Writer's Spread

One of my best friends since we were kids is a famous author...I'm talking the famous like there have been movies adapted from his stories, he's actually been heard saying don't you know who I am? and you did, etc.  The kind of author some of you (snobs) would say is a real writer because his publisher is in a real big building in a real big city.

I believe I am his only non-celebrity friend. When he does take me out, I'm usually the person cut out of the frame behind Kanye West.  He believes I ground him.  What this really means is I know some pretty disgusting secrets about him and he's scared I'll sell them to Harvey Levin to make my rent.

Anyway, he comes over to my place today as I was trying to work and says, "So, I see you've been writing a lot."  I perk considerably and think, he's finally been reading my books!  Perhaps he'll give me a review that I'd rather die than ask for?  Perhaps he'll find the time to finish working on the script we started in high school?  Perhaps I can call myself a real writer now.

I looked up from my laptop, hoping to come off cool and said, "Yes, I've been working my ass off!  I've got some stuff up in anticipation for the two novels that are set for release.  Thanks for noticing."

And he says, "Well it's kind of hard not to...you have all the signs.  I mean, friend to friend, don't take this the wrong way, but you've gotten kind of fat."

Rice Cake anyone?

Procrastination or Productivity?

BTYFKUUPQ8JT

What's Up With The Fake Facebook Chicks?

So in addition to my Author Facebook Page (feel free to like me), I have a personal profile that I keep with my high school chums, exes (yeah, dumb) and people who have known me generally for 15 or more years.  Lately I've been talking with my guy friends about these new Facebook girls they've been adding like the plague.

Now, I've had the same conversation with no less than 7 of my guy friends in a month about these girls.  The conversation goes like this:

"Dude, you've got to log in to my Facebook profile and read the message I just got from this hot chick."
"Okay." I say as I've got a deadline, have writer's block, am crawling with caffeine from my 6th Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee and I'm a prolific procrastinator.

Now the girls basically look alike: hot, blond, big attributes, scantily dressed and they all seem to be named Sarah, Samantha or Heather.  The messages are explicit...they all seem to be into sexting or inbox sex or chat sex...basically sex that has nothing to do with two people in the same room.

"She's a hooker."  I say to all of them.  "She probably lives in Des Moines, has five kids and will be asking for a credit card number soon."
The all look at me and respond: "Dude, you're insane...she's real!"

So tonight I go scan all the girl's profiles, again, deadline, blocked, coffee, take out my trusty notebook and begin compiling a dossier.  I humored myself by calling it research for my next John Grisham-esque best seller.

Out of 22 girls surveyed (told ya I was a good procrastinator):
All have public "walls" on Facebook,
All have pictures where they're barely dressed and I swear it looks like heads and bodies were interchanged with each other,
They are all linked with each other by posting they're girlfriends, domestic partners, sisters, cousins, aunts and mothers of each other,
All claim to have worked or work at Hooters,
All claim to live in either Ohio or England (wtf),
All claim to only be into girls or will only add girls as friends, but have guy friends, as evidenced from some of my lesser-intelligent comrades above,
All are monosyllabic (hi, lol, :), morning) in their comments unless they are baiting other females into "lively" dialog about aforementioned big attributes,
All are fond of slinging the word inbox (double entendre entered into the record and noted).

Conspiracy theory?  HA, I think not.  What we have here is classic bait and switch, gypsy ring of fake female hucksters hiding behind dialog that some of my erotic writing friends need to get their hands on to goad unsuspecting guys and gals into buying something to keep them talking.

Now these cells may be well-known to all of you, but I'm pretty shocked that my friends fell for it.  Incidentally when presented with my findings, none of the guys saw the parallels I did and they all said I should think about therapy.

I'm going to watch Catfish now and think about all the work I have to do tomorrow.  Goodnight dear friends.

Bad Guys

Last night I watched No Country for Old Men the gem adapted by the Coens and written by Cormac McCarthy--No Country for Old Men (Vintage International) for the 87th time. Now if you haven't checked out either one...what the heck are you waiting for??  Javier Bardem plays the baddest bad-ass Anton Chigurh.  The book and the movie are pure, unadulterated, killed by an air tank awesomeness. I dig bad guys.  Perhaps because I fancy myself a bit of a, well it rhymes with dussy. And I one of my favorite parts of writing books is the creation of my bad guys. 

They always even the tinest trait, at least mine do, that makes them a bit likable--even if they represent everything that's repugnant to you, or me. When I was revising Five Percent of Nothing, the one of the main bad guys (and there are quite a few the heroine deals with) is Dylan Parker.  He's a drug addicted, abusive adulterer.  Not much there that would qualify him for a Nobel, but he has an air of charm.  I'm editing my newest release The Umbrella and the bad guy Billy, has a most disgusting "solution" for world famine and is a thieving psychopath, but again, there's something there.   

Most of my bad guys are, well guys.  But I'm working on a bad girl (and not the minx-ish, pillow fight kind) for my upcoming novel that I'm having a lot of fun with.  And there's no need to page Dr. Freud because I recognize the usefulness of these bad guys and gals not only in my books, but in my life.  I use them to release the stress of being.

Because while the me that's sitting in front of this screen at 2:45 am on Wednesday, August 31 may not want to terrorize someone like Manu Tushar does in Brazilwood, I really got pissed off at the at the man in the grocery store today who almost hit me with his Prius and released my anger by writing a fantastic thriller scene for my latest WIP.

Welcome To My Life

So I was instructed by my editor to begin a blog. Actually, it was a demand. The demand was followed by..."Hell, I can't believe you don't have a blog! Why everyone has a blooooog!"  "And there you have it, I suppose that's why I don't," I responded.


But I'm really not that flippant. Nor that affected. Truth is, authors (not all, but some) find comfort in hiding behind their characters. I can be a drug dealer who beats the hell out of his wife as my character Dylan Parker does in Five Percent of Nothing, I can be a maid who commits the ultimate horror as my character Ana Cartena does in Brazilwood, I can be a woman who takes advice from a leaky faucet like my character in Conversations With Verbs of Prey or even someone who talks to a bubble as my character in Suffering Surfactant does. But here, well here I'm just me. And if I'm just me, well then I risk it all.


So this is me. I am many things, like a raging hypochondriac...I was convinced I carried Ebola, Legionnaires and gangrene of the elbow at the same time. I have weird phobias: latex balloons and those canned bread products in the grocery stores among others. I am bombastically sensitive and extremely flawed.  I have a photographic memory and vividly dream in color. I hate getting drunk and haven't run across a drug that doesn't make me ill. I am currently concurrently engaged in one of the saddest and exciting times of my life. I'm allergic to Novocaine.


And the rest I hope you can work out with me along the way.