To put it bluntly: you can tell that A Kiss to Remember was written on a deadline. It has no heart, no soul, no real wit. The most engaging character is the murderous little Lottie, who would be awesome if she didn’t suddenly go on the straight and narrow. Hell, to be honest, I was more interested in why Lottie was so obsessed with murder, poison, etc., than I was whether or not the Duke and Duchess of Devonbrooke got their jollies or their damnable heir(s).

All of this is quite sad to me because I love Teresa Medeiros’s writing style and infusion of wit in her books. This one, however, is a party I just can’t get behind. It’s too much like everything else, absent the brilliant originality I usually associate with her work.

Someone pass the Alka-Seltzer, please?

Lately, I’ve been sinking my teeth into books by A. Lee Martinez and Nora Roberts. (One of my co-workers gave me a bag full of Nora Roberts and Danielle Steel, and even though they aren’t exactly to my taste, it’s not like I have endless money to throw around on securing new books.) Monster and Gil’s All-Fright Diner by A. Lee Martinez get two very enthusiastic thumbs up from me. I’m also dying for the release of Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters, and since last we met, I’ve devoured the remaining couple of Jacqueline Carey’s books that I hadn’t managed to finish. I love her to pieces and I totally don’t mind doing anything to support her writing more books.

On my own writing front, I’m approximately 26,000 words into the initial first draft of what I’m lovingly calling Four Bitches and a Funeral; a story of four sisters and how their relationship changes after their father dies. (Oh shut up. It’s not a total chick story.)

And now I must away to my “real life”.

I’ve been uberbusy, but I’ve been reading and writing as the mood takes me. Two books highly recommended: Santa Olivia by Jacqueline Carey, and Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Jane Austen and Seth Graham Smith. *huge thumbs up*

I’m working on a project that’s alternating between the titles “The 4 Bitches of the Apocalypse” and “Four Sisters and a Funeral”, but… it’s taking it’s sweet time.

And now I’m off to bed.

In this case, I’m referring to Sarah Wendell and Candy Tan of smartbitchestrashybooks.com. Their book, Beyond Heaving Bosoms: The Smart Bitches’ Guide to Romance Novels, hit shelves less than 2 weeks ago, and through much pain, I secured my copy and have poured over it with glee.

Let me put it this way: if all genre guides were this funny and insightful at the same time, more people would give a crap. The Bitches leave no stones unturned in dismantling and beating the crap out of all of the common romance novel stereotypes/cliches (seekrit babiez, simultaneous orgasms, mullets & man-titty, raep forced seduction, etc.), and making us laugh at them and ourselves in the process.

There are statements of literary minds as to why we identify with certain plotlines, as well as mockeries of the irresistible Magical Hoo Hoo and the Wang of Mighty Lovin’, and everything inbetween.

I was particularly enamoured with the language of critical distinction: about the only thing that didn’t arrive in a timely manner was usage of the term “fucknuts”. My favorite parts were the “choose your own romance” and “write your own romance novel using these convenient stereotypical plotlines of do00m!!!1!”, because, damn it, I was laughing my ass off. I think I lost five pounds just from all the laughter; laughter is not only the best medicine: it’s also fucking great exercise!

The verdict: if you don’t buy this book, or at least borrow it from the library for the chapter on cover snark and man-titty, you’re an idiot.

They didn’t have the following:
The Blueberry Girl by Neil Gaiman
Beyond Heaving Bosoms: The Smart Bitches’ Guide to MANTITTY Romance Novels by Sarah Wendell & Candy Tan

OR any of the other assorted things I was jonesing for.

So, really, Borders, if you want me to use your stinking 30% off, good only in-store, coupons, PLEASE TO BE HAVING THE SHIT I WANT WHEN I WANT IT.

I wound up with Cleopatra’s Perfume by Jina Bacarr instead. Not what I was looking for, but… *sigh*

BORDERS!FAIL. EPIC!BORDERS!FAIL!

(And in lesser news, I am writing. *pats self on the back*)

I follow a writer on my Twitter account, and she recently tweeted that she was going to stop writing/participating in online forums until she’s written something someone wants to read. My immediate response was, “You’re published. STFU and STFD.”

It took me a while to understand why I had that reaction.

An author doesn’t serve their audience, they serve the story. If they think that writing for a specific set of people is a guarantee that the story will be good, they’re sadly mistaken. An author’s wanting to please their audience =/= a perfect (or even a good) story. Trying to please other people is like trying to paddle upriver with a hockey stick; it isn’t going to happen.

Stephenie Meyer wrote the Twilight series as her own personal whatever. I’m not saying that they’re good or anything, but you can tell that she poured herself into them and that effort served the stories. If she had been writing them to cater to the fans, there would be a whole different level of crap in them. (Not saying that they aren’t crap anyway, but that’s my personal opinion and not necessarily relevent.)

If you think that writing begins and ends with the story, then moves directly on to someone buying the book and publishing it, that’s… totally not true. And kind of insane. It’s a lot of work to make everything work. I still haven’t gotten there. I may never get there. But if I do, I’m not going to forget that I serve the story.

The story = GOD.

And if I am so lucky as to get published in any way, I’m not going to get huffy and flouncy because “no one wants to read my stuff”. I don’t write for the elusive audience that may or may not exist; I write to get the damn story out of my head so I can sleep.

I don’t know how much of this makes sense. It’s been a long day.

That being said, there’s a break in my brain right now.

E-books and regular books.

I know that regular books kill forests and that kind of bugs me, but at the same time, I love the feeling of a book in my hands. I like knowing that I can just put a bookmark in when my hands/wrists fall asleep and it will still be there when I come back to it. I love the smell of the ink on the paper, the weight and substance of the book in my hands. It’s something I’ve become accustomed to and expect.

E-books, while more convenient being in the digital platform (no killing of trees for paper, no fading of ink due to the book sitting in the sun, and so on), just… don’t feel right. They’re more awkward for me, because I read so quickly, and sometimes, the down arrow on my computers can’t keep up. They also don’t have that comfort factor that I associate with physically substantive books (the smell, the physicality, etc.), and they’re just as expensive as going out, killing a few trees, and having a real book.

So I’m torn.

Can we leave it at ‘a book is a book is a book’?

Today, I was sick all day; fever, chills, stomachache, the works. And yet, I’ve managed to pull a couple hundred words of nonsense out of my ass and slap them into Word. I also spread the love by sending out submissions.

A totally unproductive day, yet… I can’t help but feel that I did something.