Hanging Up My Shingle
You know how there's always a point in a superhero's life when he denies his fate? Where he tries to be normal, but it just doesn't work?
No, I haven't been trying to be normal. Pish to that.
I have, however, been denying some of my greatest strengths. It's a not-well-known fact that I'm an excellent editor, and as a teacher I kick ass. For complicated psychological reasons, I've done very little of either one. But this past weekend I was—yet again—slapped upside the head about it.
Fine. I can take a hint, universe.
Hard at work, editing. Don't be alarmed by her slightly maniacal expression.
Ergo, I'm hanging up my shingle. For the time being, I'm doing private gigs: critiques, ghost writing, one-on-one tutorials. When and if my finger puppets and I decide to do larger-scale workshops, I'll let you know.
I'm kind of happy about this decision. It feels right, like it'll be a good balance to my work. Of course, my own writing comes first, but I'm looking forward to the editing. By reading other people's work, you learn what works, what doesn't, and how to structurally strengthen stories—other people's as well as your own. Plus, I like variety, and working with writers who dabble in other genres gives you a taste of different flavors, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, I'm now open for business. Bring it, world. Feel free to spread the word.
The Bartender
“Are you writing your memoirs?” a voice said over the live jazz music.
I looked up from my notebook to see the bartender polishing a glass in front of me. “Kind of, but not really," I replied. "I'm making notes for the scene I'm writing tomorrow. I’m an author.”
“Really?” He perked up. “What do you write?”
“Romance novels.” I always start off that way, just for the shock factor. Then I added, “Superhero-y, kung fu, action/adventure romance novels.”
“Cool. What’s your name?” he asked, pulling out his phone. I told him, and two seconds later he held out the screen for me to see. “You’re famous! Look at this. You have five stars for TEMPTED BY FATE.”
I looked. “I hadn’t seen that. That’s cool.”
He leaned across the counter, looking me in the eye. “I think you should write about an Irish bartender who has superpowers.”
Tapping my pen against my notebook, I studied him. “What sort of superpowers does this bartender have?”
“All the usual stuff.” He waved an expansive hand. “He can fly and walk through walls and heal with his hands.”
“I bet he’s cute and smart too.”
“Of course he is.”
“Spiffy,” I said.
He poured me another shot of whiskey. “But I’ll expect royalties for having inspired a hero.”
I grinned. “Have your agent contact mine."
Your Turn
One of my friends informed me that I was unusually boring last week.
My first response: "Pfft." My second response: "Of course I'm boring. All I've done this week is work."
Which is true. Only I'm not writing—I'm editing.
On editing.
Part of me hates doing it. It's so much more fun and spontaneous to write. Writing is like cooking: you're creative and throwing things together in a pot, making magic when it all comes out delicious.
However, part of cooking is the clean-up. That's what editing is: cleaning up after yourself. Cleaning up can be meditative and satisfying, in the right mood. It's easy—you know where things are supposed to go so you just put everything in its proper place. It can also be tedious. Hence the reason part of me hates doing it.
My mood.
I've been trying to look at editing in a more positive light. Why should it be drudgery? It's not—it's the easy part. But still, you have to sit down and just do it, so it makes me seem dull.
Ergo...
It's your week to be entertaining. Tell me something exciting you did. Or—heck—make something up. Our grip on reality is loose here, in case you haven't noticed. Have at it.
Endings
I was having a conversation with my sister. The conversation itself isn't important, so I'm not going to get into that. Except you want to know what we were talking about, don't you? I can feel your burning curiosity over the ether.
Okay—fine. I'll tell you. I was writing one of the past weeks' blogs and I couldn't figure out how to end it.
Endings are hard. They're as important as, if not more important than, beginnings. Yeah, the beginning needs to engage and interest you enough to read on, but the ending needs to leave you a satisfied customer. It's not easy. Trust me.
Anyway, I was having trouble wrapping up the blog, so I Google-chatted my sister. Have I mentioned that woman is brilliant? She instantly sent me a list of excellent endings.
No, I didn't use any of them.
However, I did compile a list of the best ones for your reading pleasure.
My Sister Ends It: A Short List of Her Fantastic Endings
... And then there were none.
... You wouldn't have thought that chickens could do that.
... The next thing we knew, we were rolling down the hill screaming.
... And that's why we should never jump down elevator shafts.
... That's how we came to be covered in paint and rolling on the floor.
... It just goes to show you, don't trust a jaguar with a pink bow on its ear.
Do you have your own ending to add? Or perhaps you have a particular favorite ending from a published work?
As for me... I didn't know where the leprechaun came from, but I smiled at him and said, "Come in, we're having short ribs for dinner."
Resolutions
Are you writing?
Wait—let’s take one step back. Do you want to write? Is there a book you’ve always wanted to put together? Do you have a character that lurks in your head, waiting for his story to be told? Do you have a message you want to share with the world?
People tell me about book ideas they have all the time. You know what happens when they start to describe their ideas? Their eyes light up, and they start gesturing like a passionate Italian grandma. Until I ask how many pages a day they write. Then the excitement leeches from their faces and they look something akin to a Bruce Campbell zombie.
That’s when gentle Kate emerges to comfort and soothe: “No worries. You’ll write when the time is right.” Except the real Kate wants to step up with “News flash Walter Kronkite: your book will never get done if you don’t sit your ass down and write.”
Do you realize that if you write one page a day, you’ll have a book in a year?
Maybe writing isn’t the thing you’ve been thinking of doing. Maybe it’s martial arts. Maybe you want to learn piano, or take a dance class, or start to knit again. I can already hear the excuses—time, money, children, work, age… To which I delicately sniff and reply, “Pshaw.”
So what are you saying, Kate?
Okay, I’ll lay it out plainly for you: screw New Years resolutions this year. Don’t resolve anymore. I quoted P. Diddy to my writers’ group when I gave a brief motivational talk several weeks ago, and I’m going to quote him again: Do that shit.
Start now. For real. Take the next ten minutes to do something toward your passion. Because isn’t it time to just do it? What are you waiting for?
Disco Inferno*
Lately I’ve had such a hard time coming up with things to write every week for you guys. I blame my muse for abandoning ship, but we’re not here to cast stones. At least not today.
So I sat down at McLovin (my beloved laptop, for those of you new to my universe) to write a post for this week, and I decided I’d use the power at my fingertips to figure this out. So I googled “blog topic ideas.”
I know—I have moments of brilliance.
One of the top links on the search list was to a blog by Chris Brogan (a web luminary and general marketing super genius). His post is aptly called “100 Blog Topics I Hope You Write.”
Score!
You will NEVER find me writing about some of the topics Chris had listed, like…
How I Use Facebook (as rarely as possible)
My Children Will Do It Differently (I’d have to have children first, and that’s not happening—sorry, Mom)
The Difference Between Farks and Truemors (snicker)
Explaining Social Media to Your Chamber of Commerce (shudder)
How I Went From Very Shy to Less Shy (snicker again)
But several of his ideas appealed to me. My faves, in no particular order:
Ways to Save a Bad Time at a Conference (I’m TOTALLY doing this next year before RWA National)
How I Find Blogging Ideas (snort)
Books I Want to Write (wherein I explore my great desire to write about a rock band)
Ten Guilty Pleasures (sneak peak: donuts are at the top of the list)
When I Feel Frustrated (the art of breaking dishes)
Giving It Away (not a commentary on my dating life)
If you have a blog, how do you decide what to write about? Do you plan out your posts for the future? If you don’t have a blog, what sort of posts do you enjoy reading most? What would you like to see here?
Actually, writing this has been helpful. At the moment, my brain is teeming with stuff to write about. Mini donuts, for example. And fonts. The spirit of the blog has me so empowered I may just schedule out the topics for my next few blogs and see how that works for me. I know—I’m talking crazy now.
Thank you for participating in this brainstorming session. We appreciate your patronage. Please come again.
* In case you didn't notice, this blog post doesn't have anything to do with dancing or raging fires. I got bored with my original title, Another Blog Post, and decided I could be more creative. So I looked up and on the wall there was a flyer for a firefighters' 70s disco party (a benefit for the SFFD). It inspired me. Firefighters are good for that.
Sisterly Questions
from Kate Perry <kate@kateperry.com>
to Parisa <parisa@p-zo.com>
subject Help!
Hey! TEMPTED BY FATE is being released in a few weeks, and I have to write a marketing post for Romantic Times. I thought an author interview would be nice. Can you help me? Would you send me some interview questions? I'd love you forever.
from Parisa <parisa@p-zo.com>
to Kate Perry <kate@kateperry.com>
subject re: Help!
you love me forever anyway.
from Kate Perry <kate@kateperry.com>
to Parisa <parisa@p-zo.com>
subject re: re: Help!
Are you going to help your sister or what?
from Parisa <parisa@p-zo.com>
to Kate Perry <kate@kateperry.com>
subject re: re: re: Help!
what are my other options?
from Parisa <parisa@p-zo.com>
to Kate Perry <kate@kateperry.com>
subject interview questions
just kidding. hehehe.
here they are:
If you could have any five people (fiction or not fiction) on your zombie team for the zombie-pocalypse, who would you choose?
If you had a snail that could grant magical wishes, what would you name it?
If you were part of X-Men, what would your name be?
Okay, okay. Also, what would your mutation be?
Would you rather have buckets for hands or be blind? Why?
If you could go back in time for 24 hours, when and where would you go?
If your fairy godmother showed up today, what would she bestow upon you?
Do you have the rhythm of the hot dog?
from Kate Perry <kate@kateperry.com>
to Parisa <parisa@p-zo.com>
subject Are you serious?
A snail??
from Parisa <parisa@p-zo.com>
to Kate Perry <kate@kateperry.com>
subject re: Are you serious?
it's a great question. people will love that one. trust me.
from Kate Perry <kate@kateperry.com>
to Parisa <parisa@p-zo.com>
subject re: re: Are you serious?
Maybe I need to reconsider this idea...
Gone Packing
My muse is gone.
I'm pretty sure she got sick of waiting for me to feel ready to hang out with her. I have a strong feeling that she packed her bags and headed south—specifically to Buenos Aires, because she and I were happy there once upon a time.
Does that mean I'm not writing? Hell no. It just means I'm writing crap. I sit my ass in the chair every day, regardless. I show up, even if she doesn't. It isn't pretty, but it's something.
I know one day she'll return (I hope) and we'll start working in tandem again. Until then, I have Jay-Z to keep me company. 50 Cent too. And Biggie has my back from the big recording studio in the sky.
Also, I'm taking applications for a new muse—or muses. Please be ready to give me sample ideas for blog topics, marketing copy, and future books. You can be related to me, but if you give me lame ideas (like writing about llamas) your chances of getting this coveted position will be slim, even if I do love you best.
The Gate
I was walking with a friend when he suddenly stopped. "Describe that."
I looked to where he was pointing. "What?"
"That." He touched a blue plastic tie attached to a gate. "I want to see how your author eyes see it."
"So this is a test?"
"No, it's curiosity." After a moment of me staring at him, he rolled his eyes. "Okay, I'll go first."
This I had to see—or hear, as it were. Crossing my arms, I nodded. "Go ahead."
"The metal gate was rusted," he began without a beat of thought. "Beyond it, there was a door and a sterile looking entrance to a mediocre looking house. On the gate, there was a blue tie." He grinned at me. "Your turn."
Frowning, I looked at the door. I've never been an oral storyteller. Somehow words didn't flow from my mind to my mouth—they went directly to my fingertips. But I'm not one to run away from a challenge, so I went for it. "Every time she saw the blue tie, she thought of him, and it drove her crazy."
"Really?" my friend said.
"Shut up and let me tell my story," I said in my usual sweet way. He made a sign like he was zipping his lips, and when I was I sure he was going to stay quiet, I started again. "Every time she saw the blue tie, she thought of him, and it drove her crazy. She knew he put it there on purpose, so she'd have to think of him. So she'd be reminded of the vivid blue of his eyes, so she'd think of the way he looked at her, like he wanted to strip her clothes and wallow in her body. Right now, she looked at the blue tie as she let herself into her home and thought about the way his hands glided over her. She scowled. She would NOT call him tonight. She'd sworn she was going to play it cool. But her fingers brushed the tie as she closed the gate, and she knew she wouldn't be able to resist."
The sound of waves crashing filled the silence when I stopped talking. My friend and I stared at the tie, not speaking. Then he said, "Have you ever considered being a romance writer? I have a feeling you might be okay at it."
The New Office
The first thing I did when I arrived in Buenos Aires was to look for a café.
Actually, the first thing I did was join a gym. The national food here is pizza. And meat. And pasta. And bread. So unless I wanted to gain twenty pounds, it seemed prudent to find a gym pronto. I may still need a triple bypass from all the steak and cheese, but at least I'll look good under the knife.
The next thing I did was look for a new café (or two) to write at. I decided I wanted one close to home and one further away, because sometimes a girl feels adventurous.
I found the close-to-home one on my way to the Microcentro (the downtown area). It looked perfect: light and appropriately studious with a few women and half a dozen men in suits working on laptops inside. I thought I'd try it to see if it had bueno ondo (good vibes, as they say here). I walked up to the door and pulled on it.
It wouldn't open.
Figuring it opened inward, I pushed on it. Nothing still. I stood back and stared at it. Then I looked at the store hours, wondering if they closed for siesta (though cafés don't typically). Nope—they were open till 8pm.
I did what any normal person would do: I shoved on it, and then yanked back for good measure. Accomplishing nothing except attracting the attention of every patron inside.
I have, of course, not been back since. When I do go back, I will be appropriately disguised.
But I did find another café—one that has an open entry so I didn't have to mess with the door. The waiters are forgiving of my awful French-accented Argentinian Spanish, and it's a lot of kitschy fun inside.
So you can picture me spending the late morning/early afternoon at one of the little tables in front, drinking a café con leche, eating medialunas (the Argentine answer to a croissant), and hacking away at my laptop. Note: I reserve the right to order a Coca Light every now and then. Gotta follow your whims, you know.