Rima Jean

In the throes of a dying relationship, a boyfriend once told me, “You’re a dreamer, Rima. Not a doer.”

To say that I took this personally would be an understatement — I was crushed. Not a doer? What did that mean? Did he mean to insinuate that I would never accomplish anything? That my head was too far up (my ass) in the clouds?

This boyfriend had, without question, hit a nerve. (Not that his opinion should have meant anything — he was a total cheesedick.) But I was young and impressionable, not to mention insecure. I was always an artsy kid, drawing and writing and reading quietly in my room. I hated coming out of my fantasy world, and so immersed myself as often as I could in fiction, whether that of others or my own. I rarely socialized with my peers, and not because I was shy, but because I preferred to observe them. While they competed and challenged and fought and loved, I sat by and watched. I was fascinated by human nature, not to mention terrified of it. The books of my childhood shaped my imagination, gave it endless possibility: Caddie Woodlawn, Mara, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, Jacob Have I Loved, Shades of Grey… I vividly remember the first adult book I read, at the ripe old age of twelve: It was in the storage closet, creased and dusty, and it was called The Thorn Birds. I devoured that book secretly, afraid that if my parents caught me reading it they would take it away. It left me breathless (and not just because I had never read any sex scenes before). The world of the written word was pure magic.

I was a dreamer, not a doer. The culture within which I was raised valued doctors and lawyers and engineers, and here I was, an “arteest.” After writing my first novela at 17, I set aside my love of writing to pursue more “serious” professions. To my dismay, I found that I lacked direction, that I was ambling through my late teens and early twenties without a clue as to what I wanted to do with my life. I got a degree in archaeology (which I enjoyed, but couldn’t see myself pursuing, since carrying a bullwhip and killing Nazis were not part of the job description), then a law degree (which was the biggest waste of money EVER, and sort of like trying to teach a pig to sing), then dabbled in getting a degree in public health (which was kind of interesting, if not for the whole “biostatistics” thing)…

I found myself wandering around bookstores like a lost soul, picking up books to read and setting them back down only half-finished. They weren’t saying what I wanted them to say, the stories weren’t going where I wanted them to go. I had to write, to release the heroes and anti-heroes and comedies and tragedies that resided restlessly in my head. I had to, or go crazy.

I am finally a dreamer who is doing. My novel is finished, and I am determined to get it published. And then write some more. While the mundane and painful process of querying (begging) and proposing (kissing ass) once made me cringe, I am now anxious to get on with it. Bring on the responses, good and bad, and let’s do this thing. Because I’m not quitting. This is what I am meant to do, and I will do it.

…and shitting myself.

As many of you know (or maybe not), I am looking to publish my pirate fiction, The Noble Pirates. Like, officially. Like, “it’s a book with cover art that I can buy at bookstores and on Amazon” officially. I am very nearly done with TNP, and I anticipate that within the next week or so I will begin searching for a literary agent.

This past weekend, I started looking at literary agency websites, as well as the personal websites / blogs of their agents. Wow. Are all literary agents so full of hate? My God. Yes, I know there are a lot of people out there who think they can write (but really can’t). Yes, I know you get query letters from most of them. But seriously, do you have to be such an asshole?

Granted, I realize that several of these agents are trying to do writers a favor by telling them how it is. And some do so with panache, such as Miss Snark (whose blog is described as a place “where Miss Snark vented her wrath on the hapless world of writers and crushed them to sand beneath her T.Rexual heels of stiletto snark”). But some of the venom spewed at writers is just plain unnecessary. Not to mention, it makes me sad. My ego is fragile, people. I’m not sure I can take that kind of rejection (says George McFly).

Am I going to query these asshole agents, you ask? You bet your fine ass, I am. New York City, here I come! (Digitally, of course). And speaking of digital, what’s with these old school agents who threaten writers with, “If you send your query by email, it’s going straight into the trash”? Really? Tell me, do you still read your manuscripts by candlelight? Because light bulbs are a total cop-out. All that new-fangled technology…

So I am in the process of trying to come up with a good query letter, since this, and this alone, is what agents go by in deciding if they even want to look at the first few pages of your manuscript. Yep. No pressure. When I think about it, I should have written the query letter before I even wrote the novel itself. If no one wanted to read my one-page synopsis, then I would have saved myself a buttload of trouble. (I jest. I love my story, regardless of what others think. That’s right. And I’ll love it straight to the poorhouse.)

Query letter writing, as I’ve come to realize, is fucking terrible. One page, that will make or break your chance to publish your book. One stinking page. Below I describe my first night attempting to write said query letter:

8 pm: Girls in bed. I settle into my chair with my laptop, my fingers on the keyboard, waiting for the creative juices to start flowing. I begin, “Dear So-And-So.” I stop. Time for “the hook.” I begin to write again: “Pirates.” Hmmm. I delete it. I write, “Time travel.” I delete that as well. This calls for reinforcements. I get up and serve myself some Rocky Road ice cream.

9 pm: Girls still awake. I can hear something thudding to the floor repeatedly, and I wonder idly if it’s Ava’s head. I’m assuming she’d be crying and not laughing if it were. I’m on my third serving of ice cream, and it’s not helping. Now I feel disgusting. This calls for more serious reinforcements. I get up and serve myself a glass of wine. THAT’S what I’m talking about…

10 pm: Have had three glasses of wine, have written two paragraphs and, have said nothing. Pure, unadulterated crap. My story is about a woman who time travels onto a pirate ship. How do I say this without it sounding like GARBAGE? Because it sounds like a complete joke to me.

10:30 pm: In my drunken stupor, I type the word “TITTIES,” close my laptop, and fall asleep face-down on the couch while watching “Tosh.0.” Eff it. I’ll do it tomorrow. Damn literary sluts. My book is GOOD, DAMMIT!

My sister-in-law is an aspiring actress, and I am currently working on a website for her. I came up with a logo for her based on her bubbly personality and 1950s movie-star looks: Wavy blond hair, red lips, lots of curves. Below, a picture of my SIL and of her new logo.

I am so excited I can hardly stand it.

The very talented Abigail Larson has agreed to provide The Noble Pirates with illustrations. When I contacted Abigail, I thought it would be neat to have more visuals to accompany the story. TNP is a serial, after all, and what could be better than a great story? That’s right — a great story with pictures! I was inspired by Sidney Paget’s illustrations of Sherlock Holmes, which accompanied the text by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in the Strand Magazine. Abigail read the first few chapters of TNP and, to my delight, loved it.

Abigail’s style is fresh, unique, and like the story itself, darkly magical. I am honored by her interest and hope my readers enjoy her interpretations of the characters. I will post her illustrations as she provides them, in their proper places in the story. And don’t worry, I will notify my readers of their existence and their locations.

I am out of control. Giving all this cool stuff away for a song and dance. Crazy, I tell you.

This used to be the Fiction Chick website. It no longer exists. I am selling both the theme and the logo (not the name). Take it for a test drive. Send me an offer. I’m pretty easy-going. For a bit extra, I’ll change the logo to suit your needs.

Fiction Chick

Preview Theme

Description: Based on the Sandbox template http://www.plaintxt.org

If you use Blogger and want to give it a different, fresh look, here is a skin I created. Just tell me you want it in the comments or send me a message via my contact form, and I’ll give it to you. I know, I’m such a sweet, giving, selfless person… *Ahem*

Finally. I have found a tutorial that explains CSS positioning in a way that allows someone to understand it the first time they read it. It’s by Patrick Fitzgerald and it’s on BarelyFitz Designs. Do you have any idea how many times I had to go over CSS positioning before I got it? Granted, I’m something of a retard, but seriously, I STILL have to through the books to make sure I don’t screw it up. As a self-taught designer, good online tutorials are invaluable, and this one is at the top.

Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’m buying you a beer, dude.

So I designed this Textpattern blog, Girly Blogs, complete with its own domain, thinking that I would use it myself. I am not using it myself. THUS. Who wants to buy it from me? $100, straight up. If you want the design but not the domain, that’s cool. If you want me to change the title, that’s cool too. Price don’t change. First come, first serve.

Go check it out. Play around with it.

Ok. When this band first appeared on Noggin (Nick Jr.) several months ago, I complained like a whiny little bitch about it here. For the record, I still think they’re ridiculously dressed, conveniently ethnically-diverse teenagers. And I still think the white boy can’t rap. But Nora has been obsessed with the show lately, and I kinda think it’s cute. Plus, some of the songs are catchy (“Freeze Dance” and “Glow for it” are my favorites). I know, I’ve been completely reduced to a five-year-old. And it’s still true that, like the Fresh Beats, just about any situation in my life “can lead to a full-blown song-and-dance performance.”

No wonder people don’t want to hang out with me.

Oh, and check out the last comment on my first FBB post. Chick was pissed. Come on, people. Let’s maintain a sense of humor here.

I have to say, of all the arguments for having ten thousand kids, this one from The Wall Street Journal is the most entertaining. Michelle Duggar (and her bad 80′s hairdo) should be thanking the brilliant economists over at WSJ. HA! Who are we kidding? Michelle Duggar doesn’t know how to read.

Fine, I’ll leave the woman (and her tired womb) alone. Back to the article. Basically, the argument is this: Modern parents are less happy than their childless counterparts because they “parent” too much. If they’d just not obsess as much, they’d be much happier. “Your choices have little effect on your kids’ development, so it’s OK to relax… Once parents stop overcharging themselves for every child, the next logical step is straight out of Econ 101: Buy more.”

I have a tiny problem with comparing children to widgets. You know, the whole “human being” thing. And while I agree that parents need to relax the whole obsessive parenting thing, I’m not sure that relaxing necessarily reduces the emotional investment parents put into each child. After all, just because you don’t read to your six kids every night doesn’t mean you don’t worry about each of them every minute of every day. And what happens when all six get sick? How much of you is there to go around? I get gray hairs every time one of my kids falls and skins a knee. And I only have two.

A final thought:

A closer look at the General Social Survey also reveals that child No. 1 does almost all the damage. Otherwise identical people with one child instead of none are 5.6 percentage points less likely to be very happy. Beyond that, additional children are almost a happiness free lunch. Each child after the first reduces your probability of being very happy by a mere .6 percentage points.

A mere .6 percentage points? Bwahahahahaha! Clearly, professor, you have not met Ava.

My darling Ava, in time out for brutally assaulting her sister, in her Elmo chair.