You Are 50% Left Brained, 50% Right Brained

The left side of your brain controls verbal ability, attention to detail, and reasoning. Left brained people are good at communication and persuading others. If you’re left brained, you are likely good at math and logic. Your left brain prefers dogs, reading, and quiet. The right side of your brain is all about creativity and flexibility. Daring and intuitive, right brained people see the world in their unique way. If you’re right brained, you likely have a talent for creative writing and art. Your right brain prefers day dreaming, philosophy, and sports.

Are You Right or Left Brained?

Wet Noodle Posse is addressing time management for left-brainers vs. right-brainers today.

For most of the questions, I thought, “But I do both of those!”, so I wasn’t surprised at the results. One of the many joys of being a 50/50 split: I have to try every method (of everything), and what worked the last time won’t work the next.

So it’s entirely possible for me to spend so much time figuring out time management strategies, I run out of time…

I’m blogging elsewhere on February 19 and having a hell of a time coming up with a topic appropriate for that venue. Somebody beat me to the idea I was toying with, which, although panic inducing because of the big red circle on my calendar mocking my empty brain, made me feel less isolated in a certain way of thinking, so it’s a good thing. Really.

Fortunately, within a couple of hours, I had another idea, not a timely issue (or even an “issue,” for that matter), so hopefully it’s not on anyone else’s mind at the moment.

HOTM will return on Friday (delayed) after the feature’s January vacation. I tweaked the format a little because he’s not a romance hero, although he will forever be the object of my undying (undead?) affection.

And finally… I love the Truth anti-smoking commercials. I find the way they point to both the health dangers of cigarettes and the manipulations of Corporate Tobacco clever enough to perhaps be influential. (What self-respecting young person wants to help a bunch of rich old suits get richer, regardless of what they’re selling?) I also like some of the Above the Influence anti-marijuana ads, the ones that point out that pot makes you stupid and uninteresting and no one but stupid and uninteresting potheads will want to be around you. (You’re such a loser, your dog doesn’t even like you anymore.) This one, though, crosses the line into ridiculous (and not in a funny-ha-ha way) and destroys their credibility.

(Link rather than the video because god forbid you should broadcast their public service announcement. It’s the one called “FIRE.”)

I’m one of the five people in America who have never smoked marijuana, and this commercial almost makes me want to fire up a joint to protest the hyperbole. What’s the message here? Marijuana causes pyromania? I’ve never known a pothead with the ambition to engage in purposeful property destruction, unless the property was a bucket of KFC.

Now, a commercial involving LSD-induced hallucinations in which the kid has to set frost demons on fire to banish them and then comes around to find he’s burned the house down might be cool, but don’t insult the intelligence of your target audience by suggesting marijuana is going to cause the same results. My 11-year-old knows better than that. “Makes you stupid and uninteresting” is enough of a deterrent for anyone likely to be deterred. Head back in that direction before this campaign becomes as much of a joke as “Just Say No.”

You Are a Lemon

You have a very distinct personality. And if you’re not being sweet, you’re a little hard to take. You’re a bit overpowering, especially in one on one situations.And while you are very dominant, sometimes your power is needed and appreciated. You can liven up a dull situation, and you definitely bring a fresh outlook. You are a bit of an acquired taste, and you tend to grow on people over time. People feel refreshed and rejuvenated after spending time with you.

What Type of Fruit Are You?

I’m often told I “grow on people.” I always respond, “Yeah, like a fungus. You probably don’t want me, but good luck getting rid of me.”

I find some of these Blogthings results eerily on target.

The lemon could have been a little more evil looking, though. “Hard to take,” “overpowering,” and “dominant” don’t exactly jive with that cute wittle face.

I propose the term “prepublished” should be used to refer solely to books that have been accepted by a publisher and are, in fact, progressing toward actually being published, filling the gap between “unpublished” and “published.”

I was bribed into attending a writerly function, at which I was cornered by a writerly individual who, aside from lacking even rudimentary social graces and attention to oral hygiene, was so hellbent on impressing me with his “prepublished” status, I politely inquired about his experience with the publishing process.

“Oh, ha ha, I’m still papering the walls with rejection letters.”

I so very badly wanted to say, “Wow, I bet you’re a pre-ejaculator, too.” (Hence the tooth-shaped holes in my tongue.)

“Prepublished” is a prime example of a word being thrown about for the purpose of inflating one’s status in the eyes of those who don’t know any better. I admit, in a side-by-side comparison, “pre” does sound a lot more impressive than “un,” but it has a different connotation that’s being abused by using them interchangeably. 

Had he said, “I’m shopping around my first manuscript,” we would have had something to talk about: the triumph of finishing one, the thrill and the agony of sending it out into the world, the hidden meaning of rejection letters (everybody on the web is dissecting query letters nowadays—we talk about the rejection letters, it’s just not cool to put it on our blogs because that’s advertising our failures).

I’m in that place, and it’s called “unpublished.” No amount of prefix twiddling is going to put you any closer to the brass ring, buddy.

Flipping through cable channels has again resulted in despair about the state of interpersonal relationships in the 21st century.

Not as blatantly disgusting as VH1’s I Love New York or Rock of Love, Lifetime has nonetheless managed to produce an eye-snaring train wreck with Matched in Manhattan. I didn’t see the whole episode (I successfully escaped during a commercial break), but during the portion I did see, this poor woman who had just moved to New York and wanted to get out and meet some people was told that in order to make that happen with this “dating agent,” she had to have a complete makeover, redecorate her apartment, and basically undergo a personality transplant because no one could possibly like her the way she was. She submitted to this (rather than telling the smarmy little bastard where he could shove his straightening iron) and was set up on a date, before which she was coached on what to say and how to behave.

Let’s assume the guy underwent the same preparatory conditioning (because if he didn’t, that would be sexist enough to make my head explode). What you have on this date, then, is two people who don’t really exist.

What happens if they agree to continue dating on the basis of that first date, at which neither of them was truly present? Do they maintain the charade forever, or is there a point where one feels comfortable revealing that the entire relationship is based on lies? Does one then have any right to be upset when the other confesses to deception on the fundamentals, as well?

The thing that scares me (more than networks filling the airwaves with these shows) is the internet buzz. People are using this show for dating tips. As if weeding through the weirdos wasn’t a treacherous enough endeavor, they now have a new guru telling them it’s not only okay to be a phony, it’s a necessity.

And then there’s the Millionaire Matchmaker on Bravo, which I had to turn off as soon as she told the few classy-looking women in her office they had to show their tits if they wanted her to set them up on dates…

I’ve long been convinced there’s an element of magic involved in finding The One, but now there’s the added complication of having to discern real magic from smoke and mirrors wielded by people who’ve had professional training.

I’m so glad I don’t have one of those mothers who bemoans my spinster status…

Did anybody else get into those Which Way books long, long ago? Here’s the whole list, to refresh your memory. Yeah, 1982 to 1986 is long, long ago. I had a nostalgia moment while desperately trying to recall something good about those interminable car trips from Illinois to Florida to visit the grandparents—pa didn’t believe in stopping, so I relied on books to distract me from the irreparable damage being done to my bladder and kidneys…

My head is filled with all kinds of weird thoughts lately. Caffeine withdrawal? I cut way back on the Diet Pepsi Max with extra CAFFEEEEEINE and GINSENG and have felt a little funky ever since. *twitch*

Anyhoo, here’s how they worked: The story would begin, and then at some point the reader would have to make a choice. Take the path through the jungle, turn to page 27. Explore the dark cave, turn to page 68. Then there would be a few more pages of story, followed by another choice. Being the budding control freak I was around the ripe old age of 10, I loved dictating the direction the story took. Ninety percent of the fun was going back and trying to get all the story lines.

So I was thinking… Dang, the interwebs are made for interactive storytelling of that nature.

So you know what I’m doing, right? Nothing as ambitious as 20 different endings in some of the books. I was thinking two three (see, the ideas, they never stop when it comes to making a task more difficult for myself) with a multitude of tangents along the way. Something short, sexy, and fun, not aspiring to great literary heights.

Like I need another excuse to procrastinate about things I should be concentrating on. But yanno… my attention wanders when I hit a tough spot in the story. It becomes work. I become sullen, and then I take a nap or watch TV or some other time suck. This kind of time suck, at least, is writing. It keeps the gears turning while I’m in I hate you, you suck mode with the manuscript. And it will eventually produce something that will entertain the easily amused, such as myself, so it’s not a total waste of time.

(Or so I keep telling myself…)

I’m also writing it in 1st person, since the reader is making the decisions and “follow Max” feels more natural than “make Anna follow Max” at decision points. The handful of pages I’ve written have reinforced my stance that I will never write a book in 1st person. Whoadamn, does it ever require a complete rewiring of one’s brain. I find myself switching from 1st to 3rd midsentence quite often becuase it’s just not natural.

Edited to add: But then when I get stalled on that and go back to the manuscript, I sometimes lapse into 1st person. I really hope it’s mental exercise, leading toward greater memory and creativity, as opposed to the brain schism it feels like at this point.

It would probably help if I quit banging my head on the desk, yeah? 

Half the Blood of Brooklyn by Charlie Huston
Trade Paperback, 223 pages
ISBN: 9780345495877
Available Now
Retail Price $13.95
Third in the Joe Pitt series

I have read each of these books in one sitting because they do not lend themselves to being set aside. The pace is too brisk to stop for chapter breaks and, in many cases, periods. There’s a scene of mass destruction in this one that would make grammar purists’ heads explode with its half page of run-on action, but the characters didn’t have the luxury of stopping for breath, and forcing the reader to do so would have ruined it.

I’m not a fan of trade paperback (I’ve been told repeatedly they cost less to produce, so why do they cost twice as much as mass market, hmm?), but you get a lot for the money in this case: Vampire gang wars. Chopped-up bodies. Hardcore vampire circus freaks (dude chews out his own intestines—for real). Misogynistic Jewish vampires with delusions about what it means to cherish their women. A preop transsexual vampire. Several thousand occurrences of the most versatile word in the English language. And… epic romance?

Damn skippy. In Book One, it’s made clear Joe’s ladylove is the one thing he values. In Book Two, it’s made clear he’ll do anything for her. In this, Book Three, the relationship reaches a crisis point, and it looks like Book Four is going to largely revolve around the fallout. But I’m getting ahead of myself there.

Joe Pitt is a vampire. He’s never found the right time to tell his girlfriend, Evie, he’s a bloodsucking denizen of the night, excusing his aversion to sunlight as solar urticaria and the guns and injuries and bags of blood in his fridge as stock in trade for his made-up job of black market organ courier.

Yeah, I told my girl a lie. Just one on a long list. Once you skip over telling someone the part about needing to consume blood in order to feed the Vyrus that’s keeping you alive, there isn’t much room for truth in a relationship. [p.23]

Foul! No lies allowed in romance!

Now that I’ve recovered from my incapacitating laughter, shall we continue?

Vampirism is caused by a Vyrus. (I’m sure Joe had something wise to say about the spelling in Book One. Don’t get your knickers in a twist—this is the only use of creative spelling in these books.) Evie has a different virus: HIV. They don’t engage in any activities that involve swapping of bodily fluids because she worries about infecting him. Joe knows he can’t catch what she has, but he’s not 100 percent sure he won’t transmit something to her that will take her out of the light and turn her into a predator.

Joe was on his own for a lot of years, trying to fly just under the radar of all the Clans (territorial gangs of various persuasions), doing odd jobs for them now and again so they’d leave him in relative peace. He took a job with one of the Clans, knowing choosing sides would make him dangerously unpopular with the other Clans and also that his inability to play well with others would probably get him killed by his own organization, but he took that job to get the boatload of money required to pay for Evie’s treatment.

At this point, though, Evie’s not doing well. She’s in the hospital, wasting away, being eaten alive by Kaposi’s sarcoma with a tracheostomy tube because she has herpes lesions in her throat… She’s getting ready to die, in other words, and Joe has a decision to make. His Vyrus will cure what ails her, but it will also consign her to a life he hates.

I think about the night we met.

I think about putting a hand over the end of the tube.

I touch the scabs that have grown over the part of my ear the Count didn’t rip off my head and think about peeling them away and leaning over the bed and pressing the wound to Evie’s lips and finding out what kind of girl she really is.

What kind of man I am. [p.82]

I’ve read two series by Charlie Huston, and the man likes to make his characters suffer. Everything that can go wrong will… and then everything that couldn’t possibly go wrong because obviously everything is going to work out for the best will take the bullet train straight to hell.

Joe’s not the type of guy to waste time on reflection and regret after the fact. If he doesn’t care, he shrugs it off and gets on with his life. In the few cases when he does care, he fixes it. There’s a lot of fixing to be done at the end of this one because the one thing Joe cares for the most couldn’t get much more wrong.

I know it will. I just can’t see how that’s possible yet.

I think you could probably read this book without having read the previous installments and be engaged enough by this one story, but the experience will lose something without a background in the relationship dynamics, so—as always—I recommend starting with the first book in the series.

Already Dead
No Dominion
Half the Blood of Brooklyn