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So. Getting your book published. A fun adventure, that. And one that’s getting more complicated by the moment.

For those of you not in the throes of trying to get your brilliant tome in front of readers’ eyeballs, here’s the basic setup: Writers want to write, so they do. Writers also want to be published, but more often than not, when dealing with traditional publishing (getting an agent, getting a publisher), they aren’t. Most writers—like, 99.999 percent of them (don’t ask me to source that number—I’m going on feel, here) end up on the scrap heap and their queries and sample pages shoved from the e-slush pile into the digital trash can or recycling bin. “Empty trash?” “Yes.” Munch. End of writing career.

But lo! A light in the darkness! E-publishing has arisen, and self-e-pubbing (I’ll call it SEP from now on, to save pixels) was not far behind. Where once self-publishers had to tussle with how many copies of their magnum opus to print…and where to store the leftovers that didn’t sell…or wrangling with print-on-demand businesses like Lulu, now they could upload their masterpieces and readers could download them instantly. No muss, no fuss, no paper—just rake in the profits. It’s a miracle, I tell ya.

And, as with all miracles, there are true believers and there are skeptics. Among my writer friends, there have evolved two camps: those who are faithful to what some might see as the pipe dream of traditional publishing, and those who have turned their back on the old-fashioned process and are wholeheartedly embracing SEP. Hallelujah. Let the debates begin.

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I’m a freak of nature. I’ve known that pretty much my whole life, but it’s days like these that just confirm the fact.

There I was, surfing the intertubes, reading the oh-so-essential entertainment news o’ the day, when I came across a shocking little tidbit. Seems some guy by the name of George Clooney broke up with his girlfriend.

Freak that I am, I sat back and uttered the profound observation, “Huh.” And moved on. Apparently I didn’t get the memo that I’m supposed to react with joy and rapture and renewed hope in my heart, along with millions of other women the world over (and, allegedly, on other planets as well), because now Mr. Clooney is “back on the market.” Rejoice!

As far as I can tell, this particular distinguished individual is supposed to be the pinnacle of manly perfection or something. But see, as a freak of nature, I lack the Clooney Lust gene. I will acknowledge that he is physically…proportionate and symmetrical (those are the secrets of attractiveness, right?)…and yet I look upon the man the way I view a fine antique, with appreciation but detachment.

Oh wait. I shouldn’t have said “antique”. I would never want to imply that the gentleman is old, as I’m pretty much of the same generation, albeit a few years younger. In fact, the grey hair and crow’s feet/laugh lines should be a turn-on for me. And yet they aren’t. I couldn’t even join in with the women posting all over the Webz today variations of “I’m free—can I be next?” and “George—call me!”

Quelle horreur! I’m a monster!

Instead, I started to analyze this Clooney phenomenon. I had to wonder…why? What is it that makes women go crazy for this guy?

After mulling it over for a while—truly, longer than I wanted to, but I was fascinated by the whole frenzy—I have come to a conclusion…and it ain’t necessarily pretty. Continue Reading »

This is a rant.

There’s no other word for it, so I’m not even going to be coy. This is a rant, plain and simple.

This is a rant about fifteen of my hard-earned dollars blown all to hell, immolated on the altar of alleged “popular entertainment.” And this is a rant about the kind of crap that gets passed off as said “popular entertainment.”

More specifically, this is a rant about a horribly written book, a novel that has just been made into a movie. I can’t speak for the movie, which I haven’t seen yet, but I am going to rant about the book. Because it sucks.

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Sad news: Fusker, the fierce, inimitable kitteh who owned James May of Top Gear fame (and famous for his stolen Lego likeness) was hit by a car and killed. He will be sorely missed. Safe passage across the Rainbow Bridge, dear cat. Rest well, chase butterflies, eat tuna.

Addendum: Behind-the-scenes video at the TG site includes the lads discussing Fusker’s passing in their usual ham-fisted way. Enjoy(?)

So? Is She Still Fat?

All right, let’s get down to it.

My last blog post (from last September—sorry about my negligence regarding keeping this blog timely) was about my ongoing struggle with my weight, and my last-ditch attempt to drop pounds using the HCG (human chorionic gonadotropin) weight-loss program, Releana*. But I never reported back to let my devoted blog readers (all two of you) know whether it worked or not.

So…whaddya think, no news is bad news? Did she do it? Did she survive? Did she go bankrupt trying to pay for the thing? Did she lose weight only to gain it all back “and then some” and is now hiding in an ice cave in an undisclosed location somewhere in the Arctic Circle?

Okay, I won’t keep you in suspense. Ready? I…

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