This totally beats Janet Hardy's second place spelling bee trophy from third grade. Suck it, Janet.
It’s over. I did it. Book number five, my NaNo novel, is finished. The T-shirt has been ordered, the winner’s certificate printed out and hung in my office. It’s some of the worst angst-ridden crap I’ve ever written, but at least it 50,000 words of angst-ridden crap so that makes me an official 2011 winner.
And let me tell you, November this year was a bitch. All novels and their deadlines aside, work was tough, the kids were tough, the holidays with family were even tough (I seem to recall my mom waking me up on Thanksgiving by saying, “Don’t be a diva just because you’re a published author now,”…as I slept on her couch. I think all published authors have to sleep on their parents couches at some point or another, but divas we are not.)
The sad thing is now that NaNo is over, there’s nothing to do but start another one, hopefully one with a smaller body count. (I told you November was a bitch…at one point, an entire town is slaughtered. All of them. Even the pets.)
Maybe this time I’ll write a nice, pleasant, Austen-esque novel about men with noble titles and love gone wrong and snobby British aristocracy who couldn’t possible lower themselves by marrying badly, even if it was to save the entire from being slaughtered by ruffian outlaws who lined everyone up for a mass execution as a warning to the other towns not to mess with them. Oh wait, that was so last November.
I want to cut her.
In a fit of Thankgivingness, I decided to cook something. (pause) Sorry, I couldn’t finish that sentence without laughing. Here’s what actually happened:
I dropped my last red jelly bean in the pantry and had to dig around to find it. To throw it away, people, not to eat it. While I was digging around, I found an open bag of pretzel sticks, half a bag of chocolate coated popcorn, two open bags of marshmallows, and my kids’ trick-or-treat buckets. I know, you can totally see where this is going.
I piled all of that on the countertop and looked inside the buckets first to make sure there were no rodents in there. Guess what you’re going to find in children’s candy buckets in late November? Four hundred Tootsie Rolls.
Not to bring any lawsuits on myself, but let me tell you my opinion of people who give out Tootsie Rolls on Halloween. Never mind, I should probably just keep it to myself. Oh what the hell…you’re a douche bag if you give little children a wad of impossibly chewy faux chocolate. Does anyone on the planet actually sit themselves down on the couch on a Friday night with a giant bowl of Tootsie Rolls and a chick flick? NO. Tootsie Rolls are worse than the guy who gives out pencils printed with jack-o-lanterns, like you want to be using that pencil in February.
So I had a brilliant idea and here’s the recipe, lovingly created and passed on to you for your holiday baking:
Lorca’s Shit Bars
Ingredients:
Butter (I don’t know how much, figure it out!)
All of the Tootsie Rolls that don’t have mold growing on them
All of the pretzels and popcorn from your pantry
All of the marshmallows, except the ones that were pastel and shaped like bunnies ‘cause those went bad in August
Other stuff
Directions: Melt the butter in a cheap saucepan because if you’re making these while drinking you’re going to forget it on the stove and ruin your pan. Melt all of the Tootsie Rolls in the butter. Take the wrappers off first. Melt the marshmallows on top of that. Stir. Add pretzels, popcorn, Flintstone vitamins, whatever. Pour out onto waxed paper in a big pile. Break off little pieces and set them on a plate just before people come over. Don’t tell them it’s really Tootsie Rolls and see if they can figure it out. If you’re Martha Stewart, there’s probably some reason that you should have added vanilla in there while you were stirring.
I’ve developed a serious addition to Netflix, specifically where my new iPad is concerned. No, I’m not staying up all night watching Icelandic porn, I’m actually bettering myself by catching up on my understanding of British history by watching the entire series of The Tudors, from start to finish. Wait, that show is actually a lot like Icelandic porn, but I digress.
Completely unrelated to my addiction, you may already know that we took in a stray dog a few months ago. We don’t like her and we don’t play with her, but at least she’s not working a street corner to pay for her heroin addiction. Gravy Train addiction. Whatever.
But this completely irritating mongrel actually did me a great service (see how I’m talking like the Tudors now? Cool, isn’t it?). She has eaten everything in our back yard that is made of pliable substances, including our swing set. Almost the entire swing set. She literally ate the swings off the swing set, right where they hanged. (More Tudorishness)
The great service part is that now I have my own gallows, just like Henry VIII. He preferred beheadings, but he used a good hanging once in a while to keep the peasants in line. That’s the same reason I’ve always wanted a gallows, and now, thanks to a mutt we rescued from a life of turning tricks for Rottweilers with a little extra kibble to burn, I have one. The ropes where she ate the swings actually hang nicely frayed, like I’ve just cut the bodies down after they rotted in full view of the peasants. I mean, the neighbors. Same thing. Long live the Queen.
“Raina, look at me. No, look at me. We’re going to be okay. I know we will.”
“How?” she asked him. “Just tell me how and I’ll believe it. I’ll throw myself on the fire to put it out myself if you can just tell me how it will be okay.”
“I can’t answer that yet, but I just know it. Can’t we hunt around here? Is there anything we can find to eat? C’mon, you’re the Find, remember?” She did smile a little at his remembering her job back in Refuge.
“I’m the Find,” she sighed. “We’ll hunt. Come on, I’ll need help bringing back whatever we kill.” She stood to go, grabbing up her slingshot rifle and pocketed some shards of glass out of a pouch on her pack. Xander made to go with her.
They walked a good ways from their makeshift camp to a thicker part of the woods, hoping animals might be more plentiful away from the path and where the trees would hide them. Raina crouched low suddenly, holding a hand back towards Xander to make him stop his walking. She squatted close to the ground and held both hands to her mouth, using their twisted shape to whistle a bird call. Xander whispered a scoff.
“The two of us are going to eat sparrows? Are you going to call the little woodland birdies to your hand like the princess in the story?” He managed to hold back his laugh, but only because they were hunting. Raina sighted something through the trees and immediately shouldered her slingshot and fired in one fluid motion, then darted off into the thick patch of brush and trees. Xander simply stared after her, afraid to follow her and risk making a noise that would scary off any potential dinner.
She returned only minutes later with a largish dog thrown over her shoulders, its neck dangling at a nauseating angle, blood seeping from where her glass shard had hit it directly through the eye. She tossed the dog over her head and off her shoulders, letting it land directly in front of Xander.
“No, we’re going to eat the coyote that thinks we’re birds. Now carry that back to the fire.” She turned her back on him and slung her slingshot up on one shoulder, walking with a cocky saunter. Xander couldn’t see her face with her back turned to him, but he knew she was smiling that annoyingly smug grin of hers. Again.
Xander made his way over to a rotting tree with a fallen log across it, half-dragging Raina as he went. He shoved her under the log and up into the cavernous tree then followed her in. He lowered himself to sitting and pulled his injured legs up around him, letting Raina climb into his lap and burrow her face into his shirt. He put his arms around her awkwardly, unsure how good manners would dictate comforting an unfamiliar little girl in the face of dozens of dead people swaying from trees, their arms and legs askew like so many wind chimes. Xander wished there were someone to cradle him in a comforting hug.
Raina eventually slept in his arms but Xander stayed awake for the next several hours, listening to the sounds around him. Every movement of the leaves or crunch of a twig outside the tree caused him to sit up straighter and prick his ears in that direction.
Which wine should I serve with this? White or red?
So if you didn’t accidentally find this blog by typing “stuff my cat ate” on Google, you might already know that I’m ignoring your humor needs completely as I write my fifth book. Everything is, in fact, all about me.
But yesterday I learned one of the great things about being a writer, even an unloved/unpaid one. We get to search for the craziest shit online and call it research. The only downside is we have to make sure all of our searches are spelled correctly or we get sent to porn websites. And I defy anyone to tell me that my hour and a half reading up on bugs was not research.
Step One: Google the question, “What do bugs taste like?”
Step Two: Find a search result called InsectsAreFood.com and read everything on their site. NOTE: wipe tongue with a dry washcloth the whole time you’re reading that site because you’re going to start imagining insect legs stuck to the roof of your mouth.
Step Three: Decide the all-encompassing website on eating bugs wasn’t quite all-encompassing enough, and go to the Contact Us tab to email them with several bizarre questions, making sure to mention that you’re not just a weirdo or that you’re not mocking them, you’re actually writing a book and thank you very much.
Step Four: Wait until the owner of the website gets off work (he has other monetary needs besides food, since his foods needs have been met by crickets) and emails you a lovely response:
Hi Lorca Damon
Interesting questions. Allow me….
1) In a society without electricity, running water, etc. (think Mad Max), how would they “grow” bugs (ie, housing needs, water needs)? What would I feed them?
Bugs don’t need what humans need – they don’t need electricity or running water. Insects suck nutrients (water) from a wide range of flora. Plants and trees grow in even the most arid of regions. There will always be life. Where there is life there is water. The bugs will find it. They burrow inside bark and other forms of flora. They don’t need us to feed them. I imagine in a society without electricity or running water it would be vital to keep moving and searching for water and food, so it wouldn’t be prudent or productive to farm (anything), unless one were to harness wind to produce power from rain water. But that’s stretching one’s chances.
2) How would they be prepared in order to get the most nutrition out of them? I know about toasting them, but wouldn’t that deplete any water left inside them? In the setting of my novel, wouldn’t my characters see that as a waste of water?
Eat bugs raw. In the time your novel is set, eating bugs will be where sushi was thirty years ago. Raw is the new cooked.
3) I’ve got my more resourceful characters grinding insects into a paste and mixing it with animal fat and broth to make it as palatable as possible. Is that a likely scenario? And is that a nutritious way to eat insects? (this particular group of characters are the more sensible, survivalist people)
Insects can be incorporated into any type food stuff. The fresher and least cooked, the more nutritious. If one wishes to truly survive in an era of Mad Max type climate and social upheaval and potential violence, one rule of thumb that all humans must be aware of is that it is best to avoid brightly colored and spiny/barbed insects. They are likely a death knell.
Good luck. When (notice I did not say “if”) you finish the novel, thank me somewhere in some way, if you feel my responses were effective. I wish you well.
I particularly appreciated Mr. Dennis pointing out that neither my characters nor I should ever come in contact with anything that is either pretty or stabby. That advice applies on so many levels.
Due in large part to having two of the worst math teachers ever, having a brother who regularly used to receive phone calls from Stephen Hawking asking him to clear up a few fine points on worm holes, and due to one parent being so good at math that he couldn’t explain it and the other one barely even able to handle enough geometry to drive the car in a square by making four right hand turns, I suck at math. See how I didn’t take any of the blame on myself?
The weird thing is I really enjoyed algebra class. I never knew what was going on, but it was pleasant to be there.
So thanks to being so inept at basic addition and subtraction (or in this case it might be multiplication, I don’t even know which math tool to use here), I am way behind on my NaNo novel. No, I didn’t get sidetracked or have a lazy moment, I thought I was right on target with my daily goal. Turns out, I forgot to carry the one. A couple of times.
The clicking of the guards’ heels on the pristine tile floors was the only noise as the trio made their way through twisting hallways under the glare of industrial lighting. Xander wanted to look back to make sure no one else had joined them. Obviously someone would have to be coming to stop them. This had all been too easy, or easier than he had been told to expect.
The last time he had walked a gleaming hallway like this between two armed guards in crisp uniforms, it hadn’t gone well at all. At least this time he wasn’t wearing handcuffs. Still, he couldn’t help clenching and unclenching his fists as if preparing to fight off the two soldiers flanking him.
“Aren’t there any guards from their side coming to meet us? Don’t I need to show my paperwork to someone over there?” Xander asked, trying to make small talk with the soldiers who had been strangely quiet ever since his approval for escort.
Forget a coffee mug, I want this as my state-issued license plate.
I did it. I set out to see if I had the willpower and the brain cells to blog every single day in October and the end result is, yup, I do. It wasn’t always brilliant, and occasionally I cheated by taking a picture of something stupid and writing a few sentences that made fun of the picture, but it was the effort that counted.
Sadly, this blog will be abandoned for a while as I investigate whether or not I have the willpower and the brain cells to write a full-length novel in November. That’s writing almost 1700 words per day, and apparently the rules very clearly state that you can’t keep using the word “very” over and over. I overuse that word even when I’m NOT trying to stretch a word count.
I’ve had a run in with NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) in the past and I am proud to say that last year I completed my full novel with very few “verys.” But I wasn’t a blogger to distract me. This year I’m worried that my dedication to my forty-five fans will keep me from finishing my book. I hope all of you can live with yourselves.
Essentially, there probably won’t be a blog-post-a-day in November (you’re welcome), and when I am here I’ll be really bitchy and snarky, and probably whining about the book I’m trying to write. I’ll make it up to you with sneak peeks at what’s happening in the book, for which I’d love comments on the plot line that MIGHT even make their way into the story! Just use all your brain cells and not a lot of “verys.” Thanks.
So much has been written—mostly by women—about the inequality that women still face in this society and in countries around the world. I write this today to be the great equalizer, to help women everywhere feel better about their status, or lack thereof.
This picture below is too daring for children to stumble on, so if you have children present (or a boss who is just an absolute craphead…(doesn’t that word look like craph-e’-ad?)), exit out immediately and erase the history on this computer. Just don’t forget to come back later on your own time.
Exhibit A: The sexy woman.
I’m just about as un-lesbian as you can get. I’m not bicurious, I never “experimented” with a sorority sister in college after one really alcohol-infused frat party, and I wouldn’t even be gay for Angelina Jolie like all those closeted soccer moms claim to be. There, I said it. I’m a heterosexual.
However, I am fully capable of saying (out loud) that the woman in this picture is sexy in a really, “Oh my gosh, she’s going to beat me with that whip,” kind of way. She has a beautiful face, gorgeous hair, and a lovely figure that almost makes me wish I had the willpower to cut out carbs. The crazy outfit? Okay, I guess, if you’re into that kind of thing.
Now, Exhibit B. The pathetic sex god gone wrong.
Not a chance. I was laughing before the picture finished loading on my screen. He looks like he’s ready to be hanged from the ceiling to do some electrical work, if only he had pants on. I feel bad for him, alternating saying, “Oh that poor man,” with gales of side-clenching laughter. I tried imagining what I would do if my wonderful husband appeared in the bedroom wearing that outfit. I think I would literally wet myself from laughter, and when I finally caught my breath, he and the strappy outfit would have fled.
And that’s where there is still a measure of equality. A woman can douse herself in any number of beauty enhancing products, and she’s gorgeous. A man so much as changes brands of shaving cream to an imported product, and he’s too fruity to mess with. Women can wear crazy costumes with funky stilt-like high heels and they’re considered fashion forward. A man tries it, and they make movies about him with titles like The Hangover.The sweet young lady in the photo above looks hot and men worship at her feet, the freak-show guy in the picture needs to be run out of town, the lousy pervert. She’s sexy, he’s a comedic whipping boy.
It’s not exactly equal-pay-for-equal-work, but it’s step in the evening-out direction.
Lorca Damon 