April 2004

So. Here we are. Again. As it turns out, the problem with keeping a web journal of any kind, is that people seem to expect that it will be added to from time to time. Therefore, for those of you who have emailed me indicating that a periodic update or two sometime before the next millennium might be nice, here are three highly enjoyable sites where the blog actually changes:

megcabot.com/blog/blogger.html
jasperfforde.com/press.html
jenniferweiner.blogspot.com

Now go check them out and leave me alone! Just kidding. Are you back? I have decided, somewhat in the spirit of David Letterman, to give you the top two reasons I have not updated mine lately (Okay. Ever).

Reason Number One:

I am writing a book.

Or, to be more precise, I am mostly thinking about writing a book. But at some mysterious point, by some equally mysterious process, those two things seem to become one. I am currently at the stage where I am (1) very busy complaining to everyone who is willing to listen that when it comes to being turned into an actual book, this list of unrelated words (hereafter to be known as the WIP, for work-in-progess) is being as recalcitrant as a two-year-old without a nap, and (2) running the word count on my computer approximately six times per page on the WIP, which very handily uses up a great deal of my writing time. For most of the year it takes me to actually write a book, I seem to hover at about 30,000 words (or, for the uninitiated, approximately one-third done). Now, it is worth mentioning here, that none of the words in the final manuscript will bear any resemblance whatsoever to any of those initial 30,000 words, since I will spend most of the year obsessively fine tuning and re-writing that first third (which is why the W remains IP for so long). And then, in the last two weeks, I will somehow end up, also mysteriously, writing another 120,000 words. An accomplishment, which, while impressive in its sheer scope, has the downside of being 60,000 words over the length my publisher wants.

Subsequently, I will have a conversation with my editor in which she explains to me that I have three choices (1) to cut 60,000 words, (2) to have my book printed in such small type the average reader will have to hold it jammed against their nose and, possibly, if they are twenty-five or over, still need a magnifying glass to decipher it, or, (3) to force them to price it at $19 for a mass market paperback, which, she will gently point out, might have a deleterious effect on my sales numbers; seeing that books by numerous other (possibly better and/or famous) authors are still retailing for under $8. Following that, I will have a tearful conversation with my agent (you guess which of us is doing the crying) in which, swearing that I am done, finished with writing, I quit the business forever. I will then explain to my husband at dinner that night that I am now a full time stay-at-home mom, having quit writing, at which point he will ask me, plaintively, if we have any alcohol at all, of any kind, in the house. Following this, I will, slowly and painfully with much tearing of hair and gnashing of teeth, proceed to cut out 59,995 words. Someday I am going to write a book filled completely with scenes and lines of dialogue cut from the books I’ve already written. The only thing I know about it for sure is that it will turn out to be too long.

Reason Number Two:

I am researching a book.

Unlike my last three books, for which I had the pleasure of immersing myself in the romantic world of Regency London, I am now researching the considerably less romantic worlds of (1) divorce, and (2) sex clubs. The heroine of my new book is a firmly contemporary uber-PTA-mom who suddenly finds herself in the middle of a divorce and embarks on a new career writing about sex for a magazine. Taking that into account, the reams of information I already have on stuff like what time of day a well-bred young lady could ride her horse in Hyde Park in 1815, are not so useful. And, unlike the PTA thing, which I know backwards and forwards and then some, I have never been divorced—although I have thought about it once or twice, like the time my husband lost the car—and I hope not to be (he did eventually find it). I also have led a relatively sheltered life in that I have never been to a sex club, and, despite the many humorous inquiries from friends—some of whom are just a little too interested, if you ask me—I have no intention of going. Like the divorce thing, I am content to experience it vicariously. Even though I fully understand that my lack of curiosity about living the actual experiences is both cowardly and un-writerly, and that if he has not already done so, Gay Talese will probably refuse to read my books on the sheer principle of the thing.

So, having reconciled myself to the Gay Talese situation, I am happily doing armchair research, which, if you ask me is one of the real bonuses to being a writer—not having to actually dress up and go out to do stuff. At the moment, this consists of reading lots of books and a lot of time trolling the internet.

And how, precisely, those of you who know me, might ask, is that different from how you usually waste, er, spend your time?

Okay. So I don’t have a good answer to that, but I can assure you that I am being extremely focused: the books are on divorce and the internet trolling is on the sex industry (well, mostly). I am keeping the books all stacked up on my bedside table and pointedly going through them with a highlighter. This has had the unexpected bonus of making my husband very nervous and he is being particularly well-behaved even going to drastic lengths like folding the laundry unasked and bringing me cups of tea at the computer and rubbing my back and keeping excellent track of the car. The internet trolling, however, has had the less happy effect of increasing my spam. I particularly liked this one that I received just this morning:

From: Gay Bush

Subject: Cowboy 190 Onlookers

I have also enjoyed recent electronic communications from Vicente Smiley, Kerri Oakley, Destiny, Cathie Taylor, and Daily For You, pertaining to: Re: recent order; prime minister midwives related to 64; adv: adlt…untitled federation of cheaterzz; BE ORDAINED NOW; and Single Christians Eager to Meet You!

I am assuming that the last two were not actually related to the internet trolling, but don’t know for sure as I didn’t actually open any of them, since I just read all that stuff about how even dragging your mouse over it will activate secret encoded, um, stuff (as you can see, I am embracing the technological side of things) that lets the spammers know you are there and they will just send you more. I will say, though, that it has not all been for nothing, as spam plays a pivotal role in the new book.

Now, back to my research.

December 2003

So. Here we are. It seemed like a great idea to do this, some kind of journaling, when I first mentioned it to my web designer and my agent and my editor. And my critique partner agreed, as did my husband, the friend that I run with, my son’s preschool teacher, my next door neighbor, and the guy who fixes the air conditioning. And I swear, his agreement had nothing at all to do with either (1) the fact that he might not have exactly heard everything I was saying on account of having had his head actually inside some huge, noisy motor kind of thing, or (2) me casually mentioning how easy it is to stop a check.

The problem, however, is that like so many good ideas (or book proposals), what sounds good in theory is not necessarily easy in reality (see future journaling on lack of wisdom in selling the idea of a book about a woman who marries the wrong twin when you have not remotely got a plot, or anything beyond one line of dialogue figured out). So now that the moment has come, and my web designer has gone from mentioning casually that she needs content soon, to sending me pointed reminders that she NEEDS CONTENT NOW!!, I can’t think of a single witty, pithy or insightful thing to write about the romance writing life.

So instead, I offer below, a glimpse into the day of a writer. A slow writer.

I did mention, a slow writer, as in s-l-o-w, right?

1. Go running to: energize self, clear mind, allow me to economize by not having to buy extra desk chair for butt overhang (potential occupational hazard), give me opportunity for 45-minute gossip with running partner.

2. Come home and turn on computer. Go to kitchen and make cup of tea while waiting for computer to warm up sufficiently. Return to desk. Check email.

3. Go back to kitchen. Make toast to go with tea.

4. Back to desk. Check email to make sure nothing important has come in since last time. Check Amazon ranking.

5. Realize forgot to take calcium pills. Debate skipping them. Have hideous fantasies of self as hunchbacked crone. Find and take calcium pills. Have mini-Oreo in case enormous calcium pill is stuck somewhere in esophagus requiring pushing down.

6. Return to desk. Pull up work-in-progress document. Run word count. Wonder if words were subtracted through computer glitch. Possible virus? Call computer guru. Inquire as to possibility of this. Wonder if he really knows what he is talking about as eminently clear that such a vehement rejection of idea is knee-jerk reaction rather than thoughtful opinion.

7. Go to kitchen. Pour out cold tea and make new cup. Glance through research tome (People) while waiting for water to boil. Decide am ready to work now that up on latest regarding Ben and JLo/Jennifer and Brad.

8. Return to desk and read last few pages of yesterday’s writing. Wish someone else, like say, Julia Quinn or Jennifer Crusie was writing my book. Wonder if Julia Quinn has ever been victim to word-subtracting computer glitch.

9. Debate what should happen next in story. Castigate self for always working without synopsis or outline.

10. Answer phone. Answer call waiting beep. Refuse free cruise/new credit card/mortgage refinancing. Return to first call. Simultaneously read new email and explain that can’t head new PTA committee because of looming deadline, etc. Call friend and complain bitterly about being asked to head new PTA committee while on deadline.

11. Stare at page. Think PTA committee might not be bad idea, after all.

12. Answer phone. Assure agent that things are coming along well. Wonder how am going to write twelve chapters in four days. Resolve to write synopsis or outline next time as am certain Julia Quinn and Jennifer Crusie must do.

13. Call back and volunteer for new PTA committee. Write a sentence.

14. Reward myself with a little web surfing. Check email, Amazon rankings again.

15. Suddenly remember nice lady from electric company who mentioned something about turning off power if bill not paid. Will definitely interfere with web surfing ability. Scrabble around on desk in search of bill. Spend 45 minutes trying to figure out how to pay online in eight easy steps. Write check and call nice lady to say will be mailing it.

16. Try to think of some research to do that would involve web surfing.

17. Go to kitchen for cereal, to boost brainpower while debating research possibilities, but accidentally eat several mini-Oreos instead. Worry about trans fats. Wonder if Yodels would be healthier. Resolve to buy some and hide from kids.

18. Head back to desk. Write several sentences. Empowered, write actual whole paragraph.

19. Call husband at work to discuss fact that I will definitely be quitting writing career. Ask for his legal expertise on whether I will be asked to return advance. Husband reminds me that advance is already spent. Suggests disconnecting from internet rather than career change. Check email, Amazon rankings again while ignoring him.

20. Hang up phone. Make mad dash to bathroom (too much water while running). Curse person who used last of liquid soap. While washing hands with disgusting, disintegrating bar from soap dish, resolve to add liquid variety to shopping list. Also resolve, while at it, to start actually keeping shopping list so as to avoid further situations involving running out of liquid soap, milk, Cheerios, juice boxes or tampons at critical moments. Decide Jennifer Crusie obviously has very orderly (probably typed) shopping list. Recognize bad time to turn over new leaf, with manuscript deadline looming.

21. Look at last paragraph written. Call friend to discuss need for new shoes (possibly cool, clunky black boots). Wonder what Regency equivalent of cool, clunky black boots was. Decide whatever it was, heroine needs it. Am inspired. Hang up. Write four paragraphs.

22. Take break to glance through Vanity Fair. Wonder if Christopher Hitchens would have bothered using disgusting, disintegrating soap dish soap, or skipped washing hands entirely. Then wonder whether train of thought indicates creative thought process of writer-type, or actual mental illness. Debate calling critique partner to discuss. Recall that critique partner, in addition to writing two books a year, has actual real job, plus might ask when am sending completed manuscript to her.

23. Check email and Amazon rankings. Start trying to remember whether possess anything for lunch that is within a week of expiration date. Galvanized by need to prove creativity over mental illness scenario, force self to put words on screen. Hour later have actually produced 17 pages—a chapter. Read it. Do embarrassing happy dance (hope renovating neighbor and/or workmen are not perched on ladder outside window this time). 15 good pages! Funny, romantic, and plot advancing pages. Yes! Will not have to return advance or apologize to trusting readers. God, this is fun. What a great career.

24. Am rudely jolted out of golden moment of self-congratulation by realization almost time to retrieve kids from school and still smell similar to petting zoo from run/no shower combo. Reluctantly close document. Back it up in about thirty different ways and email it to husband at office in case desk or computer destroyed in fire/tornado/flood/literary burglary this afternoon. Throw self into shower. Dry hair, apply under-eye concealer (very overrated product as huge bags are demonstrably still there), search floor of closet for favorite jeans. Decide that Julia Quinn and Jennifer Crusie obviously never waste time crawling on floor of closet looking for jeans. Both probably able to shower/dress at leisure on account of excellent, tightly written synopses, admirable work habits, and tastefully coordinated outfit laid out previous evening.

25. Realize had no lunch. Grab handful of mini-Oreos.

26. Pack nutritious snack for kids. Grab tennis racquets, musical instruments for enriching after school activities, try to remember keys so as to avoid repeat of embarrassing crawling-through-neighbor’s-window incident. Call husband to announce am going to pick up kids. Renew request for electric cattle prod for Christmas.

27. Sprint to school in attempt not to be absolute last parent through door of building, counting hours until will be able to start next chapter. Make mental note to pick up new bag of mini-Oreos on way home as supply oddly diminished.