My five year-old son's best friend is named Mr. Berserver. He showed up around my son's fourth birthday. Now I've never met him, but he sounds like a hell of a guy. He lives underground in a giant tunnel house and is a world class Hide and Go Seek player. He drives a pink Cadillac, and, while sometimes he works a shift or two at Taco Bell, his main profession is teaching people how to tell jokes.
I'm not always fond of him. He's been known to sneak into our house and color on the entryway tiles with crayons, or put the stopper in the bathroom sink and flood the place. But in general, I like him.
He reminds me of a good friend I had when I was my son's age. His name was Gemco Beans, named after the store, of course. Gemco didn't drive a fancy pink Cadillac, but he did have his own plane. One that looked suspiciously similar the Fisher Price one in my room. He also shared Mr. Berserver's strange habit of doodling in inappropriate places.
Gemco and I went on all kinds of adventures. He had the magical power to turn my backyard into any place imaginable. And, man he could tell a story. I'm pretty sure that Gemco gave me my first lesson in storytelling.
There have been studies showing how kids with imaginary friends have more active prefrontal cortexes and are more able to express abstract thought than their peers. It appears that some of us were just born to make stuff up.
I guess that's why I don't get too mad when I have to clean up another one of Mr. Berserver's messes. I know he's teaching my son a hell of a lot more than just how to tell jokes.
Showing posts with label adrienne. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adrienne. Show all posts
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Beware the Neverwoods
--Adrienne Miller
I am a shop girl. I have been ever since I took my first job at the Hallmark down in my local strip mall. Up until very recently, every paycheck I ever cashed has been earned by selling someone else's goods and services. These days I manage those shops, but the deal is still the same. Product comes in, and I sell it. As work goes, it's not bad, and I'm halfway decent at it. I imagine that nearly twenty years of retail has colored my perception of the writing business.
And writing is a business. Ok, maybe not the actual writing, the putting the words down on paper. If you want to call that the art, I won't disagree with you. Not out loud at least. But once that pen comes down or you hit save on that file, you are in Author Territory, and that is right smack dab in the middle of Business Country.
Chances are you already know all the conventional wisdom about how to create the right image for yourself as an author. Facebook. Twitter. Be a self promo god. Go to all the right places. Shake all the right hands. Be yourself, but don't get too personal. You've heard it all before.
Okay, so here's some seldom mentioned wisdom I've gleaned from two decades of the actual business of selling.
It's Not What You Say, It's How You Make People Feel
Our memories are terrible when it comes to words, but they are amazing when they come to emotions. So this should be simple. Say the right things, make people feel good, and they will eat out of your hand, right? But as everyone who has ever bought a car and come out of the experience feeling like they need a shower knows, it's not as easy as that.
What people really want is to feel respected, and the best way to make them feel that way is to actually respect them. Sure, sometimes that's easier said than done, but, ten times out of ten, it's the worth the effort.
Your Audience Is Much Bigger Than The Person That Is Right In Front Of You
Just like Tess reminds Terry in one of the final scenes of Ocean's 11, someone is always listening.
When you are wearing your author hat you are on stage. Anyone who can hear you is your audience. And just like the point above, they don't care as much about what you're saying as how you are making them feel.
Even on the internet. Can I get a bullhorn for this one? Even On The Internet.
The trouble here is that we are, for the most part, empathetic creatures. When we walk in on someone getting tore a new one, we rarely empathize with doing one the tearing.
Gossip and people will forget what you told them, but they will remember that you are a gossip. And if you did with me, you'll do it to me. Mock a book or an author on twitter, and someone might laugh in the moment, but months later when they are walking down the aisle of the bookstore and spot your name, it won't be your wit that they remember. It will be your cruelty.
Keeping positive doesn't mean that you have to spout nothing but sunshine and roses 24/7. Just remember the respect rule. If what you want to share with the world passes that test, then you're golden.
Beware The Neverwoods
This one's a little different. It has less to do with how you deal with the public and more to do with how you deal with yourself. We love to tell ourselves the things we would never do, the things that are beneath us.
I never would write in that genre.
I never would go to that conference.
I never would talk to that person.
I never would __________.
The Neverwoods are a dark place. It's easy to get lost in there. It's easy to trip and fall face first into the very thing you said you would never do. Of course, when this happens you usually find out that it wasn't half as bad as you made it out to be.
Inside the Neverwoods it can be hard to remember that there's a difference between pride and respecting yourself. But there is. Respect yourself and you'll never have to say never.
I am a shop girl. I have been ever since I took my first job at the Hallmark down in my local strip mall. Up until very recently, every paycheck I ever cashed has been earned by selling someone else's goods and services. These days I manage those shops, but the deal is still the same. Product comes in, and I sell it. As work goes, it's not bad, and I'm halfway decent at it. I imagine that nearly twenty years of retail has colored my perception of the writing business.
And writing is a business. Ok, maybe not the actual writing, the putting the words down on paper. If you want to call that the art, I won't disagree with you. Not out loud at least. But once that pen comes down or you hit save on that file, you are in Author Territory, and that is right smack dab in the middle of Business Country.
Chances are you already know all the conventional wisdom about how to create the right image for yourself as an author. Facebook. Twitter. Be a self promo god. Go to all the right places. Shake all the right hands. Be yourself, but don't get too personal. You've heard it all before.
Okay, so here's some seldom mentioned wisdom I've gleaned from two decades of the actual business of selling.
It's Not What You Say, It's How You Make People Feel
Our memories are terrible when it comes to words, but they are amazing when they come to emotions. So this should be simple. Say the right things, make people feel good, and they will eat out of your hand, right? But as everyone who has ever bought a car and come out of the experience feeling like they need a shower knows, it's not as easy as that.
What people really want is to feel respected, and the best way to make them feel that way is to actually respect them. Sure, sometimes that's easier said than done, but, ten times out of ten, it's the worth the effort.
Your Audience Is Much Bigger Than The Person That Is Right In Front Of You
Just like Tess reminds Terry in one of the final scenes of Ocean's 11, someone is always listening.
When you are wearing your author hat you are on stage. Anyone who can hear you is your audience. And just like the point above, they don't care as much about what you're saying as how you are making them feel.
Even on the internet. Can I get a bullhorn for this one? Even On The Internet.
The trouble here is that we are, for the most part, empathetic creatures. When we walk in on someone getting tore a new one, we rarely empathize with doing one the tearing.
Gossip and people will forget what you told them, but they will remember that you are a gossip. And if you did with me, you'll do it to me. Mock a book or an author on twitter, and someone might laugh in the moment, but months later when they are walking down the aisle of the bookstore and spot your name, it won't be your wit that they remember. It will be your cruelty.
Keeping positive doesn't mean that you have to spout nothing but sunshine and roses 24/7. Just remember the respect rule. If what you want to share with the world passes that test, then you're golden.
Beware The Neverwoods
This one's a little different. It has less to do with how you deal with the public and more to do with how you deal with yourself. We love to tell ourselves the things we would never do, the things that are beneath us.
I never would write in that genre.
I never would go to that conference.
I never would talk to that person.
I never would __________.
The Neverwoods are a dark place. It's easy to get lost in there. It's easy to trip and fall face first into the very thing you said you would never do. Of course, when this happens you usually find out that it wasn't half as bad as you made it out to be.
Inside the Neverwoods it can be hard to remember that there's a difference between pride and respecting yourself. But there is. Respect yourself and you'll never have to say never.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
No Game
--Adrienne Miller
Pick up lines have never been my thing. Pick up anything has never been my thing. Truth be told, I’m lousy at the whole flirting thing.
Oh sure, I can talk a good game. I write books filled with the cutest meets you’ve ever read. In private, surrounded by nothing but friends I can talk about hot guys like they were personal trophies. But out in public, it’s a different story.
Most of the Pens already know this, but I can’t even look attractive men in the eye. Nope, can’t do it. And the more attractive I find them, the worse it gets.
I don’t mean that the only people I talk to all day are hideous troll creatures hiding under bridges. There’s lots of handsome men I talk to all day long. Hotness, that undefinable quality that makes you feel pulled toward another person, seems to be the thing that makes me stare at my toes.
It’s because I show everything on my face. The second I feel that little flip in my tummy my face starts to burn as bright as a lantern. I grin. I giggle, for crying out loud. I do all the things that a reasonable adult woman shouldn’t do when faced with a hottie.
I’ve always been this way. Even when I met my husband. I don’t think I spoke to him for a good three months beyond a few mumbled good mornings and the like. I figured if I couldn’t muster up the resolve to tell him I was interested with my face, I would have to find another way to let him know. So every day that we worked together I wore my shirt with one extra button undone. Years later, I asked him if he noticed. Hells yeah, he did, he said. So I guess I have just a little game after all.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
A Simple Strategy
--Adrienne Miller
Chances are I’m not going down in history as a great strategist. I’m terribly disorganized, both in thought and in action. I have a bad habit of trying to do too many things all at the same time and not finishing any of them.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a strategy when it comes to writing. I do. It’s just a simple one.
Keep Going
Something doesn’t work, change it. Go down the wrong way, turn around. Fall down, get back up again. It’s simple, but it’s far from easy. When the going gets slow or doubt creeps in it can feel like the hardest thing in the world to get over a bad review, or send out another query, or scribble down just one more word. But you have too. Just one more. Then one more after that. Then another.
Hard Work Makes Its Own Luck
Luck, good luck especially, always seemed to me to be too fickle to rely on, and I’ve never trusted stories about instant success. How many stories about overnight sensations leave out the decade(s) of practice and work they did before making it big? There are so many things about this business we can’t control. Focus your energy on what you can.
That being said...
Dumb Luck Is Pretty Awesome Too
Every now and again you’ll bumble your way into just the right place at just the right time. When that happens, don’t be afraid to seize the hell out that moment. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s awesome.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Kissy Face
--Adrienne Miller
I don't think this is going to come as a surprise to anyone, but I'm a big fan of kisses. I'm a romantic. I write stories packed full of kisses and all the things that kissing--good kissing--leads to. These things are my bread and butter. I loves them.
But I also understand them.
But what's to understand about kissing, you ask. Aren't they instinctual? Well, riddle me this Batman, if kisses are so simple why have over 35 million people watched this video.
Thirty five million. Seriously.
Ok, so the good people at Howcast have 10 steps for better kissing. I haven't got any steps. Just theories. A handful of theories crafted over a lifetime of watching movies and reading novels, so I there's no doubting my sources.
Theory #1: Truly great kisses come from emotions other than lust. Lonliness. Pain. Fear. They all need an outlet, and sometimes there's no better outlet than a kiss.
Theory #2: Of course, plain ol' lust is good too.
Theory #3: Sometimes kisses should look like they hurt, cause ya know, sometimes love hurts.
Theory #4: Unless it doesn't.
So there they are, all of my advanced theories on kissing. Nothing to do now but sit back and wait for all those offers for honorary doctorates to start rolling in.
I don't think this is going to come as a surprise to anyone, but I'm a big fan of kisses. I'm a romantic. I write stories packed full of kisses and all the things that kissing--good kissing--leads to. These things are my bread and butter. I loves them.
But I also understand them.
But what's to understand about kissing, you ask. Aren't they instinctual? Well, riddle me this Batman, if kisses are so simple why have over 35 million people watched this video.
Thirty five million. Seriously.
Ok, so the good people at Howcast have 10 steps for better kissing. I haven't got any steps. Just theories. A handful of theories crafted over a lifetime of watching movies and reading novels, so I there's no doubting my sources.
Theory #1: Truly great kisses come from emotions other than lust. Lonliness. Pain. Fear. They all need an outlet, and sometimes there's no better outlet than a kiss.
Theory #2: Of course, plain ol' lust is good too.
Theory #3: Sometimes kisses should look like they hurt, cause ya know, sometimes love hurts.
Theory #4: Unless it doesn't.
So there they are, all of my advanced theories on kissing. Nothing to do now but sit back and wait for all those offers for honorary doctorates to start rolling in.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Taurus Rising
-- Adrienne Miller
I don't take well to nagging. I never have. I suppose I could blame it on my stars. A few years ago my mother-in-law did my astrological chart, and while my sun sign is Libra, apparently my rising sign is Taurus. She told me that means that while I love balance and harmony (which I do) I'm also as stubborn as an old mule (which I also am). So what you get is someone who wants to everyone to be happy but always finds the sneaky, backdoor way to getting what I want.
I'm not a big (or any kind) believer in astrology, but in this case the description just happened to be accurate. I am that person. You can nag at me, and I'll smile and nod, but inside my heels are digging in so far that you could use me to plow a field.
I'll admit, it's not the most attractive personality trait. Some people would even call it passive aggressive, but that's only because I can't bring myself to be aggressive-aggressive. You know, those people who shout out their opinions loud enough for everyone in a three block radius to hear. I don't want to be that person either.
There has to be a middle ground. A plain aggressive. Someone who can just say no without explanation. Without raising her voice. Without sugarcoating anything. That's how I'd like to be. Maybe someday I'll figure out how to be that.
But until I do, seriously, don't nag me.
I don't take well to nagging. I never have. I suppose I could blame it on my stars. A few years ago my mother-in-law did my astrological chart, and while my sun sign is Libra, apparently my rising sign is Taurus. She told me that means that while I love balance and harmony (which I do) I'm also as stubborn as an old mule (which I also am). So what you get is someone who wants to everyone to be happy but always finds the sneaky, backdoor way to getting what I want.
I'm not a big (or any kind) believer in astrology, but in this case the description just happened to be accurate. I am that person. You can nag at me, and I'll smile and nod, but inside my heels are digging in so far that you could use me to plow a field.
I'll admit, it's not the most attractive personality trait. Some people would even call it passive aggressive, but that's only because I can't bring myself to be aggressive-aggressive. You know, those people who shout out their opinions loud enough for everyone in a three block radius to hear. I don't want to be that person either.
There has to be a middle ground. A plain aggressive. Someone who can just say no without explanation. Without raising her voice. Without sugarcoating anything. That's how I'd like to be. Maybe someday I'll figure out how to be that.
But until I do, seriously, don't nag me.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
I Just Can't Help Myself
--Adrienne Miller
I know it's wrong. I know I'm not supposed to like it. Everyone tells me to stay away. But do I listen? Oh hells no.
It's just too good. I'll take it just about anywhere. Even in places nature didn't intend for it to go. So hot. So sticky. Heaven help me, I even love it when the gooey stuff goes everywhere.
Yep, I love fried eggs. Lately, they're my main vice.
Yeah, I know they're kind of wimpy as vices go, but you have to cut me some slack. I don't really drink all that often. I haven't smoked in a long, long time. I don't like to gamble, and I've been with the same guy since I was twenty. I'm aware that maybe it puts me a little on the boring side, but I'm a pretty upright citizen.
Which doesn't leave me too many options on the vice front. So fried eggs it will have to be.
But why should I have to make excuses for something that tastes so good? Plop one of those bad boys on just about anything and it goes from ordinary to awesome. Hash browns. Grilled cheese. Fried chicken.
Regular burger becomes awesome burger.
Oh yes, I made and ate that. Without shame, baby. Without shame.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
What's So Funny
For your Thursday listening pleasure:
So, if that worked you should all be wanting to run out and join the Peace Corps...or a New Wave band. Either one is good.
So, if that worked you should all be wanting to run out and join the Peace Corps...or a New Wave band. Either one is good.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
How To Bake A Cookie
-- Adrienne Miller
It's kinda funny that I started baking as an antidote to the stress of life. Looking back, I can see my reasons. Baking seems like it would be the antithesis of writing. There's a clear plan. No reasoning is required. Just follow the step-by-step guide and--Presto!--you've got yourself a cake. Or a pie. Or a cookie.
When I first started out, I imagined that there would be a zen-like quality to working with the ingredients--carefully measuring them, mixing them together, meticulously decorating the finished product.
Maybe that's the way it works out if you're Martha Stewart, but not if you're anything like me. Now, don't get me wrong. I love to bake. Deep down, crazy love it. And it does help me reduce stress, just not the way I thought it would.
Instead of being the polar opposite of my writing experiences, it turned out that baking is like a condensed version of them, going from pie-to-the-sky optimism, to gut-wrenching doubt, to resolution. Usually in just under an hour.
Here's how it usually goes:
Decide to make something. How about French Macaroons? They're delicious. There's a lot of choices for fillings, so I can really make them my own. And hell, they're as adorable as something can be and still be edible.
Put together the mis en place. I'm at my happiest. How could I be any other way? I have all the ingredients, all in the right proportion and order. It's a thing of beauty. All will be well. I can feel it. I can do this thing.
Start making the meringue. Crap. My hand mixer starts making a strange clanking sound. The gears start slipping every few rounds. I should have seen this coming. I bought the damn thing over ten years ago on super sale at Target. It's amazing that it's lasted this long. I start praying that it can hold out just a little longer. Just a few more minutes. Just until I get this mess to stiff peaks. Do you hear me god? Just until stiff peaks.
Whew. It made it. Creaking and clanging the whole way, but the ol' beast had just enough magic left in her to make those egg whites and superfine sugar into a smooth, glossy froth. Now to make it pretty. And nothing says pretty like pink. See? Yeah, everything is going to be fine. Just fine.
Now to fold in the dry goods. Okay. Folding always makes me a little nervous. It's not my strongest skill. But I can do this. I can.
Dear God! What is that monstrosity? It looks like gritty, chewed bubble gum. Seriously, what was I thinking? This is a horrible mess. I'm a terrible baker. Why didn't I just buy the pack of perfect macaroons they had at La Boulange when I had the chance?
But I've gone to far to turn back now. I might as well just press on and see how this disaster turns out. I mean, if it's total crap--and how could it be anything else?--then I just won't give them to anyone. No one has to know. I'll just pipe out the circles and see. No harm in that.
Shit. Even my piping skill suck. Why do I even pretend that I know what I'm doing in a kitchen?
But at least there's fillings to make up for my craptastic efforts. Nutella can at least cover some of my suckage.
Put them in the oven and try my best not to think about them for a while. Not long, just a little distance. In this case, ten minutes of watching That Mitchell and Webb Look goes a long way to reviving my spirits. The timer goes off and--low and behold!--they don't suck.
It all came together fine. They're crisp on the top and chewy in the middle, just like they should be. The color is perfect, and I even managed to get that little frill on the bottom of each cookie just right.
Yeah, they're not all perfectly symmetrical, but who the hell wants that anyway. I'll leave perfection to the Martha Stewarts of the world. I like mine with a little personality anyway.
It's kinda funny that I started baking as an antidote to the stress of life. Looking back, I can see my reasons. Baking seems like it would be the antithesis of writing. There's a clear plan. No reasoning is required. Just follow the step-by-step guide and--Presto!--you've got yourself a cake. Or a pie. Or a cookie.
When I first started out, I imagined that there would be a zen-like quality to working with the ingredients--carefully measuring them, mixing them together, meticulously decorating the finished product.
Maybe that's the way it works out if you're Martha Stewart, but not if you're anything like me. Now, don't get me wrong. I love to bake. Deep down, crazy love it. And it does help me reduce stress, just not the way I thought it would.
Instead of being the polar opposite of my writing experiences, it turned out that baking is like a condensed version of them, going from pie-to-the-sky optimism, to gut-wrenching doubt, to resolution. Usually in just under an hour.
Here's how it usually goes:
Decide to make something. How about French Macaroons? They're delicious. There's a lot of choices for fillings, so I can really make them my own. And hell, they're as adorable as something can be and still be edible.
Put together the mis en place. I'm at my happiest. How could I be any other way? I have all the ingredients, all in the right proportion and order. It's a thing of beauty. All will be well. I can feel it. I can do this thing.
Start making the meringue. Crap. My hand mixer starts making a strange clanking sound. The gears start slipping every few rounds. I should have seen this coming. I bought the damn thing over ten years ago on super sale at Target. It's amazing that it's lasted this long. I start praying that it can hold out just a little longer. Just a few more minutes. Just until I get this mess to stiff peaks. Do you hear me god? Just until stiff peaks.
Whew. It made it. Creaking and clanging the whole way, but the ol' beast had just enough magic left in her to make those egg whites and superfine sugar into a smooth, glossy froth. Now to make it pretty. And nothing says pretty like pink. See? Yeah, everything is going to be fine. Just fine.
Now to fold in the dry goods. Okay. Folding always makes me a little nervous. It's not my strongest skill. But I can do this. I can.
Dear God! What is that monstrosity? It looks like gritty, chewed bubble gum. Seriously, what was I thinking? This is a horrible mess. I'm a terrible baker. Why didn't I just buy the pack of perfect macaroons they had at La Boulange when I had the chance?
But I've gone to far to turn back now. I might as well just press on and see how this disaster turns out. I mean, if it's total crap--and how could it be anything else?--then I just won't give them to anyone. No one has to know. I'll just pipe out the circles and see. No harm in that.
Shit. Even my piping skill suck. Why do I even pretend that I know what I'm doing in a kitchen?
But at least there's fillings to make up for my craptastic efforts. Nutella can at least cover some of my suckage.
Put them in the oven and try my best not to think about them for a while. Not long, just a little distance. In this case, ten minutes of watching That Mitchell and Webb Look goes a long way to reviving my spirits. The timer goes off and--low and behold!--they don't suck.
It all came together fine. They're crisp on the top and chewy in the middle, just like they should be. The color is perfect, and I even managed to get that little frill on the bottom of each cookie just right.
Yeah, they're not all perfectly symmetrical, but who the hell wants that anyway. I'll leave perfection to the Martha Stewarts of the world. I like mine with a little personality anyway.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Garbage Casserole
--Adrienne Miller
There’s an old Miller family recipe--well not that old, we did come up with it when I was a kid--called Garbage Casserole. While the name isn’t all that appealing, I gotta admit the dish is one of my favorites, and the recipe is ridiculously simple.
There’s an old Miller family recipe--well not that old, we did come up with it when I was a kid--called Garbage Casserole. While the name isn’t all that appealing, I gotta admit the dish is one of my favorites, and the recipe is ridiculously simple.
Take last night’s taco dinner leftovers and layer them in a gratin dish. Pile on the cheese. Heat and eat.
I can make Garbage Casseroles out of almost anything. Leftovers from roasts and poultry can become quickie pot pies. Extra hamburger can become cottage pie. And I have no idea why anyone on god’s green earth would even think of throwing away bacon. I would crumble that stuff on anything.
Maybe it was my solidly blue-collar upbringing--or, let’s be honest, present--that gave me my mind set on leftovers. Waste not, want not. Hell, it’s more than a dish, it’s a philosophy.
I’ll admit, it’s a way of thinking that can get out of hand. My grandmother was hoarder. Not as extreme as some you see on tv, but still, pretty bad. Whole rooms were filled with old clothes and drawers stocked with those little soaps you get in hotels. The shed was packed with crumbling tools that were decades past their usefulness.
I sympathized with her obsession with keeping things. She came from a poor I have a hard time understanding. A rural Upper Michigan during the depression kind of poor. Think Charles Dickens, only less populated.
It makes me sad to think that once she finally go to the point in her life where she did have stuff, she was so plagued by the fear of losing it. On the other hand, it kind of makes me sad to think of those who live in such abundance that they never know how precious those things that they thoughtlessly toss out are.
Maybe that’s why I like the idea of Garbage Casserole so much. You use it all up, but you don’t waste. Yeah, that’s a thought I like a lot.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
The Other Side of the Counter
--Adrienne Miller
I've always worked in retail. Well, maybe not always. There was that time in high school that I worked at a dry cleaners. And in college when I worked at a laser tag place. But I digress. Most of the time that I've been working, I've been selling something. Books, coffee, greeting cards, clothes, I've sold them all.
Retail can give you a different perspective on our gift giving holidays. Yeah, some of it can be bad. People can be mean. They can yell and be rude. They can huff and puff and blow your house down. The internets abound with stories written by the burned out retail employee. God knows, on occasion I can feel that way too.
But usually I don't. Because for every nasty, growling, short-tempered gift buyer there are a hundred lovely people happily searching for the perfect something. People usually go out shopping in groups. The store may be packed but most people are smiling. Jolly music is playing. Decorations are everywhere. And, ain't gonna lie, the days go by real fast. What drags in the middle of June, flies by in December.
I remember a beautiful moment last year. It was Christmas Eve and I got off work after the shops had closed. It was cold enough to see my breath, and I was all bundled up in my big, wooly sweater. The christmas lights were strung between the buildings, shimmering like pretend stars. everyone was already home. I don't think I passed another soul. But the music was still on in the plaza, and as I walked to my car I was serenaded by the most gorgeous version of Silent Night I can remember hearing. It was as if the world had orchestrated the scene for me.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Hellbound Friday Nights
When I was in my early teens my friend, Mandy, and I had a weekend ritual. Friday night was horror movie night.
Mandy had the best house for horror movie watching. Her parents had a thing for weather-beaten farm antiques. Rusty scythes and pickaxes hung from the wall like a bad movie set. They also had one of those second garage freezers stockpiled with frozen pizzas and tv dinners. Put all that together with a pull out sofabed in front of the tv, and her place was heaven as far as my thirteen year-old self was concerned.
We would scour the video stores for titles. We went through what the big chain store had to offer quickly-- big name slasher film series and a few mainstream flops. The little local independents had better titles--everything from the campy B-movies(I was thirteen when I first fell in love with Bruce Campbell) to Italian art house horror.
I learned a lot from those late night vhs double features. Scene structure has to be tight in a horror story, more so than in other genre, for it work effectively. Don't be afraid to start big and end bigger. Make your protagonist relatable. If I don't care about them, I'll spend the whole time rooting for the killer.
Sometimes it's inevitable. Take Pinhead from Hellraiser, my favorite movie monster.
He's not even the real bad guy in the story. Frank is, but very few people remember him at all. Frank is a one-note character, all bad. He's necessary, but not interesting.
But, Pinhead? He's got pizzaz. He's not strictly a villain. He comes from another place where the code is different. He's even reasonable, in his own freaky way. Sure, he'll "tear your soul apart", but only cause you asked him to. Don't want "your suffering to be legendary even in hell"? Well then, don't open the freakin' box. Simple as that.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Sister Wendy
--Adrienne Miller
I have terrible confession to make. I’m not an art lover. Sure, I enjoy certain artists. I really like Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, and I’m a big Mary Blair fan. But when it comes to art as a whole, my feelings are decidedly lukewarm.
Maybe it is because the art world is just so damn intimidating. I’m never sure what I’m supposed to be seeing in painting. I know there is usually some deeper meaning behind the subject, but for the life of me I just don’t get what that field of wheat is supposed to symbolize besides, you know, some wheat. But that was before I found Sister Wendy.
That’s right I love me some Sister Wendy.
And not just because she’s just all-around freaking adorable.
I love her because she was the first person that was able to talk about art in a way that made me understand it. When she describes in her little lispy voice about the symbology in a particular painting, I can actually see what she sees. For an ignoramus like me, that’s quite a revelation.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Meme Me
-- Adrienne Miller
Thank heaven for YouTube.
Yes, I get that there is more to memes than Double Rainbow and The Bed Intruder Song. But let's be honest, you're not interested in that, are you? You don't care about the evolution of the paper clip as a prime example of how the human mind constantly struggles to improve our current situation.
No, you want the funny. It's ok. So do I.
So here are some of my favorite favorite sources of web based comedy.
Blame Society Productions
You probably already know about Chad Vader: Day Shift Manager. If you don't, you should. Darth's little brother has been running shifts at Empire Market for 3 seasons now.
The cast and crew have been making these for free. These are talented people and they deserved to get paid. There is a kickstarter campaign to make Season 4.
But Chad Vader, as great as it is, isn't the best that Matt Sloan and Aaron Yonda have to offer. They have put out an embarrassment of YouTube riches. My favorites: Beer & Board Games, Fun Rangers, and Ehow. Note: all of these are edgier than the PG Chad Vader episodes, definetly NSFW...but they're also funnier.
Next time you have an hour to kill, check them out.
Rifftrax
If you were anything like me, you spent the last part of 1999 crying in a corner because you'd just found out that Mystery Science Theater 3000 had been canceled.
Ok, so you probably weren't anything like me...but, if you really like to listen to three ridiculously funny guys making fun of movies, check it out.
And Exhibit B:
See? There's like a million of these, and they're all just as awesome.
Thank heaven for YouTube.
Yes, I get that there is more to memes than Double Rainbow and The Bed Intruder Song. But let's be honest, you're not interested in that, are you? You don't care about the evolution of the paper clip as a prime example of how the human mind constantly struggles to improve our current situation.
No, you want the funny. It's ok. So do I.
So here are some of my favorite favorite sources of web based comedy.
Blame Society Productions
You probably already know about Chad Vader: Day Shift Manager. If you don't, you should. Darth's little brother has been running shifts at Empire Market for 3 seasons now.
The cast and crew have been making these for free. These are talented people and they deserved to get paid. There is a kickstarter campaign to make Season 4.
But Chad Vader, as great as it is, isn't the best that Matt Sloan and Aaron Yonda have to offer. They have put out an embarrassment of YouTube riches. My favorites: Beer & Board Games, Fun Rangers, and Ehow. Note: all of these are edgier than the PG Chad Vader episodes, definetly NSFW...but they're also funnier.
"If only three sheep can be involved, it's not worth my time!" Seriously, don't click on this if you're at work.
Next time you have an hour to kill, check them out.
Rifftrax
If you were anything like me, you spent the last part of 1999 crying in a corner because you'd just found out that Mystery Science Theater 3000 had been canceled.
Ok, so you probably weren't anything like me...but, if you really like to listen to three ridiculously funny guys making fun of movies, check it out.
Fortunately Mike, Kevin and Bill are always suitable for work!
Viral Video Firm School
Brett Erlich is a god. Don't believe me?
I give you Exhibit A:
And Exhibit B:
See? There's like a million of these, and they're all just as awesome.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
A More Charitable Heart
--Adrienne Miller
If I ever found a genie in a bottle, my wishes would probably go like this. First, I would wish for beautiful singing voice, cause mine is terrible. Second, I would wish for just a little artistic talent, because, well , I stink at that too. And last, I would wish for a more charitable heart.
The problem is even my reasons for this last wish are selfish.
I am a grudge holder. A bad one. I'm still holding tight to grudges that are going into their second decade. It's not something I'm proud of. I know it's petty and kind of silly, but I just can't seem to help it. Big hurts, little slights, they're all the same to me. And I've got a long memory.
The kicker is, I know that no good comes from holding grudges. I am rationally aware that the only person I am hurting by holding them is myself.
My brain, of course, knows this. My heart, it seems, does not.
That's why I wish I could be more like those charitable people who are able to summon sympathy for those who have done them wrong. It must be lovely to be one of those people who can forgive and let go so easily. They must live lighter lives than the rest of us.
I guess I'll never know until I find that magic lamp.
If I ever found a genie in a bottle, my wishes would probably go like this. First, I would wish for beautiful singing voice, cause mine is terrible. Second, I would wish for just a little artistic talent, because, well , I stink at that too. And last, I would wish for a more charitable heart.
The problem is even my reasons for this last wish are selfish.
I am a grudge holder. A bad one. I'm still holding tight to grudges that are going into their second decade. It's not something I'm proud of. I know it's petty and kind of silly, but I just can't seem to help it. Big hurts, little slights, they're all the same to me. And I've got a long memory.
The kicker is, I know that no good comes from holding grudges. I am rationally aware that the only person I am hurting by holding them is myself.
It's like that old saying. Holding a grudge is like taking poison and hoping the other person will die.
That's why I wish I could be more like those charitable people who are able to summon sympathy for those who have done them wrong. It must be lovely to be one of those people who can forgive and let go so easily. They must live lighter lives than the rest of us.
I guess I'll never know until I find that magic lamp.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk
I've always had a strong connection to this Rufus Wainwright song. Though I don't smoke (anymore) and Nesquick doesn't do a thing for me. If it had been my song it might have been called Cheetos and Giant Cups of Coffee. Not quite the same ring, I'm afraid, but you get the picture. I am not a woman of modest appetites. I never have been. And not just when it comes to food. But let's be honest, it comes down to food a lot.
Yeah, like he says, we won't mention those things. But I will say there is an upside to this constant hunger--my mind is always humming. I never worry about running out of story ideas, never fret that I won't be able to come up with unusual characters to write about, because they're always there. The downside--they're always there.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
The River
If there is a perfect summer day, its spent on the rocky banks of the Russian River.
Pack up a cooler and some towels. Bring along an old cotton dress to throw over your bathing suit if you want to stop in at the shops that dot the country road.
Spend the afternoon floating on the water. Watch your kids splash each other at the river's edge. Read a book on the shore. Eat the strawberries that you bought from the stand down the way. Feel every moment of the day go by.
Pack up a cooler and some towels. Bring along an old cotton dress to throw over your bathing suit if you want to stop in at the shops that dot the country road.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Sexy Bodexy
--Adrienne Miller
That’s what I’m currently calling my WIP. Yeah, it’s a little awkward but it gets the point across. It’s a sexy, sexy story. At least that’s how I’m hoping it will turn out.
A while back, I got the most brilliant rejection letter that anyone has ever received. Pages long and insightful, I agreed with almost every note this agent made. Pacing problems, narrative problems, character problems, she dealt with them all with a fabulous mixture of “I know you can take this” honesty and “Buck up, lil’ camper, you’ll scale that mountain yet” confidence building. This thing was as wonderful as any letter informing you that your dreams are going to be delayed a bit longer could ever be.
So when she wrote that it seemed like I was uncomfortable writing love scenes, I took notice. Really? I thought. Uncomfortable? Isn’t everyone when faced with writing a graphic sexual encounter? Throw in the very real possibility that every living relative of yours might have access to this thing at some point, and it was amazing to me that anyone was willing to write about sex at all. Ever.
It appeared that my Prude Pants were showing. Except I wasn’t a prude. Was I?
I like sexy things. I’ve read romance novels over half of my life. I practically turn into a puddle of melted butter every time I sit down for an episode of True Blood. I’ve watched the movie Troy close to a bazillion times, and not because I’m enthralled with the story line.
Figuring that couldn’t possibly be the problem, I dove right into writing another book. When I got to the first love scene, I took of note of how I dealt with it. And sure enough, the scene came out flat and awkward, like I was typing out the literary equivalent of lying back and thinking of England.
Damn. What was wrong? Maybe I wasn’t loose enough, I figured. So I deleted the whole thing and started again, this time trying the Rachael Herron method of pounding down a glass of Laphroaig before starting over. It didn’t help. Now it was just flat and sloppy.
The next morning I woke up with deadly cottonmouth and an idea. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been exposed to enough sexy things. I was really good at receiving sexy input. No, the problem was that I didn’t have any experience at sexy output. And I don’t just mean writing a sexy scene, but in thinking of sexy as being anything that was inside of me.
I don’t think that you have to believe that you’re sexy to write hot love scenes any more than I think that you need to have homicidal tendencies to write mysteries. But we’ve all been angry; we know the seed of that particular fruit. As for me, it was painfully obvious that I had gotten too far away from my sexy seed.
So I’ve set off to reclaim it, not the easiest thing for a overweight mother of two. I decided to dive headlong into a new story. An erotic romance. Ah hell, since I’m already neck deep, let’s make it a BDSM shape-shifter erotic romance. Because if there is one thing I believe in, it’s that any thing worth doing is worth overdoing.
Yeah...we’ll see how it goes.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Red Leather Magic
When I slipped it on, I was Michael Jackson in Thriller. I could sing like him. I could dance like him.
That red jacket was my Dumbo's feather. There was no stopping me when I had it on. I channeled all the cool of my childhood hero and coupled it with the unbridled confidence that only a six year-old is capable of. I was unstoppable.
What I wouldn't give some days to have just a touch of that magic back. Though this time around I'd probably choose something other than a shiny red leather jacket as a conduit.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
In Praise Of Screw Ups
--Adrienne Miller
If there was ever a wrong turn, I've made it. Ever a safe bet, I've lost it. I've made more bad first impressions than good ones. I've run my mouth off when I should have been discreet, and I've frozen up in the clutch.
That's me. I'm a screw up. I wouldn't say I'm proud exactly, but neither am I ashamed. There's an upside to being a screw up, especially if you are a writer. I’ve learned some things that you can only discover when you're taking the long way around. Though I have to admit that, just like everything else, it took me a little while to learn them.
1. Failure isn't the end of world. It’s an inevitability. When you start out to do something new and different, you’re going to make mistakes. You’re going to give five wrong answers for every right one. You’re going to do a piss poor job until you learn how to do a good one.
But even then you’re not safe. Trust me, no matter what heights you’ve reached scaling your mountain, you are never immune from falling back down it. Maybe it’ll be hubris that does you in--no, I hear you say, no author has ever been guilty of that--or, maybe dumb luck. All I know is that it doesn’t matter. Because as any good screw up can tell you, it’s not the mistake but what you do after it that matters.
2. Life is not an equation. There is no formula for success or recipe for avoiding pain. There are no set of variables that will lead you straight to the winner’s circle, if only you can figure them out. Hell, I’m not even sure there is a winner’s circle.
Life is a crazy journey. A messy, sometimes joyous, sometimes tragic, always chaotic journey.
3. Playing it safe, isn’t. The middle isn’t any safer than the edges. Don’t believe me, re-read lesson number one. The only difference is that if you stick to the middle, you’ll blend in until you fade away.
When in doubt, listen to your heart. Yeah, it might take in you in all kinds of crazy directions, but, I promise you, you’ll have a hell of a time along the way.
If there was ever a wrong turn, I've made it. Ever a safe bet, I've lost it. I've made more bad first impressions than good ones. I've run my mouth off when I should have been discreet, and I've frozen up in the clutch.
That's me. I'm a screw up. I wouldn't say I'm proud exactly, but neither am I ashamed. There's an upside to being a screw up, especially if you are a writer. I’ve learned some things that you can only discover when you're taking the long way around. Though I have to admit that, just like everything else, it took me a little while to learn them.
1. Failure isn't the end of world. It’s an inevitability. When you start out to do something new and different, you’re going to make mistakes. You’re going to give five wrong answers for every right one. You’re going to do a piss poor job until you learn how to do a good one.
But even then you’re not safe. Trust me, no matter what heights you’ve reached scaling your mountain, you are never immune from falling back down it. Maybe it’ll be hubris that does you in--no, I hear you say, no author has ever been guilty of that--or, maybe dumb luck. All I know is that it doesn’t matter. Because as any good screw up can tell you, it’s not the mistake but what you do after it that matters.
2. Life is not an equation. There is no formula for success or recipe for avoiding pain. There are no set of variables that will lead you straight to the winner’s circle, if only you can figure them out. Hell, I’m not even sure there is a winner’s circle.
Life is a crazy journey. A messy, sometimes joyous, sometimes tragic, always chaotic journey.
3. Playing it safe, isn’t. The middle isn’t any safer than the edges. Don’t believe me, re-read lesson number one. The only difference is that if you stick to the middle, you’ll blend in until you fade away.
When in doubt, listen to your heart. Yeah, it might take in you in all kinds of crazy directions, but, I promise you, you’ll have a hell of a time along the way.
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