Kerry Allen

Something about me compels complete strangers to approach me and confide things I wish they’d save for their priest or therapist.

While awaiting my daughter’s release from her daily prison, a woman I have never seen before in my life walked up to me. The first thing out of her mouth was “Are you married?”

Last time someone introduced themselves by asking that question, it was preparatory to a wife-swapping proposition, so I already dreaded the rest of this conversation. Clearly, however, this was one of those pseudo-questions to create the illusion of interest to justify the hours of me-me-me to follow, as I barely got out the “N—” before she launched into an account of her own romantic situation.

For some unfathomable reason, she too is single.

She proceeded to share with me her checklist of qualities the only man good enough for her will possess. “First, of course, he simply MUST love my kids. And my pomeranian. He has to be handsome and tall. Kind, and with a great sense of humor. Never married and no kids of his own because I don’t need his baggage cluttering up my life. Oh, and rich. Like, a doctor or lawyer or a business mogul.”

I responded, “I happen to know that guy.” (He’s a young surgeon, so he’s not rich yet, but give him five or ten years.) “Unfortunately for you,” I added, “he’s not looking for a self-absorbed, social-climbing leech.”

I think she may have been offended. Go figure.

I read something fairly recently that articulated my long-held feeling that a person has to be whole, fully formed, complete, and worthwhile in their own right before they can do justice to The Big Relationship. (Hence my repeated declarations that I’m unfit for human companionship. I freely admit I need a whole lot of work.)

In a nutshell, this article stated people spend years compiling a list of requirements for their perfect mate and give no thought to what they themselves have to offer to another person. They wait years for the man or woman of their dreams, only to discover they don’t measure up to this paragon of virtue’s standards of suitability, so The Big Relationship isn’t going to happen after all. Then they get all bitter and nasty because they were cheated out of the happiness they so richly deserve.

If you want the perfect guy, you’d better be the perfect gal. Start by looking at that list of requirements for the perfect mate and strive to develop them IN YOURSELF. Mr. Perfect isn’t sitting around pining for a busted fragment of a woman to make him whole. He’s a popular guy. He can pick and choose.

If you think you deserve him more than any other woman, you better be the woman HE deserves.

Until then, PLEASE do not expect my sympathy because he hasn’t called. I have none.

To me, “the Olive Garden” is the McDonald’s of Italian food, a step up the Italian cuisine ladder from Pizza Hut. There’s one within a block of every interstate exit, right alongside Taco Bell, Cracker Barrel, and all the familiar flavors that comfort hungry travelers. They all look the same. They all have the same food and the same assembly-line service. I assume, since it’s a franchise, there’s little variation wherever you may be.

To me, “an Italian restaurant” is smaller, probably family owned. It has some ambience, even if stereotyped and contrived. It’s not located in the highest-rent district of town. Its clientele is local and loyal. Its menu has the usual fare but varies in some respects from any other Italian restaurant you’ll ever go to because there’s no corporate enforcement of continuity.

Two sets of three words with distinctly different connotations to me and 90% of those participating in my highly scientific poll. Good. I’m not the only one.

I know someone who submitted a story to a certain writer site for critique. It’s a fun story. It’s fast paced. It has steadily escalating conflict and a satisfying resolution. There were a couple of tiny issues like “was -ing” verb constructions that could be cleaned up, but with a quick one-day edit, the story would fit seamlessly into an anthology with multipublished authors in the same genre. Yay for her.

I checked back the next day, and there were FIVE HUNDRED comments, the majority a flamefest regarding the—dun dun DUUUUUNNNNN—flagrant brand-name usage!

Yes, within 30,000 words, the author used three—”the Olive Garden”—to identify a food source for a character staying at an interstate motel. Didn’t name the motel (because it was purposely generic). Didn’t name the character’s car (because it was deep POV and people think “my car” not “my 2004 Toyota Corolla”). Didn’t name her clothes or her shoes or her shampoo. The sole mention of any publicly recognizable entity was “the Olive Garden.”

Clearly FLAGRANT brand-name abuse that completely overshadows the remaining 29,997 words of the story.

I suppose the point is, once again, that I’m dismayed by the lack of interest in STORY so many writers display, having a 500-comment tantrum over a detail that was deliberately chosen to evoke a certain familiar setting rather than evaluating any other element of the STORY.

Is it any wonder books are becoming “homogenized” when all the identifying characteristics are being stripped from the material like a damn HIPAA-regulated medical record during the “critique” phase?

The last huge flamefest I witnessed over there suggested we strike Americanisms from our writing vocabulary because our international friends don’t get the references. God forbid anyone shouldn’t understand and be curious and look something up and learn. I know what “football” means in other countries. I know what a “loo” and a ”lift” and a “flat” are. I know what a “Tata” is. Hey, I can even handle medical and scientific and legal and archaic and foreign and MADE-UP words in the books I read. Are these writers suggesting non-American readers are so unintelligent their reading material must be run through a language filter to strain out all the tricksy words before they can comprehend?

Wow. How staggeringly condescending.

Hey, how about a poll to address in the comments:

Does anyone think “use vague, generic terms to identify all items” and “don’t use your own vocabulary because everyone on the planet might not understand what you mean” are valuable pieces of criticism, or even valid pieces of criticism? And do you think this “crit, crit, crit, must have crit” thing (which is not anywhere near as common in the world of male writers, by the way) does more benefit or harm to the art of storytelling?

MC-1: Hero asked heroine for something in Chapter One. Heroine adamantly refused because she (rightly) doesn’t trust him as far as she can spit. Had “AHA!” moment about how he gets his way, successfully putting him in her vicinity (his Goal B), but man, will it piss her off (obstacle to his Goal C). Still having a lot of fun. Finished Chapter Five in spite of Virtual Villagers 3, the latest Darkyn book, nightly skirmishes over 3 hours of homework, and the Crackly Joints of Doom. Will cover the aforementioned “AHA!” in Chapter Six.

Not Painting Myself into Another Series Corner: After finishing MC-1 and sending it out into the world to see how it fares, rather than working on MC-2 (an exercise in futility if MC-1 fares poorly—learned my lesson there…), I can go back to working on SC-1 (paranormal with what appears to be unused woo-woo element, at least in romance), which could then possibly be ready to send out into the world by the time MC-1 comes limping home (*puts on Pollyanna hat*) meets with glorious success!

I heart Keanu and high-tech remakes of ancient sci-fi movies.

I am also uncharacteristically interested in The Women, even more so after learning no men appear onscreen, even extras, for the duration of the film. I wonder if that looks “off.” I wonder if I’d have noticed their absence if I hadn’t been informed of it in advance.

That is all. Carry on.

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I’ll explain later.

Dear Akismet,

Do you really have to ask if a comment containing the phrase “father/son sex porn” with 92,000 links is spam?

Best regs,

Ker

~~~~~~~~

My arthritis is killing me today. Early this morning, I thought it was just my hands, but when I had my little “oops” (details to follow) and had to change my clothes, reaching back to unhook my bra made my elbows and joints crack like… something crackly. I went to work screaming for a shot. Since I ordinarily wouldn’t complain if I had a sucking chest wound, they actually took me seriously, gave me a shot and a prescription for Vicodin  (is there not some middle ground between Advil and friggin’ Vicodin? something non-narc so I can have samples? because underpaid, uninsured medical workers can’t afford retail pharmaceuticals, just sayin’), and sent me home because they can’t work me like a dog in my present condition.

The “oops” occurred when I brought a beverage to my lips and the liquid had just begun to spill from the glass to my mouth and, entirely without warning, I sneezed, not only dispersing the flow of liquid but sending a burst of compressed air into the glass, resulting in an explosion of liquid, a veritable geyser that sprayed everything within a five-foot radius in all directions.

What was that liquid? Cranapple juice. Could have had water, but no. Went for the red stuff. I believe the sneeze was the Goddess Anorexia’s way of punishing me for consuming a beverage with calories, and I will be reminded of this lesson for years to come, because (a) I’m sure I’ll be finding really ambitious splatters in other rooms when I move furniture in the future, (b) cranapple juice is instantaneously absorbed deep into semigloss paint, vinyl floor tile, and laminate countertop, so that even wiping down 60 seconds after splatter will not prevent pretty pink stains, and (c) I have a stylish bouse and skirt ensemble presently suitable only for wearing during activities such as painting the house. That’s right. Couldn’t happen on one of the 362 scrubs-or-jeans-and-company-polo-shirt days this year. Had to happen on Look Professional Day.

So I have a few hours off.  I can’t even think of something crackly, so dashing off a chapter or two ain’t gonna happen. I can’t hold a book open because that is the Official Position of Utmost Agony for the 2008 Arthritic Games.

Guess I’ll go back to bed. And lie there. Cursing the invisible demons crushing my joints beneath their cloven hooves.

*checks beneath sofa cushions for change* Maybe I can afford ONE Vicodin…

Unwriting: Everybody at my daughter’s school has been brainwashed by Twilight. That in itself is enough to make my little rebel shun it, but she read the excerpt at BN.com. Her reaction was “a mix of boredom and wanting to kill myself because of the gushingness and boringness. There is no plotline, and it sounds like it was written by a 12-year-old fanfictionist.” (She tells me now even a teacher told her to read it. That settles it. Home school.) Then she found this comic (click picture there to enlarge), which cracked us both the hell up. The third panel, in particular, reminds me of one of those old Bugs Bunny in drag cartoons.

NB: If you’ve submitted something to Nocturne Bites and are still waitingwaitingwaiting for word, the official statement on the response time currently is “3 to 4 months.” I sent mine in mid-May, and I can tell you it’s closer to 4 than 3. The longer you wait, the more submissions they’re going to get, and the longer it will take, so if you’re going to do it (you know who you are), I suggest you do so sooner rather than later lest you end up waiting 6 or 8 months on 15,000 words.

To demonstrate how impersonally one begins to take rejection after a while, I’m barking at my email every day, “Hurry up and reject the stupid thing so I can give these people something!”  Because I really dropped the ball on the IWS. I feel terrible, but I’m just not into it right now, and it shows. It’s bad. I’ll get back to it eventually.

But the Bite story, with a little tidying up afforded by word-count freedom, is a cute little story. One way or another, something should happen with that soon.

MC-1: Finished Chapter Three. On Monday. See? Dr. Naughty wasn’t so scary. Finished Chapter Four. Both also, I think, solid chapters that won’t have to die. Not saying “no editing” on any of these, mind you, just differentiating from my usual First (One-Two-Three) Hundred Pages of Suckage that have to be completely replaced five or twenty times.

Kind of gazing into the future of this story, I caught a glimpse of where it wants to head, and I said, “Nuh-uh. That can’t happen because there’s NO WAY to resolve that situation with them alive and together and ethically acceptable.” So I did what all sensible pantsers do and ignored it because I know worrying about the distant future paralyzes me, and lo and behold, the solution fell into my head a day later. Not a hand-of-god solution, but Dr. Naughty being a clever boy willing to make a big sacrifice for the woman he loves.

I lurve Dr. Naughty.

Must be a case of “the right book at the right time” making it go so smoothly. Hope I don’t get too spoiled, ’cause I don’t expect this to happen ever again.

Neurosis O’ the Week: Discussed the concept of the series with somebody. Received confirmation—without prompting—that there’s enough woo-woo to appeal to paranormal fans, contemporary fans will appreciate that nobody’s making out with the woo-woo aspect, and there’s even a conspiracy afoot for the suspense fans (which I actually hadn’t considered myself). Went home feeling pretty good about the whole thing.

Well, that couldn’t last.

Everybody isn’t going to be so supportive and agree with me, and I hate surprises, so I have to poke some holes in the plan to prepare myself for future criticism. Maybe there’s not enough woo-woo for the paranormal fans, too much woo-woo for contemporary fans, and not enough suspense for suspense fans, and therefore, rather than attracting readers from multiple subgenres, NOBODY will want to read it.

So either it will be boundary-shattering… or it will completely tank because nobody will want to touch it because it doesn’t “fit” anywhere.

No, this little hiccup hasn’t affected the writing of it. The primary benefit of being unpubbed is that I can write whatever the hell I want, and right now, I want this one. Just got my head out of the clouds about my brilliance being universally recognized at long last, is all.