As you can see from the photo below, not only is my yard looking really splendid today, but my skills as a photographer have improved dramatically. My photos now look like, well, works of art! (Perhaps even works of art that are copyrighted by Stephen Darbishire!)



For some reason, I really love this picture. Even though it's one of those mass-produced thingies where the frame would cost more than the art. And even though I don't like to drink white wine, nor do I like to eat fruit while I'm drinking (or not drinking, as the case may be) white wine... However. If you look at this print when it's not online, the depth is really engaging. The pull of it makes my brain feel like following it and going places.

Okay, so! How is writing like giving birth? (You might want to press PAUSE here and I'll give you a minute to prepare your answers.) Okay, time's up. Writing is like giving birth because, even when you set aside whole complete days, empty out all the hours, sit in front of the laptop and write endless soul-searching notes, or putter around doing a bunch of other stuff while thinking, thinking, thinking; nothing comes until it's ready to, gang. Late yesterday afternoon, when I was off eating lunch by myself, with no pen, pencil, crayon, or writing instrument of any sort, nor any paper, paper napkin, or shred of anything like that to write upon, out the fucking synopsis came.

It just started coming. First a handful of words. It was a little alarming but I thought, no problem, I can remember this if I just keep repeating it over and over to myself until I can find a pen. I'll just kind of hurry up here and finish my lunch. But then, like, whole sentences kept coming and I had to drop everything and leave in a hurry and go off and find something to write with and upon, while repeating all these crazy sentences over and over and over.

But it was worth it. It was so what I'd been hoping for; a synopsis that doesn't just say: my novel is about this and this and this, and then this happens and that happens, and that and that, and then this and this happens, and then... And then you nudge the editor a little just to wake her without outright startling her, or anything. I figure, if you can keep the editor awake during the entire 3-page synopsis, then you have a shot at getting her to want to read the whole book.

To be honest, most editors want to read my books. And there are only a few who don't like my writing style (at all, apparently). It's just that I tend to write stuff that publishers don't know what to do with. Meaning, how the hell are we going to sell this? Who's the market, how do we reach it? (Which is also usually another way of saying: If you would take out all this graphic sex, then we'd have something to talk about.)

Well, the new novel is not erotic. Well, it has eroticism in it, but it isn't graphic at all. Not even close; that wasn't the story I wanted to tell this time. So it'll be interesting to see what they say now. (An editor at one publishing house really wanted to publish one of my novels a couple years ago, only she wanted a huge bunch of changes; complete re-writes of entire passages; deletions of others. "What do you think?" my agent asked me. "Okay," I said. Because, as you know, I'm one of those "say yes! to life" gals. But then the chief mucky-muck at the big board meeting that was supposed to give the final approval of contracting my novel, said, "No way in hell are we ever, ever, EVER going to publish this piece of trash. I mean, book. I don't care how much she rewrites it.") Not to be petulant, or anything, but even though it would have a been a very nice chunk of money that I really needed at that point, I was really actually relieved because, frankly, I liked my novel just the way it was; I didn't really want to eviscerate it.

BTW, I am going to start writing erotica again. In fact, the moment this synopsis is off to my agent. But it'll only be in French now.

Which reminds me.... While researching sales of my own books in France for a French publisher, I discovered an entire book of short stories of mine -- en francais! -- that is now out of print that, yes, I never wrote! Nor did I ever sign any contracts, or give any permission to have the stories translated into French and sold in France, etc., etc., etc. But what are you going to do, gang? It's not like I can afford a lawyer -- in a foreign country, no less. I'm too busy trying to afford my little house here in Happyland, Ohio. But as I was saying to my friend Ron Bass on the phone the other day, "Ron," I said, "the book sold out. So it could be a good omen for this next one, sales-wise." Right, gang? We shall see!!

Meanwhile, gotta tweak! (No, not the drugs; the synopsis!) (I've been a drug-free gal since about 1987; just FYI.) Well. Have a great Sunday, my little loves, wherever you are!