Skip to main content

I'm a bumbling idiot

I got a phone call today about the project I described a couple of posts back
-- just a follow up based on some information I requested from iUniverse. 

Their consultant wanted more information about my story, and I think my tongue actually swelled up in my mouth and almost choked me to death. 

It was bad enough blogging about it, but talking about it -- I've never. 

"Well -- um -- it's sort of about a murder kind of. This pastor gets -- um -- murdered and the whole town freaks out, and -- um ..."

It was awful. Really awful. Really, really, really awful. And I kept telling her how sorry I was for sounding like a crazy person.

"I've never talked about this to anyone," I panted. "I mean not even my family or my friends, and it's just sort of hard to talk about it like this."

She tried consoling me, but that's what everyone does with crazy people, because crazy people are scary.

I spent most of the rest of this afternoon constructing a blurb that succinctly outlines my story in case anyone dares to ask me again:

Cagey newspaper reporter Rowan Fitzgerald is hiding from her past in the post-card city of Winslow, where the murder of controversial pastor and city council candidate Warren Dietrich has set off violent protests between his followers and opponents. Rowan and her womanizing colleague, Scott Lynch, determine that most everyone in town has a motive for the killing. Rowan puts her faith in an anonymous source, who points her towards her own buried past for the key to solving the crime. 

One more thing before I go: Rowan was an honor student in high school, she's 6-feet-tall, she has blue eyes, and she's fastidious. She's NOT based on me, in case you were wondering.

Comments

  1. Everytime we hang out i'm just consoling you. We should hang out more often. ; )

    ReplyDelete
  2. No, she's based on me. A smart, blue-eyed go-getting version of me.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

I showed you mine -- it's your turn now.

Popular posts from this blog

The insecure writer's support group

The ground is important -- for several reasons.

Among them

Gravity makes no sense without it -- there's no mandate that science be logical so long as our scientists are the smartest smartypants on the planet, in which case "because I said so" is an acceptable explanation. The ground is important, because it's something to build on -- a starting point, a foundation.

I respect the ground, because it has on occasion fallen out from under me, and it's rather unsettling to watch your life in free-fall mode -- to see your accomplishments disintegrate in an instant or a decade in some cases. It all depends on how fast you're falling.

Most of us drop in slow motion. We'll catch a ledge or an up draft every once in a while and think "this is it!" But then we go on falling. Or do we? Is the "bottom" just a figment of our imaginations? Can we lay new ground wherever we choose?


Ask Alice

None of my friends growing up were impressed with Disney's…

Writers get laid

Writers get laid -- or they would if they tried -- because people -- especially women -- are impressed by the phrase, "I'm a writer." It's romantic.

Introducing yourself as a writer insinuates substance and depth of character; people like that. They don't know why, except that one-dimensional characters on T.V. sitcoms and big-screen romantic comedies prattle on and on about the whole package -- a good looking, funny, intelligent single with rock-solid values and money.

People admire the skill and dedication it takes to be a novelist or a journalist or a screen writer  -- "I always wanted to be a writer," they tell you with stars in their eyes.

Whether they know it's a myth or not they imagine us in rich, thrilling lives with sports cars and beach houses and Louboutin shoes like Carrie Bradshaw. So the woman at the grocery store doesn't feel bad when she puts back the US Weekly she read cover to cover before she checks out.

Or downloading unauth…

My favorite geeks

Imagine a little girl in pink granny glasses. Her haircut gives her a boyish look and she’s dressed in a purple checked sweater with red high waters and electric-blue duck shoes. A couple of kids on the playground tell her how cool she looks, and -- not comprehending their sarcasm -- she smiles brightly and thanks them.
That was me -- the dork in ginormous glasses. I answered to many names in elementary school -- loser, duck feet, four eyes and a few others I'd rather forget -- smart, pretty and fashionable I was not. It felt like the end of the world back then. All the popular girls braided each other's hair during story time at the library while I picked my nose and talked to myself. 
I'm not ashamed to admit it. I was a dork -- as big a dork as it's possible to be -- and it gave me character. I think Lester Bangs said it best : "Good-looking people don't have any spine. Their art never lasts."
No one called 4-year-old Paris Hilton -- or Lindsay Lohan or B…