Kate Perry's Blog

Interlude

Tue, 31 Jan 2012 12:03:35 -0600

Kate sipped at her latte, staring out the window. The sun reflected off the building across the street, blinding her. She enjoyed the brilliance for eleven seconds (she counted) before turning and looking in the other direction.

That young woman was at the café, like usual. She came every day—she and the café owner were involved in a romance. Or so it seemed to Kate. Their body language gave them away. This afternoon, she had her cute little boy with her.

Kate smiled at the little boy, who made faces at her as he ate a croissant and swung his feet, and then returned her attention to her computer. She had a blog to hatch.

She began to type, but then deleted the words. She tapped out some more words. Pausing, she looked at them, lips pursed. After a moment, she shook her head and deleted them too.

The man across from her leaned into her field of vision. "Are you okay?"

She blinked at him. "Don't I look okay?"

"You look like you're in pain."

She thought about that for four seconds (she counted that too) before nodding. "That's a fair assessment."

"Are you doing homework?"

"I didn't do homework when I was in school. Why would I do it now?"

"I don't know. You look studious."

Kate pointed at his laptop. "Are you doing homework?"

"I'm on Facebook. Is that what you're doing?"

"No, I'm working."

"What are you working on?"

"Why all these questions?" she countered suspiciously.

"I'm doing a survey of what people do in cafés."

"Liar."

"It could be true." He shrugged. "Are you going to tell me what you do?"

"I'm a romance author."

"Liar." His brow furrowed. "Wait. Are you lying?"

"It could be true." She shot him a Mona Lisa smile and returned to her blog. She knew exactly what she was going to write about now.

Pendleton, Oregon

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 15:05:30 -0600

The Magic Man and I made a trip up north to Pendleton, Orgeon. My man had business up there, and I tagged along to keep him in line. I make an excellent chaperon.

My summation of Pendleton: it's weird.

The town is famous for its Pendleton wool shirts and blankets as well as whiskey. Mostly it revolves around a rodeo, called the Round Up, that happens every year. They live for those four days at the end of summer. Aside from the Round Up, not much happens in town except drinking, as far as I could tell. And why not, when beer is only $2.50 a pint?

The migratory habits of the average Pendletonian bar hopper is fascinating. They travel in packs, running en masse from one bar to the next. One second a bar is completely filled with people, the next they're all stampeding out the door and down the street to the next one. My Magic Man and I tried to run with the pack but they saw through our disguises and culled us.

Freezing.

It was icy and cold in Pendleton. I'm a tropical bird, not a penguin. Ice and Kate do not mix. End of story.

Writing.

I went to the only coffee shop in town to write for a couple hours and landed smack in the middle of the regulars. Coffee shop regulars are always awesome AND they provide good fodder for characters. One day when one of my heroines says "I should have stayed with him, because then we could have grown old and resentful together" you'll know it was from my brief trip to this Oregonian cow town.

Dear Kate.

The Magic Man and I were taking a post-dinner, freezing stroll down Main Street when suddenly a young woman called out to us, asking us to keep her company. One thing led to another, and suddenly she was crying on my shoulder, lamenting about her cheating ex-fiancé and how she was never going to find anyone who appreciated her for who she was and how she hated the town. She wailed, "I don't want to be here anymore!"

So I said, "Then leave."

She stopped sobbing and blinked. "What?"

"Leave." I shrugged. "Go someplace else for a while. You can always come back."

"That's the best advice anyone's ever given me!" She threw her arms around me and clutched me tight. When she let go (finally), she said, "You remind me of Cameron Diaz in The Holiday."

Needless to say, I'm thinking of starting an advice column. My working title: Buck Up and Deal, Plus Other Words of Wisdom.

Your turn.

Tell me where your dream destination is and why. Go.

They Say It's Your Birthday

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 23:21:21 -0600

Not mine, but my sister's, and to help her celebrate I flew my ass to New York for an epic week of celebration that involved drinking, eating, and playing skee-ball. There was also much dancing—on top of bars, tables, and various other surfaces.

I don't have pictures of any of that. Trust me—it's better that way.

But I do have a few from her actual birthday that you may enjoy viewing. Where better to start than with my sister and me?

Aren't we cute?

Like I said, it was her birthday. This is what 28 looks like, apparently:

Frankly, I don't remember my 28th birthday, but I'm pretty sure it didn't look this aggressive.

For her birthday, I really wanted to have a Crif Dog. Being a good sport and loving sister, she acquiesced to my desire. I ordered a hot dog wrapped in bacon, with cream cheese, green onions, and hot sauce. I was VERY excited about it.

The hot dog was frickin' amazing. I would have gotten another one, but my sister pointed out that we didn't have time in our schedule for a triple bypass. Next time.

After hot dogs, I took my sister for a trip to the moon.

She rocks the space suit. You should see her hop along the lunar landscape.

The week also included other fun, non-birthday related events. Dinner with my Magic Man's family and lunch with friends, most notably JB Lynn. Usually when I have lunch with JB, there's at least one sighting of a murdered body (suspense authors see corpses everywhere). This time, not so. It was strange. I did, however, almost get arrested while I waited for her, so that's something.

If you were going to celebrate your birthday for a week (and I highly recommend that you do), what sort of activities would you include?

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Tue, 10 Jan 2012 17:09:37 -0600

I'm on the airplane, headed to New York.

The in-flight movie is Dolphin Tales. I haven't been watching, but I just tuned in for one scene. What's the world coming to when Morgan Freeman makes prosthetics for sea mammals?

The woman across the aisle from me plays solitaire on her iPad. She's tall and blond and Spanish, dressed in head-to-toe black. Stunning, really. I wonder who she is, what she does, and where she's going. She looks like a Bond heroine. She's making notes on a napkin with a blue ballpoint pen.

There's an empty seat separating me from the woman sharing my row. Good thing—she just had a sneezing fit. She's also on her iPad. Her nails are painted a gunmetal blue and she's wearing a black and gray striped sweater that matches the socks I have on. I want to offer them to her to complete her outfit but she doesn't look like she'd appreciate the thought.

A child screams, pulling me out of my train of thought. I turn my music up, and Marvin Gaye urges me to get it on. In my mind's eye, I picture my Magic Man serenading me, his gyrating hips giving Elvis a run for his money.

My companion for this trip is Whistler, the new Kindle Santa brought me. He's loaded with over a hundred books. It's a giddy thing, having so many books available at a whim.

I have to admit, though, it's not like holding pages in your hands. Whistler doesn't curl up with me the same way a ratty paperback does. He's not as warm or soft, and he doesn't smell pulpy or like mildew. Still, it's the wave of the future, and I'm hopping on. I've started releasing new digital books for you to enjoy, hopefully one every few weeks.

The latest: Perfect for You.

It's fitting that Perfect for You is out this week. It's my sister's birthday week, and it's her favorite story of everything I've ever written. She's been pestering me to publish it for years.

So here it is. Read an excerpt. Buy the book for your Kindle or Nook.

I'm going back to the Lee Childs book I'm reading on Whistler. Happy trails.

Auld Lang Syne

Tue, 03 Jan 2012 20:11:05 -0600

Have you ever heard anyone sing Auld Lang Syne? I don't mean in a movie or on the radio, but in real life. Like you were at a party, and at the stroke of midnight on New Years the crowd broke out in the song.

I never have, and I've heard a lot of things in my lifetime. Not saying that it doesn't happen. Maybe I'm not hanging out in the right places. Maybe it's not a California thing but is totally sung in Kansas. I don't know.

Why do I care? Shrug. I was just wondering. My Magic Man's insane curiosity is probably rubbing off on me.

Anyway...

It's the Year of of the Dragon, yo! Energy and spirit rule this year.

Do I really believe in the Chinese zodiac? I shrug again and say, "Meh." But that doesn't mean we can't decide take the fire of the dragon and apply it to life. I'm making that my main goal this year: I will approach things with passion. Instead of coasting casually, I'm going to attack what I do with enthusiasm and intensity. My writing, my workouts—heck, even hanging out with friends.

But I have other, more succinct goals as well. Five, to be exact.

1. Write a letter.

A real letter—by hand. When I was a kid I wrote letters with a ferocity that would have intimidated a Victorian. Then email came along... I don't remember the last time I actually penned a letter to someone. But I have cute cupcake stationary, and I'm going to physically handwrite a few letters this year.

2. Take more pictures.

I begged my sister to borrow her digital SLR, but it's been collecting dust on the floor next to my work chair for months. It's time to break it out and start taking photos. You get a different perspective on things from behind the lens.

Yes, I'll probably subject you guys to more picto-blogs. Be forewarned.

3. Sing more often in French.

It just makes me happy.

4. Wear my tutu more often.

I can't remember the last time I wore my tutu. What's that about? Clearly I need to reorganize my priorities and get in touch with what's important once again.

5. Take an art class, even one online.

I can't remember the last time I painted either. I have incentive too—my Magic Man gave me the most awesome art kit for Christmas. I'm going to learn a new technique or two, try my new oil pastels, maybe even sketch a thing or two.

What sort of new things are you going to try this year? What do you want to do more of? What are you going to attack with fire and passion?

The New Year

Tue, 27 Dec 2011 13:35:31 -0600

I feel like I should give you some sort of inspirational "the new year is upon us, go forth and conquer" post. Something about resolutions and making at least one that you're determined to keep, and writing down what you'd like to accomplish.

Pish.

You heard me—pish. You already know that stuff. You don't need me to tell what to do.

What do I feel like telling you? Nothing.

It's the type of day to curl up with a new book and a hot beverage and just read. Doesn't that sound lovely? I have a book waiting for me about ten inches away, and it's urging me to finish writing this blog so I can spend some time with it.

Maybe that's my message this year: give yourself a treat. Do something for yourself because it would make you happy, not because you have to. I can't think of a better way to start off the new year.

Do it.

Happy New Year.

What a Pickle

Tue, 20 Dec 2011 01:23:20 -0600

I like pickles. Cornichons specifically (or gherkins, for those of you who prefer the barbarian tongue). But that’s not what this blog is about.

Did you know National Pickle Day was November 14th? Yeah, I didn’t either. The motto for our briny holiday is Eat a pickle, hug a friend. Is it just me, or does that seem a bit strange?

But that’s what I want to talk about either.

Then what DO you want to talk about, Kate? you exclaim.

Patience, dude. I’m getting there.

A couple weeks ago I spent the weekend with my friend Dawn. Usually, our visits include much wine and merriment. This time, we took a break from drinking to pick out and decorate her Christmas tree.

Okay—fine—we didn’t take that much of a break, unless you subscribe to my belief that having whiskey tea is more like drinking milk than alcohol.

Anyway…

I was pulling out the ornaments when I found it: a shiny glass pickle. Since it didn’t match the silver and white theme Dawn had going on, I held it up and tactfully said, “What the hell, Dawn?”

She glanced over. “That’s a Christmas pickle. It’s a German tradition. You hang it in the tree and the person who finds it on Christmas Day gets a special present.”

I stared at the pickle in my hand, intrigued. Who knew there was a special pickle to hunt on Christmas? And you know what? The practice even has a name: Weihnachtsgurke. But what I love most about this German Christmas Pickle tradition is that apparently no one in Germany actually knows about it. Google it. There are several myths about how it started, but none of them are substantiated.

No, I don’t have a Christmas Pickle for my tree, but I’m rectifying that. Next year I’m going to play hide the pickle too, and if you find it, watch out—you’re in for a treat. Wink.¹

¹ Come on—you knew I wouldn't be able to resist.

Definitely Nice

Tue, 13 Dec 2011 13:14:57 -0600

Dear Santa,

You and I are like this.

Don't roll your eyes. I may not rock the fabulous belly or have enough red fur in my wardrobe, but we have one BIG thing in common: our love of lists. The only thing better than a list is sticky notes. But—dude—in your line of work, sticky notes would get out of control really quickly. Plus, with all the traveling you do, your current method is much more efficient. I totally get it.

So this list of yours... You know the one I'm talking about—the one you're checking twice.

I know in the past years, there’s been some debate about which column I fall into. Not so this year, let me assure you! I’ve been the best girl EVER. It’s almost killed me, but I’ve made it, and I think you realize that too.

Because I’m such a good girl, I’m even going to help you out by putting together a short list of things you could bring me. You know how I’m zodiacally predisposed to wanting new, shiny things? Well, this year, I’m going for modest.

No, really.

All I Want for Christmas: Kate's List, Not the Song

My sister.

I’m already getting her from someone else. Sorry, Santa. Snooze, you lose.

New tango shoes.

I know, I know—I haven’t been out dancing in forever. What do I need a new pair of tango shoes for?

Because I want them. Duh.

Also, I’m making a commitment to go dancing at least once a month from now on. Life is too short not to tango, especially when you enjoy it so much.

A note on the shoes: I wear a 36, and Greta Floras are a must. Not that I don’t like the peacock blue, but my preferred color is silver. Except—you know—do what you have to do.

Clothes.

You don't want me to get hypothermia, right? So perhaps a few warm things to augment my wardrobe. A couple long sleeves T-shirts and thin sweaters to layer over my tank tops would be much appreciated. I may also need the cute denim skirt I saw at American Apparel. Based on the outfits I’ve seen Mrs. Claus wearing, I figure you’ll be all over the skirt. You appear to be a leg man.

A trip with my Magic Man.

Somewhere warm, please. Maybe a beach getaway, where he can frolic in the surf and I can lounge in the sun and write. I’m even willing to compromise and only go away for two weeks instead of two months.

A new kitchen.

Don’t roll your eyes at me, Santa. It may be a tad difficult to get that much foliage outside my windows, considering I’m on the fourth floor, but do try. Also, you’re going to have to stretch out our apartment. But—heck—if it’s easier just to give us a new condo, I’m good with that.

Also, I wouldn't scoff at some shiny new Le Creuset pans to go with my shiny new kitchen. Maybe in green. Or whatever color you have left at the end of your route. I'm not picky.

Does that give you enough to work with? My main concern is making your job easier for you. Think of me like your little helper, minus the green tights and pointy hat.

Happy Holidays, big guy!

Smooches,

Kate

Contraband

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 12:02:43 -0600

Sometimes you wake up needing adventure.

My happy trekking shoes.

So I put on my happy trekking shoes and walked out the front door. My destination: Contraband Coffee. Had I ever been there? No. Was it close to home? No—twenty blocks away, to be exact. Was that going to stop me? Heck no.

I started walking.

Pepto pink was the color of my walk.

A young studly guy walked a small fluffy white dog who wore a pink sweater. Neither one looked happy about it.

A woman strode by swathed in black, except for the slash of pink around her neck.

A VW Cabriolet in the same pink was parked on the street. What kind of person drives a pink Cabriolet? I’m picturing a goth rocker.

I'm thinking of making a modest one like this.

Gingerbread houses!

I passed by a store that had gingerbread houses in the window. I stood and stared in for a moment before I realized it was workshop where you could make your own gingerbread house, like those ceramic shops where you paint dishes. How cool is that?

Have you ever made a gingerbread house? I’ve ALWAYS wanted to but never have, but I think this is my year. Who’s going with me?

Nibbles of interest.

Along the way, I walked by a new bakery that giving out bites of treats. I took the scone sample because I didn’t want the dude peddling calories to feel rejected.

I also saw this cool-looking bar called Black Sheep. How appropriate, right? For those who don’t know me… In my family, I’m the oddest one out. I’m the one who doesn’t have a real job, who goes dancing all night, who skips out of the country on a lark. Black sheep, thy name is Kate.

I show you guys a lot of cafe pictures. It's better than the alternative, I guess.

My sister is odd too, but somehow I have the reputation. She seems to blend in better. I don’t understand that. She’s the one more likely to run off to join the circus.

**Twenty blocks, a dozen good mornings, and two fewer layers later, I arrived at Contraband.**

The sun streamed through the windows, bright and happy. Since I’m a creature of the light, this instantly lifted my spirits, which were already pretty high.

And they have white orchids in the center of the main communal table. I picked at bright spot at one of the tall tables and sat down with my latte.

Adventure achieved.

And... she's back!

Tue, 29 Nov 2011 17:25:08 -0600

Sightings of a woman in a purple tutu have been reported throughout San Francisco.

Has Kate Perry returned?

“I saw her!” one witness exclaimed. “I was in Readers Café at Fort Mason, ordering coffee. Well, actually, I was getting a latte. Their lattes are so delicious. They use Blue Bottle coffee, you know. Anyway, I paid and was leaning against the counter, waiting for the barista to finish my drink when I happened to look over to the couch, and there she was. She was sitting plain as day in her tutu, feet in sequined flip-flops propped on the table. My first thought was that woman’s mother obviously never told her not to put her feet on the furniture, but then I realized it was Kate, and it all made sense.”

The baristas at the café refused to confirm the sighting. “We don’t divulge our customers’ identities. I mean, like, you should totally be entitled to privacy while you drink your coffee, you know?” one of the morning crew said.

A downtown stockbroker also claims to have seen Kate Perry. “I have to say, it was after a long day, and the bar was dark. It could have been anyone, but I’m pretty sure it was Kate. She had her sidekick McLovin with her. She looked hard at work, and she drank a dirty Martini with three olives. It had to be her. Kate likes them dirty.”

“I haven’t seen her,” said one Ocean Beach resident, pouting. “It was such a comfort seeing her prowl the hood in her tutu and heels. When she was out, you knew something interesting was about to happen. Life isn’t the same without her.”

“I think all the confusion is because she’s not hanging out in her usual haunts,” local Kate-expert Rufus Jackson explained. “If you know where to look, you’ll find her. And if you know anything about Kate, you know she’s not one to just disappear."

A confidential source close to Kate confided, “Yes, Kate’s back, and she’s bigger than ever. You just wait—she’s going to blow your mind with what she’s got up her sleeve. Or, in Kate's case, up her cape.”

On The Run

Tue, 09 Aug 2011 11:52:10 -0500

August 9, 2011

This morning, Kate Perry's press manager reported that she will be taking an "extended vacation."

"What this means," the PR guru explained, "is that Kate will take a few weeks off from her blog in order to regroup."

The news came as a shock to many people, including her own support staff. One barista at Readers Cafe, Kate's favorite work spot, said, "I never thought I'd see the day. I mean—DUDE—she's dedicated. She was in here every-frickin-day writing. She's a machine. Even on holidays. I just don't believe it."

Kate's PR person clarified: "She isn't going to stop writing. In fact, Kate's working on a couple exciting new projects. This break from her blog is simply so she can pour her energies in these new ventures. Trust me—you'll like what she's got going on."

Some, however, weren't surprised when our writing superstar declared her intention to step back from the limelight. "She's been on edge for a while now," McLovin, her trusty laptop, said. "It's not surprising. Even when she's on vacation, she makes sure her blogs and guest blogs are timely and entertaining. No one could sustain that sort of bubbliness indefinitely. But I knew she was going to crack the day she threw her furry slipper at me and screamed, 'I just need a break!'"

"She actually threw something at McLovin," one witness said. "I couldn't believe it. She loves that sucker."

When asked if Kate was on the run, McLovin poo-pooed the notion. "She's not a fugitive, she's just an overextended writer. She wants a few weeks of peace and quiet to finish work on her new project. It's not a big deal. She's not turning into the Unibomber. At least, I don't think so."

Kate's press manager assures us everything is okay. "She'll be back eventually. In the meantime, you can follow her on Twitter. She'll continue tweeting."

Kate was unavailable for comment.

New York

Tue, 02 Aug 2011 09:50:03 -0500

One evening, our author sat curled in the corner of the couch, reading. Her Magic Man lay with his head cradled on her lap, staring at the ceiling, obviously plotting—perhaps even world domination. That was his way.

But then suddenly he said, "Beloved, let's go to New York tomorrow."

The author looked up and smiled. "Yes, let's do." So they packed bags and hopped on a plane for the East Coast.

The plane ride was lovely. The pilot, so enamored by the author, gave her a tour of the cockpit. He even let her sit in his seat and press buttons. She only pressed the alarm once.

"What shall we do in New York, beloved?" the Magic Man asked.

She tapped her finger to her chin and thought about all the delights the Big Apple had to offer. The Met, Central Park, Times Square, the little lingerie store in Grand Central Station... And then the perfect idea came to mind, and she gasped. "I would greatly delight in going to eat chicken wings."

"Then you shall," said her man. And they joined Parisa and Logan for a bacchanalia of wings and beer.

Glutted on wings, our duo roamed the city and saw great things. But they longed for the peace and solitude of the country, so they hopped in a car and merrily drove to a land called Connecticut. In this land, they did much, like wade in the pond and play golf and drink bubbles with lunch.

And when they tired, they lay in the hammock and watched the hawks soar over the lake, even though the Magic Man's father was certain the hammock would fall under their combined weight.

Lying in the hammock with her beloved, our author would watch the view and dream of One Day. "Dearest one," she said to her man, "perhaps we can get a rustic cottage on the lake too."

The Magic Man kissed her temple. "Which one would you like?"

"That one." She pointed to a modest little place on the other side of the lake.

The Magic Man nodded. "It looks quaint, though perhaps we should get something that has more room for when we invite friends to stay."

"True. You are ever so wise," she said (without irony).

And they stayed in that hammock, tangled together, feet dangling, dreaming of their future, until it was time to return to Manhattan and another week of adventure.

Snapshots in Time

Tue, 26 Jul 2011 19:09:49 -0500

I'm at the Readers Cafe, a.k.a. my office.

A digression: I love the Readers Cafe. The baristas awesome, they make excellent lattes, AND it's attached to the public library's bookstore. Ergo, there are books everywhere. You gotta love that.

Anyway, I should be working on the chapter where my heroine gets ambushed by baddies, but instead I'm staring dumbly at Tucker, my on-the-go writing companion, who decided to take the day off. I've tried to talk him into working for just a little while, but no go.

So I'm kicking it old school—pen and paper. And instead of writing my chapter, I'm observing what's going on around me and taking mental (and literal) snapshots.

Kyle, the barista, is wearing a teal T-shirt. His shoes match, and he has a pink water bottle.

A stylish little girl in glasses hovers near my table, staring at me. She seems fascinated by my writing, or else she's fantasizing about making me over. I hope she moves along soon—she's creeping me out.

That man has a bicycle helmet (gray) on his head and a fluffy dog hanging in front of him, in a doggy version of the Baby Bjorn. He's hovering near me as well. Too close, dude. Back off just a little, please.

At the counter sits a young woman in four-inch wedges and a tiny strapless dress. Her shawl is leopard print.

Just wandering in: a band of tourists. Why do tourists always look lost?

Oh my God—the helmet-headed-man was just joined by, assumably, his wife. Shockingly, she wears a bicycle helmet (white) and also has a dog strapped to her chest. Her dog is wearing a pink sweater.

If I could, I would steal one of those dogs for my sister. She has a strange affection for those rat-looking creatures.

A man trails after his girlfriend, saying, "I guess you can read here." She ignores him and forges ahead toward the bookstore.

I love my shoes.

Another man makes googly eyes at a stroller. I imagine there's a baby in there, though I can't see it.

She drops her fork. When she reaches to pick it up, I see that she's wearing purple from to bow in her hair to the ballet flats on her feet. What makes a middle-aged woman wear unrelieved purple? Maybe she's a big Prince fan too.

Who was the 24th horse, that he deserved his own book? And why weren't the other 23 horses important?

A provocative place, don't you think? I'm still wondering about the horses too...

Scorned

Tue, 19 Jul 2011 14:02:09 -0500

Dear Kate,

We've been together for so long. Don't worry—we won't mention how many years it's been. Frankly, we can't count that high.

But your age isn't the point here—it's that we've been like this all this time. We take you on walks and dancing and generally get you around, and you've always appreciated us. We love how you massage us with fine lotions and make sure we look the best that we can.

Which is why we're surprised that we've come to this.

At first, we thought it was a phase. We thought, Kate's been so busy. She's writing and keeping up with friends, and she has a new beloved. But she'll come back to us. Only you didn't. And then this past weekend happened.

It was the last straw.

Look at us, Kate. This is what we've come to. People run in horror when they see us walking down the street.

We like dancing as much as you—normally. Just not like this. This is just abuse. Did you see what you DID to us Saturday night? Four hours of continuous tango! Forget the aesthetic things, like the fact that some of those men who danced with you stepped all over us and chipped our lovely polish. But the callouses, and the swollen toes.

Two words for you, Kate: oozing blisters.

What were you thinking? And then you complain about how we're sullen and sore.

Only we're not here to complain about your apathy and general disregard for us. We want to move forward and perhaps recapture what we had before. Could we discuss this? We can't continue on this way. Please, Kate—let's work this out.

Achingly yours...

Tonight's Special: Wilted Spider in Vinaigrette

Tue, 12 Jul 2011 20:23:36 -0500

Most writers keep files of random ideas and snippets of stories that come to them. I don't. No, my memory isn't superior to other authors. I just never look at notes after I write them down. And, frankly, my notes aren't very good—in quality or content.

Case and point: I came across a file full of random little bits of "stuff" as I was trying to figure out what to blog about this week. The last time I touched the file was six years ago. Included in this Word .doc:

My grandmother always told me that only simpletons believed in fairy tales.

Your favorite phrase growing up was probably “I’m telling.”

There was nothing she hated more, except maybe tuna fish that wasn’t dolphin-safe.

It's amazing how freshly waxed legs change your outlook on life.

Tonight's Special: Wilted Spider in Vinaigrette

Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone.

Yeah, I'm wondering what I was thinking when I wrote that last line too.

What's the point of this blog? God knows.

Okay, I'll be honest with you. My mind is on the book I'm working on, currently titled Secret Project X, or The Novel that Broke Kate's Back. I'd rather be writing my next chapter but the blog got in the way.

I really would rather be writing it. This is a new feeling for me. Usually, I like having written, not the actual process of doing it. Writing is hard. Sometimes writing is akin to being poked under your nails with bamboo.

Not this time. Don't get me wrong—it's still hard, and I feel like I'm recklessly careening along, writing whatever comes to mind, without rhyme or reason. But I'm having all sorts of revelations while I'm careening out of control. Unfortunately I can't tell you what those revelations are, since my project is super secret. You'll just have to trust me.

So...

Tell me about you. What's your favorite song right now? If you could have anything to eat, what would it be? Do you favor France or Italy?

In The Waiting Line

Tue, 05 Jul 2011 04:50:45 -0500

The Magic Man leaned in and whispered in my ear. “The man in line behind us is holding eight cans of whipped cream.”

I looked up from the magazine I was flipping through as we waited for our groceries to be rung up. “Yes, he is,” I said, putting the magazine away. I preferred the Weekly World News over Star anyway.

“What do you think they’re for?” the Magic Man asked in an even softer whisper.

I took another quick peek at the dude over my shoulder. Five-eight, medium build, cagey eyes. Nondescript in his black pants, white shirt, and scruffy red jacket. But it was 1am and he was buying eight cans of light whipped cream, so I was willing to believe there was more going on. “He’s going home to a wicked game of whipped cream Twister.”

The Magic Man frowned. “You think so?”

“Or else he’s having a banana split party. Or a Fourth of July whipped cream fight.”

“Whipped cream fight?” he repeated, sounding dubious.

“Like a water balloon fight, only you fill the balloons with whipped cream.” I pursed my lips. “That would be fun. I wonder if he’d invite me.”

My man shook his head. “He’s got eight cans of whipped cream. Whatever he’s doing has got to be more interesting than that.”

“I thought whipped cream Twister was pretty interesting.” I gave up any pretense of being inconspicuous and stared at the dude. “He looks furtive, like he’s got his hand in the cookie jar and he doesn’t want Mama to find out. I bet it involves sex.”

“You think everything involves sex.”

I shrugged. “I’m a romance author.”

“And it’s light whipped cream, not regular. Why?” The Magic Man’s eyes lit up in that way that always makes me nervous. “Can I ask him?”

“Can I stop you?” I sighed. “Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”

He faced the dude, who was looking at us nervously by this point. “Excuse me.”

The dude’s eyes widened and he took a step back, glancing around as if scoping out escape routes. I was afraid he was going to pee his pants, he looked so startled, but he didn’t. Yes, I checked.

The Magic Man, focused on his burning curiosity, stepped closer to the guy. “What are you going to do with all that whipped cream?” my man asked pointblank.

The dude scuttled backwards. "I—er..."

Do you have a guess? Tell me what you think, and then I’ll tell you what the dude said to us. Go for it.

We Are the Champions

Tue, 28 Jun 2011 12:44:23 -0500

When I got the tickets to the 2011 Air Guitar Regional Championships, I had no idea what to expect. I mean, I knew the Magic Man and I would have fun. We always have fun. But I never expected a night of pure AWESOMENESS.

Why air guitar?

Why not?

But if you need more reason than that, the ideology behind air guitar is admirable: their mission is to promote peace. On their website, they say "Wars would end, climate change stop, and all all bad things disappear, if all the people in the world played air guitar." I guess it is true that if you're holding an air guitar you can't hold a gun.

The rules and such.

It's pretty self explanatory. You have 60 seconds to perform and can only use an air guitar. No real instruments, no backup air drums, no air roadies on stage once your music starts. The judges score you based on three criteria: technical merit (doing the invisible fretwork so it looks like you're playing a real guitar), stage presence (rocking the crowd), and airness (transforming a mere imitation of guitar to an art form).

The event.

Pure AWESOMENESS. It wouldn't do it justice if I tried to describe it. You need to experience it yourself to truly understand. However, I do have a couple pictures.

Meet Captain Nowhere:

If Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite grew up, this is what he'd look like. The picture doesn't do him justice. He had glowing lights under his unitard and a fake mustache on top of his real mustache. He shredded. He came in second place, I believe.

Up next, Dirty Airy:

He came out wearing a flag and a sock covering his dangly bits. Argyle, of course.

This dude was one of my favorites:

I don't remember his name, but he airplayed some hardcore metal wearing dress pants and fancy shoes. It was like he left the office and came straight to the championships. That's dedication.

In conclusion...

The winner was a man named Shred Nugent. He rocked. He's headed to Chicago for the US Championships.

At one point in the airemony, the MC said "You in the sparkly red top, why aren't you on stage competing?" Then I realized he was talking to me, because I was the only one in the audience wearing a very red, very sequined top.

Why, indeed. So I'm going to start taking air guitar lessons. Watch out, people—Kate's going to rock your world next year.

In Portland

Tue, 21 Jun 2011 11:57:50 -0500

I'm sitting in my mother's dining area. The Magic Man and Mom sit across from me, discussing laptops and using email. He's eating hazelnuts, and she's drinking tea. Every now and then he tosses a nut in the air for me to catch with my mouth. We're practicing to join the circus, he tells my mom.

The TV is on some morning show my mom likes to watch. I see Rory McIlroy won the US Open—I'm happy about this because he's a cute, earnest kid. On the table, there are piles of necklaces and earrings my mother made, including the indigo lily necklace she named after me.

It smells like home here, of tea and saffron and my mother's perfume.

Outside it's gray and cloudy. Typical Portland. I always hope it'll be sunny, though there's a certain comfort to flying into town and seeing the turbulent clouds.

Mom offers me a vitamin, and then she tells me I need to eat breakfast.

I look to the right, expecting to see Mom's gigantic goldfish doing laps in its plastic bucket. It's not there. I ask my mother, who tells me the fish finally succeeded in committing hari-kari. That goldfish was always suicidal. It had the soul of a samurai.

I think about writing. I want to take public transportation downtown, order a strong latte, and sit at the large communal farm table at Coffeehouse to work, just like I did every day last year when I visited my mom last. Habits are hard to break. Plus, Portland is full of characters, like the guy who sat behind us at the theater last night who offered me a ham. I thought he meant he had a stash of pig hidden on his person; he meant a beer. Of course. Beer is Portland.

Espresso stout beer equals tasty.

The apartment is suddenly quiet. They left me—I don't know where they've gone. Someone even turned off the TV. Blessed silence, except for the tocking of a clock somewhere in the living room.

Yoga. A shower. And then perhaps an adventure downtown that includes books and cupcakes.

Where are you? What are you doing? What do you hear?

Plot With Me

Tue, 14 Jun 2011 12:19:02 -0500

I have a valid reason for not wanting to write this danged post today: I want to work on the synopsis for a new book idea.

JB Lynn's FIRST VICTIM is out! I'm looking forward to reading it, not only because she's an awesome person but because the book's received kick-ass reviews. If you're into suspense, I'd encourage you to check it out too.

Crazy, I know—on several levels. One: that I want to play hookey from work to work. Two: that I write fairly detailed synopses before I start on a new book. The former is inexplicable—I don't understand why I'd rather work than frolic on the beach or eat cupcakes either. But writing a synopsis first is how I roll. I like to have structure and know (generally) where I'm going. Plus, most of the time I sell on proposal, which requires a detailed story plan.

But I'm fairly brilliant (modestly speaking), so I'm going to work on my synopsis here. With you.

Whoa whoa whoa, Kate, you exclaim, hands in the air. I don't know a thing about plotting.

Nice try, but I don't believe that. Everyone's a little bit of a plotter on the inside. And I'm going to make it painless for you. Just hear me out.

I have most of my synopsis done, actually—there are just a few holes in one of the secondary stories I'm weaving through. Specifically, I need to occupy my heroine's cousin (who is searching for her) for a few weeks while the heroine is getting to know the hero.

The setting: picture something in the realm of Games of Thrones, a medieval society. The cousin is a warrior woman whose goal is to find the man who killed her husband. My problem: I don't want a whole lot of "walking" scenes. I'd like to get the cousin to the walled city where her cousin is holed up with the hero right away, but I don't want her steal her cousin away.

Go. Shoot me some ideas.

On the Loose

Tue, 07 Jun 2011 12:24:44 -0500

Life has been varied lately. I've been on the loose: out and about, doing a lot of different things.

What sort of things, Kate? you ask.

Well, allow me to show you.

Unleashed

I know I wrote about the Kung Fu retreat last week, but it felt incomplete. It needed visual aids, don't you think?

Unfortunately, I couldn't get my hands on any last week, but someone sent me a phone-video recording of me sparring with my friend Jon, one of the other masters. I extracted a frame for your viewing pleasure. I'm the one in red, attacking.

On the Town

Saturday night, my Magic Man and I went dancing to the music of Planet Booty (at Cafe du Nord, if you live in San Francisco and are curious).

One: if you have an opportunity to see Planet Booty live, do it. They're an hour and a half of sweat-drippin' boot-scootin' fun. It's just like this, only in a club instead of a grocery store.

Two: I have no two.

Last Tango in SF

Apparently Friday nights at the de Young Museum, in Golden Gate Park, they do special events. I had a vague recollection of this, because I'm a member and I get notices. But I didn't realize they did dancing events, much less had a tango night. So when I saw tango scheduled, I was all over it.

Step one: look like a tanguera. I usually just wear jeans when I tango, but I figured it'd behoove me to stand out a little—to help me get noticed and, therefore, asked to dance. It worked. Before the event started, I was asked by several people if I was a professional dancer or with the band. Ha! If only they knew how hard I always have to try not to trip and fall on my ass.

Step two: have fun. I really did. I whirled and swooped, dancing every song. A wallflower, I am not. By the end, my feet hurt, which is always a sign of a successful event.

There were all sorts of spectators taking pictures and videos of the dancing. The picture above was a random photo, where I just happen to be perfectly framed in the front center (the chick with the bare shoulder and arm). My sister found it on her friend's Facebook page and recognized me. Crazy, isn't it? There's a story idea in there.