So, we've embarked on a little experiment. Check it out. I don't think there's any possibility of failure here. It's about exploring my options in this changing publishing environment.
www.penandprejudice.com
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Made a Decision Today: Campaign Week One
I have a finished book that can't find a home. I worked on it for a year and have been shopping it for nearly eight months. I could say that the market sucks right now and make a lot of excuses about how the demise of Borders and the explosion of e-publishing has changed the submission game. All this is true, but it doesn't change the really salient fact here: it's still on my hard drive and not in your hot little hands.
I believe in this book. It's a Jane Austen pastiche, essentially, a modern take on Austen's Pride and Prejudice, with some crossover with Bridget Jones' Diary meets I Don't Know How She Does It. There's a wee side bit about trying to write and not feed your kids Cheerios for dinner every night, and some meta on writing in general. The book is extremely faithful to the original plot line, except our heroine isn't a 19th-century unmarried woman in a society where marriage is the only game in town and she doesn't have the money or a title to attract suitors. My heroine is a woman who's trying to succeed as a genre writer while raising her kids and working full time. I'd like to think their sense of integrity is the same. Oh, we also have a dishy male suitor who pushes all the wrong buttons, but by the end of the book ends up pushing all the right ones.
So, I'm taking the plunge into self-publishing. I'm done with sending out endless queries. I toyed with sending it directly to smaller romance publishers to market and bypassing the agent route, but this takes an inordinate amount of time, and I feel I'm out of time. Do I want to wait another six months for a response to my submission(s). No, I do not. The market is only going to get worse, not better. I thought I'd use this space as a "travelogue" of sorts, documenting my experiment with the "new" market.
Certainly I can't do worse. If it sits on my hard drive, I won't make ANY sales.
Campaign Week One
1. Read through it one more time for typos.
By the way, the title is Pen and Prejudice.
I believe in this book. It's a Jane Austen pastiche, essentially, a modern take on Austen's Pride and Prejudice, with some crossover with Bridget Jones' Diary meets I Don't Know How She Does It. There's a wee side bit about trying to write and not feed your kids Cheerios for dinner every night, and some meta on writing in general. The book is extremely faithful to the original plot line, except our heroine isn't a 19th-century unmarried woman in a society where marriage is the only game in town and she doesn't have the money or a title to attract suitors. My heroine is a woman who's trying to succeed as a genre writer while raising her kids and working full time. I'd like to think their sense of integrity is the same. Oh, we also have a dishy male suitor who pushes all the wrong buttons, but by the end of the book ends up pushing all the right ones.
So, I'm taking the plunge into self-publishing. I'm done with sending out endless queries. I toyed with sending it directly to smaller romance publishers to market and bypassing the agent route, but this takes an inordinate amount of time, and I feel I'm out of time. Do I want to wait another six months for a response to my submission(s). No, I do not. The market is only going to get worse, not better. I thought I'd use this space as a "travelogue" of sorts, documenting my experiment with the "new" market.
Certainly I can't do worse. If it sits on my hard drive, I won't make ANY sales.
Campaign Week One
1. Read through it one more time for typos.
By the way, the title is Pen and Prejudice.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Book Review: One Day by David Nicholls
I find this book very analogous to "Eat, Pray, Love." I really enjoyed the writing style of the book, but ultimately the book fell apart for me. I assume that this writer is the Nicholas Sparks of Britain. Being British, of course he's much more erudite and funny, but the feel of this book is the same as his American counterpart: high-brow popular romance that you're not too embarrassed to be seen with. Scratch that. I would never read a Nicholas Sparks book in public. I would have no problem reading David Nicholls on the subway. Again, a smart, engaging book that unfortunately is without a heart.
I'm not going to talk about the ending, because it seems to me that by the time I had reached the ending I was up to my eyeballs in disenchantment, but suffice it to say, David, what in the HELL were you thinking? Did you think this would elevate it to literature light? Catapult it out of clever romance into something less cheesy? I'm really curious as to your motivation.
Anyway, this is the story of Emma and Dexter and their twenty-year friendship. It might have been a little more ambitious if Emma had been the wanker and Dexter the decent one, but why quibble at this point. There's a nice plot device where we see these two and where they are in their respective lives every St. Swithin's Day. The major problem is that Dexter is too much of an asshole that Emma's love for him starts to undermine her character. She's presented as someone whose integrity is essentially Dexter's port in a storm, and although she cuts him loose at various points in their friendship, these seem like life-saving maneuvers on her part, not kicking his shallow ass to the curb maneuvers. This continuously undercuts HER characterization. She has a series of her own slightly unethical relationships, which I suppose are supposed to humanize her, but if she's willing to sleep with her boss, then why isn't she willing to compromise herself with Dexter who she's very much in love with? I don't understand.
The reader becomes very invested in these characters as the novel moves forward over the years, although Dexter's marriage is something of a cypher, as is Emma's transformation to best-selling author. All of a sudden Emma is chic just like Dexter suddenly falls in love with an ice maiden. These transitions are jarring, but I sort of went with it, but then as the ending unfolded I really resented them. Rather like eating a cookie that I thought was okay at the time, but then realized that it gave me a stomach ache thirty minutes later.
We do not understand why Emma continues to love Dexter until a series of scenes at the very end of the novel. Again, I don't quite understand the motivation of tacking this on at the very end. Because by this point, we STILL don't like Dexter and that dislike isn't dislodged by the touching scenes at the end. It's a little too little and far too late.
I'm not going to talk about the ending, because it seems to me that by the time I had reached the ending I was up to my eyeballs in disenchantment, but suffice it to say, David, what in the HELL were you thinking? Did you think this would elevate it to literature light? Catapult it out of clever romance into something less cheesy? I'm really curious as to your motivation.
Anyway, this is the story of Emma and Dexter and their twenty-year friendship. It might have been a little more ambitious if Emma had been the wanker and Dexter the decent one, but why quibble at this point. There's a nice plot device where we see these two and where they are in their respective lives every St. Swithin's Day. The major problem is that Dexter is too much of an asshole that Emma's love for him starts to undermine her character. She's presented as someone whose integrity is essentially Dexter's port in a storm, and although she cuts him loose at various points in their friendship, these seem like life-saving maneuvers on her part, not kicking his shallow ass to the curb maneuvers. This continuously undercuts HER characterization. She has a series of her own slightly unethical relationships, which I suppose are supposed to humanize her, but if she's willing to sleep with her boss, then why isn't she willing to compromise herself with Dexter who she's very much in love with? I don't understand.
The reader becomes very invested in these characters as the novel moves forward over the years, although Dexter's marriage is something of a cypher, as is Emma's transformation to best-selling author. All of a sudden Emma is chic just like Dexter suddenly falls in love with an ice maiden. These transitions are jarring, but I sort of went with it, but then as the ending unfolded I really resented them. Rather like eating a cookie that I thought was okay at the time, but then realized that it gave me a stomach ache thirty minutes later.
We do not understand why Emma continues to love Dexter until a series of scenes at the very end of the novel. Again, I don't quite understand the motivation of tacking this on at the very end. Because by this point, we STILL don't like Dexter and that dislike isn't dislodged by the touching scenes at the end. It's a little too little and far too late.
Book Review: The Magician King by Lev Grossman
Lev Grossman recently wrote an article about being both a writer and a critic, and the potential ethical landmines. I wrestle with this concept a lot. Okay, I'm not a critic. I'm a reader who has opinions about books. He's the book critic for Time, which means he has oodles more cred in this department than I do. Although I continue to rumble the issue around in my mind, the bottom line is, I guess, that I'm a writer and I read. I strive to be the best writer I can, and I also have opinions about the books I read. I think we have to leave it at that. My writing needs to stand on its own terms, separate from how I view other writers' works. Also, inherent in having a foot in both worlds is that if you don't think I am uber critical of my own writing and fully aware of all its faults, there's a bridge in Brooklyn I want to sell you.
Anyway, onto the review. Some months back on this blog I reviewed Grossman's book The Magicians. An admitted Harry Potter fanatic, I inhaled this book and reveled in its strengths and forgave many of its weaknesses because the world-building was so fascinating and beautifully written. The moribund characterization of the protagonist, Quentin, was something of a warning bell, but in a well-written book there is often an energy that will carry you along, successfully eliding over the sticky bits, and this was such a book. I ended that review with a bit of a "hmmmm" about Quentin, but all in all, a very enjoyable, fascinating read.
*****SPOILERS*****
In The Magician King we return to Fillory, where Quentin, Janet, Elliott, and Julia reign as monarchs. Monarchs of what I can't say. They essentially do nothing. Their jobs seem nothing more than titles as they faff away their days doing, well, nothing; this becomes very important by the end of the book, IMO. Two competing story lines fill out of the bulk of the book: Quentin's quest to become some sort of hero (why he is compelled to become a hero when he was clearly the hero in the last book is inexplicable--defeating Martin Chatwin wasn't enough?), and the back story of Julia's quest to assume her rightful place as a magician. In a fully successful novel, two competing story lines often ramp up the tension as the reader bounces back and forth from one cliffhanger to another.
Interestingly, although nearly a third of the book is back story (usually a pacing killer), Julia's story dominates this novel completely. She is accessible and sympathetic as a character in all the ways that Quentin is not, although neither character is particularly nice. Quentin began this series as a smart-ass arrogant know-it-all, and he finishes the series to date basically the same. I don't see much of a difference between the Quentin at the end of Book 1 and Quentin at the end of Book 2. In fact, his odd friendship with Benedict feels out of place; shoehorned in as a plot device. There was a lot of tell not show in this book, with Quentin's friendship with Benedict only one example. There was a lot of, well, I don't know why I liked him, but I did. I don't know why I need to travel to the underworld to talk to a kid that I haven't really connected with and who clearly doesn't like me, but I do. I get the sense that Grossman is trying to elevate Quentin's character by these acts of bravery, and yet, IMO, they don't work because Quentin as a character hasn't grown enough to successfully explain his motivations. We are left with a "I must, therefore I do, otherwise the plot won't move forward" type of sensibility.
Julia on the other hand! Wow, I loved her back story: her isolation, her slowly disintegrating relationship with her family, and her choosing magic over her family. THIS was what was missing in the first book with the Brakebills students. How their relationships with their parents were so abysmal that pretty much across the board they were able to dust off these relationships like so much dandruff. Not Julia, her story was beautifully handled. I found myself wanting to skim the "present day" Quentin story to get to Julia's back story because it was so compelling. Her characterization was flawless, which is why I don't get why Quentin is STILL a sarcastic wanker. Clearly, Grossman is capable of writing a complex, fascinating sympathetic character complete with warts and flaws. Unfortunately, it's not his protagonist.
This is one of those unusual situations where the events that surround a main character should change him/her but do not. I think that part of the problem is Quentin's continuous snarky asides; they undercut the tragedy. By the time we reach the end of the book and Quentin faces the ultimate tragedy, there is no sense that Quentin is capable of mourning, because he's not even mourning Alice in this novel. She's become the "She Who Must Not Be Named" character that no one dare mention. Which means that the one avenue whereby we could see a wounded Quentin is cut off.
So we come to the end of the book. I found the last twenty pages inexplicable. I couldn't understand the logic behind them. It just didn't make sense. You banish the one person responsible for saving the magical world because he doesn't have a passport?????????????????????????????????? Excuse me! And everyone around him is like, sorry, buddy, those are the breaks. Catch you on the flip side. The loss of Quentin's crown means there is no place for him in Fillory, except he does BUGGAR ALL, so WTF. It feels like he's merely a placeholder, his crown nothing more than a passport. Clearly these royal roles mean nothing because they are casually handed out like a box of chocolates. Josh. Poppy. You're up! Why couldn't they have created yet another role for him, because, frankly, his role as king seems equally manufactured.
It's obvious that there will be yet another book in this series, which is why Quentin is yet AGAIN in exile from Fillory. I anticipate in Book 3 he will either resurrect Alice or he will meet Alice2. I think that Grossman could have gone a long way in humanizing Quentin if he'd had him faffing about much less and mourning Alice much more. At this point Quentin is pretty much in the same place at the end of Book 2 as he was at the end of Book 1. He hasn't moved that much as a character. He announces he wants to be a hero, the genesis of which is never explained. Why does he want to be a hero? I'm still wondering. To assuage his conscience over Alice's death? To save others because he couldn't save her? I honestly don't know. All I know is that this was an exceptionally clumsy end to a book that had many moments of elegant, punchy writing.
At this point, Grossman's sobriquet as the writer of the adult Harry Potter has even more cred as he begins to share J. K. Rowling's fatal flaw: exceptional world-building at the expense of his characters.
Anyway, onto the review. Some months back on this blog I reviewed Grossman's book The Magicians. An admitted Harry Potter fanatic, I inhaled this book and reveled in its strengths and forgave many of its weaknesses because the world-building was so fascinating and beautifully written. The moribund characterization of the protagonist, Quentin, was something of a warning bell, but in a well-written book there is often an energy that will carry you along, successfully eliding over the sticky bits, and this was such a book. I ended that review with a bit of a "hmmmm" about Quentin, but all in all, a very enjoyable, fascinating read.
*****SPOILERS*****
In The Magician King we return to Fillory, where Quentin, Janet, Elliott, and Julia reign as monarchs. Monarchs of what I can't say. They essentially do nothing. Their jobs seem nothing more than titles as they faff away their days doing, well, nothing; this becomes very important by the end of the book, IMO. Two competing story lines fill out of the bulk of the book: Quentin's quest to become some sort of hero (why he is compelled to become a hero when he was clearly the hero in the last book is inexplicable--defeating Martin Chatwin wasn't enough?), and the back story of Julia's quest to assume her rightful place as a magician. In a fully successful novel, two competing story lines often ramp up the tension as the reader bounces back and forth from one cliffhanger to another.
Interestingly, although nearly a third of the book is back story (usually a pacing killer), Julia's story dominates this novel completely. She is accessible and sympathetic as a character in all the ways that Quentin is not, although neither character is particularly nice. Quentin began this series as a smart-ass arrogant know-it-all, and he finishes the series to date basically the same. I don't see much of a difference between the Quentin at the end of Book 1 and Quentin at the end of Book 2. In fact, his odd friendship with Benedict feels out of place; shoehorned in as a plot device. There was a lot of tell not show in this book, with Quentin's friendship with Benedict only one example. There was a lot of, well, I don't know why I liked him, but I did. I don't know why I need to travel to the underworld to talk to a kid that I haven't really connected with and who clearly doesn't like me, but I do. I get the sense that Grossman is trying to elevate Quentin's character by these acts of bravery, and yet, IMO, they don't work because Quentin as a character hasn't grown enough to successfully explain his motivations. We are left with a "I must, therefore I do, otherwise the plot won't move forward" type of sensibility.
Julia on the other hand! Wow, I loved her back story: her isolation, her slowly disintegrating relationship with her family, and her choosing magic over her family. THIS was what was missing in the first book with the Brakebills students. How their relationships with their parents were so abysmal that pretty much across the board they were able to dust off these relationships like so much dandruff. Not Julia, her story was beautifully handled. I found myself wanting to skim the "present day" Quentin story to get to Julia's back story because it was so compelling. Her characterization was flawless, which is why I don't get why Quentin is STILL a sarcastic wanker. Clearly, Grossman is capable of writing a complex, fascinating sympathetic character complete with warts and flaws. Unfortunately, it's not his protagonist.
This is one of those unusual situations where the events that surround a main character should change him/her but do not. I think that part of the problem is Quentin's continuous snarky asides; they undercut the tragedy. By the time we reach the end of the book and Quentin faces the ultimate tragedy, there is no sense that Quentin is capable of mourning, because he's not even mourning Alice in this novel. She's become the "She Who Must Not Be Named" character that no one dare mention. Which means that the one avenue whereby we could see a wounded Quentin is cut off.
So we come to the end of the book. I found the last twenty pages inexplicable. I couldn't understand the logic behind them. It just didn't make sense. You banish the one person responsible for saving the magical world because he doesn't have a passport?????????????????????????????????? Excuse me! And everyone around him is like, sorry, buddy, those are the breaks. Catch you on the flip side. The loss of Quentin's crown means there is no place for him in Fillory, except he does BUGGAR ALL, so WTF. It feels like he's merely a placeholder, his crown nothing more than a passport. Clearly these royal roles mean nothing because they are casually handed out like a box of chocolates. Josh. Poppy. You're up! Why couldn't they have created yet another role for him, because, frankly, his role as king seems equally manufactured.
It's obvious that there will be yet another book in this series, which is why Quentin is yet AGAIN in exile from Fillory. I anticipate in Book 3 he will either resurrect Alice or he will meet Alice2. I think that Grossman could have gone a long way in humanizing Quentin if he'd had him faffing about much less and mourning Alice much more. At this point Quentin is pretty much in the same place at the end of Book 2 as he was at the end of Book 1. He hasn't moved that much as a character. He announces he wants to be a hero, the genesis of which is never explained. Why does he want to be a hero? I'm still wondering. To assuage his conscience over Alice's death? To save others because he couldn't save her? I honestly don't know. All I know is that this was an exceptionally clumsy end to a book that had many moments of elegant, punchy writing.
At this point, Grossman's sobriquet as the writer of the adult Harry Potter has even more cred as he begins to share J. K. Rowling's fatal flaw: exceptional world-building at the expense of his characters.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Guest Blogger Camille Minochino!
So, I'm turning over the reins to someone else for this installment. Camille Minichino is one of the reasons why I'm a published author. She's the sort of person the word "stand-up" comes to mind. Tireless in her support of my writing, I'm only one of a legion of writers who she's championed over the years. But I'll let her speak for herself. She does it better.
Food and crime novels seem a perfect fit. Especially for cozy mysteries.
Action heroes in geopolitical thrillers don't have a lot of time to cook or even to stop for a snack, what with aborting the assassination of a world leader, keeping greater Los Angeles from falling into the Pacific, or saving the world from total nuclear destruction. Imagine a Jack Bauer-like man of action in a cave in a country ending in –stan, pulling a spinach and cheese soufflé out of the oven.
My first protagonist, Gloria Lamerino of the Periodic Table Mysteries, eats this way and looks more like me than like Sophia. Gloria's fictional diet is like my real diet, with lots of affogato and tiramisu and three kinds of biscotti. Much to my embarrassment, cannoli appear at least seven times in my first novel, "The Hydrogen Murder."
Menu choices are also a giveaway device to identify characters. We build expectations about the person who orders the shrimp salad as a main course vs. the one who craves a burger and fries. Whereas in life, the same person may enjoy both at different times, in fiction, it works better to nail down a food trope.
Mangia Mangia
Food and crime novels seem a perfect fit. Especially for cozy mysteries.
Action heroes in geopolitical thrillers don't have a lot of time to cook or even to stop for a snack, what with aborting the assassination of a world leader, keeping greater Los Angeles from falling into the Pacific, or saving the world from total nuclear destruction. Imagine a Jack Bauer-like man of action in a cave in a country ending in –stan, pulling a spinach and cheese soufflé out of the oven.
But cozies, or traditional whodunits, are designed for comfort, with nothing too graphic to deal with and justice for all in the end. And nothing says comfort like food, whether it's a special gravy or brownies with icing.
Sophia Loren, nee Scicolone, said, "Everything you see I owe to spaghetti."
(I doubt it. Not with that body.)
I express my Italian-ness at dessert time. I'll pick at the pasta, pass on the chicken and veal parm', and double up on panna cotta and gelato.
My first protagonist, Gloria Lamerino of the Periodic Table Mysteries, eats this way and looks more like me than like Sophia. Gloria's fictional diet is like my real diet, with lots of affogato and tiramisu and three kinds of biscotti. Much to my embarrassment, cannoli appear at least seven times in my first novel, "The Hydrogen Murder." Did you think it was a coincidence that I'm starting my July blog tour for "The Square Root of Murder" on the site of a pastry chef?
Food and drink are the writer's friends, setting-wise. They hit all the senses and immediately establish the ambiance. We feel the textures in a mouthful of endive and bleu cheese, see the array of colors in a multi-bean salad, breathe in the aroma of fresh baked bread, and taste everything. We can hear the bubbles of sparkling water and the sizzle of a steak on the grill. A few food words—coffee and an almond croissant, French toast with thick strawberry syrup—and we've got the reader salivating.
Menu choices are also a giveaway device to identify characters. We build expectations about the person who orders the shrimp salad as a main course vs. the one who craves a burger and fries. Whereas in life, the same person may enjoy both at different times, in fiction, it works better to nail down a food trope.I did my first protagonist, Gloria Lamerino, a favor by giving her a love of garlic. I hate it, and all my life have had to answer the question, "How can you be Italian and not like garlic?"
In my defense, I've come up with Italian G words that I do love: Galileo, Ghirlandaio, Ghirardelli, Gilda in Giuseppe Verdi's Rigoletto, maybe even Garibaldi. (But not Garofalo, though I think she'd be great as Gloria in the movie version I've dreamed up.)
There also seem to be gender roles with regard to food in books and movies. Men make pancakes; women make salad. Women always have a baguette sticking out of the grocery bag; men carry six-packs. Men bite into a donut; women pick off a few molecules of a muffin and utter "Mmm." And of course, with some celebrity exceptions: men are chefs; women cook.
As a reader, I tend to judge characters by what they cook (or not) and what they eat. As a mystery writer, one thing I know: I could never kill a pastry chef.
Camille Minichino is a retired physicist and dessert lover turned writer. Her akas are Margaret Grace (The Miniature Mysteries) and Ada Madison (The Professor Sophie Knowles Mysteries). The first chapter of "The Square Root of Murder," debuting July 5, is posted at http://www.minichino.com.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Father's Day: Problematic Day
My father is now dead. He died exactly how he didn't want to die, by inches, bits, and pieces, as his body kept telling him that he was done. Yet modern medicine ignores the body's telltales signs and keeps coming up with medications and treatments that prolong our lives beyond their "sell" date. When he lost his capacity to swallow, I thought to myself, christ on a bicycle, if that doesn't signal that the body is done, then what does? And yet, doctors also take oaths that demand they do everything to preserve the sanctity of life. I'll let the ethicists debate this one, because, really, at this point I don't have a frigging clue what that means.
Anyway, that's not the point of this piece, which is, the problematic father. My dad was a man of unbelievable strengths and profound weaknesses, and it's hard to think of him without acknowledging the whole: the brilliance tempered with the massive self doubt and hatred; the wit juxtaposed to the caustic jibe; the gentle man whose politics were so right that they made my teeth ache.
But on this day I think I should concentrate on the good. The trips to Tilden with my sister for pony and carousel rides. The Sunday afternoons spent at Oakland's Fairyland. Endless games of pee wee golf at that place on Telegraph Ave. I'm sure all this was unspeakably boring, and yet he weathered through it and I don't remember any complaints. The carousel at Tilden still survives, as does Fairyland. The pee wee golf place got swallowed up years ago by an office building. Some landmarks of my childhood still survive--not many--but enough that I've taken my children to these places and in the process walked in my father's shoes for a bit.
So, yes, I chose to remember those Sundays at Fairyland and Tilden, and hot dogs at Oscars. Good times, Dad. Thanks..
Anyway, that's not the point of this piece, which is, the problematic father. My dad was a man of unbelievable strengths and profound weaknesses, and it's hard to think of him without acknowledging the whole: the brilliance tempered with the massive self doubt and hatred; the wit juxtaposed to the caustic jibe; the gentle man whose politics were so right that they made my teeth ache.
But on this day I think I should concentrate on the good. The trips to Tilden with my sister for pony and carousel rides. The Sunday afternoons spent at Oakland's Fairyland. Endless games of pee wee golf at that place on Telegraph Ave. I'm sure all this was unspeakably boring, and yet he weathered through it and I don't remember any complaints. The carousel at Tilden still survives, as does Fairyland. The pee wee golf place got swallowed up years ago by an office building. Some landmarks of my childhood still survive--not many--but enough that I've taken my children to these places and in the process walked in my father's shoes for a bit.
So, yes, I chose to remember those Sundays at Fairyland and Tilden, and hot dogs at Oscars. Good times, Dad. Thanks..
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
My Hair
I have a love/hate relationship with my hair. At one time it was my glory. Truly. I have gobs of it and when I was younger the color is what is known in Victorian novels as "titian." I was extremely vain about it, and damn it all, I had a right to be. At various points in my life I grew it so long that I could sit on it.
As I stare at fifty-five this year, my hair is now the bane of my existence. Mostly because it grows like a frigging weed (always has), and it is now starting go grey. Which in and of itself isn't that much of a tragedy, however, when you already have "spunky" hair, grey hair, which in and of itself is spunky enough (a nice way of saying porcine-like), grey spunky-squared hair is a BITCH.
I must keep it short because the grey has a mind of its own, and if it's any longer than two inches I start looking like a one of the witches from Macbeth. Not a look I want to cultivate.
Unfortunately, whenever I feel blue or insecure or just fidgety I think, wow, that grey is depressing. I should do something about it. You'd think I would learn. The first time I felt this way I had a biggish book event looming, and two nights before I got a case of the wibbles and dyed it. Sigh. Because I have WAY TOO MUCH HAIR, and I didn't cover it nearly enough. I ended up looking calico. That mottling on cats is adorable. On me, not so much. I should have gone to a salon and had them cover it up with something, anything, but I didn't. I asked my daughter to help me apply another coat. Two hands are better than one, right? I ended up with muted calico. Needless to say I wore a beret to that event. In the middle of a northern California fall day. The temp was maybe 85 degrees at seven at night.
But it doesn't stop there. I did it again, the NIGHT BEFORE another event, thinking it was just that particular brand. It wasn't. I had shorter hair by this point, but it was not so much calico as lopsided--lighter on one side. I spent the entire night with my head slightly tilted so that people would suspect the light was wrong, not that this fool woman yet again was playing Revlon roulette.
The last three weeks have been grim for various reasons, and I've been feeling hermitish and blue, and in a fit of insanity, yes, you guessed it, I dyed my hair last night. It's a horrible color. Medium brown, my ass. It's kind of a deep red that probably would look cool on someone twenty-five, but on me it only looks desperate. Even more horrible, it looks REALLY permanent. Like it will take a good six months to grow out.
Sigh and damn.
Clearly, she cannot be taught.
As I stare at fifty-five this year, my hair is now the bane of my existence. Mostly because it grows like a frigging weed (always has), and it is now starting go grey. Which in and of itself isn't that much of a tragedy, however, when you already have "spunky" hair, grey hair, which in and of itself is spunky enough (a nice way of saying porcine-like), grey spunky-squared hair is a BITCH.
I must keep it short because the grey has a mind of its own, and if it's any longer than two inches I start looking like a one of the witches from Macbeth. Not a look I want to cultivate.
Unfortunately, whenever I feel blue or insecure or just fidgety I think, wow, that grey is depressing. I should do something about it. You'd think I would learn. The first time I felt this way I had a biggish book event looming, and two nights before I got a case of the wibbles and dyed it. Sigh. Because I have WAY TOO MUCH HAIR, and I didn't cover it nearly enough. I ended up looking calico. That mottling on cats is adorable. On me, not so much. I should have gone to a salon and had them cover it up with something, anything, but I didn't. I asked my daughter to help me apply another coat. Two hands are better than one, right? I ended up with muted calico. Needless to say I wore a beret to that event. In the middle of a northern California fall day. The temp was maybe 85 degrees at seven at night.
But it doesn't stop there. I did it again, the NIGHT BEFORE another event, thinking it was just that particular brand. It wasn't. I had shorter hair by this point, but it was not so much calico as lopsided--lighter on one side. I spent the entire night with my head slightly tilted so that people would suspect the light was wrong, not that this fool woman yet again was playing Revlon roulette.
The last three weeks have been grim for various reasons, and I've been feeling hermitish and blue, and in a fit of insanity, yes, you guessed it, I dyed my hair last night. It's a horrible color. Medium brown, my ass. It's kind of a deep red that probably would look cool on someone twenty-five, but on me it only looks desperate. Even more horrible, it looks REALLY permanent. Like it will take a good six months to grow out.
Sigh and damn.
Clearly, she cannot be taught.
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