Ah, preadolescence; a time when the world is perfect, you're immortal, and you feel as if you could accomplish anything. Apparently, though, this time in one's life, just prior to adolescence, is also the time when such things as body odor are discovered.
After a hard day playing outside in 95-degree heat, my son walked into the house, lifted his arm into the air and took a whiff.
"Smells like chili," he announced.
My stomach lurched.
"It's time to get him some deodorant," I told my husband.
But you know, even after taking him to the grocery store and letting him pick out his own deodorant (he chose Axe), he still has trouble remembering to put the stuff on.
"Do you want to be known as the stinky kid?" I asked him one day, thinking that scaring him into remembering deodorant might work. ('Cause let's face it; we all knew a stinky kid when we were in school. Hopefully, you weren't that kid, but for virtually every class, there's at least one stinky kid.) My son shook his head.
"Well then," I told him, "you can't forget to put deodorant on."
My little sister did something similar to my son when she got to be about nine or 10 years old. She came in after a hard day of playing outdoors and announced that her armpits smelled something akin to chicken noodle soup.
I have never looked at chicken noodle soup the same since.
As a parent, I knew this time was coming. And as my son continues to approach adolescence and actually enters it full on, I know his voice will change, that he'll have to shave, that he'll develop an interest in the opposite sex... I just can't figure out, though, why it is so difficult to understand that deodorant is a necessary thing. He walked into the house the other day talking, once again, about how he smelled like chili.
"Did you remember to put your deodorant on today?" I asked.
"I forgot," he said.
Looks like chili's on the menu again.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
What a Gas
This past weekend was filled with such wonderful things. A trip with my husband to National Harbor. A relaxing day at the pool. A farting birthday card...
Yeah. You heard that right. Hallmark has officially outdone themselves with their newest concept in greeting card hilarity: the farting birthday card. Of course my husband found it to be too much to resist and purchased it for me for my birthday. Touching. Reminds me of the time that my father gave my mother a vacuum cleaner for her birthday.
And just when you think one farting birthday card was enough, then came a second! Unfortunately for my children, the second one doesn't fart, but it's all about farting. And it was addressed to me from (of all people) my mother.
So I have to wonder; is my family trying to tell me something? Well, in the event that they are, I did purchase some Beano. But now I'm wondering if I should buy stock in it...
P.S. Did you know that Beano's Web site has an introductory video about their "University of Gas"? No? Check it out: www.beanogas.com. Classy.
P.P.S. Pull my finger.
Yeah. You heard that right. Hallmark has officially outdone themselves with their newest concept in greeting card hilarity: the farting birthday card. Of course my husband found it to be too much to resist and purchased it for me for my birthday. Touching. Reminds me of the time that my father gave my mother a vacuum cleaner for her birthday.
And just when you think one farting birthday card was enough, then came a second! Unfortunately for my children, the second one doesn't fart, but it's all about farting. And it was addressed to me from (of all people) my mother.
So I have to wonder; is my family trying to tell me something? Well, in the event that they are, I did purchase some Beano. But now I'm wondering if I should buy stock in it...
P.S. Did you know that Beano's Web site has an introductory video about their "University of Gas"? No? Check it out: www.beanogas.com. Classy.
P.P.S. Pull my finger.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Designer Irritation
"Hey Elizabeth, can you put this up on that shelf for me?" My four-foot-something coworker holds a Costco-size tub of Folgers coffee.
"Sure," I tell her, "as long as you don't look at my rolls when I reach up to put it on that shelf." She laughs and tells me that she'd be willing to bet that hers are worse than mine. Maybe, but as I'm reaching up to put the Folgers away, I'm not thinking about the smallish tire that rests, ever so gently, above the waist of my size 12 jeans. No; I'm thinking about the fact that you can't buy those '80s style high-waisted jeans that everyone crucified a size eight Jessica Simpson for wearing. Ah, high-waisted jeans and oversize graphic T-shirts with shoulder pads. Minus the shoulder pads and those damnable stirrup pants, I miss those days. These days it's skinny this and tight that. And it's sad, but I can't remember the last time I wasn't on a diet.
And I don't get it. In an age where 67 percent of American adults 20 and over are considered to be overweight or obese, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and where 34 percent are considered definitively to be "obese," why do fashion designers continue to bring us styles that are the 2000s equivalent of the 1980s oh-so-popular Spandex? It's just wrong.
Now, I don't want anyone to misunderstand where I'm going with this. I believe there ought to be more fashions for full-figured women to choose from than floral mumus. What I am requesting, though, is that we stop this skinny and very-low-rise jean madness because, the truth is, not everyone wants to or can pull it off--myself included. Sure, they sell skinny jeans in my size, which, on a good day is a 12, and on a bad day a 14 or 16, depending where it is I'm shopping, but those jeans aren't really made for women who are my size. They're made for women who haven't given birth, for prepubescent girls, and for women who have no ass.
And another thing. Why don't we all just get real and accept the fact that most people don't fit into the size two, four or six category. Most of us are eights, 10s, 12s, 14s and 16s, or bigger. It's true. Even I used to wear a size 22.
And while it might be fun to watch Kate Moss try to keep from passing out on a runway, or to read what she eats in a day, which, according to one Web site, is probiotic yogurt, toast and fruit for breakfast, grilled chicken and vegetables for lunch and grilled fish and vegetables for dinner (WTF?), and while it might also be fun to see how she does with that diet on a four-day-a-week gym routine, which she also claims to do, no one is laughing that because of a minority of people like Kate, the rest of us are relegated to only a few stores at the mall and to a few racks in upscale stores (Hell, I can't even walk into Bebe without feeling ashamed of my size, and I'm a size 12, for God's sake. Marilyn Monroe was a size 16!), and to magazines which do not reflect the majority of Americans.
I guess all I'm asking is for designers to cut some of us a little slack, and for other smaller-than-the-rest-of-us sizes to do the same. We women, after all, are our worst enemies. I'd like to see more fuller figure models walking the runways and in more magazines. And please, stop shoving the obvious majority of us into tiny things that we shouldn't be wearing--like skinny jeans and tight-fitting T-shirts. 'Cause, while I have lost 6.4 pounds since I started back on Weight Watchers a couple of weeks ago, I've still got that tiny tire of flab hanging above the waistline of my low-rise jeans.
P.S. I would also like a larger selection of Halloween costumes. I am so sick and tired, every October, of having so little to choose from at Party City. It's either the Evil Queen costume from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves or the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland. Why punish what is so obviously the majority of Americans? 'Cause trust me, I'm pretty sure some of us really want to wear that gothic fairy outfit--albeit in a larger size. Either that, or we just want to strangle that skinny, gothic fairy. And then we can feed her to Kate Moss--'cause I'm pretty sure she's hungry; she's just afraid to show it. Be not afraid, Kate! Be not afraid!
"Sure," I tell her, "as long as you don't look at my rolls when I reach up to put it on that shelf." She laughs and tells me that she'd be willing to bet that hers are worse than mine. Maybe, but as I'm reaching up to put the Folgers away, I'm not thinking about the smallish tire that rests, ever so gently, above the waist of my size 12 jeans. No; I'm thinking about the fact that you can't buy those '80s style high-waisted jeans that everyone crucified a size eight Jessica Simpson for wearing. Ah, high-waisted jeans and oversize graphic T-shirts with shoulder pads. Minus the shoulder pads and those damnable stirrup pants, I miss those days. These days it's skinny this and tight that. And it's sad, but I can't remember the last time I wasn't on a diet.
And I don't get it. In an age where 67 percent of American adults 20 and over are considered to be overweight or obese, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and where 34 percent are considered definitively to be "obese," why do fashion designers continue to bring us styles that are the 2000s equivalent of the 1980s oh-so-popular Spandex? It's just wrong.
Now, I don't want anyone to misunderstand where I'm going with this. I believe there ought to be more fashions for full-figured women to choose from than floral mumus. What I am requesting, though, is that we stop this skinny and very-low-rise jean madness because, the truth is, not everyone wants to or can pull it off--myself included. Sure, they sell skinny jeans in my size, which, on a good day is a 12, and on a bad day a 14 or 16, depending where it is I'm shopping, but those jeans aren't really made for women who are my size. They're made for women who haven't given birth, for prepubescent girls, and for women who have no ass.
And another thing. Why don't we all just get real and accept the fact that most people don't fit into the size two, four or six category. Most of us are eights, 10s, 12s, 14s and 16s, or bigger. It's true. Even I used to wear a size 22.
And while it might be fun to watch Kate Moss try to keep from passing out on a runway, or to read what she eats in a day, which, according to one Web site, is probiotic yogurt, toast and fruit for breakfast, grilled chicken and vegetables for lunch and grilled fish and vegetables for dinner (WTF?), and while it might also be fun to see how she does with that diet on a four-day-a-week gym routine, which she also claims to do, no one is laughing that because of a minority of people like Kate, the rest of us are relegated to only a few stores at the mall and to a few racks in upscale stores (Hell, I can't even walk into Bebe without feeling ashamed of my size, and I'm a size 12, for God's sake. Marilyn Monroe was a size 16!), and to magazines which do not reflect the majority of Americans.
I guess all I'm asking is for designers to cut some of us a little slack, and for other smaller-than-the-rest-of-us sizes to do the same. We women, after all, are our worst enemies. I'd like to see more fuller figure models walking the runways and in more magazines. And please, stop shoving the obvious majority of us into tiny things that we shouldn't be wearing--like skinny jeans and tight-fitting T-shirts. 'Cause, while I have lost 6.4 pounds since I started back on Weight Watchers a couple of weeks ago, I've still got that tiny tire of flab hanging above the waistline of my low-rise jeans.
P.S. I would also like a larger selection of Halloween costumes. I am so sick and tired, every October, of having so little to choose from at Party City. It's either the Evil Queen costume from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves or the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland. Why punish what is so obviously the majority of Americans? 'Cause trust me, I'm pretty sure some of us really want to wear that gothic fairy outfit--albeit in a larger size. Either that, or we just want to strangle that skinny, gothic fairy. And then we can feed her to Kate Moss--'cause I'm pretty sure she's hungry; she's just afraid to show it. Be not afraid, Kate! Be not afraid!
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Larry Craig, Mark Foley and Eric Massa Walk Into a Bar...
Former U.S. Senator Larry Craig, former U.S. Representative Mark Foley and former U.S. Representative Eric Massa walk into a bar...
I haven't figured out a punchline for that joke, but I think it's pretty damn funny as it is.
And if you don't follow the news, here's an abridged biography on each of the "walk-into-a-bar" folks.
Craig is a former Republican politician from the state of Idaho. He served from 1991-2009 in the U.S. Senate, until he got caught in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport tapping his foot on the floor of the bathroom stall--something that apparently indicates you're interested in having gay sex--by a plainclothes police officer, Sgt. Dave Karsnia. In addition to tapping his foot on the floor of the stall, Karsnia, in a report he filed, said Craig peered through a crack in a restroom stall door for two minutes and made gestures suggesting to the officer he wanted to engage in "lewd conduct." Craig would later plead guilty to disorderly conduct and and subsequently resign from his post as a U.S. senator.
Mark Foley is a former Republican congressman from Florida who resigned in 2006 as a result of "questionable conversations" between himself and congressional pages, which took place between 1995 and 2005.
And Eric Massa, the third party in this "three-guys-walk-into-a-bar" joke, is the former Democratic U.S. representative from New York who resigned, just days ago, "amid an ethics inquiry into allegations that he groped and sexually harrassed some of his male employees over the years," wrote Michael Scherer for Time.com. He's also the same guy who claimed to have tickle fights with his male colleagues, and to have been accosted in the shower of the House gym by none other than White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel.
Massa told a local radio station over the weekend, “I’m sitting there showering, naked as a jaybird and here comes Rahm Emanuel, not even with a towel wrapped around his tush, poking his finger in my chest... Do you know how awkward it is to have a political argument with a naked man?”
Um, no. No, I don't, and I'm pretty happy with that.
I talked with a friend of mine today who told me a New Yorker friend of hers was having a helluva time scraping the Massa bumper sticker off her car. Yeah, I can understand the implications of having that sticker on your bumper...
But you know, all joking aside, if anyone ever wants to hire me to work in Congress, I am so there. I mean, if you think my blog is interesting now, just imagine what it could be like if I worked alongside people like Massa, Craig and Foley. 'Cause even though those folks are gone, you know there's more out there that's just waiting to be discovered. As the Daily Show's Jon Stewart put it, it'd be like "opening Al Capone’s vault," although unlike Stewart's rendition of that event, there'd probably be far more in that vault than just a dog-eared men's fitness magazine.
So, for those of you who don't follow the news, aren't you upset for not having followed it this week? 'Cause to me, this is far more entertaining than Oscar night ever hoped to be!
And hey Facebook, where's that new Tickle Fight application?
I haven't figured out a punchline for that joke, but I think it's pretty damn funny as it is.
And if you don't follow the news, here's an abridged biography on each of the "walk-into-a-bar" folks.
Craig is a former Republican politician from the state of Idaho. He served from 1991-2009 in the U.S. Senate, until he got caught in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport tapping his foot on the floor of the bathroom stall--something that apparently indicates you're interested in having gay sex--by a plainclothes police officer, Sgt. Dave Karsnia. In addition to tapping his foot on the floor of the stall, Karsnia, in a report he filed, said Craig peered through a crack in a restroom stall door for two minutes and made gestures suggesting to the officer he wanted to engage in "lewd conduct." Craig would later plead guilty to disorderly conduct and and subsequently resign from his post as a U.S. senator.
Mark Foley is a former Republican congressman from Florida who resigned in 2006 as a result of "questionable conversations" between himself and congressional pages, which took place between 1995 and 2005.
And Eric Massa, the third party in this "three-guys-walk-into-a-bar" joke, is the former Democratic U.S. representative from New York who resigned, just days ago, "amid an ethics inquiry into allegations that he groped and sexually harrassed some of his male employees over the years," wrote Michael Scherer for Time.com. He's also the same guy who claimed to have tickle fights with his male colleagues, and to have been accosted in the shower of the House gym by none other than White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel.
Massa told a local radio station over the weekend, “I’m sitting there showering, naked as a jaybird and here comes Rahm Emanuel, not even with a towel wrapped around his tush, poking his finger in my chest... Do you know how awkward it is to have a political argument with a naked man?”
Um, no. No, I don't, and I'm pretty happy with that.
I talked with a friend of mine today who told me a New Yorker friend of hers was having a helluva time scraping the Massa bumper sticker off her car. Yeah, I can understand the implications of having that sticker on your bumper...
But you know, all joking aside, if anyone ever wants to hire me to work in Congress, I am so there. I mean, if you think my blog is interesting now, just imagine what it could be like if I worked alongside people like Massa, Craig and Foley. 'Cause even though those folks are gone, you know there's more out there that's just waiting to be discovered. As the Daily Show's Jon Stewart put it, it'd be like "opening Al Capone’s vault," although unlike Stewart's rendition of that event, there'd probably be far more in that vault than just a dog-eared men's fitness magazine.
So, for those of you who don't follow the news, aren't you upset for not having followed it this week? 'Cause to me, this is far more entertaining than Oscar night ever hoped to be!
And hey Facebook, where's that new Tickle Fight application?
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Diets and Detoxing
I dropped 1.6 pounds this week. Not enough, in my estimation, so I am back to my normal routine of South Beach cereal bar for breakfast, a Lean Cuisine or salad for lunch, and a Healthy Choice meal for dinner.
I let my husband pick out my Healthy Choice meals for me. Last night, my meal consisted of corn, mashed potatoes, something resembling roadkill that Healthy Choice more eloquently dubbed "classic meatloaf," and gravy, and an apple-cranberry crisp--minus the crisp. Oh, and there was a healthy dose of self-loathing in there, too.
Why do we women do this to ourselves? Why do we torture ourselves with bathroom scales and piles of Cosmopolitan, Lucky, Vogue and similar magazines--the pages of which feature heavily airbrushed celebrities and 92-pound prepubescent girls?
And do you know what happens if, while you're on a diet, you decide to cheat even a little? Because I do. Yesterday, I got to experience what happens if you cheat on a diet during our monthly staff meeting.
Let me preface what happened by saying that, once a month, one of the directors in our office leads the staff meeting, and that this month, it was my turn to take the lead. So, all eyes were on me. Yay for me.
Everything started out smoothly. We all had a slice of pizza--the beginning of the end--and enjoyed shooting the breeze with my fellow coworkers. Then the meeting started, and about halfway in, I realized my stomach was not taking kindly to the pizza I'd eaten--probably a result of the fact that I'd been on a Healthy Choice and Lean Cuisine diet for about a week.
"Brrrrumparumparumpabrrrr."
I did my best to ignore the rumblings from my stomach, hoping that no one noticed, but the sound came again.
"Brrrrumparumparumpabrrrr."
The Web development manager gave me the "why-the-hell-is-your-stomach-making-that-awful-noise" look. All I could do was shrug. My coworkers sitting on the opposite side of the conference table looked at me. There was simply nothing I could do to stop the sounds my stomach was making.
Now for those of you out there who've tried the NutriSystem weight loss system or Slim-Fast meal replacement bars--and I for one have tried both--you know exactly what I'm talking about. And if you're drinking Slim-Fast shakes, well, let's just say that I hope the bathroom is close by...
Which brings me to my next question: why are cleanses all the rage now? I was discussing a "detox tea" with some friends of mine via Facebook yesterday, and anyone who is familiar with the word "detox," it's come to mean far more than freeing yourself from alcohol or drugs. Detox, these days, means "cleansing" your insides of pretty much, well, everything.
I tried a 10-day "cleanse" once, and I only lasted two days. Wow, was I sick. A word of warning: if you ever try a cleanse or detox--which are, arguably, pretty much the same thing--don't EVER do it while you're at work. It gets pretty embarrasing having to run back and forth all day to the bathroom. And yes, I know this from firsthand experience.
Would you believe, though, that all of this talk about "cleansing" and "detoxing" and Healthy Choice and Lean Cuisine came as a result of someone talking about (gasp) GIRL SCOUT COOKIES.
Feel free to snicker while reading this. Hmm. Snicker. That reminds me of a Snickers candy bar, which reminds me of deep fried Snickers bars at the Mississippi State Fair, which reminds me of deep fried Twinkies and Oreos, which reminds me of Girl Scout Cookies, which reminds me of Famous Amos, and... Wow. Do I sound desperate?
I let my husband pick out my Healthy Choice meals for me. Last night, my meal consisted of corn, mashed potatoes, something resembling roadkill that Healthy Choice more eloquently dubbed "classic meatloaf," and gravy, and an apple-cranberry crisp--minus the crisp. Oh, and there was a healthy dose of self-loathing in there, too.
Why do we women do this to ourselves? Why do we torture ourselves with bathroom scales and piles of Cosmopolitan, Lucky, Vogue and similar magazines--the pages of which feature heavily airbrushed celebrities and 92-pound prepubescent girls?
And do you know what happens if, while you're on a diet, you decide to cheat even a little? Because I do. Yesterday, I got to experience what happens if you cheat on a diet during our monthly staff meeting.
Let me preface what happened by saying that, once a month, one of the directors in our office leads the staff meeting, and that this month, it was my turn to take the lead. So, all eyes were on me. Yay for me.
Everything started out smoothly. We all had a slice of pizza--the beginning of the end--and enjoyed shooting the breeze with my fellow coworkers. Then the meeting started, and about halfway in, I realized my stomach was not taking kindly to the pizza I'd eaten--probably a result of the fact that I'd been on a Healthy Choice and Lean Cuisine diet for about a week.
"Brrrrumparumparumpabrrrr."
I did my best to ignore the rumblings from my stomach, hoping that no one noticed, but the sound came again.
"Brrrrumparumparumpabrrrr."
The Web development manager gave me the "why-the-hell-is-your-stomach-making-that-awful-noise" look. All I could do was shrug. My coworkers sitting on the opposite side of the conference table looked at me. There was simply nothing I could do to stop the sounds my stomach was making.
Now for those of you out there who've tried the NutriSystem weight loss system or Slim-Fast meal replacement bars--and I for one have tried both--you know exactly what I'm talking about. And if you're drinking Slim-Fast shakes, well, let's just say that I hope the bathroom is close by...
Which brings me to my next question: why are cleanses all the rage now? I was discussing a "detox tea" with some friends of mine via Facebook yesterday, and anyone who is familiar with the word "detox," it's come to mean far more than freeing yourself from alcohol or drugs. Detox, these days, means "cleansing" your insides of pretty much, well, everything.
I tried a 10-day "cleanse" once, and I only lasted two days. Wow, was I sick. A word of warning: if you ever try a cleanse or detox--which are, arguably, pretty much the same thing--don't EVER do it while you're at work. It gets pretty embarrasing having to run back and forth all day to the bathroom. And yes, I know this from firsthand experience.
Would you believe, though, that all of this talk about "cleansing" and "detoxing" and Healthy Choice and Lean Cuisine came as a result of someone talking about (gasp) GIRL SCOUT COOKIES.
Feel free to snicker while reading this. Hmm. Snicker. That reminds me of a Snickers candy bar, which reminds me of deep fried Snickers bars at the Mississippi State Fair, which reminds me of deep fried Twinkies and Oreos, which reminds me of Girl Scout Cookies, which reminds me of Famous Amos, and... Wow. Do I sound desperate?
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Bringing Sexy Back--In a Few Months
Wow, I'm out of shape. I found this out this morning when I rolled out of bed and had trouble crawling from the bed to the bathroom. My shoulders hurt. My legs hurt. Parts of my body that I didn't even realize existed hurt.
All of this pain, I am sure, is a result of my workout regimen, which I shortened yesterday from one hour to half an hour, because, truthfully, I just couldn't take it anymore. I came upstairs sweaty, winded and defeated by my session of plyometrics; exercise training, according to Wikipedia, "designed to produce fast, powerful movements, and improve the functions of the nervous system, generally for the purpose of improving performance in sports."
Perhaps, though, conditioning myself as though I am or hope to be a professional athlete is my downfall? Not likely. I think my downfall is the fact that I haven't exercised for months and I'm only now getting back into the swing of things. I'm certainly not going to admit that publicly though. No. Publicly, I'm going to give everyone some excuse as to why I was unable to complete an hour of my P90X workout regimen. Yesterday, I told my husband I was sure I was unable to complete the one-hour workout because I'd only recently started eating right again. And in case you're looking for excuses not to exercise, too, here are a few that have worked for me.
So it is with much frustration and much pain that I must admit the sad truth: it may be a few months before I can bring sexy back. And that's a damn shame.
All of this pain, I am sure, is a result of my workout regimen, which I shortened yesterday from one hour to half an hour, because, truthfully, I just couldn't take it anymore. I came upstairs sweaty, winded and defeated by my session of plyometrics; exercise training, according to Wikipedia, "designed to produce fast, powerful movements, and improve the functions of the nervous system, generally for the purpose of improving performance in sports."
Perhaps, though, conditioning myself as though I am or hope to be a professional athlete is my downfall? Not likely. I think my downfall is the fact that I haven't exercised for months and I'm only now getting back into the swing of things. I'm certainly not going to admit that publicly though. No. Publicly, I'm going to give everyone some excuse as to why I was unable to complete an hour of my P90X workout regimen. Yesterday, I told my husband I was sure I was unable to complete the one-hour workout because I'd only recently started eating right again. And in case you're looking for excuses not to exercise, too, here are a few that have worked for me.
- I just started my diet.
- I'm too tired to go on.
- I'm over the age of (your age here). (Note that this statement will not work properly if you are still in your teens.)
- My back hurts.
- My neck hurts.
- My pinky finger hurts.
- I have a cold.
- I have a stomach ache.
- My kids have to be at an event this afternoon/morning, and therefore I won't be able to work out today.
So it is with much frustration and much pain that I must admit the sad truth: it may be a few months before I can bring sexy back. And that's a damn shame.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Careful, or You'll End Up in my Novel
In addition to trying to work off these last few (okay, 60) stubborn pounds over the past couple of days, I've also been trying to come up with a plot for my next novel.
"What?" you say. "Your next novel?"
Yes. That's right, ladies and gents. I have written novels before. The trick is not to write a novel; the trick is to actually finish one, which I've yet to do.
So I've been brainstorming trying to come up with ideas, and I gotta admit, for someone who's been schooled in journalism and has made a career out of it, writing fiction is no easy task.
You see, I've always written about real things happening. I could write all day about Marion Barry or Pete Rose or the state of the economy. But to write about something not based in reality is, in a word, difficult.
That said, my novel is going to have to be loosely based on reality. This should serve as a warning to those of you who know me: be careful, or you'll end up in my novel. Because the truth of the matter is that I don't plan to write about wizards or sorcerers or witches or any of that. No, I plan to write about something far more sinister. Trust me when I say that no one is safe.
"What?" you say. "Your next novel?"
Yes. That's right, ladies and gents. I have written novels before. The trick is not to write a novel; the trick is to actually finish one, which I've yet to do.
So I've been brainstorming trying to come up with ideas, and I gotta admit, for someone who's been schooled in journalism and has made a career out of it, writing fiction is no easy task.
You see, I've always written about real things happening. I could write all day about Marion Barry or Pete Rose or the state of the economy. But to write about something not based in reality is, in a word, difficult.
That said, my novel is going to have to be loosely based on reality. This should serve as a warning to those of you who know me: be careful, or you'll end up in my novel. Because the truth of the matter is that I don't plan to write about wizards or sorcerers or witches or any of that. No, I plan to write about something far more sinister. Trust me when I say that no one is safe.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
