NTYs

Polite "No, thank you" professional e-mails are usually easy to compose after you've been published for a few years. In your rookie year you generally say yes to everything, mainly because you don't know any better. One or two faltering speeches at the Daughters of Nancy Drew or Sons of Heinlein club luncheons cures you of that pretty quick.

Having had enough colleagues' doors slammed in my face, I also believe in being as courteous as you can when you say no as a pro. It's hard to ask people for quotes, favors and so forth. I still pay the return postage to send back every unsolicited book or manuscript that is sent to me for quotes or votes for organization awards (on the latter, I haven't been a member of anything for years and still get them.)

I also try to explain the why behind every no, too, because I understand how a NTY can turn into Oh God She Hates My Guts and I Never Realized It in the mind of a colleague. Unless they use my explanation as a reason to start e-mail-arguing with me, and then I just have to shut it down with a "You're absolutely right, oh my, look at the time, must get back to work, see you" note.

Example: I am not now nor will I ever be interested in writing SF chick-lit. That is not because I secretly spit on chick-lit, futuristic romance, other female SF writers, or those who believe the melding of SF and chick-lit will create the next beeg genre trend. With SF, I do my own thing. I never do collaborations. Also, I know as much about feminine empowerment via fashion and footwear as I do nuclear warhead disarmament. So: Just. Not. Interested.

Here are some guidelines to politely saying No Thank You when your inbox starts overflowing with Would yous:

1. Be personal. This person thought enough of you to ask, you can think enough of them to spare them the form letter NTY.

2. Use humor whenever possible. A little laugh, even at your own expense, can ease some pain on the other side.

3. Be honest, not judgmental. It's okay to tell someone you're not into posing nude for the SFWA Writers in the Raw legal fund raiser calendar because your mom will kill you. It's not okay to suggest the requester get a body double for his/her own photo shoot -- even if the requester bears a striking resemblance to a bald warthog.

4. Say yes or no, not maybe, or probably, or possibly, etc. I had one writer do this to me when I was working on a press release list. I actually could not tell from the content of the response whether it was okay or not to add this person, and had to e-mail a second time to ask again.

5. Do not in the process of saying no ridicule the requester's charity, writer organization, friends, co-writers, or any other entity involved in the request. Exception: unless it's the Sisters of the Immaculate Love Scene, in which case, e-mail me for suggestions.

It's a given that the more popular your books become, the more often you will have to say "No, thank you." Only remember to say yes sometimes, too, especially to rookie writers looking for quotes. You never know when the next Stephen King or John Grisham may e-mail you with a nervous, "I know you must be extremely busy, but . . ."

Refs

Do you all have any frequently-visited internet reference link sites? Doesn't matter whether it's a general ref source like Refdesk.com, or writer-specific, such as Margaret Fisk's monster Writing Links page; I'm interested in the places you go most often.

If you don't mind sharing the wealth, post a URL or link to your ref hangouts in comments.

Hold the Roses

Read tonight in an old textbook on writing:

Flowery and extravagant diction interferes with a writer's doing justice to his subject.

The text goes on to talk about how writers often can't resist flowery diction, as they want to slap a coat of poetic varnish on dull old prose, i.e.:

Flowery: The respite from my studies was devoted to a sojourn at the ancestral mansion.

Plain English: I spent my vacation at my grandparents' house.

I know a couple of writers who write exactly like the flower power example minus the passive voice. They are acclaimed to the high heavens for the obscurity and beauty of their novels. The books don't sell, exactly, but apparently that's part of their priceless appeal, too. We all know how dull and vulgar it is to sell well.

I love poetry, but I can't read prose that has been lacquered into phony/pretty lines. It's like grading papers for a sixth grade creative writing class after they've seen Narnia or LOTR. Every other line is filled with phrases like denying the partaking and enduringly forever. I like plain words, not pretty. Pretty seems pretty shallow, while plain resonates with me on every level.

What do you guys think of flower power writers?

Friday 20

Is it animal, vegetable or mineral?

On the Shelf

Hit Waldenbooks on the way home tonight; spotted Marjorie M. Liu's new novel Shadow Touch up front mid-level on the new release wall and snagged it. Marjorie, you get the best damn cover art, I swear.

Lots of reprints and re-releases out; that seems to be standard for spring. Which is dumb, Publishing, because a lot of readers (like me) still have gift cards leftover from Christmas and we want to buy new stuff, not the retitleds/first chapter rewrittens/reprints by I'm Too Busy Giving Workshops at Paradise Cons and Hanging Out with My Fabulous Friends in the Tiki Bar To Write Anything New for You authors.

Found a Harlan Coben paperback I've been wanting to read -- Harlan rocks -- but after my last disastrous experiment with reading popular crime fiction (the offending superstar author shall remain nameless) I was hardly itching to give myself another migraine, so I skipped over to cruise Romance.

Located Minute by Minute, Jo Leigh's latest Blaze, and bought two copies as the girl on the cover art looks exactly like my baby sister. Vampire fiction is starting to flood the shelves the way romantic suspense and chick-lit have in years past. Came across an interesting little excerpt freebie book from St. Martin's for L.A. Banks' vampire novels parked on the new romance release shelf. Some nice bookseller had stocked the endcap with dark pink Waldenbooks printed shopping lists of all the new romances for the month as well as store bookmarks. Helpful stuff.

I like this particular Waldenbooks because they carry a lot of Ellora's Cave print novels. Today I found a bunch of Shiloh Walker's books there (always cool to see someone from the blogosphere in the store) and picked up her novel Mythe: Vampire to read.

Found another book by an author who has often irritated me in the past -- first time I've seen anything by this author in a store. Vague cover art, but nicely vague. Picked it up, skimmed the first ten pages, discovered the author's writing is just as annoying as the author. Possibly more so. Bought a copy and faced out the rest of the author's book anyway. Good for the soul, and I'm pretty sure my mom will like it. She's into (cough) long-winded, obnoxious writers.

Passed by the remainder table and had a look. I resist buying fiction remainders; I know they're more affordable and all but it bugs me to see them there, like abandoned dreams. If it's a hardcover and it tempts me, I'll go look for the paperback and buy that instead so the author gets something out of it. Yes, I'm an idiot. Anyway, found a version of the Apocrypha that I don't own, and picked up that one. Oddly I have no qualms about buying remaindered nonfiction or reference books. Shelf stock in those sections is really dicey; often the only time I find something good is when it hits the remainder table.

Grabbed a new Paperblanks journal as I finished one for January; rounded up the kids and finally checked out. Added the latest Magic Schoolbuses and some manga to the pile. The store clerk grinned at me. "My, you all like to read, don't you?"

That we do.

Phoning It In 2

(Excerpt from the WIP, first/daily edit notes)

Not often a girl finds all the justification she needs for a complete nervous breakdown laying (1) on the living room carpet.

The cat sniffed the glaive I'd dreamed of last night and looked up at me. Weren't you going to boil this baby in peroxide or something? (2)

I was, if I could bring myself to touch it again, but the phone was ringing. I set down my mug and picked up the receiver. "What?"

"PMSing, sweetheart?" It was William, sounding smug.

How had he gotten my number? "What?"

"Oh, dear, are you busy? Is he big? Hung? Easily sedated?"

I took the phone away from my ear and stared at it. I was facing a manifested delusion, my judgment was impaired, I had now-you-seem-'em-now-you-don't injuries, I was hearing the guy who had done it, and William wanted to chat like a girlfriend with an itch? (3)

I put the phone back to my ear. "What do you want?"

"All of the above, with a can of low-fat whipped cream and a king size four poster bed with a waterproof mattress protector," he told me. "But I digress. My love, much as I dislike whining, I have nothing but cold."

I imagined toddling (4) over to his apartment and clubbing him over the head with the rod-end of the glaive. Now that would make a decent reality test. "Cold?"

"Water, darling, water. Pouring from yon taps. Can't you hear the cubes tinkling as they hit the porcelain?" He heaved a sigh. "I also have no cheesecake with which to bribe you, but there is this incredibly delish, tragically straight young man of my acquaintance who would adore making yours. Would you consider him an adequate substitute?"

I thought of Chane and swallowed a sudden mouthful of spit. "Not really." (5)

"Not enough? Well, (6) my trusty crotchometer indicates that on the veg scale, he’d come in around cucumber."

"Cucumber." (7)

"The veg scale, sweetie. As in comparative sized (8) vegetables. You know, starts at cherry tomato and ends at zucchini." William yawned. "An ivory, not ebony, cucumber, by the way, if that is a concern. Perhaps a tad on the wandish side, but certainly long enough to leave an impression."

He was talking about the guy's dick, I realized. Like to him it was a slice of the food pyramid. Then again, who was I to judge? I'd just been fondly remembering Frenching a snake-tongued demon version of my wacko ex-boyfriend, the mob boss. "Great."

"I'll trade an intro for thirty minutes of steaming bathwater, what do you say?" he wheedled. "Can you coax that basement monster to relinquish that much?"

"Maybe." (9) Is there a monster in the basement? I wondered idly. I had Chane haunting my dreams. I had his voice in my head and, apparently, a thing for demons. I had imaginary bruises showing on and disappearing from my face. I had a freaking medieval dream weapon laying (1) on the floor in the living room. (10)

A monster in the basement would make a nice change.

"I know you’re a chick of few words," William said, "but this monosyllabic side of you is starting to worry me."

Edit notes:

(1) Is it laying or lying? Can never remember, check grammar book.
(2) Production note: If I use just this section as a teaser, no one will understand this ref.
(3) & (10) Echo each other too closely.
(4) Don't like toddling, replace with wandering, going, or something else.
(5) Not monosyllabic, change to No.
(6) Unnecessary, delete.
(7) Not monosyllabic, change to Huh.
(8) Hyphenate? or change comparative to comparatively.
(9) Not monosyllabic, change to Sure.

Spell/grammar check snags: glaive, PMSing, 'em, delish, Chane, crotchometer, veg, wandish, Frenching, bathwater

Phoning It In

(Excerpt from the WIP)

Not often a girl finds all the justification she needs for a complete nervous breakdown laying on the living room carpet.

The cat sniffed the glaive I'd dreamed of last night and looked up at me. Weren't you going to boil this baby in peroxide or something?

I was, if I could bring myself to touch it again, but the phone was ringing. I set down my mug and picked up the receiver. "What?"

"PMSing, sweetheart?" It was William, sounding smug.

How had he gotten my number? "What?"

"Oh, dear, are you busy? Is he big? Hung? Easily sedated?"

I took the phone away from my ear and stared at it. I was facing a manifested delusion, my judgment was impaired, I had now-you-seem-'em-now-you-don't injuries, I was hearing the guy who had done it, and William wanted to chat like a girlfriend with an itch?

I put the phone back to my ear. "What do you want?"

"All of the above, with a can of low-fat whipped cream and a king size four poster bed with a waterproof mattress protector," he told me. "But I digress. My love, much as I dislike whining, I have nothing but cold."

I imagined toddling over to his apartment and clubbing him over the head with the rod-end of the glaive. Now that would make a decent reality test. "Cold?"

"Water, darling, water. Pouring from yon taps. Can't you hear the cubes tinkling as they hit the porcelain?" He heaved a sigh. "I also have no cheesecake with which to bribe you, but there is this incredibly delish, tragically straight young man of my acquaintance who would adore making yours. Would you consider him an adequate substitute?"

I thought of Chane and swallowed a sudden mouthful of spit. "Not really."

"Not enough? Well, my trusty crotchometer indicates that on the veg scale, he’d come in around cucumber."

"Cucumber."

"The veg scale, sweetie. As in comparative sized vegetables. You know, starts at cherry tomato and ends at zucchini." William yawned. "An ivory, not ebony, cucumber, by the way, if that is a concern. Perhaps a tad on the wandish side, but certainly long enough to leave an impression."

He was talking about the guy's dick, I realized. Like to him it was a slice of the food pyramid. Then again, who was I to judge? I'd just been fondly remembering Frenching a snake-tongued demon version of my wacko ex-boyfriend, the mob boss. "Great."

"I'll trade an intro for thirty minutes of steaming bathwater, what do you say?" he wheedled. "Can you coax that basement monster to relinquish that much?"

"Maybe." Is there a monster in the basement? I wondered idly. I had Chane haunting my dreams. I had his voice in my head and, apparently, a thing for demons. I had imaginary bruises showing on and disappearing from my face. I had a freaking medieval dream weapon laying on the floor in the living room.

A monster in the basement would make a nice change.

"I know you’re a chick of few words," William said, "but this monosyllabic side of you is starting to worry me."

Bibbidee

There are unpublished writers who have plenty of talent and are producing professional level work, and yet cannot get a proposal in front of an editor from a major publisher because the publisher doesn't accept unagented material. These same writers have shopped around for agents, but experienced agents rarely take on unpublished writers.

It's a nasty loop, and the one thing about the industry that I think needs to change (not that I have any practical solution to offer; I'm thinking wave a magic wand and make the problem go away.)

If you could wave a magic wand over the publishing industry and change one thing about it, what would it be, and why?

All That Glitz

One of my childhood hobbies was finding and saving pictures of ornate, heavy silver tea services like this one. I'd never actually seen one up close, but the ones described in stories about England dazzled me. My mom encouraged this, as it was less destructive than other hobbies of mine, like digging deep ditches in the backyard in hopes of striking oil or a vein of gold.

To the kid me, that silver tea service equaled the proverbial spoon. I knew I'd never have one; you had to be born to things like that, but I dreamed. In my fantasies, that tea service commanded almost mystical admiration and respect. You might live in a single-wide with a rusted-out Impala up on cinderblocks in the weed patch of your front yard, but if you used a silver pot to pour your Lipton, you still had Some Class.

My mother, knowing my secret daydreams, stunned me years later when she gave me a silver tea service as a wedding gift. I almost fainted when I opened the box. That first year, I used my silver tea service with the aplomb of a New Wife With Some Class. I invited my girlfriends over for an English high tea, complete with cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off and crumpets and real butter and cream. I poured for everyone, just like the wonderful English ladies in the books I'd read.

The girlfriends were a little mystified by the cucumber sandwiches ("You put butter on them?") and one compared crumpets to naked Egg McMuffins, but they seemed suitably impressed. They came for another tea or two, but then they made excuses not to. Tea was okay, but it was more their speed to go shoot pool and drink beer down at the local watering hole, and why didn't I come with them?

I resisted the dubious charms of the tavern and the cue, because I had Some Class. I started going to tea shops and tea rooms to ooooh over the expensive stuff, sit by myself and watch the lovely ladies of the silver tea service. I felt in awe of those finely dressed, elegant, obviously wealthy women, who demonstrated their exquisite manners, and engaged in small talk. Often they wore gloves -- real, white ones with pearl buttons at the wrist -- like little girls do at Easter for church. They never appeared agitated or angry or even mildly steamed. Their small gestures seemed as smooth and slow as if they were underwater.

I was never invited to join any of their teas (a few called me over now and then, thinking I was the waitress) but oh, how I wished I could. To be a part of those refined circles instead of eavesdropping on them. To have a reason to produce languid gestures and serene smiles. To know what they knew: the confidence only wealth, acceptance and respect bestows. So maybe eight-ball was a lot more fun; I told myself that was single-wide mentality. I could learn plenty from those tea room ladies. They had So Much Class, and it was all so pretty.

At home, I had to hand wash my silver service, naturally, and polish it weekly to prevent tarnish from marring it. Some Class required a lot of upkeep. Every person who came into my home had to be artfully guided by the hutch to see it. I never bragged, because the very presence of the silver service whispered for me: Hey, Baby, She's Got It.

The second year some odd little dark spots appeared on the bottom of my silver tea pot, spots that no amount of attention and care could remove. In fact, polishing made them bigger. Concerned, I mentioned this to the British lady who owned the most expensive tea room in town.

"If it's American made," she told me, "the silver plating is probably worn thin." She recommended a product that restored the look of silver to tarnished, cheap sets like mine.

I went home feeling a bit tarnished myself. Thin. Cheap. The look of silver. Silly that I hadn't ever realized my set wasn't the real deal, but I knew nothing about silver. That my mother couldn't have afforded to buy anything but silver plate had never registered.

Not Classy. Single-wide pitiful, really. And not my silver-plated service, either -- me. I'd assumed I had what I would likely never possess. I'd tried to go where I would never fit in. I'd been a tea room groupie, longing for acceptance and respect from women who mistook me for the help. I knew nothing about tea except what I'd read in books, and I'd probably gotten half of that wrong, too.

A very unpleasant lesson, served up on a silver-plated platter.

I might have saved up for a solid silver service (back then it would have only taken me seven or eight years) but the glitz was gone. After that I still used the service, but not to impress my friends. I used it for every day, ordinary teas. I stopped hanging out to silently gawk at the lovely ladies of the tea rooms. When I had tea, it was only for me, to be enjoyed while I read a good book, or listened to some music, or watched the rain fall.

The little teas I made for myself remained a habit. Over time I became more daring and, like an armchair voyager to unknown countries, I started trying out new teas. I sampled imported tea from England, and China, and India. I found real Irish black tea has ten times the wallop of Starbuck's coffee. I discovered delicate white teas, exotic flavored teas, and a few unhappy revelations, such as the Earl Grey tea so favored by Her Majesty tasted as if I were drinking perfume.

Despite my care (and I never stopped caring for it, even after the glitz had nearly worn away) the silver set slowly corroded over the years. Finally a weld broke on the teapot and it began to leak. I donated the usable pieces to a thrift shop and let my crafty neighbor turn the leaky pot into a "shabby chic" planter. I went out and bought a replacement service; an inexpensive but attractive set in stoneware to match my every day dishes. Dishwasher safe, durable, and not so much as a fleck of glitz. It kept my tea hot and looked nice on the table, which was all that mattered.

The girlfriends who dropped by my house weren't especially dazzled by my humble stoneware, but it didn't scare them off to the pool-hall, either. They giggled over my tales of Around the World in 80 Teas, and tested baking experiments, like my versions of Dundee cake, and tart cherry-vanilla scones, and Brazo de Gitano. We swapped stories and recipes and laughed a lot.

Tea is a daily part of my life now. This morning I drank my breakfast brew from a big mug with a Charles Wysocki cats-and-books design. Tonight I'm brewing a pot of green tea to drink from tiny cups like these before we go to bed. Both the mug and the tea cups are precious to me, not for their monetary value, but because they were gifts from friends.

As for the glitz, well, I no longer covet things that require endless polishing, or the wearing of white gloves, or the cutting off of crusts. Like so many things in my life, it's what I love that's important, not how impressive it looks, and the people who share it with me, not the ones who never will.

Perplexed

When a literary writer SPAMs me about the release of his new book (as so many do these days) why would he think the word "Ballsey" and a wry description of one of his testicles appearing on the cover art would entice me to buy it? Is this like some new shock-promo thing?

No sale here, pal, sorry. I am kind of curious to see* the cover art, though.

*Went and looked it: no testicle, only an accidental (or artfully-placed?) shadow on the inner thigh. I should probably embarrass the author and link to it, but I'm feeling too mellow. And dude, if you're reading this? Do the reading public a favor and stop posing for your covers. Fabio you're not.

Not a Dime Ten

Ten More Things to Distract Bill Peschel from Writing

Freeware caution: always scan free downloads of anything for bugs and other threats before dumping the programs into your hard drive.

1. The Netter.com is giving away free downloads of The Big Book of Web Design Freebies, which promises "1000's of free webmaster resources, freeware and tools for web design."

2. eQit all-in-one freeware offers a clock, diary, notepad, program launcher and contact database; dockable, re-sizeable and configurable.

3. Freeware Arena is giving away an ebook about freeware sites here.

4. Manage your agendas, activities, notes, contacts, documents and so forth with Kplan Personal.

5. Paperless Printer is an ebook maker and document exchange utility.

6. Softboard.net has two freeware programs available: Photo2Web Publisher, a "useful program that allows you to easy publish photos on your website. It creates thumbnails, resize photos and generate HTML pages"; and PhotoView, "an easy and compact photo viewer for Windows. It allows you to view and organize your digital photos easily and comfortably."

7. Pindersoft.com has two freebies of interest to writers, PS Whiteboard and Floating Clock.

8. Send to Notepad is a neat little utility tool to cut down on the cut and paste time -- click on the StN task bar icon and your highlighted text is copied to notepad.

9. Time Sentry offers "a small, multi-purpose calendar and time application designed to make finding out date and time information easy and fast."

10. Xint is a freeware alternative to Windows notepad.

Oddities

I like to look around the internet for freeware. Writers are generally poor; we need free stuff. I think (when possible) it's also a good idea to test drive freeware, lite and trial downloads before you invest in expensive software.

On my searches I do find some oddities that I save in a junk file. Joke programs that actually do nothing, like the Penis Size-O-Matic, or fandom-type stuff, such as the Matrix Code Emulator screensaver program. I find virtual widgets annoying, so out of spite I'll trash links like Konfabulator. I also like freeware that is writer-specific versus general info programs such as Kwik Facts.

I'm becoming a little leery of freeware sites such as another virtual sticky notes program, SyncNotes, which require registration before the downloads can be accessed -- if they're giving it away, why do they need the registration? What are they doing with that info? Is it just another SPAM addy collector? I wonder.

Then there are the programs I'm simply not sure about, like SLang, which is meant for screenwriters but may or may not be useful to writers. I wish I had time to try them all out myself, but as I found out tonight with a freeware program from Europe, some are so complicated I'd have to reset ten thousand things on my system before they'll even run.

Tomorrow I'll put up another bunch of freeware links for the Monday ten, and eventually I hope to compile a master list of freeware for writers and stick it somewhere here where you all can explore it at your leisure. To help me with my future hunts, what type of freeware programs are you all most interested in finding?

1

In keeping with the week's unofficial brevity theme: describe your novel, your body of work, or yourself in comments -- and use only a single word.

I'll start: insurgent.

Sinclair

Now that James Frey has been fried, we have a long-lost letter surfacing which questions author Upton Sinclair's ethics. Is that timing, or what?

Is this the beginning of open season on nonfic and memoir authors? Hard to say. Frey's faux past has stirred his colleagues to offer so many righteous and indignant rants that finding a hooker in a convent would likely cause less pious fuss. I do think the truth is important, even if it only serves as a cautionary tale for future writers. But when the soapbox becomes an open mike night stage, and those who climb on it start sounding like the cast of A Chorus Line, then it may be time to move on.

At least Oprah won't be able to book Sinclair on the show. Not without a backhoe, anyway -- he's been dead for 38 years.

Friday 20

Ask away.

(The explanation of the Friday 20 is here.)

Brief Me

Brevity appeals to me. I fell in love with brevity code in the military. One-liners are my favorite type of joke. When I see a one-word title on a cover, I'm instantly drawn to the book. Ogden Nash is one of my personal heroes.

Storytellers are spinners, not tailors. It's difficult for us to be brief when we have so much story in our heads. Even on the internet, the kingdom of acronymous, we're often too wordy (and I am as guilty of this as any writer, especially when I feel passionately about something like, hey, brevity.)

Today while I was talking with a sales rep from a completely different industry, she related this observation: people remember advertising with images and single words and phrases more so than ads with blocks of text -- even if they're a captive audience and have nothing to do but look at the ad.

Makes sense to me. Attention spans are short these days. Both men and women are busier; we work long hours, have more responsibilities, and we're tired. Time is a precious commodity we don't want to waste.

Now and then I challenge writers to trim their pitches. I see it as a necessary skill, and you never know when you may need a quick pitch. Brevity with impact is even more important, because if you don't have significant wattage, you're not going to dazzle the editor.

Consider trimming down when you work on the following:

1. Title: Your title, like cover art, is a selling point. It doesn't have to be one word, but it should convey your story's power. Change titles as often as you like until you find one that works (I often wonder how well StarDoc would have done if I had stuck with its original title, Border FreeClinic.)

2. Query letter: My advice is keep it to three paragraphs and no more than one page. The shorter it is, the more likely the editor will read the entire letter.

3. Synopsis: Get out of the storyteller's mindset and into a more journalistic approach. Resist the urge to persuade or impress the editor, and discard the lyrical in favor of the concise and powerful. Don't worry; you'll have plenty of room to be pretty in the novel.

4. First three chapters: These make or break your pitch. If your first three chapters are a set-up, travelogue, droning narrative or some other form of writer security blanket, delete them and start your novel with chapters four, five and six.

More info:

Strunk's Elements of Composition; scroll down to #13. Omit needless words.

In Writer Trick #7 from the old weblog I showed how to condense the passage of time in a scene.

Columbia University's Writing Summaries.

Jonathan Treisman's Writing Loglines that Sell is geared toward screenwriters but will work for novelists, too.

The University of Pittsburgh's How to Summarize.

Four Score

Want to be a terribly hip writer but can't fathom how to write the pointless prose? Try out the Random H.P. Lovecraft Story Generator.

Not for depressed people: crack open a Misfortune Cookie.

If you don't know, chances are Mr. Smarty Pants does.

Marjorie will appreciate this one: the X-Men Random Story Generator.

UnMasked Man

For all those who have always wondered about the real identity of Mad Max Perkins from BookAngst 101, he's been unofficially unmasked.

Added: A few folks have e-mailed asking for my personal reaction. As Dan and I work for the same publisher, I think it's probably a good thing that I didn't call him a jerk in any of the e-mails we exchanged, even when I was tempted to. It also explains some remarks he made to me, and confirms some suspicions. It even made the Breast Cancer Foundation some money. Anyway, I wish him best of luck with pushing his evidently fabulous new author.

Knee-Jerks

Ten Things That Instantly Bug Me, and (if I Know) Why

1. Artificial Tanning Products: Because they're dumb. Ladies, when you dye your hides with this glop, you don't look tan. You look orange. It fools no one. Stop it.

2. Balloons: PCBPGTSD (post childhood birthday party game traumatic stress disorder) induced dislike. It bugs me simply to hear them being inflated.

3. Being Fed: Have no idea why. Just let me eat my own food, thank you.

4. Grope-huggers: Dishonest. Either hug me, or cop a feel, don't try to do both.

5. Mouth-kissing Strangers: Fastidiousness. Besides, you don't know where my mouth has been.

6. Pantyhose: Discomfort. A man invented them as a torture device for big girls. And I would personally like five minutes alone with the genius who developed "Sheer Energy" pantyhose.

7. Pet Names for Grown Men like "Snookums": Please. I call the dog things like that.

8. Pointy-toed cowboy boots: Gratis Stephen King's The Stand. Since reading it, I've thought they were creepy-looking.

9. Talking or animated stuffed teddy bears: not a clue. I can't stand the damn things.

10. Underwire Bras: Distaste. They're horribly uncomfortable and too symbolic of what women used to do to their bodies. The corset died a long time ago; can we get rid of the last symbolic whalebone now?

What are some of the things that get a knee-jerk reaction out of you, and why?

Trends

Romantic suspense, chick-lit, and vampire fiction all have one thing in common: they're powerful trends that changed the course of many a career. Predicting trends in the industry is like playing a stock market on Thorazine; you have to think two years ahead before you invest.

Take the micro-trends in various types of historical fiction over the last couple of years. I think they're tremors, gradually building up to something bigger. I also think the reason that they haven't yet is because most historical fiction is not written to appeal to the mass market, or be accessible to the average reader. There are also some story elements missing. Think of how well Dan Brown has done simply by following the basic story line of Raiders of the Lost Ark in The Da Vinci Code (not that I'm accusing him of plagiarism. I know I'd have to stand in line.)

I don't think a writer should write for a trend, but they bear watching in the event you have something that will fit into a trend. It's also fun to try to predict what readers will want down the road (because you know if I'm right about historical fiction, I'm going to rub it in big time.)

What do you guys see as the potential trend-makers in the next couple of years?