|Swimsuit Available from Rusty Zipper|
I'm sure it looks good on some women...
I'm glad other people enjoy them; I really, really appreciate people who have designated me to receive one, and I always feel honored, but for me, personally... They involve so much friggin' work: answer these questions, choose XX number of people to pass 'em onto, post the award, with link, do the hokey pokey and... Plus, I'm pretty sure the look is not workin' for me.
Brenda from GrrlGuide offers this take on it:
Instead, I decided to create a new blog honor and coined it the Lois Lane, aka the 10/20 award. I’ve noticed there are rules associated with awards, and as Michael–author of Thinking In My Head–knows, I dislike rules of any kind. Instead, think pirate’s code—more of a guideline really.
List ten loves and ten hates, followed by a short piece, which includes the use of your loves and hates. Passing along the Lois is optional. Factors to consider, the honor will not go viral on the web and worse, Oprah will not discover you, if you do not pass on or participate. This is your decision to make, so let your conscience be your guide.So here's my own stab at earning awesome reporter, Lois Lane GrrlGuide style award:
1. Undertrained Yappy Little Dogs
3. Country Music
4. Married Men Who Flirt Like They're Single
5. Forgotten Appointments
6. Drivers who block intersections
8. Cat Puke
9. Reality TV shows
10. Bathing Suits
1. Warm sunny days at the beach
2. Hot fudge
3. The book genre formerly known as chick lit
4. Two-hour massages
5. Men who know how to kiss
6. Cinnamon toast
7. Bills that are lower than you thought they'd be
8. People who like your writing
10. Falling in love
Once upon a time, there was a talented and beautiful novelist, writing in the book genre formerly known as chick lit. Michelle wasn't rich, but she made a comfortable living. Her heart was filled with
|Oddly enough, Michelle's ginormous cat looks exactly like |
my ginormous cat, Metaphor, aka, Stinky
She should be followed around by little suburban creatures and bugs, like in Enchanted, only that would be really creepy, so instead she only has one ginormous cat.
One misty October morning, Michelle slept gloriously late, having dreamed the night away with a multitude of gorgeous men who really knew how to kiss. She transitioned to the reality of the cold, cruel world with the help and comfort of cinnamon toast, fed the cat, then opened a pile of bills. True, they were still bills, not stacks of currency, but they were all much lower than she thought they’d be. Yes!
Settling down with a mug of coffee in front of the computer, her muse stirred her towards completion of her latest novel. Dialogue flowed like hot fudge sauce over French vanilla ice cream, the plot sparkled and intoxicated her senses like fine champagne...
Michelle took short breaks from the yumminess only to stretch and respond to the lovely, lovely people who e-mailed her and commented on her blog about how much they liked her writing.
Then the phone butted in. "This is Doctor Shinysmile's office. We're calling to confirm your cleaning appointment today at 1:00 pm."
Gosh darn it! Why was it that forgotten appointments were always for worthy and inconvenient things like dental hygiene and car maintenance? Why were they never for two-hour massages?
So Michelle blew a kiss and a promise to her manuscript and headed across town, determined to keep her joyful, productive mood intact, despite the
Michelle's unevolved, childish desire was to roll down the window and scream, "I know you're in desperate need of your next Botox fix, but other people have places to go, too. Hang up the phone, move the dog away from the steering wheel, and drive, you stupid cow!"
This would not be projecting the kind, loving energies Michelle hoped the universe would return to her, so she smiled and thought sunshiny thoughts about her wonderful manuscript. And two-hour massages. And handsome men who knew how to kiss.
Alas, seated next to Michelle in the dentists’ waiting room was a very generously-sized man with white hair and black bushy eyebrows and mustache who’d obviously had sushi for lunch - and not bothered to brush his teeth afterwards. He also wore a shirt with a matching white-and-black pattern, which was not a good look for him. As Shamu leered at her cleavage, and his fish breath wafted into her face, Michelle's rainbow mood couldn't help dimming, just a smidge.
|Photo via Wikimedia Commons|
Michelle was tempted to go snatch the bookmark out of his hand, but the door had already closed behind his cheatin' eyes and dimples.
She clung with toe and fingernails to the last remnants of her joyful mood, as the hygienist
They were using the drill a lot, Michelle noticed. In the room Greg was in.
"Don't smile!" her hygienist scolded.
Michelle decided on the drive home, to forget about married flirts and selfish drivers, and to concentrate on her precious novel, gleaming and beckoning like an emerald in a dark cave like in Romancing the Stone. Or whatever movie had the gems in the cave.
She was well rewarded for her positive thoughts, as her cat greeted her the moment she walked in the door with loud purrs and meows, rubbing her ankles, clearly delighted to see her cat-mommy.
Then she (the cat, not Michelle) proceeded to puke.
Michelle found it impossible to put a positive spin on cat puke. In fact, the only thing she hated more than cleaning up cat puke, was stepping on cat puke, when the cat, bless her passive-aggressive little kitty heart, had covertly puke-bombed the carpet. Beige on beige, never a color cue.
She cleaned it up. Not feeling the rainbows or emeralds anymore. Headed back to her computer, but the muse was gone. Off watching a reality TV show, no doubt, the lazy, stupid bitch. Michelle cued up the novel to where she'd left off. Perhaps if it was staring at her onscreen, the magic would grab her again, all the beautiful ideas flow out.
Nothing. She did some filing - might as well, the rest of the day was shot. Cleaned the desk some more. Checked the weather forecast. Hot and sunny tomorrow. A beautiful day for the beach... if only she didn't have to write.
"Oh, you're taking us to the beach tomorrow," her muse informed her.
I have to work. I have to write.
"No, Miss Gloomypants, you have to take us to the beach."
I would have to wear a bathing suit. I don't want to wear a bathing suit. Like, ever again.
"Cowboy up, you wuss. If you take us to the beach, I promise your characters and I will be lovely for the rest of the week. And who knows, you might even meet a Cute Guy there. An unmarried one."
I have a sneaking suspicion you're filling my head with rainbows and sunshiny dreams, and then you're going to bail on me again.
"We'll keep talking to you. I promise."
So Michelle did go to the beach, and it was as lovely and sunny and beautiful as forecast. (She does, after all , live in SoCal where there are often wonderful beach days, even in fall or winter.) Her characters all shared plenty of secrets, enough for to finish that book and start another.
While she was enjoying her warm sunny day at the beach, Michelle fell in love. With a man? With her story? With herself? That's a tale for another time.
And she wrote happily ever after.
Okay - this is a train wreck of a story. If you want to critique it, feel free. Not ever intending to seek publication for this snarky rainbowy cat pukey thing, just wanted to have some fun. I know it's too long, and doesn't really have a point, but I wrote it to use my special words, not the other way around.
And I wanted to cleverly tie it to my post about the important happenings in October, in this case, Dental Hygiene and Car Maintenance.
On another note - I have another author coming on the blog, mark your calendars to be back here on Wednesday, and get on his newsletter list (please tell him I sent ya) as he is giving away two, count 'em, TWO Kindles on this blog tour.
He is also a shooting star of a writer. I first knew Jeremy as a writer of screenplays (unpublished), then an author/co-author of a couple non-fiction books. I've since watched with awe and amazement as he's gone from self-pubbing to traditional, currently with a foot in both worlds, in a very short frame of time.
JEREMY ROBINSON is the author of numerous novels including PULSE, INSTINCT, and THRESHOLD the first three books in his exciting Jack Sigler series, which is also the focus of and expanding series of co-authored novellas deemed the Chesspocalypse. Robinson is also known as the #1 Amazon.com horror writer, Jeremy Bishop, author of THE SENTINEL and the controversial novel, TORMENT. His novels have been translated into ten languages. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife and three children.
So, if you are also looking to be a successful writer, following his blog tour and getting the newsletter is a great way to learn from somebody who's done it.
Happy writing or reading or beach-going today.