Travelin' Man

from James

When I became a lawyer, I couldn’t wait for my first business trip. The thought of it was exciting to me, so when the opportunity arose, I was the first among my class of young first-year associates to volunteer. I was promptly shipped off to Huntington, West Virginia and stuck in a windowless room to sift through thousands of corporate documents. Woo-hoo! What a good time.

Since then, I’ve never looked at business travel quite the same way. But the last couple of weeks have shown marked improvement. First, there was the LaJolla Writers conference. Tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it. And last week, my wife and I went to New York for the annual Bookspan Party at the Pierre Hotel. (Bookspan is the Bertelsman company that owns the Literary Guild, The Book of the Month Club, and the Doubleday Book Club). The only problem was that there was not a hotel room to be had in Manhattan. Seriously. It was the biggest turn out ever for the New York City Marathon. My friend Peter Hairston came to the rescue. He is a member of the Union City Club on Park Avenue. As a writer, how could I pass up the opportunity to stay in one of the rooms inside one of the oldest city clubs in the world? I’m sure it will work into a future novel, but the most memorable thing about the club (other than the fact that you have to wear a coat and tie everywhere) as the library. Here’s a picture of me in my favorite place, surrounded by books.

The Bookspan party is a bona fide publishing event. First, there’s a small cocktail party, where you actually have a chance to talk to people. The big party follows in the main ballroom, where you can run into just about anyone in the industry. But the best part is the small dinner that follows, hosted by Bookspan’s CEO, Markus Wilhelm and his wife, Cathy. Last year I sat across the table from Barbara Taylor Bradford. Judy Blume and Sandra Brown were to my left. Nelson DeMille was on my right. Every so often I had to pinch myself. My wife was practically giddy—she was a huge fan of Judy Blume, and now our daughter is equally nuts about her.

Nelson just became a father last month, so his absence was excused this year. Instead, I had the pleasure of sitting next to Nicholas Evans, who told me a riveting story of how he wrote “The Horse Whisperer.” After banging out the first half of the manuscript, he showed it to his agent, who then had everyone in Hollywood lining up to buy it and clamoring for him to finish it. He was then diagnosed with malignant melanoma. He wrote the second half not knowing if he was going to live to ever see it published. Pretty sobering, huh?

Also at our table was Robin Cook (my wife couldn’t resist getting a picture with him. Carole Higgins Clark, Harlan Coben, and Paulina Simons.
Here's a group shot taken after lots of wine.

One of the cool things that I learned more about at this dinner was the role of International book clubs. "Lying with Strangers," which will be my June 2007 release from HarperCollins, is already selling overseas in the book clubs. I was thrilled to find out that it was the #1 seller in the Spanish book club’s Christmas catalog. It’s also doing fantastic in the Ukraine. I had no idea how important that is. See, there isn’t exactly a Borders or a Barnes and Noble on everyone corner in the Ukraine. The Ukrainian book club has over a million members. This is all very heartening to me. Just when you think the industry is getting more centralized, more driven by "franchise" authors, you learn about these other ways to connect with new readers.

For now, however, it’s time to unpack my bags and do what I’m supposed to be doing. For the foreseeable future, you can find me in my back yard, at my laptop, writing. One things for sure: November in Miami beats Huntington, West Virginia.

The 812

By Cornelia

I was listening to NPR in the car yesterday, since I live in my car pretty much, what with these being the chauffeur years of parenthood. The movie review dude on Terry Gross was talking about a new DVD box set: Essential Arthouse: 50 Years of Janus Films.

For $650, you can now own 50 of the foreign films that graced the screens of America's most Boho theaters. Since movie review dude only discussed a few of these selections, I went to the Janus website this morning to check out the entire list, wondering if any of the ones I grew up with had made the cut.

There was only one of my seminal flicks listed--Black Orpheus.


Originally titled Orfeu Negro, it's a retelling of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, set in the favelas of Brazil during Carnival. As above in a contemporary poster, this was "the film that introduced bossa nova to the world..." and I spent a lot of time as a kid listening to the soundtrack album.

My mom had seen it in New York, back when it was originally released in the States. I first watched it in the early seventies, at the 812 Cinema on Cannery Row.



The 812 is long gone, as are most of the funky businesses I remember operating out of the abandoned canneries along the shores of Monterey Bay in that era, like Kalisa's, a Middle Eastern restaurant whose namesake owner drove around the peninsula in an ancient ambulance, painted a striking metallic lavender.

Nowadays, Cannery Row is a slick and bustling tourist destination, anchored by the Monterey Aquarium. You can buy cotton candy and ride indoor carousels. You can load up on stuffed toy sea otters and souvenir "All I got was this lousy t-shirt" t-shirts. You can barely make your way down the sidewalk through the crowds, most days. Everything's spiffy and shiny and repainted.

I miss the funky stuff, back in the days when all you'd see on the street at dusk was that purple ambulance and tumbleweed bits of paper, rolling down the empty asphalt. I miss the 812 especially.

It was a narrow, high-ceilinged building, built on pilings out over the water. Sometimes if the audience got quiet, you could hear surf moiling below. There were no seats, no aisles--just piles of giant pillows, stuffed with torn foam rubber and upholstered in faded Indian print bedspreads. Parking was not exactly a problem.

One of the non-Janus-distributed films we saw there was Zorba the Greek, which my sister and I basically turned into an early audience-participation deal--perhaps the Ur Rocky Horror experience--having memorized the bits of dialogue on the soundtrack album for years beforehand.

Such as Alan Bates sounding all British and wussy, going "Teach me to dance, will you?" and Anthony Quinn responding, "Did you say... dance?... Go on my boy!"
Although I think our favorite bit was when Zorba was asked whether he were married, to which he answered, "Am I not a man, and is not a man stupid? I am a man... so, I married... wife, house, children, everything... the full catastrophe."

Another film we saw there was the original Lost Horizon, the black-and-white film of James Hilton's novel about a secret valley in the Himalayas where everyone is immortal and pacifist. Seeing it years later, I found the whole art-deco-meets-Tibet set design a little harder to swallow, but it's still one of my favorite movies--so much so that I still hate Burt Bacharach for trying to remake it as a musical in the seventies.


The coolest part is when the High Lama explains to Ronald Coleman why he founded Shangri-La in the first place:

I saw all the nations strengthening, not in wisdom, but in the vulgar passions and the will to destroy. I saw the machine power multiplying, until a single weaponed man might match a whole army. I foresaw a time when man, exalting in the technique of murder, would rage so hotly over the world, that every book, every treasure, would be doomed to destruction. This vision was so vivid and so moving, that I determined to gather together all things of beauty and of culture that I could, and preserve them here, against the doom toward which the world is rushing. Look at the world today. Is there anything more pitiful? What madness there is! What blindness! What unintelligent leadership! A scurrying mass of bewildered humanity, crashing headlong against each other, propelled by an orgy of greed and brutality.

A time must come my friend, when this orgy will spend itself. When brutality and the lust for power must perish by its own sword. Against that time, is why I avoided death, and am here. And why you were brought here. For when that day comes, the world must begin to look for a new life. And it is our hope that they may find it here. For here, we shall be with their books and their music, and a way of life based on one simple rule: Be Kind! When that day comes, it is our hope that the brotherly love of Shangri-La will spread throughout the world.

These were pretty much all message movies, and that was the message they shared: "Iconoclasts of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your day jobs...."

Yellow Submarine depicted the overthrow of the Blue Meanies, with nothing but some good Beatles tunes employed to topple their hegemony:


A Thousand Clowns pitted Jason Robards against the Madison Avenue/Network broadcasting brigade. When social workers show up to inspect the premises in which he's raising his nephew Nick (who delights in trying on different names throughout the film), Robards tries to return to the day-job fray, writing TV schtick for the odious Chuckles the Clown.


Chuckles patronizes young Nick and offers him a small bag of the sponsor's potato chips, into the bargain, causing Nick to observe, when asked for his "simple childhood reaction" to the man's wheezing patter:

My simple child reaction of what you did is that you are not funny. Funnier than you is even Stuart Schlossmen, who is my friend, and is eleven, and puts walnuts in his mouth and makes noises. What is not funny is to call us names, and what is mostly not funny is how sad you are, and I'd feel sorry for you if it wasn't for how dull you are. And those are the worst-tasting potato chips that I've ever tasted. And that's my opinion from the blue, blue sky.

Robards woos the female social worker by playing "Yessir, That's My Baby" on the ukelele, and taking her to the old passenger-liner docks of Manhattan to throw confetti and wish total strangers bon voyage.

At least he didn't shoot her at the end, like Elvira Madigan. This was a Scandinavian film perhaps best remembered today for the bits of Mozart in its soundtrack, and for featuring the very first instance of lovers running toward one another across a field, in slow motion.

Probably my favorite movie of all the things we saw at the 812, however, was King of Hearts, in which Alan Bates morphed from wimpy Brit dancing on Greek beaches to a Scots soldier in World War I, sent to warn a town in France that the Germans are about to invade. He's missed the actual townspeople, however, and spends a day frolicking with the inmates who've wandered out of the local asylum, including a tremendously fetching Genevieve Bujold.


The man looked pretty good in a kilt, I have to say. Plus there was the bootie shot at the end, when he takes off all his clothes in the hopes the nuns will let him past the asylum gates as a resident for at least the rest of the war.

I've been thinking about movies a lot recently, since I'm going to have lunch in LA on Monday to discuss the possibility of writing a screenplay, which would be really cool if it works out.

I imagine we might discuss movies, during this meal, and I admit I'm not too up on recent releases since I don't get out much, what with the price of babysitting and everything. I haven't seen the rehash of The Poseidon Adventure, or Marie Antoinette, or pretty much anything that's come out in the last year, so I'll probably sound vaguely Amish, should the subject come up. I guess I'm hoping that my lunchmates have a fondness for the old arthouse stuff, since I'd love to talk about that instead. Not so much Bergman and Kurosawa, just the funky little anti-establishment flicks we cheered for at the old 812.... the ones that tried to get us all to just be kind.

Titles, Titles Everywhere...

Paul's weekly mishegoss...

Seems like all the Naked Authors have been crushed on deadline the last couple weeks. I just sent off the manuscript of my fourth "Solomon vs. Lord" novel, entitled "_____________."

No, it's not a secret. It's just not yet titled. Hmmm. If you go onto the Random House website, you'll find "The Lawyer Who Couldn't Lie," due out next June. Same thing on the Amazon site, and several other on-line booksellers.

But if you look at the manuscript, the title is "Solomon's Rib."

The story involves an animal liberation raid (dolphins) that goes bad, resulting in a death. Steve Solomon defends a murder trial...and through a legal quirk, his lover Victoria Lord is the prosecutor. Yep, an homage to "Adam's Rib," the battle-of-the-sexes Spencer Tracy/Katherine Hepburn picture from 1949. And who says I'm behind the times?

So what's the title to be? How about some help? Some titles that have been in and out of the hopper include "Shark Bait," "Court Date," "The Shark and the Mermaid," "Love Kills," "Nice Lawyers Finish Last," "And Justice for None," "Flirting with Contempt," "A Kiss Before Closing," "The Second Best Defense," "Solomon's Song," and "The Advocate's Devil."

Ordinarily, the writer chooses a title that is approved by the editor without much fuss. (That's my history, anyway. Fellow Naked Authors may have something to say here). If there's a problem, you're asked to come up with some alternatives. This is my 12th novel, and we've never come this close to publication (June 2007) without a title carved in stone.

I'll keep you posted and I'm open to suggestions, criticisms, and witticisms.

KEEPING A SERIES FRESH

At a writers' conference last weekend, I was asked how to keep series' characters fresh.

GREAT question.

You'd think I'd have a ready answer. I've written seven books in the "Jake Lassiter" series and now four in the "Solomon vs. Lord" series. I struggled with the answer and came up with this.

Your characters must grow. Just as in real life, events must make a lasting impact. If your protagonist is wounded by a gunshot or dumped by a lover or loses a parent, that should carry forward to the next book.

This contrasts with the typical television series, particularly crime procedurals. Prosecutor Jack McCoy (Sam Waterston) hasn't changed anything, including his hairstyle in the 179 years he's been playing hardball with criminals. (He also hasn't smiled). I guess there's something reassuring for the viewer, dozing in front of the TV, when characters say and do the same things week after week.

But isn't it more fun and challenging for the writer and the reader if the characters evolve over time? A great example is "White Sister," Stephen J. Cannell's fifth Shane Scully novel. The relationship between homicide detective Scully, his wife (fellow cop) Alexa, and their adopted son Chooch continues to grow, sometimes in dangerous directions.

(The Shane Scully series mixes authentic police lingo (think Joseph Wambaugh) with violent action (think Lee Child) and an unusual amount of introspection (think Michael Connelly).

I can't tell you what happens to one of the Scully family about 1/4 of the way into "White Sister" without spoiling the jolting impact. But...I usually see things coming, and I was so shocked, I stopped and re-read the chapter. It propelled me through the rest of the book, and it will forever change the series. Sorry for the vagueness, but I hate it when reviewers (or book jackets) give away too much.

COMING SOON

I'll be at the Miami International Book Fair (Nov. 18-19) for both "Kill All the Lawyers" and "Miami Noir." More later.

By Paul

Private lives

Patty here…

A week ago I saw director Stephen Frears’s (My Beautiful Launderette, Dangerous Liaisons, The Grifters, Dirty Pretty Things) film “The Queen,” starring Helen Mirren. The movie explores the dark days following the death of Princess Diana in a car accident in Paris in August of 1997 and the clash of wills between the newly elected and politically savvy Prime Minister Tony Blair and the old-fashioned and stoically engineered Queen of England, Elizabeth II, over how to respond to Diana’s death.



I vividly remember the day Diana died. I stayed up all night, watching the coverage on television, waiting for good news that never came. I also remember the swelling crowd of mourners fighting back tears and the growing perception, fueled by the press, that the royal family was dishonoring the memory of the “people’s princess” by refusing to acknowledge their shared grief.

Although the film is fiction (nobody but the royal family knows what really went on behind palace doors), Frears, along with screenwriter Peter Morgan and a superb ensemble cast have succeeded in creating a movie with complex, conflicted, and—yes—sympathetic human beings. Helen Mirren’s performance as Queen Elizabeth II is nuanced and moving as she soldiers-on through the tragedy, seemingly perplexed as to why the British people have turned against her.



In a scene from the film, she says:

“Ever since Diana, people want glamour and tears—the grand performance. And I’m not very good at that. I prefer to keep my feelings to myself. Foolishly, I believed that’s what people wanted from their queen. Not to make a fuss nor wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve. Duty first, self second.”

In a Los Angeles Times article on Tuesday, October 31, 2006, Patrick Goldstein explores the fine line between self-expression and self-promotion, which is the theme of “The Queen” and another current film, Clint Eastwood’s “Flags of our Fathers.” Goldstein says:

“Everywhere we look, we live in a confessional age. The novel has been replaced by the memoir as our most talked-about literary genre. The sitcom, for years TV’s water-cooler conversation starter, has been superseded by reality TV and talk shows, forms that thrive on exhibitionism.”

I don’t watch reality TV. For one reason, the idea of it doesn’t interest me. A steady diet of histrionic and often counterfeit emotional outbursts and angry recriminations isn’t very interesting to watch. Conflict is good but it can’t replace complexity. It’s the man or woman who struggles valiantly to hold back his or her emotions out of duty, pride, or fear that captures my imagination.

After watching “The Queen” and reading Goldstein’s article, I began to think about memorable characters in novels I had read. The first one that popped into my mind was Stevens, the dutiful English butler in Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel Remains of the Day. Years after finishing the book I still remember weeping as I read the scene in which Stevens stoically goes about his household duties as his father lays dying in the next room.



There is an often-quoted passage from William Faulkner’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech given in Stockholm, Sweden on December 10, 1950:

“…the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.”

So what draws you to certain fictional characters and why do you remember them long after the book is finished or the movie is yesterday's news?

Happy Monday and Happy Birthday to me!

A Writer's Guide to Inventory

from Jacqueline

I’ve always loved the personal essay, the reflection upon life, insights into the small things that connect us to a bigger world. Years ago, before I embarked upon my first foray into fiction (MAISIE DOBBS), I put most of my writing energy into the personal essay, and attended all sorts of workshops on creative non-fiction. I just loved the classes taught by Adair Lara, who was then a columnist with the San Francisco Chronicle as well as a best-selling author. Adair is a great believer in building inventory – 500 words each day on anything (and that is in addition to the book you’re writing, or your day job, or whatever). 500 new words – and if you’re stuck, copy from a book until your own words come. That’s how you build up inventory, a deposit box of ideas and opinions, of thoughts and feelings that at any point could be reconsidered and worked into something bigger, better, perhaps readable, and even ... marketable.

When I was at school our music teacher loved to tell us the story of the composer, Schubert, who would write the musical equivalent of 500 words each day. In fact, he would write the most amazing works then stash them in a cupboard and forget about them. Apparently, when he died the cupboards were opened and sheets upon sheets of music just fell out all over the place. It makes me wonder what will happen to my “inventory” when I kick the bucket.

So, while looking for a particular piece I knew I’d written a couple of years ago (which I still can’t find), I came across inventory that I had forgotten all about, including a series of observations about life immediately following a serious riding accident five years ago. The whole experience of being in the hospital, of having major surgery and terrible post-operative sickness was so dire that I decided I would try to see the lighthearted side of things. Allowing for current events in the spring of 2001 that date this piece immediately, here’s what I wrote – all in lower case because I only had one hand on the keyboard, so couldn’t capitalize my words. Also, I had just been told that I sounded like Bridget Jones (I ask you!).


“…truth is that most british women sound like bridget jones - have emails from friends "over there" to prove it. having said that, h. fielding really cornered the market with the singleton thing. perhaps i could represent mature women who do dangerous things. as one person said upon hearing about injury, "at least you didn't slip on the kitchen floor while loading the dishwasher!"

have discovered latent tendency to want to know how people survived terrible accidents. john found me by checkstand at longs reading previously untold story in people magazine, of supermodel struggling at death's door after car accident. interestingly enough, in same issue read about matthew perry and melanie griffith and fight against vicodin addiction. v. worried as john appeared with refills of clearly dangerous narcotics while self reading article. in fact, my friend c. called the other night to commiserate and slyly asked what painkillers i was on, and that she would buy my leftovers.
shocked at possibly addicted friend, but said that funnily enough do not seem to be using many vicodin...
c. got touchy and said had hoped i was on perkoset (?). replied that you never know what i might be given after surgery next week.
c. perked up, wished me well and said that they can do so much with bones nowadays, esp. as they can limit chance of infection.

what infection?

am thinking it would be good idea to read stephen king's story of comeback from terrible accident. feel it might inspire latent literary genius in self.

john bearing up well in role of tea wallah. friend kas visited and was greeted by john as if babysitter for recalcitrant toddler. he immediately rushed into bathroom for long shower etc. in manner of harried mother. came out new man, asking kas if i had been ok. obviously am becoming invisible invalid. have, however, noticed discipline tendency taking over with comments like, "you'll have to be able to do this when i'm at work." end of tea in bed clearly in sight.

current inability has also caused move away from previous energy-saving. in midst of rolling blackouts have bought electric toothbrush and also "lady's" electric shaver. clean teeth and smooth legs essential to self esteem, esp. with looming shared vicodin rehab with matthew perry. am also worried about under arms. necessity being mother of invention, am wondering why they do not make deodorant-impregnated cleansing cloths for people with broken arms. much easier to slide in thin cloth with arm hanging there, than weilding "lady smell good" or whatever. have visions of surgical team taking off current splint thing and drawing back with collective 'yewwwww ....... grossss."

videos also becoming v. important to sanity, although john has requested that i try to avoid limitation of selection criteria to films with john cusack. last night both could hardly sleep after "pushing tin" and lingering vision of billy bob thornton as air traffic controller. talking of airports, one of my friends, on being told of impending bone reconstruction with various tools previously unseen outside of blacksmithing industry, said, 'ooh, you'll be one of those people who sets off alarms in airports!" horrified at thought of mandatory strip searches and being bomb suspect. make note to ensure that brand new underwear is worn near airports at all times.

as you can see am trying to bring british aplomb to current situation, and am reminded that it has got us through everything from the boer war to the blitz. have to tell you one funny thing tho' - in second emergency room, in morphine fog, was asked if nurse could cut off t-shirt. said that was ok, only gap sale thing. he cut off the t-shirt, went to throw it away, to which i yelled, "no, don't throw it - give it to my husband, it'll make a good dusting cloth." was it at that point that john asked about how much morphine was too much?

anyway, ramblings of an invalid who is getting v. good at picking things up with feet and thanking lucky stars profusely that it wasn't worse. poor john has said he feels like anthony hopkins in remains of day - running back and forth with tea!

After return from the hospital …

Finally out of the hospital and am now bionic woman. Expect Maisie Dobbs book to be completed in speed of newly fired bullet. Or whatever it is that people with ironmongery in them are able to do. V. difficult time in the hospital. Reportedly v.successful major surgery (mind you, doctor with yours truly blood on hands would say that wouldn't he?) followed by gut-wrenchingly awful post-operative reaction to anesthesia, morphine, antibiotics and medical system in general. Did, however, have startling opportunity to make observations as languished in drug-induced hell:

Watched t.v. to take mind off thought of self dying in the hospital, along with propensity to imagine body being flown to England in flag-covered casket. Stunned first by number of food ads, and this in time of weight-challenged children dragging burger-filled bodies around softball fields, malls etc. All foods take only seconds to grill/nuke/wave blow torch over, then eat. All include cheese and sizzling. Had to look other way as felt fairly ill. Also stunned by number of ads saying no to drugs, instructing parents/teachers/teens to be open, clean and generally upstanding. Then they go into the hospital with a broken arm. Begged nursing staff to take self off morphine as tried vainly to control hallucinations (flag-covered casket) and strange jittering in legs and arms. Finally got own way in manner of (yet again) stubborn child. Pout and just said no to the ******** drugs. Subsequent comings and goings of nurses reminiscent of Pythonesque stage farce complete with opening/closing doors.

Door opens, nurse rushes in, bears down on green self
Nurse: "What's your pain level on a scale of 1 to 10
Self: "Zero"
Nurse: "Oh"
Scene repeated every 20 minutes.

Felt bit better but now suspected bad reaction to antibiotics. John (known as primary caregiver - PCG) asked nurse. Nurse replied "Oh no, not possible." Felt convinced self was right and became strident upchucking patient, instead of just upchucking patient.. Three more nurses also waved aside inner body wisdom (IBW) Considered placing call to Chopra or Llama in face of negative response to own IBW. Friday nurse entered complete with fuschia-colored hair and nose-ring. Convinced self would be covered with flag by end of day. Clearly case of deceiving appearances. PCG shot same question about antibiotics over her bows (being a Patrick O'Brian man) and Fuschia said she would look into it. Blessed be the fuschia-haired. Came back to room with news that 3% of patients are allergic and show symptoms such as extreme nausea. Thank God. Was beginning to feel like little dead girl in Sixth Sense. IBW obviously working well. Became v. disturbed about drug-pushing generally by medical establishment. Feel called to explore possibility of becoming crack investigative journalist in mode of Sebastian Junger. Will write shockingly insightful expose based on observations: "Melted Cheese to Morphine - The Unfeeling of America's Pain." Will interview Matthew Perry in Vicodin rehab, discuss obvious food issues with Oprah, and gain audience with Bush and ask pointed insightful questions about alchohol-related driving incidents. Envision 60 Minutes intervew and own story of morphine-induced flag-covered casket hallucination for audience empathy.

During drug-induced hell also became aware that people do not understand self. Possible language/accent issue, however, think misunderstandings due to use of words on the endangered list:

Nurse, as leaving room: "How do you want your door?"
Self (tempted to say "Oh, well done please, and crispy around the edges."): "Could you leave it slightly ajar?"
Nurse: "What?"
Self(waving arm attached to I.V.): Slightly … ajar."
Nurse: (waving door back and forth): "What?"
Self (while alarm goes off as have caused block in I.V.) "Slightly open"
Nurse (having corrected I.V. and now waving door again) "What?"
Self: "Just leave it open a bit."
Nurse nods head and leaves room with door wide open. All patients walking by now peer into room to see if self looks as sick as them. Relatives of other patients also look in to see if self is as sick as loved ones. Look v. much like little dead girl in Sixth Sense. Will open up Matthew Perry in interview by inspiring compassion for self with pale wan look. Will also be all skin and bone. Jeans will fall off self.


Another conversation

Nurse (finally answering call button, pressed as alarm on I.V. is beeping like demented banshee): "How do you keep doing this?"
Self: (Looking pale, wan): "Oh, I can't help it. Every time I move my arm, it shuts off. The needle is in an awkward place, in the crook of my elbow." (use head to point to I.V. needle)
"What?"
"Nothing


One final, and have to say amusing incident: The hospital Admission Form requiring agreement and signature.

Item 9 pointed out that if stay in the hospital resulted in a newborn, patient would be liable for said newborn. PCG and self discussed, decided that if major bone reconstruction (MBR) resulted in newborn, would do best to offer good home.

Item 12 asked self to specify whether celebrity or V.I.P. Again, considered question against looming MBR and checked VIP. Thought "You bet I am." And in space provided to give further details wrote: "I'll have my people call your people." Thought self terribly funny, and nurse obviously thought same, as rolled eyes in mirth.

Good news is that hospital experience now behind self. Can now move ahead with rehab per IBW. Told C. about book idea, and personal experience gained to write best-selling expose (Melted Cheese etc …). C. was v. impressed. Asked about Vicodin again …

Have had fun seeing silly side of all this. Strange that broken arm and need for brevity has proved to be so theraputic. Possible IBW at work again!”


Well, back in the November 2006, for better or worse, that’s inventory. And you know the thing I really like about this little piece here – it’s where I actually put it in writing that I would use my convalescence to work on my novel. Just one year later I had a publisher for that novel. See, building inventory is a good thing.

Can I go lie down yet?

By Cornelia

I just emailed the revised draft of my second Madeline Dare novel, The Crazy School, off to New York. That was fifteen minutes early, if you don't count the extra month's extension I was granted to finish it.

I am now sitting at my desk-cupboard in the northern end of our living room, here at the Chateau Ultra-Trashy, and I admit to being afraid of peeking behind me to fully take in the state of the house and my life.

There are probably six buckets of laundry (clean) sitting on the dining room table, with another six of dirty on the floor beneath it. There might be one or two teaspoons in the kitchen that are not crusted with stuff, but I doubt it.

I owe about 50 gazillion emails to friends and family. My children are probably three feet taller than they were the last time I actually checked on their wellbeing. I may still be married.

The coolest thing in the house, however, is the "Author Deadline Survival Pack" which arrived in our mailbox the other day from Heidi Vornbrock Roosa.

The contents of this:

• A small greeting card, its exterior imprinted with a sepia-toned photo of a distant lobster boat on a placid bay at sunset, below the words, "Believe in Yourself. Believe in Your Abilities. Believe That Things Will get Better." The interior, meanwhile, inscribed with the words "Do you think of vomit when you read this?" in Heidi's own hand, above the officially printed words "I DO. HANG IN THERE."and a list of the rest of the package contents, with an explanation of the purpose to which each item is meant to be put.
• One Magic 8 Ball-- for all those tough editing questions
• One pack of caffeine pills--self-explanatory ["Jet-Alert" brand, by the way... double strength and apparently "SAFE AS COFFEE!!!"]
• One "supporter" [i.e. jockstrap, "Youth - Large/X-Large," not to mention ANTI-FUNGAL PROTECTED] - don't know how it works, but since you might need some support in a time like this, I thought you could give it a try .
• One Power Bar - for you - let the hubby and kids scrounge in the fridge.
• One delightful bar of chocolate to congratulate yourself [Ghirardelli "Espresso Escape," 60% Cacao Dark Chocolate with Finely Ground Espresso Beans].

So I would just like to say that Jet-Alert is great stuff, I am wearing the supporter on my head, and the Power Bar was nutrient-packed--THANK YOU HEIDI!!!!

I have a feeling that if I risked looking in the mirror at this point, I'd find Tom Waits staring back--as photographed by Dorothea Lange. So I think I'm just going to lie down on the sofa now and hope this Jet-Alert wears off sometime before Thanksgiving.

Meanwhile, here is the first sentence of The Crazy School:

Halfway to Christmas, Forchetti stated the obvious: “You can’t teach for shit.”

The last sentence is one word long. It starts with an F and ends with a K. It is not "Firetruck."

As for the words between, I'd rate them, overall, somewhere on a scale between "weasel vomit" and "forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race."

Your mileage may vary.

Deadline This Morning

Blog this afternoon....





Thank you!!!

Cornelia