New York. Just Like I Pictured It.*

I'm just back. I had a long day of travel, read one and three quarters books, am completely and totally wiped out. Which, of course, always makes me want to cry. The RWA National Conference, as I mentioned yesterday, is valuable, but can also be discouraging. Only a few authors actually make a living doing what we do, and it always feels as if the writer sitting next to you knows more, does more, is a better writer. I know everyone is a better marketer (um, business cards? No. Cover flats? Nope. Bookmarks, my personal obsession? Um . . .), and I can just hope I can resonate with readers eventually.
I think what will be a hard thing to overcome is that my first book is a traditional Regency with an abysmal print run (a very successful Published Author Friend actually gasped when she heard the number), and after that, I'll hopefully be publishing a mommy-lit. So finding an audience for a genre is out of the question; I'll have to rely on my voice. I am confident in my voice, but not so confident in my ability to be consistent (which, as we know, is a hobgoblin for little minds.**) So I return from Reno bloody but unbowed, intimidated but not overwhelmed, discouraged but not despairing. Will I cross over to the dark side? Only my determination can predict that. I hope to write a lot this week.

Skyscrapers and Everything*,

Megan

*Stevie Wonder
**Ralph Waldo Emerson

I Shot A Man In Reno. . .

Today is the last day of the Conference. I've heard news about the publishing industry (hey, guess what? Paranormal and erotica are selling right now. Regencies? Not so much). I met an author whose work I admire who told me she visits my blog, which was cool. What was even cooler is she drinks the kind of Scotch the Discerning Husband drinks. I've attended panels where I've had 'a ha!' moments about my writing, and eaten a lot of passable hotel food. I've gotten hard facts about the publishing industry from people whose careers are a lot farther along than mine, and gotten to be snarky with people I never expected were as bitchy as I am. All cool. Is this helping my writing career? No. Will I come back? I'd love to, but I'd have to acknowledge that attending RWA is more for pleasure than for business. I mean, I learn stuff, but I also socialize. There is something to be said for hanging out with smart women who know what you do. That makes my self-confidence rise. But it does cost a lot, is difficult to arrange childcare, and is exhausting.

. . . Just To Watch Him Die

Thanks for stopping.

Megan

Reno: Day Three

Hard to believe, but my computer is even spazzier than I am. It decided to reset itself completely, so all of my cookies, installed programs, etc., are hidden. I haven't actually lost any files, but nothing is working as it should. So I can't post photos. Sorry.

I went to the gym today (despite the $10 fee), and worked out alongside Nora Roberts. And I went to two workshops, both of which were very helpful. Today I am not wearing unrelieved black. Nothing else, except I was lucky enough to run into another RWA-NYC chapter member, so she and I hung out at the pool drinking diet Cokes for half an hour. The hotel only has Diet Pepsi for sale, so we actually had to go outside. Okay, so not so thrilling. Tonight is my agency's cocktail party, then dinner with some more RWA-NYC members. I'll be wearing my vintage Pucci shirt.

Reno? Still crazy tacky. What I wouldn't give to see some old professor type in khakis standing next to a Volvo. Instead I've got Abercrombie & Fitch bubbas shouting to their buds in the slots tournament. Gak.

Megan

Reno: Day Two

I have not yet tripped, eaten too much, forgotten someone's name that I should absolutely have known, said something snarky and/or obnoxious to the wrong person (plenty of the right people, of course) or discovered lettuce in my teeth hours after eating a salad (and if you've seen my teeth, you'll understand why I am concerned). It's been a good day so far. Tonight I'll be wearing the first in a series of nutty vintage dresses. I hope to post a pic tomorrow.

The National Conference begins tomorrow. Woo-hoo!

(Reno is still tacky. I hate smokers. I like wearing black.)

Megan

Reno: Day One

I got up at the ungodly hour of 3:50am this morning to catch the flight to Reno. For the first hour or so, I was certain I'd forgotten to pack any underwear. Thank goodness I was wrong. And hey, aren't you glad you know that?

At 6:00am in the morning, I was standing in line at the airport Starbuck's waiting for some blessed relief--I mean, caffeine--and a family was behind me. One of the two sons had buzzed going through the metal detector, and his brother was teasing him about it, mentioning something about whatever was in his pocket had set it off.
His mother, of course, wanted to know what it was. There was a deafening silence when she saw it was a condom.
"Why is Mom looking at me like that?" the son asked.
"Because you're 14," his sister replied.
More silence. And they were on their way to Florida for a family vacation. Dysfunctional Family Circus, anyone?

Reno makes my snotty East Coast skin crawl. Tacky, with nothing but slots machines wherever you go. And they allow smoking in public areas! I hate to be one of those loudmouth complainers, but honestly. Smoking?!? In public?!? Gah.
I registered and got my 'First Sale' ribbon, the pink ribbon RWA bestows on members who have, natch, made their first sale. I am ridiculously proud of that ribbon.
Tonight I prepare for tomorrow's Beau Monde Conference (and I'd do the whole link thing, but I'm on dial-up, for Pete's sake). It will be mayhem, but fun.

Stay tuned,

Megan

. . . And She's Off!

In a little over four hours (gak), I'll be heading to Reno for RWA. I have packed WAY too many clothes (vintage Pucci! vintage evening wear! many black items of clothing!), but it all fits in the suitcase, so there.
I am starting to get nervous about meeting so many people--my usual day is spent talking with a mouthy six year-old and various shop vendors ("Kid's cone please. Strawberry. Thank you."). So the prospect of encountering 2100 romance writers (not to mention the hookers) is daunting. But I think I'll be okay.
Although I am exceedingly pissed that the freaking hotel charges $10 for guests to use the fitness room. WTF?!? That, to quote my husband's best friend, is candy-ass.
And once I get back, I'll dive--no, plunge, no, polevault into finishing the darn second book.
A promise? Or a threat?

I'll post when I can from Nevada. Wish me luck.

Megan

John Singer Sargent's Madame X: My favorite picture (and artist) in the whole world (Gustav Klimt is a close second, though).

(edited to remove photo)

Baa, Baa, White Sheep, Have You Any Cool?

There's a Regency phrase I've incorporated into my everyday usage: mutton dressed as lamb (the What Not To Wear Brit hosts use it too--thanks, Anne). It's the most descriptive phrase I've heard of a woman wearing things not quite suited for her age. When I try things on, I frequently turn to my Honest Husband and ask, 'do I look muttony?'
Usually, the answer is no. But I wonder, as I review my wardrobe in preparation for Reno, if we're both fooling ourselves. Maybe my crazy vintage '70s shirts aren't appropriate for me any longer; maybe my penchant for sequins, rhinestones and leopard smacks of desperation; maybe I look ridiculous. I hope not, because those items of clothing, much more than the capri jeans and tank tops I've been wearing everyday for oh, the past six months, are The Essence of Me. And maybe Me is a bit younger than my genealogical age. Does that show through? Or is someone thinking I shouldn't be wearing that? I'll be packing on Monday. Wish me luck, and bravery in fashion.

Megan

You What?

A few posts ago, I mentioned some things I would never do. So I thought, just to be fair, I should list the three stupidest things I ever did.

3. I tested to see if an iron was hot enough with my toe. Because the skin there is a bit thicker than, say, a finger (but not thicker than me), I scorched my big toe.

2. I used a household hammer to try to pound chicken breasts thin. It made big, gruesome holes in the chicken breast, and my husband did not trust me in the kitchen for a long, long time (and he still gives me that look everytime pounding chicken comes up).

1. I got to the movie theatre hours early to see Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo because I thought there'd be a line, and I was worried about not getting to see it on opening day.

Ah, it feels good to share. Thanks for visiting,

Megan

It Is HOT In Brooklyn Right Now...

...And in other obvious news, kittens are cute, Clive Owen is the foxiest man alive, and ice cream (especially peanut butter chocolate) is delicious. Cape Cod was a lot less humid than this, and there were more places to swim. The train back was so air-conditioned I had to wear a sweater, so the rampant humidity is a bit of a shock. And, to top it all off, I turn 41 in a month. Gah. 40 was kinda cool; 41 is just . . . old. Or at least older.
But the a.c. is on, my son is happy to be home, my book-trading partners sent me some books, and I will be writing tonight. Plus I head to Reno in a week. So life is pretty good, despite the heat.

My son in a freshwater pond on Cape Cod. 

Sun, Books, Sleep

Be prepared: This is going to be the most boring blog post ever. Don't say I didn't warn you. Still here? Okay. My son and I are visiting my dad in (or on? I'm not sure) Cape Cod, and so far, we've gone to two ponds, eaten a lot of organic food (my dad is a very healthy eater), and gone to one library book sale, with at least one more tomorrow, a UBS, and the swap shop to go. I am in heaven. I read another Anne Stuart category, too, and just cannot get over how much I love her. If only I were able to sleep, everything would be just about perfect. Unfortunately, Cape Cod and my lungs are engaged in some sort of deadly duel, so I got up awhile ago to try to breathe normally again, and am now WIDE AWAKE.
I've also relaxed enough here to, I think, finally get over my bizarre antipathy to finishing the first draft of my WIP. Just in time to head home to Brooklyn and pack for Reno. There will be a few days inbetween, so maybe I can finish writing the penultimate (I love that word) karaoke scene.
The only bad part of the trip is that I fell asleep at the beach today, 45 sunblock on my legs, a black and white batik pareo draped on my legs, and the sun still managed to get through and burn me, but only on the white parts of the cloth. So my right leg looks kind of mottled, as if I'm a piebald pony or something. Mm, pretty. Another very good reason I took that 'no shorts' pledge a few years ago.

Thanks for visiting,

Megan

Oh, So That's Why

I never did finish watching Troy. At best, the movie was s-l-o-o-w, albeit beautiful. At worst, it was laughably full of itself, with actors doing their pompous best to sound as if they were saying something . . . momentous. Even Brad Pitt's sleekly-toned physique couldn't save it.
But there's a scene in the beginning where Achilles (Pitt) talks to his mother about his future. She says she sees two paths for him: if he doesn't go to fight against Troy, he will marry a woman whom he loves, raise children, be happy, and his descendants will remember him as a good man, but he will be forgotten in 1,000 years. If he does fight, he will fight gloriously, his name will live on in perpetuity, but he will die in battle.
Well, I thought as I watched, duh. The choice is a no-brainer: stay at home, live well, be happy.
That, the Acerbic Husband pointed out to me, is yet another reason why I am not, and will never be, a mythic Greek hero.

My son and I are off to Cape Cod to visit the Occasionally Grumpy Dad. Will post updates as I can.

Thanks for reading,

Megan

Yeah, I'll Get Right On That

Procrastination. Every writer has periods of procrastination. To paraphrase a friend from a long time ago, "if procrastination were an Olympic sport, I'd have a gold medal." Tonight I have just what I need to write: the gadfly husband is out gadding, the six year-old is snoozing, the house is pretty clean (thanks to the MIL's most recent visit), and I have nothing to do but write.
So what am I doing? Checking email, checking blogs, writing blogs (ahem!), posting here and there. Just five minutes ago I decided I had to have some tea. In 85+ degree weather. In my un air-conditioned apartment. So I trotted to the kitchen, put on the kettle, and decided to make breadcrumbs from these bread scraps we had (don't ask). Then I got an apple. Now I'm eating the apple, and in just a few minutes will go retrieve a cup of tea since it'll have steeped enough by then.
GOD. I am pathetic. This is what I whine and complain about not getting a chance to do, and when I do get the chance? I feel the pressing need for a hot beverage.
Okay. After tea, the timer is set for 20 minutes, and unless I start spontaneously combusting, I will not stop for anything until it buzzes.

Thanks for wasting time with me,

Megan

Reno, Issues And Conflict

As I've mentioned before, avoiding conflicts is an art form for me. It's not something of which I am particularly proud; I wish I were one of those stride-up-to-a-person-and-say-my-piece people, but I'm not.
I'll be in Reno for RWA's National Conference, and I've stayed in the sidelines regarding the definition of romance, the cover controversy and if graphic sex stories can be considered romance at all. Being me, I have opinions, of course, and strong ones at that (one guess as to what this bleeding heart Cantabrigian liberal thinks of it all), but I haven't said anything in any public forum.
First, because I'm conflict-averse, second because my official position as Beau Monde President made me feel as if taking a personal stand would be a conflict of interest.
But I did write an alternate definition to romance in the survey RWA sent out, and I do plan on participating while in Reno. It's the least I can do. Really.

Celebrate Good Times, C'Mon!

Today is the son's birthday--7/11, or as I used to say (with more than a touch of ruefulness) 'open 24 hours' (get it? it's a no sleep thing. Okay, so I wasn't exactly hysterically funny when sleep-deprived).

He turns six today, and we are celebrating all day. We'll return to our usual programming tomorrow.

Thanks for celebrating with us,

Megan

There Has To Be An Upside

There's a song by the Posies on Amazing Disgrace with the plaintive refrain of "There's an upside/There has to be an upside." The whole record is full of heart-wrenching angst, clearly the result of a pretty devastating break-up (songs such as "Daily Mutilation," "Hate Song," and "Everybody Is A F*cking Liar" are the first clues), and "There's an upside" goes through my head whenever I run into difficulty.
Lately, it's been weight and writing. As I have mentioned MANY, MANY times, I am 40. I turn 41 in August. Last year, I was at least six pounds lighter than I am now. I really want to get back there. And I also want to finish writing my book, which is so close I can almost taste it. Both things have been harder than I anticipated to accomplish. I set deadlines, I make plans, but life (and the occasional frozen treat) gets in the way.
But . . . there has to be an upside, right? Yeah--Instead of falling apart and getting overwhelmed about all this as I usually do, I woke up today determined to do something about all of this. And not just whining on my Diary, either. That's an encouraging sign for me. I used to give up and crawl into a hole. Age? Medication? Wisdom? I dunno, but I'll take it.

Thanks for stopping,

Megan

Life.

It seems so petty to be fretting about the Very Messy Apartment, not writing enough, eating too much, when such awful things as what happened in London this morning occur. My thoughts are with those people as they begin the recovery process.
But then again, the greatest thing about life is that it continues--in addition to all that pettiness, my soon-t0-be-six-year-old son has been on a hugging rampage, which is just lovely, and he is just more and more fun to be with (Good thing, too, because I am with him a lot). And his birthday party is this weekend, which will be fun, and I am looking forward to seeing his face when he opens his present.
I'm grateful I am here today, and hopefully tomorrow, and the day after that.
The other stuff I'll get to eventually.

Large and Thirsty

I have returned home from the in-laws as I usually do: feeling fat and dehydrated. I brought my running shoes, and actually did go running, which helped stave off the malaise, but it came, as it inevitably does. I ate cookies, drank non-diet soda, and exchanged gentle barbs with the MIL regarding my son's upbringing. Gah. No writing, either, since it is nigh impossible to get anything done whilst there.
But I did persuade the FIL to bring me to a great UBS, where I scored for myself and my trading partners. And also while there I realized that if it were possible to be a card-carrying liberal, I would happily carry a card. As usual, that thought was apropos of nothing (Although perhaps spurred by the realization that if one carried a card to be an Anne Stuart fangirl, I would also happily carry a card. More on risk-taking in writing later).
Now I'm back, in crunch time before heading to Reno for RWA, and hoping I can fit into my grandmother's ball gowns to wear to the black tie thingie. Gram was a lot smaller than I, although I share her tiny ribcage. The rest of me? Not as small.
If all goes well, I will be squeezed into one of the most gorgeous dresses it has ever been my pleasure to behold, much less own. If not, my shrieks will carry from Brooklyn to wherever you are.

Thanks for stopping,

Megan

Mission: Impossible

I realized last night that there was NO WAY I was going to finish the rough draft of the mommy-lit by July 13 (esp. because I am still at the in-laws, where motivation for writing family angst abounds, but opportunity does not). Of course, because I am me, and completely and totally freaky about deadlines, I had actually attempted to fool myself into finishing early. My real self-imposed deadline is the day before I head to Reno for RWA's National Conference. July 25. If I don't finish by then, I will hang myself.

Thanks for visiting,

Megan

Chapter 1 is up!

Chapter 1 of A Singular Lady is up here. Let me know what you think. Even if you hate it. Meanwhile, I'll be heading to the in-laws for 4th of July. Oh, I love the familial fireworks. Mm, family dynamics are so . . . explosive.

Thanks for reading,

Megan

Luther Vandross, soul singer extraordinaire 

RIP Luther

R&B crooner Luther Vandross passed away today. I loved Luther. No, I loooved him. I melted when he sang.
I heard his first record, Never Too Much, in high school and listened to it constantly. Because of him, I discovered David Bowie--Luther sang back-up on the Young Americans record, which I also loved (talk about backwards, I know). For me, nothing matched Luther's first record, but I always loved the way Luther sang, no matter what his choice of material. Oh. My. GOD, could he sing.
He also made it a point to bring up-and-coming (or coming around again--Patti Labelle and Aretha Franklin, for example) R&B singers on tour with him. One of the six times I saw him perform, Anita Baker opened. Man, that was awesome.
Even if you don't like his brand of sappy sweetness (and it is cloying at times), listen to him sing and see if you don't feel the romance.
Bye, Luther.