties, with a rolled up maxi-pad bulging in front...and a panty shield neatly pasted to his balls.
Well, gentle reader, I stood there flabbergasted, not sure whether to deliver a spanking, scream for his father or phone a counselor. Then I watched as he discovered to his dismay that the thing was very firmly stuck to him - and that I was going to leave him to peel it off for himself. Gingerly, wincingly, he eased it off, centimeter by centimeter, while I made no effort to hide my laughter. Bet he has a new appreciation for his poor beleaguered, glued-down little penis now. That'll learn him.
Ah, bless 'em.
[Sunday June 17] I got Misty
Some people celebrate milestones in the strangest ways. Take me, f'rinstance. I just finished Dear Rita, and I'm fixin' to ship 'er off to old Harlequin this week.
Grounds for celebration, no doubt. Now, in my single days, I'da celebrated that by, oh, I don't know, picking up a pair of identical 17 year old twins in a pub and parking up on a beach somewhere at about 2:00 a.m. and doin' the nasty until the glass fogged up.
Not that I've ever done such a thing. Exactly. But you get the idea.
Flash forward to the present, when the best I could come up with as a form of celebration is to buy myself a....wait for it....waaaaiiittt....fooorrrrr.....iiitttt......
A hamster. Oh yeah. Talk about livin' large. I was walking through the mall on my way to score lunchon Friday, having, in my inimitably addle-brained style, forgotten the lunch I'd made myself on the kitchen counter, when I spotted a little white hammy asleep in his cage outside the pet shop.
Ding! Lights went off. Since Christmas I've been hankering and hankering after one of the little buggers, even though the last time I had one I was about 9. And I thought, well, I deserve a treat...so why not? Why not indeed? So I blew a few hundred bucks on a cage with all the trimmin's, and later that day took the kids hamster huntin'.
My
son has named her Misty, which makes things just a tad complicated, considering
my daughter has a stuffed cat by the same name. So I have to differentiate
by calling them Hammy Misty or Kitty Misty.
I have to confess that I'm a little disappointed, in that she sleeps until about 7 every night. Now, I know they're nocturnal. I'm not an idiot. But knowing it and experiencing it is two different things. I've only had her two days and twice I've woken her up because I hadn't seen her surface from under her paper for hours and was checking to see if she was dead. How she must hate me.
The flip side of the coin is that she's up all night, running on her little wheel. Do all hamster wheels squeak? Is it a design requirement? Try hearing that in the background, while you're doin' the nasty - with or without the identical twins.
Least she'll keep me company in my study while I work, assuming I ever get that study project off the ground. Seems like the more I clean, the more garbage just collects in there...
[Thursday June 14] - Bald? Me?
When I was in my twenties, I wore my hair about 1 1/2 inches long. For a year or two I even sported a fine, ratty little tail at the nape. I thought it was cool.
Then for the past 10 years I've been steadfastly growing it until it's just about waist length (well, in some places.) I kind of think that's cool, too.
But recently I've been having disturbing thoughts about cutting it all off. What? Am I nuts? Probably. Everyone knows that drastic haircuts in women is a sure sign of stress. (Yeah, Brittney, I'm talkin' 'bout you.)
This is not a good thing.
[Tuesday June 12] - Mummy, why are you so tired?
This weekend, my 4 year old asked me to do some absurd thing at some absurd hour in the night, and I told him I was too tired. He looked at me and asked, "Mummy, why are you always so tired?"
And I felt like crying. I wanted to tell him that I'm tired because I'm up at 5 feeding little-Miss-who-will-not-be-weaned, after which I pack lunches, bags and various assorted crap, bundle kids into car, drive for 2 hours, bust my hump all day, collect my larvae, drive 2 hours back, play with them while making dinner, serve dinner, wash, dry and plonk said larvae into their beds, read them a story and hopefully make it out by 9 so I can finish my cleaning and laundry. But I couldn't tell him that. Instead I just wallow in my guilt about not having more time to give them.
At the office our new Admin. found me editing the final draft of The Lying Game on my lunch hour, and asked for a peek. I let her read the chapter containing the climactic sex scene. When she was done, she gave it back, effused about my writing, and asked, genuinely puzzled, "Why are you wasting your talent? Why are you still working here?"
Why, indeed?
May 2007
[Wednesday May 30] - Crybaby
Gotten to the review/revise stage of my new book, so I think my pace is good, considering I miscalculated by a whole month.
Just noticed that my heroine, Kendra, cries four times over the course of the book. Oh, hell no. That's not the kind of character I'd want to root for. Wuss. So I deleted two of the tear-fests. Or, at least I've deleted one, and will be deleting the other one when I get to that chapter. I don't hate nothing more than I hate a ninny!
I'm liking what I'm reading, though. laughing out loud at the funny parts, and that's a great thing. If I laugh, you probably will, too.
[Wednesday May 23] - Waking up to my prosperity
Don’t ya just hate spunky people? You know, the chirpy, cheery ones that just get on your very last nerve? I went to a seminar this Saturday, called “Wake Up to Your Prosperity”. It promised an approach to financial freedom, and so, silly moi, I shelled out 700 clams (that's like $120 US) for the privilege.
The dog and pony show was twelve hours long. Turns out, and you probably coulda seen this coming a mile off, there was very little talk about money and money management. Lots of talk about the Universe, though, and about “resonating at a higher frequency”, stuff we need to do “on this plane of existence”, “asking the universe for what you want”, and, who’da thunk it, the process of becoming “Clear”. Becoming clear, by the way is a whole ‘nother seminar and costs about $300 US for 2 days.
Hmm. Okay, I thought. I sorta smelled that coming. Let’s play along and see what’s what. I have to say it wasn’t all that bad. If you can ignore the group hugs, the loud affirmations: “I am healthy! I am wealthy!” I did learn stuff. Apparently, the key to prosperity is to pick up all the coins you see on the floor (today I found 13c) and to drink lots of water.
But I have to say, the parts that really got my goat were the sessions led by the cutest little dreadlocked Jamaican chipmunk, who tripped and danced around on the stage to happy-happy music (think Bob Marley) and was constantly trying to bully us all into getting up and dancing with our hands in the air. Aw, lady. Ya don’t know me. I don’t group dance. I don’t high five. And I freaking hate spunky people!
[Tuesday May 22] - Missing you guys
Been sooo busy with my book. I really miss my blog, and I really miss being online to chat with you guys - well, at least to get mail and check out my Comments page.
The good news is that I am on the very last scene! (Launches into rousing rendition of the Hallelujah chorus) of course, after the draft comes the revision, so my flat heinie isn't out of the woods yet. But i haven't broken a sweat yet.
For some reason, I had the brainwave of setting Trey and Kendra's final scene in Paris - after 95% of the story has taken place on the US eastern seaboard.
Well, why not?
[Monday May 7] - Dunnit again!
I've done it again. I've once again misremembered my due date for my latest manuscript. Last year I thought it was November 31st and found out very late it was November 15, causing mass panic. (By "mass" I mean "me".)
Now, in the midst of all the cleaning and reorganising of my study I came across my contract and idly thumbed through it, joking that I'd better make sure my book really is due July 31st. Cue the drama. It's due June 30. I've got a month less than I thought I did.
What's that mean? It means my ass, not just my nose, is to the grindstone. It means you my be staring at this same blog entry for many a day to come, since my every free moment is going to be taken up with getting my book done.
But no worries. I'm way up in the 70,000s of an 85,000 word manuscript. I can do it, right?
Pray for me, Y'all.
Tuesday May 1st - Oreos in the shower.
Nope, it's not about kinky shower sex. Unfortunately.
I had to laugh last night when I found myself standing in the shower at about 10 p.m. soaking wet and eating a pack of oreos. Wolfing down a pack of oreos, while my son sits up in bed in the next room and yells "Mummy, what you doing in there?" And my daughter echoing him like a parrot.
What was I doing in there? I was starving for a chocolate fix, the two tile rodents hadn't fallen asleep yet, and I knew if I let them spot me with the goodies I'd be opening up a can of whining.
And that, Dear Reader, is how it went.
April 2007
[Friday April 27] - Piano Man days
You know your career is in a slump when you find yourself humming Billy Joel's Piano Man for days on end.
The song is a classic of professional and personal despair, and everyone in it is just mired in their own stasis, melting slowly like figures in a Dali painting. It's the kind of song you get drunk to, listen to 10 times, and then go home and OD on sleeping pills.
And the verse that scares me the most is:
Now Paul is a real estate
novelist
Who never had time for a wife
And he's talkin' with Davy, who's still in the Navy
And probably will be for life
A real estate novelst. A writer who'd rather be writing, but who's
still defined by the job that pays his mortgage. And Davy, stuck in the
navy, wanting out but having bills to pay.
I haven't written in weeks. So long that I am beginning to lose the thread of my story. And not because I don't want to write, but because I feel so beaten, so exhausted from the minutiae of scrubbing floors and planning meals and sticking to budgets.... Surviving on a handful of hours of sleep every night.
But even though the late, great, inimitable Douglas Adams enthused about the lovely wooshing sound that deadlines make as they pass him by, my deadline for my new novel will be here soon, so I'm gonna have to knuckle down.
[Monday April 23] Naipaul, you twat.
Don't know how familiar you'd be with writer V.S. Naipaul west of the Atlantic. Long story short, Indian guy, born in Trinidad, toddled off to England before I was born, wrote lots of books, won the Nobel a few years ago. Headlines read "British writer wins Nobel", seeing as how he'd rather have his teeth yanked out by an orangutan with a roll of copper wire than admit to being a Trinidadian. Won the ire of hundreds of thousands of Trinidadians with his constant sniping about how simple-minded and ignorant we are on this tiny little island.
Well, whatever, dude. He's entitled to his opinions. I don't need him to validate me or my people. Anyhow, he was somehow convinced to come back to this little island of dullards after a decade and a half. I'm willing to bet that the argument that finally brought him here had a Pound Sterling sign in front of it and lots of zeros after it. Cue the sycophantic fawning by the local literati.
Again, whatever. I've read some of his books, loved some, hated others, and been too apathetic to read some more. What pisses me off is his behaviour a few days ago when Sir Naipaul (oh, yeah, he was knighted) deigned to do a question and answer session with a bunch of teenage school kids.
A once in a lifetime opportunity to make a difference in these young lives, to encourage them to seek out the power and glory of books. What does this asshole do? (Yeah, I said it, you asshole.) Refuse to answer their questions because they're "boring and unintelligent." Berate them and inform them that literature is for adults, not children. Eh? What? Now what kind of bottom-dwelling, self-absorbed pig do you have to be to relentlessly and spitefully humiliate a bunch of kids like that? Kids who hold you in such awe and who might actually believe you and give up their hopes of writing?
I can't begin to tell you how mad I am at you, Sir, you semi-senile, penguin-bellied, encrusted old fart. Why don't you pick on someone your own size? If you want to break kids' spirits, why don't you stay in your homeland, Mother England, and ruin them over there?
I was mad enough to write a letter to the editor. Here's how it went:
Is anyone going to try to
undo the damage that Sir Naipaul, in his
trademark ill tempered manner, has done to those scores of young book
lovers who turned up to hear him speak, only to be dismissed and
insulted as too young, stupid, and unworthy of the great man’s books?
As a person who has loved books and writing since primary school, I
was horrified to read that this man, who has cast us off like a dirty
suit of clothes, could find nothing better with which to enrich and
nourish hungry young minds but churlish admonitions. Come on, Sir,
all these children wanted from you was a little encouragement. A pat
on the back. Stay in school. Read as much as you can. Write
what
you love. Would that have been such a great effort? Or would
appearing like an actual human being with a beating heart have
undermined the air of scholarly aloofness that you have strived so
hard to cultivate?
Teachers, parents, responsible adults, please, impress upon the young
people within your span of influence. Ignore the mean, cutting
remarks of this self-centered, arrogant old prig. Literature is for
everyone, but it is especially for you. Embrace books. Love
learning. Write and make your heart happy. Read, read, read!
And before you even begin to suggest that I'm the victim of the green-eyed monster, puh-leeze. Not even interested. I write what I enjoy and that's good enough for me.
Peace.
[Friday April 20] Skanky dolls
Lord, help us. Why are toy manufacturers inundating our girl children with such skanky-ass dolls? You know, the whole Bratz/My Scene thing?
I passed a toy store the other day and spotted a My Scene My Bling doll in the window. I was literally (well, figuratively) floored at the utter sluttiness of this freaking doll. I mean it. Now, I'm a grown woman, and I've done my share of nasty...but at least I was a grown woman at the time, not a nine year old.
This creature has her nipples just about covered in
some ghettorific silver shawl type thing tied at the waist, a ripped-to-the-ass
denim cut-off, silver glitter on her lips, 'ho boots and fake fur. I got
an instant headache just imagining my daughter wanting to be just like that doll
when she grows up.
I don't suppose I'd have a problem if someone gave it to her now, as she isn't two yet and would probably eat it, but could you imagine the damage it would do to her if she was 8? Do these people have no conscience? Trust me, if this doll was a human being, standing at the side of the road, men would be rolling down their windows and asking how much for the whole night.
And we thought Barbie was bad. While we're on the subject, check out my new Heckuvit link to the right.
Tuesday April 17 - Sawdust
Hacking up balls of sawdust, sweeping and mopping over and over, but the dust still seems to creep into my chest and stick in my throat. But I finally got my cupboards and bookshelves. Hooray!
Now I have to go about the task of sorting and shelving my hundreds, literally hundreds of books. Then, it's on to my creating the study of my dreams...my very own personal space.
Wednesday April 11 - Got to let go
Still cleaning out my junk. Or trying to. Every time I decide to throw something away, (or donate it, if it's usable) I get these tugs at my heartstrings, especially when it has something to do with my children.
I'm afraid to give away my maternity clothes. Not that I plan on getting pregnant again, (like hell) but what if? I'm afraid to give away the kids' clothes in case I forget a happy day we had while they were wearing this ratty little T-shirt or whatever.
This has got to stop. Repeat after me: "I am not emotionally attached to my breast pump." There now. Feel better?
[Tuesday April 3] - Cleaning fever
I'm possessed by a cleaning jumbie*, and it's holding onto me hard. I'm having new cupboards built, and am looking excitedly forward to being able to walk on my own floor without stumbling over boxes or junk. But what good is a brand new set of cupboards if I'm only going to fill it with a whole bunch of garbage?
Thus, the cleaning frenzy, during which I obsessively go through every scrap of paper and every doo-dad, and callously decide what stays and what goes. Whereupon I become possessed by another jumbie, cousin to the first: the one that has me frantically digging through my garbage bags after midnight to try and retrieve a piece of crap that becomes indispensable the second I throw it away.
I've got more than a hundred magazines I want to get rid of, but in the middle of packing them away I suddenly become so engrossed in one of them that there's no way I can throw any of them out before I have a second read.
Lord help me.
*What we call a demon in the West Indies.
