So. Two of my favorite things, Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab and the wonderful Neil Gaiman, are now together. Every penny earned by these perfumes goes to the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund.
I ask you, does it get any better than this? Go and shop, and have fun.
First of all, Mark Morford talks about reading Shakespeare over the summer. All of his plays, not just the favorites, even the boring ones. The moment I read this I thought, why didn’t I think of that? So I guess we know what I’m doing as soon as I finish this round of revisions and get the first draft of the Valentine book out.
That’s right. Settling down with my Compleat Shakespear and mainlining a few doses of the Bard. Pure and uncut, even. Literature right into the veins. You can’t beat that.
And now, on to something related to the first paragraph. I am about to give aspiring writers some free advice. Sit up and pay attention, because I don’t know if an editor will tell you this before chucking your submission into the rubbish bin.
Just because MS Word doesn’t red-underline the word does not mean it’s spelled correctly.
While working as submissions editor, I’ve read a lot of pretty good work that might have made the grade if not for the dismal inability of the author to fall in love with language. Sloppy writing is a symptom, of course, but there is another bigger mark of shame. It’s called the homophone.
A homophone is a word that sounds the same, yet has a different spelling and meaning from the word you meant to use.
Example: Theirs was an elicit love affair. Barbarian hoards swept across the land. He had a habit of burping in the throws of his passion.
Homophones and improper use (or non-use) of the possessive are the two biggest problems I used to have with writing that might have been good enough…but just wasn’t. If your story is wonderful, your concept fantastic, and your characters meaty, you can still strike out with homophone abuse. It’s like nails on a chalkboard to most editors. No, you don’t get points for correctly spelling a word that sounds like the word you wanted. You need to know the difference between elicit and illicit, pear and pare, hoards and hordes. (Not to mention throws and throes. One is used in wrestling and javelins. The other is used in the sack.)
The way to understand the difference is to be in love with words. Look them up, fer gosh sakes. Read enough to know when a word is used incorrectly. It is amazing to me how many people who want to write don’t want to read. What, they think they’re going to learn how to do this without reading? Perish the thought. (Yes, perish it. Don’t parish it. The Church hates that.) But mostly, you have to love words so much you can tell between homophones like they’re your own twin children.
This entire issue has been complicated by spellcheck. “But it’s SPELLED RIGHT! MS WORD SAYS SO!”
And the rusty gates of Writing Hell creak open once more.
If you are a writer, or are wanting to call yourself one, words are your tools. A master carpenter would not use the wrong tool, would he? Neither should you. You need to know what tools are out there (words, grammar, punctuation) and you need to know how to use them. Don’t think an editor will fix a little problem like this. It’s your problem to fix before you send your baby submission out in the world.
I did mention the improper use of possessives, right? I see this everywhere, not just in submissions. It’s is not the same as its. With the apostrophe it is the contraction of it is. Without the apostrophe it is a possessive, belonging to it. Another thing spellcheck won’t catch and the grammar check has trouble with. Do not depend on spellcheck or the grammar check function.
On that path lies danger, and it’s not just a gom jabbar.
I usually consider myself a fair and just person. (As much as the next girl, that is, which may not be very much.) So I’ll give an author a homophone or two, just out of charity. Even the best fingers can stutter on the keyboard. God knows I’ve come across a few of my own finger-stutter errors in print, and it’s just as jarring.
But when I see four or five in a short story, or even three in a chapter, it’s on the borderline. More than that, and the submission went in the reject pile (when I was editing) or set back on the shelf (while I’m browsing in the store).
So. Budding writers, beware the homophone. It is not your friend, despite the fact that it (in the short term) saves you the work of correcting it by slipping under spellcheck’s radar. The only cure is being such a word geek you can spot a homophone a mile away on a rainy day.
Last night we watched Shane–the Alan Ladd version. As a Western dealing with the theme of emotional infidelity, I liked the book better. But then again, I would. I’d like to see a very dirty, gritty, Deadwood-esque Shane. I think that would be killer.
Anyway, I have good news but I can’t share it yet until I get permission. Yaay! I will just say I danced around in a circle squeeing my lungs out. It’s happy news. I can’t wait to be able to tell you.
Now, on to the next thing: the mighty podcast. I’ll be doing a podcast, probably some time in late March/early April. And what will this podcast entail?
What I will answer: questions about writing, Danny Valentine, the Watchers, the Society, publishing, and general subjects.
What I won’t answer: Politics. Personal questions. And “how do I get an agent/publisher/contract” questions. I’ve been getting a lot of those lately.
So. Think of a question you’d like to ask me and send it to the above email address, and sometime in March we’ll have ourselves a little chat. Just me and you, dear Readers.
ALSO, don’t forget about the ongoing contests! So far the Japhrimel Slogan contest is getting the most response. I haven’t seen much art or fiction. *sad panda face* We’re getting near the deadline, so I’m hoping for a last-minute rush. Optimism strikes eternal.
Today is a lovely day, full of wind and sunshine. It’s a bit chilly, but spring is in the air and a bounce is in my step, for once. Off I go to make a dent in some copyedits, dear Reader. I hope you are having a wonderful week.
Cost of one movie ticket on Fandango: $10
Headache because of dehydration: annoying
Seeing a Bond movie with pretty blue-blue-eyed Daniel Craig running around and getting hit in the naughtybits with a big rope: priceless.
Yes, I went and saw Casino Royale. With the Sullen Teen, no less. I LOVE me some Bond movie action. Not as much as my sisters, mind you (especially the sis who was into MacGyver), but I love me some Bond action. And this isn’t the dapper Bond. This is a street-fighting, car-chasing, poker-playing, hard-drinking Bond. Daniel Craig has the prettiest blue eyes EVER, and some very nice shoulders.
The only problems with the movie were: the beginning credits look like the Seventies vomited all over them, and the Bond-In-Love scenes were so over-the-top you just knew (spoiler ahead) that the chick was going to bite it. You can’t sleep with Bond and live, you know. Which is why if I ever met him, I’d be careful to just be the sharp-tongued female foil who for some reason is immune to his manly charms.
Or something.
I also (gasp) went to a church yesterday.
No, I’m not turning religious. The Muse demanded some time in a Catholic church to feed the next Kismet book. Which I am NOT WORKING ON (do you hear me, Selkie?) but I am THINKING ABOUT. And after 2K words just fell out of my head yesterday on the Valentine book and I finally threw away the old outline (I should know better) I figured the Muse could do with a little feeding.
The other big thing that happened yesterday was the Cleaning. I rounded up everyone who lives here and set them to work. Front and back yard tidied? Check. The Princess’s room tidied? Check. Toys picked up? Check. Windows and mirrors cleaned? Check.
The Sullen Teen, who got the windows and mirrors job, even cleaned the outside of some of the windows. Which was very carefully not included in the job when I gave it to him. When I enquired, he hunched his shoulders and muttered, “Quite frankly, you’re not tall enough. I’ve got it.”
God bless kids.
The DHM actually managed to keep the kitchen from exploding while I was gone too. I came home to a clean kitchen and mostly-folded clothes. All in all, it was a good end to a weekend. Now the house is semi-clean, I’m going to ignore it for a few days while I work on the Book. Still sick of it, but at least it’s moving now. We’re in what used to be Venezuela, and all hell’s about to break loose when Danny finds out where the other half of the Knife is stored…
My weekly post is up at the Midnight Hour. It’s about monsters, what I think monsters are, and how to Love Them.
Giggle.
I’m taking the kids to the museum today to see the Egyptian exhibit, so this is short and sweet. I must write about what the Selkie and I did last night (it involves book restoration and a man who makes his own glue) but unfortunately I have no time.
Catch you on the flip side, Readers. Have a great weekend!
First of all, here’s an interview with Guillermo del Toro, director of Pan’s Labyrinth. (Just listening to him talking about the Spanish Civil War gives me shivers.) It’s a beautiful interview, very worth listening to. He talks about naming insects, loving monsters, and getting exorcised by his grandmother. He calls Frankenstein a beautiful metaphor (almost Miltonian) for teenage awkwardness.
It’s official. I now find this man unbearably hawt. I may have to add him next to Noam Chomsky as totally, incredibly, intellectually and hawt. It’s true what the Selkie says–geeks try harder, and they’re hotter.
Yesterday was a horrible day. You know the type of day when you wake up, open your eyes, and think, this isn’t going to end well. And the instant you get out of bed, you know you’re right. It was so bad I didn’t even want to cook. I did end up making a cake, which the pan grabbed and wouldn’t let go, so it was torn-up. I ended up calling the DHM and saying, “Guess what? You’re bringing home Mexican tonight, because I can’t cook.”
Bless his pointy little head. His response? “Sure, baby. Whatever you need.”
Add him to the list of hawtness. *grin*
I finally ended up going out to the track, doing eight laps and running for the last bit of it. I needed that. There’s something about feet pounding pavement, breath catching in the throat, cold air smashing like wine against the palate, the entire body running and alive, that manages to shake out all the badness.
Still, it took The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (love that Bogart) and a huge helping of Monty Python before I felt really okay again, and by then it was time for bed. My feeling, on laying down, was complete gratefulness that it was finally over and I could start again tomorrow.
I suppose I am an optimist. I was confident, just like Annie and Scarlett O’Hara, that tomorrow would be better. And so far, I’m right…but I’m cautious. I think it’ll take at least another jolt of coffee before I really think I’ve escaped.
Good luck, Readers. I hope your day turns out well.
Thsi morning I got an email from the Selkie bearing this link. It seems that every once in a while a fellow LJer will go through several thousand Very Bad Potterverse Fanfic Synopses and present her findings to us. If you’re a Potter fan, or if you had no idea how big the Potterverse has become, or if you’d like to laugh until your intestines feel sore, by all means go and read. Among my favorites are the “Stiff Dink” and the “Dead Dumbledore.”
You’ll see what I mean. Enjoy.
Next cool thing: when we went to Cinetopia to see Pan’s Labyrinth, there was something amazing before the show. It was a cellist, playing over a drone. Now I love Cinetopia because I like to be spoiled, but the cellist was really fantastic. His name’s Adam Hurst, and I just bought both his CDs off CDBaby. You know I’m all about the music, and for some reason Japhrimel just started talking like nobody’s business while listening to this guy’s music before the show. That kind of Muse crack doesn’t come along very often, so “grab it while you can” is my motto. It’s like Azam Ali, gorgeous ambient stuff.
The cellist himself appears to be hideously shy and uncomfortable with eyes on him unless he’s behind his instrument, which just makes him cute as a button. As someone with a terrific, mind-numbing fear of public speaking, I understand. Maybe I’ll do a post on public speaking one of these days. Apparently people would rather die than speak publicly, which puts politicians in a whole new category of “quite possibly not human.”
Last really cool thing: I’m reading Joe Meno’s Hairstyles of the Damned. It’s one of those books that remind me how glad I am I never have to deal with high school again. I wouldn’t be a teen again if you PAID me. The angst, the fear, the not knowing who you are…and your fellow carnivorous teens, of course, most of them as uncertain as you and maddened by the blood in the water.
Monk, you loaned me this book, and I can see why.
They sent me a form after I graduated, asking about my plans and if I ever intended to come back to a high school reunion. I believe what I wrote was along the lines of:
Hell no. That was the worst time in my life and I am so glad it’s over, and I didn’t like these people the first time around. What makes you think ten years will change my mind?
Which pretty much sums up how I feel about the whole deal. There is ONE person I’m still in tenuous contact with from my high-school days, and we were better friends to each other than our ages would have led people to believe. One. Person. Out of how many I went to school with? I loathed junior high and high school, not the least because we had come back to America and I was suffering severe culture shock. I mean, it took me months to refer to chips as “fries” and crisps as “chips.” I still slip sometimes and people give me that quizzical look. Ugh.
So. No high-school reunions for the Lili. Why would I want to be reminded of that place? It was horrible, painful, degrading, and about the only thing I learned between those hallowed walls was how to take a punch. The “education” didn’t even deserve the name, despite some motivated teachers (like Mme. P*****c, the French goddess) I was given very little in the way of grist for the active mill of my mind. If I hadn’t already been in the habit of rigorous study in subjects of my choice it might have gone very badly indeed.
Anyway. At least it’s a fast read. It’s as close to high school as I ever want to get. It reminds me of how glad I am to be (kind of) grown up, and how little I’m looking forward to seeing my babies go through that particular battle. The only awful thing about having kids is wanting to protect them so badly and sometimes being unable to.
Off I go to hit the treadmill, dear Readers. Have a happy Tuesday!
What a weekend. I was idiotically tired yesterday, having had an attack of insomnia Saturday night that left me gasping for air, completely winded. This was not the fault of the movie, mind you. It was merely stress.
I don’t care what you have to do. Sell the family silver and drive a hundred miles, pack your lunch and cancel that dinner you’ve been putting off anyway. The point is, drop everything and Go. See. This. Movie. It’s in Spanish with subtitles, so it’s not going to be playing everywhere, but this movie is worth at least a tank of gas, admission, and popcorn to see. Guillermo del Toro has struck gold. There is not a single wasted scene or line in this movie. It is soaked with beauty and terror, peril and wondrousness.
My post for the week is up over at The Midnight Hour, titled Life Doesn’t Stop For Writing. You can tell I’m a bit testy lately.
Last night at about seven I got the unholy urge to see a movie. “Do you mind if I go to a late movie?” I asked the DHM.
“Of course not. Go and have fun,” he replies, distractedly. He’s working on some design for a pier or something.
I put the ticket on hold (Fandango is my friend) and find out I’ve missed everything but the ten-fifteen showing. Which means I settle down and write while the kids play cards (or the Teen and the Princess play cards while the Little Prince shouts “Look at me! Look at me, Mom! Look at me, everyone!” while he stands on a stepstool in his Spiderman hooded sweatshirt.
After a while everyone under 18 is in bed and I’m putting my shoes on. “I think I’ve got a touch of cabin fever,” I announce.
The DHM snorts. “I knew that.”
Damn men, thinking they know everything.
I manfully restrain from any violence and hie myself hence. I went and saw Curse of the Golden Flower. It was two hours long, with no little people in the audience. I didn’t realize how jumpy and disturbed I was until halfway through.
Nobody was screaming for attention. Nothing was on fire or broken. The world hadn’t stopped.
It was very strange.
I came home and poured out another two thousand words in a couple of uninterrupted hours. I would have done more, too, because the house was quiet. But when you wake up with your face in your laptop, it’s time to quit. I hope I didn’t drool on the keyboard.
Anyway, I’ll review Golden Flower next week, if I remember to. Bottom line: Zhang Yimou. Twists, turns, ambiguity, soap-opera drama, and rich oversaturated color. This movie cost $45 million, and is well worth nine bucks to see just for the Muse crack alone. The Wiki is pretty interesting too.
Have a great weekend, Readers! I’m off to poke at the fifth Valentine book some more. We just had the laserifle in the cargo hold scene, and the betrayals are numbering four so far. It’s been a good couple of days.
Oh. My. God. Snagged from Cherie Priest this morning: Bruce Campbell’s Old Spice commercial.
Oh yes. My world has been officially rocked now. Like a big rocking thing.
Also rocking my world: I think Pan’s Labyrinth is opening in my area tomorrow. woot woot! Must go see with Selkie ASAP!
Last thing rocking my world: another 2K words yesterday. The betrayals continue apace, Leander is just about to show up with his trusty laserifle and the news that no, he’s not working for the Good Guys. Bwahahahaha!
Not in the rocking-world category but pretty cool: read in the NY Times yesterday that Barack Obama is considering a run for the presidency. I feel a jolt of 60’s-Kennedy-mania-esque excitement at the prospect. Someone in The Economist pointed out that Republicans would no doubt like to be matched against him, so they can hammer on his “inexperience.” He is, after all, only 45 and hasn’t been a Washington powermonger before. I’d say this is a good thing–do we really want more of the same old nasty slimy boy’s club?
And to those that say, “well, he might split the Democratic vote!” I’d reply, what, we’re not supposed to vote for whoever we think can best do the job anymore? When did our presidential elections become a matter of the lesser evil? What’s so bad about voting for the guy we think would be best for the job or representing us to the rest of the world?
Let’s not even talk about the 2000 and 2004 election shenanigans, all right? Else I might lose my cool, and that’s NEVER pretty.
Do we realize what we’ve got here? A woman (Hillary Clinton) and an African-American (Obama) both have a shot at running for President. There’s a female Speaker of the House. OMG. It’s so cool. I just wonder why it took so bloody long. Grrr.
Last thing, not quite rocking my world but pretty cool nonetheless. We got the World of Warcraft expansion yesterday. The Sullen Teen was so excited. His eyes were as big as a five-year-old’s on Christmas. He thanked me several times…before ignoring the existence of the rest of us and playing for five solid hours.
I call that a happy kid. Bless Amazon and the UPS man, for they brought us joy.
Oh, also last night? The Mormons came by for dinner. They left just when the discussion was getting good, but at least they both had a decent dinner–more than one bowl of smoked-gouda-and-chicken Two-Day Chili. With garlic bread and sourdough, I might add. Feeding the hungry and gently coaching the narrow, that’s me.
