MyNoReMo

Accept the challenge and weep. While some people are revising their nearly perfect novels in April—revision being another word for reading more dusty old books about historic personages—some people will be forging ahead into the unknown. Yes, creativity, the piquant soup of the empty screen, the doubt, the wretchedness, the glory….

I've spent the last twenty years in dystopic dyspepsia, using my own blood for red ink. But now Madison, After is finished. Done. All 290 pages of zombies, flying saucers, teen sex, and cold canned chili. One last flogging by my critique partners on Saturday (and entering their tiny changes on Sunday) and I will be relieved. Then I boot the novel out the door to collect rejections from people who refuse to see the good in a can of ten-year old pears. It's in there, baby, it's in there.

(Note to agents: the revision took exactly seven months, during which time I was in Nepal for three weeks. It's not like I spent twenty Earth years on MA, though my crit group may measure time differently. BTW it's an awesome book and you really should request it.)

Anyways, here's what I'm doing in April—all new crap no one has ever seen before.

My plan is to post notes on each of my six exciting new story ideas, choose three to work on by the end of the week, and…finish them in April. By finish, I don't mean submission-ready, because that's not realistic for a distracted and distracting dame like myself. Clash of the Titans is coming out and there might be popcorn. Or someone nice (aka The Professor) could cook meatloaf one of these days. And a friend is going to A Dangerous Place in April and there might be some candle light vigils to attend when the guy is clapped in chains and thrown in a tiger cage. At the very least, some CNN interviews. Here's his picture:

Bye, friend!
PS. This was sent out on your birthday party invitation and people still showed up, why?)



That's the plan for the fiendish sport of MyNoReMo, or in my case MyStoReMo.

Cats, a lot of cats

Reason to believe...in Switzerland. From Lou Reed to 149 cats in one article, check out this link and say meow. I am well on my way to needing my own attorney, but as I like to say: I only have three cats at a time. The rest are outside or under the couch.

Not being a cat person by nature, I've watched my disintegration into a multi-cat housing authority with amazement and disbelief. Their main attractions are the softness of their fur and the satisfying architecture of their forms. And they purr. And they have those vacant eyes, like the blonde girls at the gym who only show up for the tanning beds. Dogs have a certain self-serving cunning that makes them about like your average four year old (I have a black lab and a border collie, both genius dogs). Cats just aren't like that. We have one, Marzi, who wakes up every morning like it's the first day of the rest of his life. I see him sometimes, wandering outside, completely lost. A fluffy white and orange cat on the edge of forever.

I could go on, but I really shouldn't. If you want to do some real good in the world, give to no-kill cat shelters and make it possible for those shelters to accommodate more cats, especially those who get dumped by the side of the road (and make their way to my house). Please. And vote in a health care plan that has psychiatric counseling for people who talk baby-talk to their cats. Ban the word "cute" from the English language. Limit cat condo furniture--that stuff is awful. And send me some aspirin.