Janet's Rants

Donny & Me

2007-12-09T17:16:00.000-05:00

Well, well, Donny Osmond is 50 years old today.

Some of you may only know him as Marie Osmond's older, toothier brother, but for me, he was my ultimate teen heartthrob. My Puppy Love knew no bounds--I had Donny Osmond posters all over my bedroom, every 45 the Osmond Brothers and/or Donny the solo act ever made and practically ALL of his albums. I even saw Donny in concert with his brothers (at the old Boston Gahden, the grungiest concert venue EVER), and yes, L'il Sis Marie sang too and no, she didn't faint.

Donny wasn't my only teeny-bopper crush--I was fickle, lurved David Cassidy and Michael Jackson--but the thing that made Donny special-est to my tweener heart was the fact that we had the same birthday, but I was one year younger. Now he's 50; long-in-the-tooth so to speak. Yikes, you know what that makes me! But I take comfort in one thing as I begin my final year still in a demographic advertisers give a crap about, my final year before the AARP comes a calling--I'll never be as old as HIM. Happy birthday, Donny!

Janet - no power in the verse can stop me!

The Fateful Knight is here!

2007-08-24T11:44:00.000-04:00

How many times have you said "I'm looking for a fast, funny, romantic read featuring time travel, two bickering but made-for-each-other leads, a smelly villain and a haunted suit of armor?"

Lots of times, right? Well, me too! And that's why I wrote THE FATEFUL KNIGHT, a paranormal short story NOW AVAILABLE at The Wild Rose Press in their "Faery Rose" paranormal line.

Just go to The Wild Rose Press website (http://www.wildrosepublishing.com/) or my author's page at (http://www.wildrosepublishing.com/authors/JanetHalpin.htm) to purchase and download THE FATEFUL KNIGHT--you'll be glad you did (and so will I)! Thanks!

Janet - "No Power in the 'verse can stop me!"

A (Long) Fateful Time

2007-07-20T15:06:00.000-04:00

Been a while since I last posted. I blame that partly on laziness and partly on a lot of crap going on in my life. First, I fell walking the dog and ended up with a dislocated shoulder. A lot of fun (and by that I mean not--pain, sling, discomfort, PT, more pain, typing one-handed for a while). Then I had a long-standing heart condition corrected (more fun, only this time overnight in the hospital--who knew you could have a BP of 60/40 and still be alive?).

Anyway, my shoulder's back in its socket and the ticker shock's behind me, I'm back to typing with two hands. Working on a YA that has nothing at all to do with WWII and also working on two short stories I hope to send to The Wild Rose Press when done. I'm having a lot of fun being part of that e-publisher's family--and my next release from Wild Rose, The Fateful Knight (a time-travel paranomral romance) will be out August 15.

Ciao! Janet - No power in the verse can stop me (literally, lately!)

The Fateful Knight--Coming Soon!

2007-03-10T11:00:00.000-05:00

The Wild Rose press has been very good to me--taking on my first pubbed romance story, "Miss Danforth's Big Adventure," still available in the English Tea Rose line (http://www.thewildrosepress.com/) and *coming soon*, "The Fateful Knight" in the Faery Rose line.

Here's a blurb:

History teacher Beth Reynolds thinks she's hit the jackpot when she finds a genuine gauntlet from a suit of armor at a collectibles show. But her treasure soon turns terrifying as the artifact exhibits supernatural powers, including giving her horrific dreams about an attack on a handsome knight of old and his lady. What's more, the gauntlet keeps leading her to Hal Lawrence, curator of armor at the local museum, and a dead ringer for the knight in her dreams. The mystical gauntlet propels Beth and Hal on a journey across time. Will they succeed in their quest to restore the gauntlet to its rightful owner? Or will its curse mean an end to their growing love—and their lives?

I had a lot of fun writing this story, I love the cover, and I can't wait until I get a release date (which I'll dutifully report here!).

Janet - No power in the 'verse can stop me!

I'm baaaaack...

2007-03-02T18:05:00.000-05:00

Hi! Been a while since I touched down here. Also been a while since I actually ranted about something instead of shilling for my work (both still available BTW--and another to come, more details later). Thought I'd get a few rants off my chest:

1. The Jehovah's Witnesses stopped by my house last week. Again. They fan out over my neighborhood at least once a month, which begs the question--do I live over Hellmouth? Should I have Buffy on speed dial because the minions of darkness are about to rise up and take over my tree-lined suburban street? It sure seems that way the way they keep coming back, no matter how many times I politely turn them away. In the dead of winter even. Sheesh!

2. This year's Oscars proved several things:

- Curves, curves, and more curves are in. Not a bony, scrawny anorexic chick in the place. Seeing J Hud and The Queen (Latifah, not Mirren) gloriously strut their stuff confirmed that plus-size is a plus these days.

- Bald may be beautiful, but not on Jack Nicholson. Hopefully he'd adopted the chrome dome for a big-screen adaptation of Kojak (or is that KoJack?).

- Other male trend: facial hair; I won’t call it a beard since it’s mostly just some scraggly hair on the chin, like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. And that begs another question, when does Scooby get his Oscar? Mr. Doo’s body of work has been outstanding, and think of the acceptance speech…“Wrank wroo…”

- Who’d a thunk Al Gore would be the most exciting thing about the Oscars?

- And finally, Old Broads Rule! There were a lot of ladies in that “I feel bad about my neck” demographic at the Oscars Sunday night—and they stole the show. From glam Diane Keaton to glam Thelma Schoonmaker winning her umpteenth Oscar to glam Sherri Lansing receiving an honorary Oscar (for her good works, alas, not for her phenomenal producing credits), to double glam gorgeous Catherine Deneuve to the fabulously glam Helen Mirren taking home the gold, numerous women of a certain age were being celebrated by the notoriously "ageist" Oscar for the first time since…well, probably ever.

3. Book signings are fun--and weird. I did my first book signing a couple of months ago to a packed house of four very enthusiastic people (including the book store owner). From what I've heard from other authors, you can never be sure ANYONE will show up, so I was thrilled to see some live beings in the audience. I even got to sign autographs, so I felt like the real deal.

The children are shouting, something about starving to death and are we going to eat this century...and the dog is staring at me with that piteous I-want-dinner look, so I'd better hop to...

Ciao for now! Janet - Now power in the 'verse can stop me (but hungry kids can slow me down!)

Climbing that ladder

2006-11-14T15:56:00.000-05:00

Feeling like a perpetual BSP-monger these days, what with plugging all my fiction releases (all two of them) and the Sister's in Crime-New England calendar. But who knows if I'll ever get the chance to do it again, so I'm shilling away.

My short paranormal mystery "Frank's Find" was just released by Level Best Books (www.levelbestbooks.com) in the anthology, "Seasmoke: Crime Stories by New England Writers."

The anthology made its big damn debut at the New England Crime Bake this past weekend, a fabulous writer's conference dedicated to all things mystery. I've attended four of the past five and the conference keeps getting better.

"Seasmoke" authors were invited to sign the book for conference-goers who picked up the anthology there. So I had my first book signing. A real thrill, except for the part where I forgot how to sign my own name. There's an "e" in Janet, isn't there?

I'm still stunned by these successes. I've been writing for ages and I've queried and pitched to practically every agent in the 212. Taking a few steps up the ladder to publishing success has got me, as we used to say back in my Zoo Mass days, sittin' in Shaefer City!

Janet - No power in the 'verse can stop me!

Janet and Janet--together at last!

2006-10-23T22:39:00.000-04:00

I know you've all been wondering when Janet Halpin and Janet Evanovich would wind up in the same publication--well, the time has come.

Sort of.

Back in August, I answered a call from the New England chapter of Sisters in Crime. I'm a member of this awesome mystery writers' group, and my chapter was awarded a grant to produce a calendar for the national organization's 20th anniversary. A lot of great writers stepped up to be "calendar girls," striking "Clue"-like poses in the morgue, a cemetery, etc.

And then there's me, Ms. April, the rope-wielding psychopath hiding in the shadows on the far right.

Some of the other dames saying cheese for shutterbug Roger Leo are Sarah Stewart Taylor, Tess Gerritsen, Linda Barnes, Roberta Isleib, that most fatale of femmes, Dana Cameron, and oh yeah, that other Janet. She's one of the biker chicks on the cover!

The calendar is now available and you can order a whole bunch of Janets at http://www.sincne.org/calendar.html

Ciao! Janet - No power in the 'verse can stop me!

Big damn debut!

2006-10-13T10:18:00.000-04:00

Good news everyone!

My short story, "Miss Danforth's Big Adventure," makes its big damn debut today (Friday the 13th) at The Wild Rose Press in the English Tea Rose Line.

Check it out at www.thewildrosepress.com and tell me what you think!

Coming soon!

2006-09-13T16:29:00.000-04:00

Things are really heating up in my writing life!
I'm excited to report a couple of my short stories will soon be available.

My short mystery "Frank's Find" will be featured in this anthology
From Level Best Books http://www.levelbestbooks.com:

And also coming soon my short historical romance from
The Wild Rose Press http://www.thewildrosepress.com:

Details to come on how to purchase/dowload these stories.

Janet - No power in the 'verse can stop me!

Almost, but not quite

2006-07-27T18:38:00.000-04:00

Almost but not quite can be a good thing sometimes...

I've almost been struck by lightning twice (they say third time's the charm and that's why I run for cover when the thunder boomers roll in--and people who know me stay far away).
I almost came to know, in a scarily biblical sense, a speeding 18-wheeler when my car spun out of control on a snowy Mass Turnpike (I don't care how quaint James Taylor makes the Pike in winter sound, it's a hellish drive, whether you're in Stockbridge or skidding toward the Allston/Brighton tolls).
And I gave birth to an almost ten pound baby (he was the size of a Christmas ham with linebacker shoulders as it was).

Then there are the times when almost frustrates the crap out of me, like the time I almost had a story published in a romance magazine. I almost made a hunk of change on the sale, almost had something to brag about when querying agents/editors. Then the magazine went belly up--no story! Crushing.

Last week, I almost had an agent. Got The Call we writers shiver to think about. Well, okay, I was shivering because I'd just gotten out of the pool, but I have to admit I was thrilled. Right after hanging up, I emailed my critique group and husband the good news, then went to work looking over my WWII-set mystery to see where I could trim it per the agent's suggestions.

But my euphoria was short-lived. The words, "I'm interested in taking this on..." became "Sorry I must decline" a few days later. Mainly because the agent discovered a more-than-tough market for WWII-set mysteries. The agent loved my story, characters, plot, etc. but not enough to battle the market. Fair enough, but I almost lost it--why hadn't s/he discovered this daunting fact BEFORE calling me? The agent could've sent me a nice rejection, citing the market, and I would've been all kinds of "Almost, but not quite..." mollified instead of almost in as much pain as when I pooped out an almost ten-pound Christmas ham with linebacker's shoulders.

Chalk up another painfully amusing tale for the memoirs. And let's face it, I'd rather have an almost-agent who liked my work enough to call me up to chat about it than no interest at all. Well, almost.

Janet - Still believing no power in the 'verse can stop me!

Not Dazed & Confused...

2006-07-22T13:28:00.000-04:00

...But totally Stunned & Flattered! In fact, more than a bit Flattered to see that an old pal o' mine featured me in his blog the other day. Pix and all!

Lookee here: http://gojulas.vox.com/

Thanks for the free PR, Jerry!

I'm also stunned and flattered at the attention I've been getting from agents lately for my WWII-set mystery, Polkadots & Moonbeams. Something really exciting may be happening soon with this manuscript. Will blog on all the details when I have something concrete to report!

This coming week is Boy Scout camp week for my sons (and by camp, I mean tents, bug juice and just plain bugs and not the divine Divine-as-Edna-Turnblad kind of camp). That means a whole week of fun and what-me-shower? for them and a whole week of free writing time for me, a rare treat in the summer! So, for the next five days, you'll find me parked in front of my computer, the thesaurus and a big cup of iced coffee by my side.

Next time: My mid-summer movie report, or, "Why Hollywood Needs A Major Dope Slap."

Janet - These days truly feeling "No power in the 'verse can stop me!"

Too long

2006-06-14T15:47:00.000-04:00

Way too long since my last post, I know! I'm one of those in the "sandwich" generation, stuck between the demands of young folks and the demands of old folks. These last months I've been taking care of some major issues on the elder side of the spectrum, while also juggling the kids, the house, the barking/pooping machine known as Lily, and the two cats, "Lazy" and "Lazier." Actually, "Lazier" is far from it, and he added to my stress recently by getting into a fight with "something" (as the Vet described it) during one of his chipmunk-hunting forays into the nearby cemetery. The attack left two very large bite marks in his leg (a confused Vampire?) and necessitated his house-arrest for 45 days. He broke out twice but was easily lured back in with the promise of chipmunk-flavored treats with which to stuff his face.

Anyway, I've tried to make writing time these last months but my blog has been neglected, much to the disappointment of my millions, well, okay, tens of constant readers. You haven't missed much--there's been nothing to report. If I'd landed an agent, made a two-book deal, sold a screenplay, lost ten pounds, well, you would've heard about it. My WWII mystery has generated some interest agent-wise lately, but there's nothing to report on that front either.

Now, the elder issues are about to be resolved (just in time for school to get out, my least productive time of the year, thank you very much). The chipmunks have smartened up and moved to a more rodent-friendly neighborhood. I'm in the writing zone again. And maybe, just maybe, I'll get a chance to post again before 2010!

Janet - No power in the 'verse can stop me!

Literal Literary

2006-03-16T16:04:00.000-05:00

Today I got another form rejection letter. But it wasn’t all bad; it was addressed to ‘Mr. Halpin.’ Which got me giggling—and thinking.

Someone wrote to Miss Snark’s blog recently asking how literally they should take rejection letters. Miss Snark was her usual useful and snarky self, but my immediate thought was, if the agent/editor doesn’t reference the name of my manuscript and tell me something like “Character X was a whiny jerk and that’s why I’m saying no,” it’s mostly form and format. A polite way of saying ‘not for me,’ now move on to the next agent/editor on your list.

But what if I were to take this most recent rejection literally? Does it mean I come across as a Mr. Halpin and not a Ms.? I’ve been told I write like a man (my characters tend to be son-of-a-bitch-bastards and people get bruised, beaten, and smacked around in my work; what can I say, I’m an optimist), but I hope I don’t look like one. Does it mean I should pony up for a sex change? That would startle my husband. I mean, he enjoyed Brokeback Mountain, but not that much.

Or does it just mean that the harried agent was in a rush and whipped off my name and her signature (as garbled as my teenager’s penmanship, it looks like the agent is named “Grunt”) so she could move on to the next query on her list? I’m glad she actually took the time to handwrite my name, it tells me my query was actually read and probably carefully considered. And that I’ll take literally.

Janet – “No power in the ’verse can stop me!”

Oscar, Oscar!

2006-03-07T10:04:00.000-05:00

I’ve been writing this post-Oscar rant for about 7 or 8 years now, but, being movie-mad since I was just an itty-bitty ranter, I’ve been watching the Oscars for a long time. I’m not quite old enough to remember Barbra Streisand’s “hello gorgeous” acceptance attire of a see-through pantsuit, but I do remember the Streaker (70s slang for hairy man—they were ALWAYS hairy—running around in the buff) and David Niven’s quip about the man’s “shortcomings.” I remember John Wayne browbeating the entire lefty-liberal-commie-pinko audience into standing at the end of the show and belting out “God Bless America.” I remember Rob Lowe, fresh from a sex-tape scandal (back before sex-tape scandals were necessary celeb resume material), singing with Snow White in an Oscars opening number. I remember political jabs too numerous to go into now. And I remember Joan Rivers!

Now, that is no more. The Oscars have become totally mainstream—and boring. Joan and her snark has been banned from the red carpet, the over-the-top production numbers have been axed, John Wayne is long dead (good thing, I guess; Brokeback Mountain would’ve killed him) and the political rhetoric has become as spicy as a Taco Bell burrito (but still gives you gas!).

But still, there was some fun to be had, so here we go, the Best & Worst of the 76th Academy Awards:

Preshow: I’ll just skip the uber-dull preshow, except to say I was disappointed not to see Army Archerd on the red carpet. I'd hoped for a glimpse of the gossip maven to see if the embalming has held up or if he needs to visit the local taxidermist for a touch up.

Best Opening Ever: Not to dis Billy Crystal, his opening skits were always brilliant, but the Academy going to all past hosts and being turned down, even by Mr. Movie-Phone guy, and having to “settle” for Jon Stewart was hi-larious.

Best use of film clip montage: A hilarious compilation of “homoerotic” clips from westerns, including men admiring each other’s guns, some serious horse love, and G. Peck’s response to C. Heston asking him if he’d come to say goodbye: “This room's not big enough for what I want to do to you…”

Worst use of film clip montage: By the time they got to the 15th montage sequence, A Salute to Bond Girls, even a film buff like me was exhausted.

Best Presenters: Ben Stiller (visual effects) in a green unitard, thinking he was invisible to the audience and Will Ferrel & Steve Carrell (make-up) in the worst abuse of face paint since Bette Davis in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?”

Worst Presenters: Everyone else. They stuck to the script and put me to sleep. And I didn’t wake up until…

Best acceptance speech: A tie! George Clooney’s pithy comments made me cry “Best speech of the night” and it looked like I was dismally correct until 3-6 Mafia won for Best Song, “It’s hard out here for a pimp.” As Mafia members stormed the stage I was shaken from a sound sleep and the sight of all that bling made me wonder if I’d slept until June and was tuned into the MTV-music awards.

Least Animated Acceptance: The winner for Animated Short. You just won an Oscar, dude, put a little 3-6 Mafia enthusiasm into your speech. Dull—and one of the longest speeches of the night.

Best “Isn’t he dead?” moment: Any time the camera flashed to my man Mickey Rooney, stuck in the 85th row, right behind the nominees for lighting design. When is the Academy going to wake up and give Mickey his due? Probably when the answer to “Isn’t he dead?” is yes—and he gets the most applause during the annual “dead-o-meter.”

Best performance by an actress claiming Judi Dench took her eye out in a bar fight: The old broad in the eye-patch in the spoof on campaign commercials. The fake commercials showed how vicious the Oscar campaigning got this year, and the highlight of that funny sketch was the regal old birds claiming Judi Dench ain’t no dame.

Best Impression of an Olympic Figure Skater: Jennifer Garner, whose slip-slide across the stage was a spot-on imitation of Sasha Cohen

Best channeling of Truman Capote: Ha! Thought I was gonna say Oscar winner Philip Seymour Hoffman, didn’t ya? But no; the award goes to the designers, whose insistence on stuffing their celebs clients into black or white gowns made me think they were trying to recreate Capote’s infamous 60s Black & White ball. Keeping with the boring theme, there was so much black (okay, Felicity Huffman called hers “steel”) and white (okay, Nicole Kidman called hers “pale gold”) in that auditorium I was begging Ted Turner to come in and colorize.

Best Imitation of Oscar: Now this was a tricky category, since so many of Hollywood’s string-bean thin ladies were vying for the nod. With their slinky white, excuse me, pale gold gowns almost indistinguishable from their tanning-booth pale gold glowing skin, Jessica Alba, Nicole Kidman, and Uma Thurman (who looked as if she’d blow-dried her hair by hanging out the window of a speeding car) were dead ringers for the golden guy.

Worst “I forgot my glasses” moment: The still fabulous Lauren Bacall, the only star whose black outfit did not beg to be colorized, had trouble reading her intro to the film noir montage. I hoped she’d just give up on the script and say, “Screw it, take a look at these classics—I’m in half of them and I look fabulous!”

Best Accessory: A tie! Literally. The Wallace & Gromit Producers wore big, nay, gigantic bow ties—and had a couple of spares they immediately popped onto their Oscars. Oh, too cute.

Worst Accessory: What the hell was that on Charlize Theron’s shoulder? At first I thought a tarantula had dropped down from the rafters and was about to do her in and geez, wouldn’t that perk things up? But then I realized it was a bow. A honking big, ugly bow, confirming my suspicion that the 80s are, like, totally back. And while I’m on the subject of couture—why is it the winner for best costume design always wears the most hideous outfit? Just asking.

And finally, Most Embalmed-Looking: I thought for a minute Dustin Hoffman had stolen the crown, but then I remembered he’s always looked embalmed, even in his Graduate days. Mickey Rooney, whose been around long enough to warrant embalming, was ten times more animated than all those young, vacant, lumpkin nominees combined. So it goes to Jack Nicholson, whose smirk has been permanently plastered on his puss. Is it me or does anyone else think he’s morphing into the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man from Ghostbusters?

I’ll leave you with lessons learned from this year’s snorer: 1. When in doubt, put your money on the documentary short that focuses on WWII; it always wins. 2. Jon Stewart makes a decent host. 3. John Travolta can’t say the word “memoirs;” murmurs, mummers, and mallo-mars, yes, but memoirs? Not so much. 4. Robert Altman deserved his Honorary Oscar, but has anyone even seen an Altman film? They’re always crying about Oscars' low ratings—next time they should give the Honorary to someone people actually know. Celebrate the Steve Guttenberg oeuvre and I guarantee Sweeps style ratings. 4. Facial hair is back in a big way, giving me creepy flashbacks to the 70s when all the guys in my neighborhood had beards and ‘staches and afros, even the white guys and even the white guy with the carroty-red hair and geez, was that scary.

Also scary is the way I’ve been running on. So I’ll just shut up now. Good night and good luck!

Janet - no power in the 'verse can stop me!

Random thoughts...

2006-02-13T12:34:00.000-05:00

Some thoughts to keep me (and my constant readers) occupied while waiting word on the new round of submissions I sent out:

1. Is there a doctor in the house? Am I the only one who thinks the castaways on LOST should tie Dr. Jack up and stow him in the hatch for safe-keeping instead of letting him traipse all around the island, putting himself in danger? I mean, he's a DOCTOR; if I was a "Lostaway," I'd want my medicine man close by, just in case, and not rappeling off a cliff, or chasing The Others, or beating up on Sawyer, or any of the insane things he does in an effort to get himself killed.

2. Speaking of Lost... Is it just me or does it seem every single Lostaway had at least one tank top in their luggage? And that they are all so clean, pristine, and oh-so-form fitting? I know there's a washing machine in the hatch, but come on! And how does it explain Rousseau's relatively kempt tank top, which hasn't seen a rinse & spin cycle in 16 years? In the most recent episode, I also noticed the crazy French lady was wearing what looked like a Wonder Bra under her sweaty tank top. THAT makes me totally suspicious of Rousseau; if I were stuck on an island with nothing for company but an invisible polar bear and some weird black smoke, I'd have ditched the brassiere long ago.

3. Speaking of TV... I've been a faithful follower of 24 since the beginning. It's a convoluted, totally unbelievable thrill-ride of a show that excels at "upping the stakes." One unfortunate result of the constant "upping?" The show "jumps the shark" at least ONCE an episode. There was the time Jack Bauer got himself hooked on heroin to infiltrate a gang; the time Jack broke into a prison to break a terrorist out; the time Jack's daughter got her leg caught in an animal trap...then was stalked by a cougar for the remainder of the hour; and of course, the time Jack DIED (thank goodness the Criminal Terrorism Unit has good insurance and paid for the defibrillator that zapped him back to life!) These scenes are totally over the top but I guess are necessary to further the plot and/or to buy time for Jack and others to get from place A to place B in a reasonably believable space of time (by reasonable I mean, as if there were no other cars on the road in LA and if Jack never, ever had to take a leak once in 24 hours). So far this season, I haven't said, "Ha! Jump the shark moment!" once. There's still 18 hours to go--Jack may need that defibrillator yet!

4. It's official! School teachers have the "germiest" workspaces of all the professions. I'm shocked, shocked to hear that...not. I mean, one minute in the bathroom my two sons share and I've caught a cold, pneumonia, beri-beri, the Watusi, and hemorroids. Let's face it, kids are not clean. It was nature's way of weeding out the slobs before Purell invented instant hand sanitizer.

5. Oopsy! I have a feeling we're not hearing the whole story about the Vice President's accidental shooting of his hunting pal, in spite of the fact the news media have been on it 24/7. I'm guessing what's been left out: Cheney wasn't shooting at quail--he was shooting at Dan Quayle. Bad joke I know, and don't even try it on anyone under 25. My kids gave me a quizzical, I'm gonna give you germs look when I told them.

That's all for now! Janet - No power in the 'verse can stop me!

And the nominee is...

2006-01-31T11:47:00.000-05:00

Well, the Academy Award nominations are out and though I'm disappointed Serenity didn't receive a single nom, I’m heartily relieved that King Kong didn’t get any major noms. There was buzz for Peter Jackson as Best Director that turned out to be just that—buzz. Thankfully. Have I mentioned already how bad I thought King Kong was? Just checking.

The nominations were as Brokeback-y as expected, but what a coup for George Clooney to snag three nominations. Miss Snark, the literary agent blogger I worship and who has a King Kong size crush on George, must be jumping up and down in her pink stilettos.

Now, I’ve made it a policy not to see any of the Oscar-buzz movies so as not to taint my predictions, but I broke that rule this year in catching "Good Night and Good Luck" when it was at the local dollar theater. (Surely you don’t think it played at Showcase—which has five locations within 20 minutes of me. They don’t show movies that anyone over 16 would like to see or that don't have "Part II" or "Big Momma's (fill in the blank) in the title. So for my Indie and small-budget movie fix, I go to the dollar cinema, which is admirably dedicated to presenting smaller—a.k.a. GOOD—films. But, as usual, I digress…). GN&GL was damned terrific, a movie that actually made you think; catch it at the dollar theatre near you!

Herewith are my predictions for Oscar night:
1. Ang Lee will break his back hauling all the statuettes Brokeback Mountain will receive.
2. Someone, probably the starlet of the month, will mispronounce David Strathairn’s name. It’s already been misspelled a million times, so why not?
3. Jack Nicholson will steal the coveted title of “most embalmed-looking celebrity” from Army Archerd
4. Someone will finally explain who Army Archerd is and why he haunts the Oscar’s opening ceremonies
5. Someone HAS TO ask, who is (supporting actress nominee) Amy Adams and what is Junebug? Because really, I don’t have a clue. That movie didn’t even play at the dollar cinema.
6. The Academy will let Mickey Rooney out of his cryo-chamber once again to plunk him in the fifth row next to Charlize Theron so they’ll have a bit of “Old (and I’m talking OLD) Hollywood” to glam up the joint
7. The Life Achievement award will go to yet another man named Sidney (Pollack, Lumet, Poitier, Greenstreet…that last one's a lie, but you get the point and double points if you know who he was!). Apparently the women who toil in Tinsel Town just haven’t achieved enough to deserve the nod. Or maybe there’s no chicks named Sidney in the biz.
8. George Clooney will sweep all three of his categories but will be unable to accept his awards because he and Miss Snark, who will brazenly crash the party, will be off canoodling in a corner. Near the bar.
9. And finally, someone will be wearing a really awful outfit. Or maybe a few someones.

Stay tuned for the Academy Awards on March 5th—I’ll have a complete run-down of all the fashion don'ts, Clooney-sightings, and Archerd-embalmings.

Janet – No power in the ‘verse can stop me!

Old Broads Rule!

2006-01-11T13:29:00.000-05:00

I caught a snippet of the CBS Morning News today that made my Media Crap-o-Meter alert clang wildly. I'd just downed my daily Metamucil and was shambling my way to the treadmill with the assistance of my trusty walker when I heard a vacuous reporter introduce actress Vanessa Williams. She asked Vanessa about her new movie and commented that it must've been interesting to be one of the "elders" on the set, the voice of experience as it were. After I got my feeble hands to work the buttons to start the treadmill and encouraged my arthritic knees to bend, I glanced at the TV to get a gander at this ancient crone of an actress. Imagine my surprise when I saw that Vanessa was a mere sprite of...42. Yes, 42.

The interviewer (whose name I can't remember because I'm so old--47) piled on the ageist indignities by commenting that Vanessa looks pretty good for her age. Especially after having given birth to four children. Here the interviewer's voice became hushed, and she spoke of Vanessa's pregnancies as if she had stormed the beaches at Normandy or survived a rare cancer. No surprise...pregnancy seems to be considered a disease in Hollywood, one to be monitored and scrutinized in detail by the tabloids—"Jennifer's gained 8 pounds! Baby Weight Could Ruin Her Career!"--and to be recovered from quickly—"Thank Jesus you've lost the baby weight, Vanessa!"

The thing that bothered me most about the conversation? The interviewer would NEVER comment about a male actor still looking good at his age. She'd ask about his new movie, in which he plays a super spy trying to stop a bad guy from blowing up the world while romancing Hollywood's 20-something ingenue of the moment (cripes even 101-year old Harrison Ford still gets these roles!). She’d also most likely ask about the man’s supermodel third wife and the new baby they’d just adopted from a surrogate because, you know, his supermodel third wife didn’t want to endure the pregnancy disease.

Maybe Vanessa could write a book about how she survived the disease--four times--and manages to look so trim and taut at the one-foot-in-the-grave age of 42. She could call it, 'It's a Drag Getting Old, but There is Life After 40!' Unless you’re an actress of a certain age who just happens to LOOK it. Then you’re pretty much reduced to playing a stiff on Law & Order.

Janet - No power in the 'verse (not even a few wrinkles) can stop me...

King Kong--worst movie of 2005

2006-01-03T15:55:00.000-05:00

Maybe that’s a bit extreme, but King Kong is still pretty bad. And waaaaaay too long.

Went with the family and, as usual, some of the kids friends. We were victims of high expectations: The critics were raving (raving mad, I now realize) and we loved the “Lord of the Rings” movies. Peter Jackson skillfully brought to life the epic aspects of the Tolkien stories. But King Kong ain’t an epic; it’s a popcorn movie. It's supposed to be FUN. Peter Jackson forgot that little detail and what he gave us was three fanny-numbing, joyless hours of surprisingly cheesy special effects (except for Kong), surprisingly bad dialog, chaotic action, and Adrien Brody’s schnozz.

Have I mentioned it was too long? My kids and their friends, teenage boys, the demo most prized by Hollywood, were BORED by the whole thing, even the action sequences—11 minutes of stampeding dinosaurs and 7 minutes (or was that 7 hours?) of creepy bugs chomping on unlucky extras in red shirts. I counted three bathroom breaks and one popcorn run during that scene.

The movie was also a muddled mess, the tone zinging from cartoony to pompous (well, not zinging, nothing moved any faster than plodding, except Kong). A ludicrous subplot has two characters engaged in supposedly allegorical but really pointless discussions about Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness.” Then they get eaten by giant bugs. Other characters are introduced then disappear, only to show up again to say something pithy before being squashed by rampaging dinos. Colin Hanks must’ve been on half-pay, because his character pulled the vanishing act several times (or maybe, like my kids and their pals, he got bored and took a bathroom break). It also appeared as if one character is beheaded (yeah, it’s a kid’s flick) but he appears hale and hearty later on, only to be stomped by dinosaurs. Me, I would’ve gone with beheading; faster, and with less bone snapping. But that’s just me.

Except for Kong, the characters were unappealing, paper-thin and weightless (no, I’m not talking about Naomi Watt’s perfect size 4). There was NOTHING to the characters, and as a writer I find that unforgivable. The movie can be 20 hours long and feature myriad beheadings and squashing dinos as long as the characters are interesting. Naomi Watts is gorgeous but empty (and, to digress, apparently couldn’t do ANY of her own stunts, including juggling rocks for Kong’s amusement—she simply moved her hands and they CGI’d the stones in. At which Faye Wray must be spinning in her grave--in Faye's day, an actress could cartwheel, juggle, sing, dance, smoke a cigarette with her butt, and scream in terror while still looking gorgeous!) The dreadfully miscast Adrien Brody (who decided HE's the 21st century Harrison Ford?) meets Naomi’s character in a way that was cliché when the first movie was made. Colin Hanks is wasted. Pop-eyed Jack Black looks as if he’s either channeling John Belushi or has a bad case of acid reflux. Only Kyle Chandler as an egocentric actor looks as if he’s having any fun. In fact, he almost steals the movie, except for one actor I can’t give enough props to—King Kong.

Kong was great; every moment he’s on screen is wonderful, engaging, involving. Too bad there were so many cutaways to stampeding dinosaurs and chomping bugs, too bad so much time was wasted getting to the island (one full hour—two pee breaks, one candy and soda run) to find that wonderful creature. The last hour of the movie is worth the money. You will weep—provided you’re still awake!

Janet - No power in the verse (or Skull Island) can stop me!

Just ranting...

2006-01-03T15:33:00.000-05:00

Now that Christmas is over, I have an early ’06 holiday wish for those nattering nabobs of negativism on both sides of the “War on Christmas” non-issue. Next November, from Thanksgiving through new year’s day 2007, they should ALL be locked in a room. Together. Along with all those TV, radio, newspaper, blog, web-site "journalists" who provided them with an outlet for their meaningless point-counterpoint. With no electricity or cell phones. And a forever-looping recording of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer." That oughta do it...

Seasons Greetings!

2005-12-24T13:13:00.000-05:00

Hi! It's been a long time between posts--been too busy with everything BUT writing. Oh well, '06 is just around the corner, and I will be launching into the new mystery I've been dilgently plotting. It's called "Sorrow Point" and it is contemporary--I'm stepping out of World War II for a little bit.

But for now, family fun & overeating. So, to my three constant readers and anyone else who stumbles upon this blog, Merry Christmakwanzukah!

Janet - No power in the 'verse can stop me!

PS: For the Sci-fi fan in your life, pick up a copy of Serenity, now on DVD!

The News Is On...

2005-11-22T11:50:00.000-05:00

Being a long time news junkie, I keep the TV on CNN in the living room (on mute) and the radio in the kitchen tuned to NPR while I’m working. That way, when I break from my writing to get another cup of tea (decaf—doctor’s orders!) or emerge from my hole to see why the dog is barking madly and throwing herself against the window, I can get an update on the world.

(BTW, before you think, ‘Gah, NPR! She’s a lefty, liberal, bleeding-heart!’ let me say this about that--NPR is the only talk radio I can stomach, where people don’t yell at each other, bellow that the opposition is wrong because they’re all ‘fat drunks,’ and actually take a look at both sides of the issue. And for the record, I’ll cop only to being a lefty--in the writes crooked, can’t use a can opener, tends to die younger than most righties sense of the word.)

Anyway, yesterday, I popped into the living room to see CNN’s on-going coverage of a jet with screwed up landing gear trying to land. They’d been focusing on this “breaking story” for hours and at one point the announcer said, ‘We’ll stay with this as long as it takes, we want to see this plane land;’ what she didn’t say was…’and watch it explode in a fiery, tragic disaster we can then replay until everyone gets sick.’

I, of course, was riveted. Just as I was riveted to coverage of the Taunton, MA dam a month ago that was gonna give and flood the town. Just as I’ve been to any TV images of disasters/tragedies. Why? It’s partially empathy, feeling for the poor suckers stuck in such an untenable situation, wondering what I’d do and how I’d react. I think it’s also something primal. We human beings are natural rubberneckers. We want to SEE.

My rubbernecking career began early, back in the old neighborhood, where the police or fire department made a visit a couple times a week. I still remember the faces of two young kids being led from their apartment by police, blankets wrapped around them, after their mother was murdered by their father (not at home, thankfully). I remember watching the fire department spread grass fires so they wouldn’t have to come back when some enterprising young arsonist lit the other side of the field (at least that’s what my 10-year-ol mind thought they were doing—maybe they were trying to spread it so the whole Project would catch—who knows!). And I remember every detail about the day some boys were buried alive at the construction site across from the playground. Alerted by the alarming number of sirens, the whole neighborhood turned out to stare and pray and hope and hold their breath while the boys were dug out. It was not a happy ending. I’ve since written about that day several times, trying to capture the horror of what I saw and how I felt.

So maybe that’s why we watch, to witness, to feel, to connect, to understand. To remember. Maybe that’s why TV news covers such things from beginning to end, to help with the process. Or maybe, as the cynic in me says is more likely, it’s for the ratings.

Janet – No power in the ‘verse can stop me…

The Agency Speaks

2005-11-10T10:19:00.000-05:00

Got a funny rejection letter yesterday. Not funny ha-ha, although that would be kind of interesting if agents/editors hired a comedy writer to pen their “No thanks” letters. A little levity with the bad news, unless of course you get Don Rickles to write it. “Your idea stinks and so do you, porkchop-face!” Maybe not…

Anyway, this letter was funny in the way it was signed—by the agency itself. Not the usual John Spit, Spit & Wink Literary Agency. It was signed “Spit & Wink Agency,” making me wonder if the entire agency read my query, from the founder to the janitor. Did they all decide “not for us” and then cluster around the computer keyboard to compose my rejection, each typing one letter of my name the way the killers wielded the knife in Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express? (Oops! Sorry if I just gave away the ending for the two people on the planet who don’t know it! Next I’ll be telling you Citizen Kane’s Rosebud is a…shut my mouth!)

Not that the rejection was unexpected. I haven’t queried for “Polkadots” for a long time and recently sent out a spate of new submissions, so I knew there’d be incoming. Got a request for chapters too, so that offsets the big no, big time.

Now I’m heading off to the New England Crime Bake this weekend. This two-day affair, sponsored by the NE chapters of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime, is a gem of a conference. Serious craft discussions, big name mystery writers imparting their wisdom, the opportunity to pitch and plenty of dessert—what more could I ask for? (Okay, since I am the original "complaining woman," I'm sure I can find something…)

Janet – No power in the 'verse can stop me!

The Final Frontier...

2005-10-28T13:47:00.000-04:00

Okay, I’m sure you’ve all heard the shocking news that is sure to be talked about for weeks and months, maybe even years to come… George Takei of Star Trek fame came out of the closet today. Yup, “Warp factor ten, Mr. Sulu” is gay.

Oh, you thought I was talking about Dick Cheney’s main man, I. Lewis “Scooter” Libby being indicted today? (And to digress, what the hell is up with that name? What does the ‘I’ stand for? Igor? Ichabod? And what about ‘Scooter’? I have a cat named Scooter and come to think of it, he’s a sneaky, secretive thing I wouldn’t trust for a second and is probably guilty of all kinds of things besides decapitating and munching on the neighborhood’s chipmunks.).

Well, okay, I was talking about the Libby indictment. I now look forward to the endless spin on this subject and the attacks on those at the center of this case. Not the man indicted, of course, I mean the people who handed down the indictments. Look to see the morals, ethics, and sanity of the prosecutor and the grand jury members questioned and pilloried ad nauseum. That’s how it works in DC, no matter who’s in power.

Me, I’m inclined to cut the jury some slack. I served on a grand jury a while back and every time I hear that old saw, “You can get a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich,” I see red. There were 22 people on that jury and we all took our jobs seriously. We looked at the evidence, heard the witnesses’ stories, discussed the crime in detail and made our decisions carefully. Even the chain-smoking housewife from Revere with the voice like rough pavement who declared every black defendant guilty and every black witness a liar took indictments seriously--frequently surprising me by voting based on the crime and not her somewhat muddled opinions.

The Libby story will of course bury Mr. Sulu’s shocking confession (well, shocking to some folks anyway; Star Trek nation is known for its tolerance and probably won’t give two Tribbles about the news). The story has also conveniently buried the Harriet Miers Supreme Court nomination withdrawal. Talk about good timing…

Janet – No power in the ’verse can stop me!

You've come a long way, baby...

2005-10-20T14:00:00.000-04:00

Anyone watching TV this season knows it's the year of the woman. Let me amend that, the year of the young, thin, troubled woman. With the exception of those “Desperate Housewives,” who are the requisite bag-of-bones but not so young, and the positively ancient Madame President, Geena Davis (whose real name is Virginia; I know this because in one of the 37 jobs I’ve had was assigned to find this out). Quibbles aside, it’s heartening to see more female-centered drama on the tube. It’s as if the TV execs suddenly discovered what I’ve known all along—women watch more TV than men—and they’re finally giving us something to watch. As long as you don’t take it too seriously. TV is a fantasy land, populated by people who do not resemble real folks in any way. I’ve tuned in to a few of the female-friendly shows and this is what I’ve learned:

All female district attorneys are crusading. They also wear Giorgio Armani power suits, size 2 of course, and pricey Manolo Blahniks—on an ADAs salary. They win every case, unless William Shatner is the defense attorney and he charms them into kicking off their Manolos for a quickie in the courthouse copier room.
All Medical Examiners are female and have the (unrequited) hots for the gruff but hunky police detective/FBI investigator she constantly butts heads with. “Crossing Jordan,” and the new “Bones” are prime examples of this. Plus, all MEs become intimately involved in the investigation which includes going into the field, being shot at, pushed off a building, strangled, and flipped off and/or insulted by the perp. With little damage to their Giorgio Armani suit and Manolos, of course.
All housewives are desperate. All suburban mothers are whippet-thin and have horrible secrets that could destroy their marriage, friendships, careers or all three if it got out. This is only partly true. We’re not all thin, except for that group that lives over there on Anorexia Lane, but we all have secrets. Mine is so awful it could destroy SOCIETY if it were revealed; well, okay, you beat it out of me—I can’t bake! I burn brownies and char cookies. My children are scarred for life! (My other secret is I can’t cook—my motto: when the smoke alarm goes off, it’s done!)
All female FBI agents had or are having an affair with their boss, a co-worker, the brother of a co-worker, the sister of a co-worker… Well, that last one’s not true, yet; I’m sure there will come a time when the female agent will be gay (or more likely bi. That’ll ahook the male audience taking a break from sports for a quick look-see at “Without a Trace”). These FBI lesbians will of course be gorgeous size 2s who dress in designer duds and Manolos.
All female FBI agents come from troubled backgrounds. Daddy didn’t love them, Daddy abused them, Momma was dirt po’ and on and on. It’s interesting these “troubled” babes look ab-fab and work in high-caliber jobs that require some smarts and a boatload of edumacation when in reality the abused, po’, unloved lady would most likely be battling an eating disorder and nicotine addiction while juggling her six kids from five different fathers and her three jobs at the Safeway, Lou’s Diner, and weekends at Dunkin’ Donuts. I’m just saying…
And finally, all Ghost Whisperers or Buffy-clones never crack a smile (with the exception of P. Arquette’s “Medium” but more about the ten reasons I love “Medium” in another post). It all began with “X-Files” Agent Scully, who only smiled once in the 27 years she was on the show, being chased by slug-monsters and such. And that was when she had gas from the slug-monster she accidentally ingested. Those women have a mission to accomplish—to expose paranormal fraud, kill Vampires, or help the dead find their graves so they’ll get the hell out of my bathroom. This is no time to smile. But it is time to look fabulous, in their Giorgio Armani suits and Manolos.

Janet - No power in 'verse can stop me...

So, you wanna be on the Supreme Court?

2005-10-05T16:43:00.000-04:00

...That was what I imagined W saying to Harriet after knocking back a bourbon & Coke one evening last week. Well, bourbon & Coke for Harriet, Coke only for our on-the-wagon Prez; which gets me wondering—after everything that’s happened while he’s been in office, don’t you think he’s been tempted? Just a little sip, you know, to calm the nerves? I know I would’ve.

But I digress… Of all the legal-eagles in all the courthouses in all the world, W had to go with the dame across the hall for the highest court in the land. As Captain Mal on Serenity says, “What in the sphincter of hell is goin' on here?” Were all the other judicial candidates too busy consulting on Law & Order and its myriad spin-offs to take the job? Or is W just plumb lazy?

The thing that concerns me about Harriet Miers is not her politics, or lack thereof, nor her complete unknownability (okay, I just made that up, but it’s kind of a fun word, ain’t it?). The thing that’s got me going uh-oh about her is the fact that she's a workaholic. I heard a report that said she typically arrives at work at 5 in the morning and often leaves as late as 10 at night. (I think Monica Lewinsky was similarly dedicated to her “job” but she had the opposite schedule, arriving well after dark and skulking out in the wee hours. But I digress again…)

I think a workaholic is a bad choice for a judge and that’s because they WORK ALL THE TIME. They don’t live, they don’t play, they don’t interact with other humans on a non-get-me-that-report-by-five kind of way. How can they judge if they don’t know anything about the real world? I can’t see Harriet leaving the office early to play on the Supremes softball team (Scalia to Ginsberg to Thomas—triple play!). I can see her putting in supremely long hours on the bench, ruling that businesses can institute an 80-hour work week with no extra pay and no pee breaks because, “Hey, I did it. Lunch and pee breaks are for wimps!”

Of course, I could be wrong (I have been occasionally and am not shy about admitting it). She could turn out to be the fairest judge in the land. She might even knock off early sometimes to knock back a few bourbons & Coke with the big guy. Coke only for W, of course.

Janet – No power in the ‘verse can stop me (except maybe a Supreme workaholic!)

Serenity Now...and Again!

2005-10-03T08:59:00.000-04:00

GO SEE SERENITY.

That's my rant for this week. Not really a rant since Serenity was great and I have nothing to complain about. It's funny, sad, exciting, scary, everything you could want in a movie, plus Captain Tightpants. "Mal" does wear some very tight pants and they look fabulous up on the big screen. In one scene though, he wears loose pants. Shirtless and in loose pants that slip down from his waistband, accentuating but not quite revealing Nathan Fillion's awesome booty. I saw the movie twice to make sure I fully absorbed how important Nathan Fillion's bottom was to the plot.

Oh, and I saw it twice for the story, too. Joss Whedon did not fail to deliver something both fans of his TV show Firefly and newbies would enjoy. I was riveted both times I saw Serenity and plan to see it a couple more times too. I don't do that much--only film I've seen twice so far this year was Batman Begins and that was because it was good, had lots of depth and great characters (with the exception of Katie Holmes as a cliche crusading ADA)--just like Serenity!

My sons' friends who saw the movie with hubby and me all loved it, too. We had a dozen boys with us in total over the two viewings and not one of them left their seat, not one of them checked their cell phones to see what time it was, not one of them yapped or kicked my seat. But most of them missed the credits--during the closing, there was a mad dash for the bathroom. That's a good movie!

Janet - No power in the 'verse can stop me!

Serenity...NOW!

2005-09-28T10:02:00.000-04:00

I’m so excited—the movie based on one of my favorite TV shows, Firefly, opens on Friday. Advance buzz about Serenity indicates a hi-larious and action-packed adventure. What it doesn’t have is Jessica Alba in a bikini. Her new movie, The Deep, or Nubile Young ’uns in the Sea, or High Concept T&A-Fest or whatever it is called, opens on the same day and that’s got Serenity fans worried. But they shouldn’t be. Yes, there is an audience that will go to see a movie just to see Jessica Alba in a bikini. But I think an awful lot of those same people (Hollywood’s dream audience, 13-25 year old males) will also want to see Serenity—case in point, my son’s 15-y.o. friend, who’d never heard of Firefly, said he was going to see the movie because “it looks coooool.”

And then there are the rest of us who will see it. I saw clips of the crowds that turned out for the Serenity sneak screenings during the summer and what impressed me was the variety—old, young, black, white, Asian, red state, blue state. And women. Lots of women. Older women like me who are perpetually ignored by the marketers/advertisers, women who have a little extra cash to spend on Serenity t-shirts, moms who will only give their kids their allowance if they promise to spend it seeing Serenity and not Jessica Alba in a bikini. Women like me who love a good, rollicking sci-fi flick. Who saw Star Wars when it first came out, fell in love with Han Solo, wanted to be Princess Leia. We’d hoped to recapture that magic with the SW prequels, but they fell dismally flat.

And then Joss Whedon, the man who brought Buffy to life, gave us Firefly and a whole host of questions/ideas about the future, morality, bureaucracy, hope…you name it. Serenity’s crew flew the skies, looking for work (legal or not) and a way to survive. The ship had a dashing, oh-so-conflicted captain with tight pants, a wise-ass pilot, a love-him/hate-him mercenary named Jayne, a man of the cloth, a crusading doctor—and four astounding, well-written, very different female characters. A girl mechanic who not only sees the glass as full, but overflowing; a futuristic prostitute who has complete control over her career and her body; a kick-ass warrior woman who gets all the best lines in the show; and a victimized teenager trying to cope with the fact that the government experimented on her brain, turning her into…well, we never got to see what because the TV show, mismanaged and misunderstood by FOX, was yanked.

But now we have the movie and hopefully those questions will be answered. While I wished the show could continue as a series—Whedon is a storytelling, character-building genius whose talents are best displayed in an on-going series—I am content with the Big Damn Movie. And yes, I plan to go often and early—I hope you, my constant readers (all three of you!) will too!

Janet – No power in the ‘verse stopped us!

Everybody Loves the Emmys...

2005-09-19T19:08:00.000-04:00

It’s been a while and I can happily say that’s because, with the exception of mothering and the usual endless loads of laundry, I’ve been working. Writing, entering contests, querying, getting rejected, and planning fall projects. All but the rejections have been quite satisfying.

Anyway, I took some time out last night to watch the Emmys, mainly because Arrested Development and my House-man, Hugh Laurie, were up for awards. The TV awards aren’t the sartorial and linguistic train wreck that is the Oscars, and as Martha Stewart would say, that’s a good thing. They move faster, have no pretension, and the skits are entertaining (last night’s hilarity: “Emmy Idol” in which celebs made dorks of themselves singing theme songs from old shows). I took notes and herewith is my mini-review:

1. William Shatner is a star. No, he’s his own (ever-expanding) galaxy. Anyone who can get rock-star applause and squeals from an audience of jaded Tinseltownians with just the mention of his name as a nominee should be acknowledged as a celestial phenomenon. He brought down the house with his turn as an Emmy Idol, in a pompous recitation of his famous Star Trek "Space...the final frontier..." soliloquy, with mezzo-soprano Federica von Staude giving the background shrieks the full “Ride of the Valkyries” treatment. And when he lost the Emmy Idol voting, the camera cut to him and his amazing, “We wuz robbed,” reaction. He wasn’t quite robbed because…

2. The Idol winners, Donald Trump and Meghan Mullaly (as her Will & Grace “Gabor” character, Karen) singing the Green Acres theme, was the most surreal moment on TV…ever.

3. The wins were predictable and boring; all Raymond all the time. There were a few exceptions, especially Law & Order’s S. Epatha Merkerson’s (oops, my spell check just blew up) endearing reaction when she won for Lackawanna Blues and also the hi-larious dance she did trying to retrieve her speech, which she’d stuffed into her dress for safe keeping. (“My mother’s watching,” she said as she jiggled and searched. “She’s gonna die!”

4. Why were all the nominees for the writing awards stuck in the nosebleed section? Oh yeah, we get no respect! I cringed when the writer who won for “Warm Springs,” a miniseries about FDR’s battle with Polio, had to tramp 46 miles to the stage—with a cane. Eek.

5. Though there were many fab celebs in the prime spots up front, you’d think the entire “stars” contingent consisted of Whoopi, Shatner, and Quentin Tarentino (damn, there goes spell-check again, and I just fixed it!). If I were the director I’d keep the camera OFF Quentin—even if he won. Next to him, Rondo Hatton is HOT (ooh, sorry for the obscure 40s movie villain reference).

6. And finally, the fashions. They were downright respectable, much to my disappointment. Patricia Arquette’s Barbara Stanwyk circa-1942 canoli-do set my 40s-loving heart ablaze, but not so much all the back-less dresses. The camera followed back-less Lauren Graham out to the podium and she looked like the last scrawny chicken left at the deli. No woman should go back-less. Men should, they’ve got the sculpture for it. Maybe some savvy designer should design the back-less tux. Uh, on second thought…envisioning Shatner and his porky (but lovable) Boston Legal co-star James Spader…maybe not.

Okay, that wraps it up, now to get back to the real work…planning for the Oscars!

Janet – No power in the ‘verse can stop me! Only 10 days until Serenity…

Remember our four-legged friends!

2005-08-31T13:39:00.000-04:00

My heart goes out to the people of the Gulf Coast. Katrina was a huge storm, and its impact is even bigger. I can’t even imagine the nightmare the people of the hurricane-hit areas have already been through and what they’re facing in the next months.

I know lots of folks are donating to the Red Cross and other disaster relief agencies. Consider making a donation to one of the many agencies that rescue, house, feed, and treat pets and other animnals affected by disasters such as this. They will need all the help they can get in the weeks to come.

Janet - No power in the 'verse can stop us...

The Great...Romance?

2005-08-17T10:44:00.000-04:00

Got some good news on the writing front—Polkadots & Moonbeams is a finalist in a contest. Yippee and hooray and all that, but the thing that I’m most excited about is that my MS will be seen by an editor from a pretty big publishing house. So far P&M has been looked at (and courteously rejected) by agents but no editor has eyeballed it. It’ll be interesting to see what happens and what place the MS will take (of course I have to wait 3 months, but I guess that’s fast in the publishing world!).

Went to see a good movie over the weekend. No, not the “Dukes of Hazzard.” I said a good movie, not a cinematic crapfest. The movie I’m talking about is “The Great Raid.” Now, anyone who knows me knows if it’s got WWII in it, I’m there, so when I heard about this movie, I had my ticket and popcorn money ready. Dragged my oldest son along, too. Well, didn’t have to drag actually. He’s a bigger WWII nut than me (yes, I created a monster!).

Anyway, “The Great Raid” is based on a harrowing TRUE event in the Philippines near the end of the war. Faced with the real fear that the Japanese would execute POWs, the US sent a squad of Rangers in to liberate Carbanatuan POW camp—deep behind enemy lines. A suicide mission that turned out… Well, I won’t give it away, only to say the story is TENSE.

I read an interview with “Raid’s” director who said he tried to keep true to the story instead of “Hollywooding” it up. He failed in only one aspect—a female character who risks her life in a city near the camp to smuggle food and medicine to the prisoners is motivated in great part by…love. Yup, a pre-war romance with one of the prisoners. Now, I read one of the books the story is based on, “Ghost Soldiers,” and though the brave heroine was real, and even got captured and tortured by the Japanese, there was no love story involved. She did it because she was, well, brave. Courageous. And knew what had to be done. Like the soldiers.

But Hollywood can’t have a woman whose actions are motivated by anything but her heart so… In one ludicrous scene, after she’s been chased by the enemy, seen her comrades murdered, and been tortured in prison, she tearfully confesses to a priest, “I can’t stop thinking about him…nothing else matters.” With the Japanese breathing down your neck, suspecting you’re a spy? I don’t think so.

Why was this bullcrap introduced in what was already a pretty riveting story? Is it because Hollywood doesn’t think women will go see a movie like “The Great Raid” without some romance? Probably—Hollywood doesn’t think women will go to ANY movie without romance. Maybe there’s some truth in it for some, but take it from someone who reads and writes romance—a good story is a good story whether there’s nooky involved or not. So, go see “The Great Raid” for a good story.

Janet – No power in the ’verse can stop me! (Only 44 days until Serenity…)

Just keep writing...

2005-08-03T22:05:00.000-04:00

Took some badly needed time last week to…write. I had something I don’t usually have during the summer—several free days with no kids. The boys were at Boy Scout camp, and to take my mind off the myriad bee stings, sudden tornadoes and electrical storms I worried might befall them, I decided to try writing a “Book in a Week.” I already had an outline for my historical, “Cole for Christmas,” with about three chapters written, so Monday morning I hunkered down with copious amounts of iced tea and went to work. Except for the occasional phone call, email, and frequent visits to the bathroom (see aforementioned “copious amounts of iced tea”), I did nothing but write.

For anyone who’s thinking of giving this insane writing exercise (or it’s less “wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am” sister, Book in a Month) a whirl, here’s what I learned from the experience:

° DO lots of finger/hand/arm stretches, body stretches, too. Typing as much as you can in a week will be taxing!
° DO check your writer’s ego at the door—it ain’t gonna be pretty. Don’t expect Shakespeare from this speed typing, mental diarrhea exercise. It’s going to be messy, with lots of tell-don’t-show and choppy narrative void of verbs but heavy on adverbs.
° DO remember YOU WILL BE THE ONLY ONE TO SEE IT. It’s okay if it sucks—I have whole paragraphs that read, “She goes up stairs, he goes, ‘where you going?’” For now, just write.
° DON’T rewrite. My favorite movie line is from an obscure 1976 film about a cross-country race called “Gumball Rally.” At the start of the race, one of the drivers rips off the rear-view mirror and tosses it out the window saying, “What’s behind me is not important.” In this first pass, that’s true. I know it’s hard, but RESIST the urge to go back and fix things until you’re done.
° DON’T worry about snappy dialogue—in one scene my Regency period hero calls the heroine a “Dame” (in 1940s lingo, not some reference to peerage) and later suggests they “get it on.” I wanted to get the gist before moving on, can always fix it later.
° DON’T forget you let the dog out into the blistering late-July heat—three hours ago.
° DON’T worry about Research. At this point, research doesn’t matter (unless you’re planning to have a nuclear bomb go off at Waterloo, then you might want to see if that’s feasible). If you head to the Internet to find the right kind of carriage the hero might drive—a barouche or a phaeton—the next thing you know you’ve lost precious minutes and even hours clicking around in the wondrous playground that is the World Wide Web.
° DON’T imbibe copious amounts of iced tea—go for something less diuretic.
° DON’T forget to eat, lest you keel over onto the keyboard and accidentally hit “Delete.”
° DO remember you WILL rewrite (after you complete the first draft). You WILL fix all those irritating problems, the grammar boo-boos, the research faux pas, the anachronistic language, etc.
° DO keep typing. To paraphrase Dory in “Finding Nemo,” “Just keep writing, just keep writing…” Before you know it, you’ll have a chapter, three chapters, half a book, and maybe even a complete first draft—in a week.

The week was exhausting but rewarding—for both the boys and me. They earned merit badges and my youngest a rank advancement; nobody got lost or electrocuted, though one scout cut his finger and needed stitches. I plowed through about 35,000 words and came about two chapters from completing the entire first draft. I’ve got the leg cramps and stiff fingers to prove it—and a satisfied smile! Now, if you’ll excuse me, the iced tea is kicking in again…

Janet—No power in the ’verse can stop me!

Random thoughts on a hot day...

2005-07-14T19:59:00.000-04:00

Still no news on the writing front; I'm noodling away at a few things everyday, just to keep my brain churning. And now, the news...

I'm taking a Pilates class this summer. If you're looking for something where you barely move but can still call it exercise, Pilates is for you! But be prepared to contort your body into strange positions. The instructor told us that a doctor developed Pilates post-WWI to help wounded soldiers strengthen their backs and abs. That's the party line, anyway. I think the real reason Mr. Pilates developed the exercises was because he got a chuckle out of seeing people hold their legs up at weird angles or roll themselves into a ball and rock back and forth like helpless turtles flopped on their backs. He must've laughed SO hard... But they say laughter's the best medicine.

In Pilates, there's a lot of "tightening your abdomen just behind the belly button." Easy for me; I've been sucking in my gut since I was seven. Even when I was pregnant I pulled it in!

Proving my assertion that Mother Nature is REALLY pissed at us (as stated in one of my earlier posts), hurricane season began with a bang and looks to be pretty awful for the duration. My heart goes out to the people affected by the storms--and inundated with clueless news reporters looking for some high wind action. Every time I see one of those reporters out there in the storm, their expensive raingear flapping madly in the 120-mph winds, their perfect hairdos ruined, I find myself hoping a tree will fall on them. I'm not a blood-thirsty woman (well, okay, maybe a little), but it drives me nuts to flip on the news and see yet ANOTHER update from the storm. Yeah, we know it's windy, it's gonna be like that for a few more hours. It's also dangerous! How much do they pay these reporters to do a stand up in the middle of a hurricane? It's not enough.

And how many times can we see the clips of the surfers who just had to brave the storm to catch one of those perfect 80-foot waves. Maybe a shark will get one of them while they're on LIVE fulfilling most news producers fantasies--shark meets hurricane. If the surfer is a white, blonde, 19-year-old honor student, then the producer would probably keel over dead. But with a mega-high-ratings smile!

And finally, I'm shocked, SHOCKED to discover it's Karl Rove who leaked the CIA agent's name to the press! Never would've seen that coming. I'm still waiting to find out who passed along that bogus memo about W's military service to Dan Rather--were his initials also KR? I thought Dan vowed to get to the bottom of it. Guess he got distracted by the hurricanes.

Janet -- No power in the 'verse can stop me!

Too Real Reality...

2005-07-06T11:04:00.000-04:00

Hoping to have some time to write this week—came up with a nice plot twist for one of my WIP that might just inspire me to take it all the way to the end. We’ll see…

In the meantime, this interesting tidbit: ABC's new reality show, “Welcome to the Neighborhood,” was pulled before it could air due to complaints that it trivialized discrimination. Here’s the premise: 3 white, conservative families in Texas are given the chance to choose a new neighbor. Bigotry ensues when the choices are presented: minority families, a gay couple, a practicing witch, and what’s nastily known as ‘white trash’ (people with tattoos and a fondness for Velveeta and beer...you know, my relatives). According to the AP, ABC’s intention was to “promote a healthy and open debate about prejudice and people’s fear of differences.” Complaints centered on the fact that racist remarks and jokes were uncensored and unchallenged, leaving the impression that bigotry was sitcom-friendly. So ABC buckled and pulled the show.

Now, I’m not so sure the network’s intentions were really that altruistic—they wouldn’t have wanted to put ‘Neighborhood’ on at all unless they knew it would be controversial and get big ratings—and big $$$. Why else does a network present anything? But I guess the potential ratings bonanza wasn’t enough to overcome the inevitable bad press for doing what a show like that allegedly does—depict REALITY. We’re a racist nation… No I mean, species. It’s human nature to fear change and differences, but I guess it’s bad manners to actually shine a light on it. ABCs cheesy, button-pushing format was probably not the best avenue for the dialog we so desperately need, but I still think if we talk about it, we might learn something about our prejudices and fears.

In this vein, I saw that MTV is presenting “1970s House.” What a cop-out (to use the Linc-esque vernacular of the era)! Another vapid “house” reality show, tossing a bunch of mismatched but attractive people together and watching them argue over who left the toilet seat up. The gimmick this time is truly awful duds (trust me, I wore hip-huggers, body-suits, Earth shoes, and even a mood ring—they’re UGLY), even worse furniture (why was everything lime-green and plastic in the 70s?) and jokes about pot and post-pill, pre-AIDS sexual promiscuity.

If MTV really had balls, they’d do something ground-breaking, something that will actually force the youth of today to look at our history and THEMSELVES in a new way. How about 1950s house? Sexual repression, segregation, lethal racism, dead-end jobs for women, Communism, paranoia, Cinema-Scope, the whole shebang. Or how about Plantation House? The recent documentary on Slavery on PBS was really eye-opening, but the MTV crowd probably didn’t see it—too busy watching “Punk’d” or “Fear Factor.” How about a real reality show that depicts what slavery was like, for both blacks and whites? That would be courageous—and maybe the audience will actually learn something.

Whew! That was some rant, huh? I’ll close with a mini-review of the five movies I saw over the last week: “Batman Begins,” fun, Christian Bale’s Batman, strangely sexy; “Bewitched,” don’t bother, bewildering; “Herbie: Fully Loaded,” fully lousy; “Howl’s Moving Castle,” dazzling, wonderful, incomprehensible—see it!; and “War of the Worlds,” fun when in summer-action flick mode, but when Spielberg goes for literary—you should go for popcorn.

Janet – No power in the ‘verse can stop me!

Bold, Blonde, and Batman

2005-06-30T21:08:00.000-04:00

Writing? What’s that? The ideas are percolating, the urge is there, but the time just isn’t. Consolation, I’m having fun with the kids this week, the first official week of summer. Since we are a movie-mad household (met my husband in film school!), one major source of summer fun is to see the summer movies whether they be good, bad, or indifferent.

“Batman Begins” helped to launch our summer movie binge. We, and specifically I, loved it. Surprise, surprise, surprise, as Gomer would say. I wasn’t a fan of Tim Burton’s 1989 bore-fest “Batman,” in spite of a serious and continuing case of the hots for Michael Keaton (Johnny Dangerously, anyone?); never saw the sequels. But this new Batman incarnation is very good, with lots of action, lots of scenes with Christian Bale shirtless, and some philosophical mumbo-jumbo to give the film a nice “literary” touch. What’s more, it follows closely to the original comic book story.

The only thing I didn’t like about the movie was Katie Holmes as “stock crusading district attorney character #3” not only because her character had absolutely no depth but also because Katie Holmes looks and sounds like she’s 12. What’s the deal with that? I’ve noticed that more and more Hollywood heroines look like pre-teens. Bad enough young actresses have to be skeletal thin to get an acting job (except for the boobs, of course, which are allowed to at least look plump even if they are in reality rock solid lumps of silicone)… But now they also have to look like jail-bait. It’s creepy.

In Hollywood’s olden days, women were women with a capital “W” and men sure liked that. Ingrid Bergman was 27 when she made Casablanca and you believed her Ilsa Lund character was a mature woman capable of running from the Nazis with her hubby, Victor Laszlo. And risking everything to have an affair with Bogart’s Rick. Ilsa was intelligent, mature, smolderingly sexy, and yes, even vulnerable. And ultimately unforgettable. Katie Holmes is 26 and her “Batman Begins” character…uh what’s her name? (To paraphrase Norma Desmond in “Sunset Boulevard,” movie characters had NAMES back then)… Anyway, Katie’s little girl attorney looks and acts like a cheerleader who’s misplaced one of her pom-poms before the big game—uninteresting, unmemorable.

Okay, that’s enough of a rant for now—but I’m not done with Hollywood yet. Next time: Where the old women at? Do you see any women over the age of 40 on TV today (with the exception of the feisty judges on Law & Order and gloriously scheming witches on the soaps)? And why does every crime show have to have a beautiful blonde on the team who’s brilliant but also damaged and emotionally unavailable? C’mon, they’re BLONDE, they’re BEAUTIFUL, they had a choice of many dates to the prom, even if they were from Whitetrashville. How damaged can they be? And why does every beautiful blonde who had a BAD childhood join the FBI? Or CSI? None of them could get a job at the DMV? Just asking…

Janet. No power in the ‘verse can stop me!

This 'n That...

2005-06-20T19:22:00.000-04:00

No writing for many days… Feel like head is going to blow! Actually, I’m still kind of basking in the glow of completing “And the Angels Sing,” book 2 in my series, She Can Dot It: The Sunny Harte World War II Mysteries. Awesomely long title, eh?

Had a fabulous father’s day! My husband arranged his own special activities which included riding a train south to Providence and hitting the zoo there. All we (myself, kids) had to do was show up. It was fun riding on a train, which was built the year I was born and was as old and creaky as I am. I spent some time in that “writer’s trance” imagining Sunny and her pals on the train in 1943, what it smelled liked and felt like (besides being crammed cheek-by-jowl full of soldiers!)

The trip had many highlights, including a game of “spot the crap on the side of the tracks.” Chairs, sofas, tin cans, numerous tires, one of those plastic egg-shaped kiddie cars, enough Dunkin’ Donuts cups and bags to wallpaper Mt. Everest, and a piece of a washing machine. The washing machine was expected—did you ever notice that when you hike in the woods or in some remote place, you’ll inevitably stumble upon a washing machine (often with a dryer; they travel in pairs). Which begs the question, why? Why would someone take the trouble to drag a washing machine into the middle of the woods? To avoid paying a $50 hauling fee? I’ve got a secret for all you washing-machine abandoners: leave the thing on the corner; the town/city will get so sick of looking at it they’ll come get it for free.

The other two highlights were the amazing elephant projectile pooping at the zoo (do I really need to describe it?) and the wealth of graffiti decorating the overpasses and supports we passed on the train. Graffiti, as in urban art, not just the “F-word” in four-foot letters (though we saw plenty of that). Words sketched out in big, bubbly letters so distorted you can’t make them out. The letters look like letters, but put them together and you have no idea what the word says.

Who writes graffiti? Guys who’ve dragged their washing machine out to the tracks to abandon it and just happen to have a can of spray paint in their jeans pocket? And how do they learn to write such mesmerizing but ultimately unreadable graffiti? Is there a class they can take? "Graffiti 101, meets MWF, lab fee for spray paint." It’s quite the quandary!

Adventure over I’m now back to working, taking advantage of the last full week of school to get things rolling on my next tome. Not sure what it’ll be about, but I’ve already got a catchy title: Sex, Graffiti, and Washing Machines!

Janet – No power in the verse can stop me!

Hot enough for you?

2005-06-13T15:12:00.000-04:00

It’s official… Mother Nature is really pissed. Winter in New England this year was looooong. Extra long. Long as in went all the way through May. I didn’t even have a chance to admire my tulips and lilacs this year because I was huddled inside, bundled up in layers and wool socks trying to keep from freezing. It was the coldest May on record in these pahts; I knew that when it was 44-degrees (or as we say it, fawty-fowah) on May 22nd and I wore my winter hat when I took the dog out. Winter finally relaxed its icy hold around June 1st. But Mother N. wasn’t through with us—the temperature promptly skyrocketed to 90 and it’s been holding there ever since. And just for kicks, she threw in the Triple-H recipe—hazy, hot, and humid.

That’s real bad weather for writing. I’m distracted by the heat, logy and groggy, merely pecking at the keys today, but at least I’ve got an explanation for such crazy weather. Forget Global Warming, forget gaseous emissions or any of that other science mumbo-jumbo you’ve heard, I know the truth: Mother Nature is going through menopause.

Well, why not? She’s been around a long time; it seems only natural that aging might affect her mood and ultimately lead to precipitation. In fact, every stage of her life has affected the weather we’ve had to suffer through. An overachiever in her formative years, she quickly learned how to count the months and divide them into seasons. In her teen years she suffered from severe PMS (planetary menstrual syndrome), what with all the volcanic eruptions and stormy Mondays. Then the mommy-track years with sunny days and pretty damn awful days (also known as the Dark Ages). So, now she’s matured and she’s at another turning point, probably the biggest in her life. Menopause; which means hot flashes, dramatic swings from hot-to-cold and back again, weepy days, and sudden surges of temper. That explains all the hurricanes, tornadoes, and earthquakes we’ve been having lately.

And what about her senior years? Will she mellow and give us balmy, Florida-in-February weather or become a cranky old biddy? Guess we'll have to weather the storm—anyone hitting 10-billion has earned the right to be as cranky as they want to be!

Oh, wait, I see a thunderstorm is predicted for this evening (Mother just clearing her throat for attention), so maybe a break in the heat—and I’ll be able to write after all.

Janet - No power in the 'verse (except one mean Mother) can stop me!

And the winner is...

2005-06-08T10:58:00.000-04:00

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m kind of disappointed in the identity of “Deep Throat.” I mean, who the heck is W. Mark Felt? I prefer the old guessing games that had Deep Throat as anyone from Henry Kissinger to Elvis to Pat Nixon after she’d had a spat with Tricky Dick and wanted to get even. It was fun to think maybe it was Diane Sawyer, then a young White House press aide in the Nixon administration. The concept of the woman who now lobs softer-than-softball questions at Brad Pitt and coos at him during interviews toppling the government just slays me.

Writing has been slow this past week, as I was preparing two manuscripts to send out to contests (synopsis & first three chapters). Writing contests are one of those love/hate things. Love the opportunity for feedback from the judges (who are often published writers) and the chance to get my work in front of editors and agents if I final. Hate the arbitrariness—judges are people too, and what they like/dislike, know/don’t know can impact their scoring.

I recently received contest scores that went something like this: 100 (out of 100); 96; 49. Why? The third judge was a former East German Olympic judge, tossed out of work by Germany’s reunification and taking out her frustrations on me, the capitalist romance/mystery writer… Just kidding (well, maybe not—where did all those East German judges go?). I don’t really know why the scores were so low except she said she didn’t like the dark, paranormal concept of my novel, didn’t think it fit in something purporting to be romance. With my combined scores, I missed finalling in that contest by a whisker.

I’m not alone in this strange, lop-sided kind of scoring; I’ve heard horror stories from other writers detailing the same thing. Especially from writers of historical works, who’ve been scored low because some judges’ knowledge of history is a bit squishy. Which doesn’t surprise me, with all the budget cuts in schools these days—“We can only afford the Cliff Notes version of history: Rome, not built in a day; Marie Antoinette, big hair, liked cake; Columbus, thought he was heading for Asia, typical man, wouldn’t ask for directions; Paul Revere, liked to yell; The Alamo, forget it; war, war, war, war; TV and Elvis. Any questions?”

But I keep entering contests, just as I keep plugging along with my writing and revising what I’ve already written. I LEARN from the experience—not only how to be a better writer, but also how to deal with frustration and sometimes negative feedback. I’m building that thick hide, so if some day I actually do get a book published and get a nasty review, I’ll be able to laugh it off (with the help of lots of Lindt Truffles, of course).

Janet - No power in the 'verse can stop me!

On Angels and Editors

2005-05-23T12:44:00.000-04:00

I’ve launched an all-out campaign to finish a first draft of “…And the Angels Sing.” The reason for my hyperactivity? School ends in a month. And that means no time for writing after that because it will be all kids all the time and time and inspiration will drop off markedly. So, if I’m going to move on to something else in the fall (something light, funny, and dripping with sex), then I have to finish “Angels” before D-Day—the last day of school.

But, I’ll still take the time to rant. No power in the ‘verse can stop me from telling the world what I think. Here are a few unsolicited opinions: Read recently a big-time editor is leaving a big-time publisher and may become a literary agent. Now, that’s a shocking career change! When will we read about an editor stepping down to become a brain surgeon? Or a tree surgeon? I wonder if the editor will be replaced or will finances dictate the job’s elimination? I foresee a future publishing world that looks like this: 10-million aspiring writers, 1-million agents, and only one editor. And with the way things have been going with mergers and takeovers, only one publishing house. One lone editor schlepping away in a basement office of Mega-Books Publishers. Hopefully he/she will have a sense of humor and a tough as nails attitude. They'll need it!

The other interesting thing I read this week was an item in the RT Magazine newsletter, noting that a new UK publisher is focusing on fiction for women 45+. Now, I’m tempted to jump up and down and shout halleluiah, being firmly (well, saggily) in that underserved (and invisible) demographic. But I have to ask, what is fiction for women over 45? How can anyone generalize what any group wants to read? Sure, we have a commonality of experience—we came of age before condoms were de rigueur on a date and oral sex on the school bus was just a way of saying howdy—but we have a range of tastes and interests that are impossible to pinpoint just because we’re old bats.

The RT article also noted that critics say it’s patronizing to define women readers in that way and I agree. Just as it’s patronizing to try to cater to the 18-34 year olds advertisers and marketers are constantly wetting themselves over with the same blanket approach. They have a diverse range of interests too, they’re not ALL reading chick lit. My writing group pal has a 20-year old daughter who likes historical romances as much as my 70-something mother. The impetus behind reaching out to the younger reader is the same as advertising cars, clothes, even detergent—hook them on a “brand” and the company will have a consumer for many, many years (unlike us old broads who only have about thirty, forty years left, maybe fifty thanks to good genes and great health care, plus we have a lot more money to spend—but that’s a rant for another day). I understand WHY, but it still bugs me.

I’ll be interested to see what happens with this new 45+ demographic imprint. Who knows what they’ll come up with for us… “The Lovely Old Bones,” an arthritic version of Sex in the City with the Carrie character complaining that she can’t find a good chiropractor? “I’ve Got a Secret Grandbaby?” “Granny PI on the Go…” in which a Metamucil swilling granny solves sex crimes? Hmmm, that one might just be a keeper.

Janet – No power in ‘verse (not even those painful corns) can stop me.

Go buy a book--now!

2005-05-18T10:13:00.000-04:00

Breaking news: Though lots of books were published last year, the Book Industry Study Group says the number of books sold dropped by 44 million. As an aspiring novelist, this depresses me, presenting one more reason for me to be rejected: “It just won’t sell.” But as a consumer, this irks me. I’ll concede that the reason cited for the dramatic drop—that fewer people are reading—is likely true. People reading less is a fact of modern life. But in compiling the statistics, did the research group consider other factors? First, there’s the tendency for publishers to focus on their big names at the expense of other authors. Can’t blame them, that’s how they make money, but once everyone’s bought their copy of the new Steven King or Danielle Steel, what’s out there to read? We readers are hungry for content the publishers aren’t putting out—I’ll buy any WWII-oriented fiction, particularly stories about women, but I can’t find anything like that on the shelves (or at Amazon).

Another factor is, like the TV biz (and movies/news biz), it seems the book industry has adopted a “pile-on” mentality; if something works, copy it. Again, can't blame them, it'll make money, and I'll be the first in line to pitch my WWII mystery series if Danielle Steel's latest 1940s set tome sparks a surge of interest in stories based in that era. But, this tendency to duplicate a successful work until the unique voice/spark that made the story so popular in the first place is wiped out leaves us readers with dozens of derivative, ultimately unreadable DaVinci Code wannabes.

An example of “pile-on:” I picked up a chick-lit recently that was awful—poorly edited, a trying-too-hard to be sassy heroine, choppy writing, and a plot that made no sense. I stopped reading at chapter two. Now, I try to give anything I read leeway because there but for the grace of a book contract go I… But I had to wonder if the publisher was so eager to pile on to the chick-lit bandwagon that it didn’t matter how crappy the book was. That experience left me less than eager to buy another chick lit--meaning one less future sale.

On another note, and I’m in full rant mode here, the new Star Wars movie opens tomorrow and I’ve seen far too many news stories about the people pitching tents outside movie theaters. I’ve got news for you, Jane and John Q. News Producer…those nuts camp out there with their hibachis and Darth Vader masks because they KNOW it’s sweeps month and they KNOW you’ll be there with a camera. They’re not psychos crying for attention (well, okay, thery are); this is the 00s, people, and everyone is media savvy. And while you’re at it, tell your news anchors to lay off the post-Star Wars story happy talk that goes something like, “Those people sure are nuts! What’s that guy dressed up as? Yogi or Yoga? Ha-ha, see I’m so far above the masses I’ve never even seen a Star Wars-Trek movie.” EVERYONE’s seen Star Wars—why do you think the franchise has made so damn much money? It’s not those 200 pot-bellied 40-somethings who live in their parents’ basement going to see the movies over and over that has made George Lucas so rich. So quit it with the elitist BS. Okay, my TV rant is over—for now.

Janet – No power in George Lucas’ or anyone else’s ’verse can stop me!

GMC - Not just a car company

2005-05-12T09:48:00.000-04:00

Happy belated Mother’s Day to those of you who care about such things. My oldest son decided to celebrate by wishing me a “Happy V-E Day,” which he knew would warm the cockles of this WWII nut’s heart.

Holmes had Moriarty, Mulder had Krycek, Oscar had Felix—I’m talking NEMESIS here. My nemesis is a writer’s most important tool: Goals, Motivation, Conflict (GMC to the hip crowd; GMCizzle to the hip-hop crowd). I know the rule: there’s no compelling story without GMC. And I have to follow the rules if I want a great story that will eventually sell. But whenever I look at the instructions for achieving the perfect GMC or hear someone speak about rules and structure, I get lost. Worse, I get scared.

I’m a failure at following directions. I took sewing in high school (back when girls took “home-ec,” boys took “shop”) and got a D. I made one lousy, crooked-hem skirt and somehow started an ironing board fire that caused the school to be evacuated. I just couldn’t follow the instructions, didn’t get it. And then there was algebra… I was so dense I had to go for after-school help. The algebra teacher struggled, saying, “Now you’re catching on,” when it was clear I wasn’t and never would. (I don’t think the school department ever ‘caught on’ to his penchant for rubbing himself against the more buxom ninth grade girls, but that’s a story for the memoir…)

I’ve given it the old college try when developing GMC for my work. I’ve graphed and charted and plotted, drew ladders and arcs and everything else. The answer to my question, “What does my character want?” was invariably, “To stop looking at this stupid graph.” Maybe because I’m left-handed or maybe from a lifetime of being told, “You can’t do it that way…” or maybe my near electrocution when I was 11 fried my synapses…For some reason, I just can’t follow instructions.

BUT (there’s always a big but)… I taught myself how to sew, using my own system. I made a dress someone thought was a Laura Ashley (my reply, “Who’s that?”). And though I get dizzy whenever my son shows me his algebra homework, I’ve worked out my own system for multiplying and calculating tips. I’ve learned to use what’s inside of me, and, gee, it works. So, sometimes I have to write a complete first draft, sometimes it comes to me right at the start, but however I get there, I put my nemesis in its place and develop multi-layered characters with lives full of conflict (at least I try!).

Two final notes here—how much you wanna bet the bright bulbs that flew their plane over Washington and caused such a ruckus did it on purpose, for the notoriety? You know they’re going to be all over cable and network news talking about their “mistake” over the next two weeks. And finally, I am so in love with Hugh Laurie’s Dr. House it isn’t funny! Well, yeah it is, since Hugh is one hi-larious guy. And though I swore I would never watch another FOX TV show after the royal screwing the network gave “Firefly” (and seems about to give the superb “Arrested Development”), I tune in every week, never miss a moment. And struggle to figure out House’s GMC.

Janet – No power in the ‘verse can stop me!

Serenity Now!

2005-04-30T11:48:00.000-04:00

Been a long time, huh? I blame last week’s Rant “MIA” on school vacation. It was kids, kids, kids all week, including a day when my oldest made a movie with seven friends (I was “craft services,” providing PB&J for the troops). The movie was a military action adventure involving a vacationing colonel, his replacement’s poor management skills, and the arrival of “GI Repo” to take the fatigues right off the colonel’s back. No, I’m not making this up; he did.

This past week, I was playing catch up, mostly editing “Victor’s Bride,” which I’ve decided needs to get out more. I completed the MS two years ago, sent it to two agents, then to several contests (contests—that’s a rant for another day), but that’s about it. So now I’m going to start to market it. As usual, I’m not sure how to categorize the novel. It’s a paranormal and there are romantic elements, but it’s nowhere near a “category.” It’s got sex, murder, cranky old people, a muscular and caustic hero, a sexy heroine, and a creepy, seemingly immortal villain. It’s funny, it’s dark. The best I can do to cram it into a category is to say it’s got a “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” sensibility and hope that interests agents and editors enough to give it a try.

Speaking of “Buffy” and movie-making, non-writing life just got wicked exciting—the trailer for “Buffy” creator Joss Whedon’s “Serenity” has been released. Serenity’s based on Whedon’s criminally canceled TV show “Firefly,” one of our family faves. The Serenity preview was the first one up when we went to see “Hitchhiker’s Guide” yesterday—me, hubby, the kids and two friends (fact of life: any time you go anywhere with a pre-teen/teen, you always have two friends).

And yes, that was me who let out that piercing, girly-girl shriek of delight when the preview came on (well, okay, it was really prompted by the sight of the lead, “Captain Tightpants” himself, Nathan Fillion, who should play the hunky, conflicted hero in every movie made from now on and would neatly fill the tight pants of my “Victor’s Bride” hero). Serenity is a space adventure that will be so much more because writer/director Joss Whedon (who wrote “Toy Story”) is a fabulous writer, so adept at creating compelling characters, witty dialogue, tense, thrilling drama that I can barely contain my jealousy…er…professional envy.

Okay, enough shilling for Serenity, released by Universal Pictures, opening September 30 at a theater near you… On with shilling my own work.

It's not what you know...

2005-04-11T19:17:00.000-04:00

…It’s who you know.

Been a busy week, writing, querying, jotting down new ideas and sketching out a few old ones. Got a form rejection that sorely tested my eyesight. The toner must’ve been non-existent, the print was so faint, and the text so crooked I suspected the copier teetered on the side of a hill when it spit out my letter. See, not all of us writers hate rejection letters—I’ve learned to milk the entertainment from them; it masks the sting quite nicely.

Researching agents (I made a vow to send out one a week) I came across one that blatantly states, “Let us know if you have celebrity or media connections that will help in marketing your work.” I’m sure that’s what all the agents and potential publishers want to know, and believe me if I had the connections I’d exploit them mercilessly.

Not to say I haven’t had my share of celebrity run-ins over the years. My first celebrity encounter was a million years ago, well, almost forty to be exact when I met the Three Stooges, Moe, Larry, and that other guy who replaced the guy who replaced the guy who replaced Shemp who replaced Curly. I was way young and don’t remember much about them, except that it was at the Shrine Circus in Worcester and when we went backstage, Moe LOOMED at me, a tiny, wrinkled old man with enormous bags under his eyes. I’ve had Moe-the-Stooge nightmares ever since.

Fortunately my celebrity encounters tapered off until I was an adult and could process them better. In brief, I’ve rubbed shoulders with Butch Patrick (Eddie Munster on The Munsters), partied with the band Aha (in costume on Halloween!); was nearly creamed by Ted Kennedy’s limo outside the Harvard Club; was presented to the Queen of Bhutan; had my foot stepped on by basketball great ML Carr (my pained response? “It’s okay, I’ve got another one.”); directed Peter Jennings to the men’s room; and, at a filming, responded with military efficiency to Gen William Westmoreland’s three commands, “I need my coat, I need a cab, and I need my wife. Not necessarily in that order.”

None of my exploits compare to my mother’s claim to fame. In her younger days, working on an anti-poverty initiative, she met hippy-radical-hairy guy Abbie Hoffman, who tried to date her. She turned him down and when I ask her why she wouldn’t go out with him, she says, “He smelled.”

So, if Abbie had paid more attention to his hygiene, he might’ve been my father. And THEN I’d have some celebrity to brag about! But I guess I’ll just have to settle for a little Moe. Janet – No power in the ‘verse can stop me.

And how is that spelled?

2005-04-04T09:59:00.000-04:00

I went to a writer’s conference this weekend and had a ball. It was a romance writers get together, which is far different from a mystery conference, or just about any other conference you can imagine. Sure we talk about plot, motivation, character arcs, etc., but the discussion invariably centers on sex. And chocolate. And eating chocolate while talking about sex. Not a bad thing at all.

Of course, I am the Complaining Woman, as my hubby has dubbed me, so I have to have something to gripe about (in a funny, Erma Bombeck way, I hope!).

First, there were the OTHER WRITERS. Now, most of the people I met were wonderful, interesting, professional women fiercely dedicated to their writing and the pursuit of publication (or publishing yet another book)—and that’s just the problem. Being in a room with 200 other writers doing just what you’re doing can be daunting, and I was torn between a feeling of sisterhood and a serious case of PMS—professional murder syndrome. I wanted to kill every last one of them.

I know that there’s room for all of us writers in the wonderful world of publication and professional jealousy (or the less poisonous ‘envy,’ as one of my colleagues wisely suggested I call it) is unbecoming. But I’m human, and humans thrive on competition, with themselves and with each other (except for at my son’s Middle School, where the traditional competition of letter grades has been 86ed in favor of the more PC “achieving/not achieving” rubric; designed so, you know, Little Johnny won’t feel bad about himself if he gets a ‘C.’ Now he’s got no incentive, so he just doesn’t care.)

So at lunch and dinner I looked around at my competition and started to think… Could I slip some arsenic into the soup of that RITA winner sitting next to me? How about an unfortunate encounter with an industrial-strength floor buffer for that 20-something who just got signed—in the bathroom—by the biggest name agent at the conference? Then I forcibly reminded myself this wasn’t a mystery writers conference and went back to thinking about sex and chocolate.

The other thing that irked me was that I made a donation to the giveaways and they spelled my name wrong in the program AND mispronounced it (flubbed up the misspelled version, too!). This bothers me only because it’s another incident in a looooong tradition of my name being misspelled/mispronounced. I don’t know why. Halpin is a simple, two syllable name—HAL and PIN—but people have been messing it up as long as I can remember (in fact, the only one who ever got it right was the immigration official in Boston c. 1880 who took my great-great whatever’s Irish surname of Halpenny and turned it into Halpin.). At least most people get the first name right; I won’t count that letter I once received addressed to “Peanet Hapne.”

Okay, so now I’m energized to get back to work, send out more queries, etc. and to hope that if and when I finally do get published my name on the book cover is spelled correctly!

Janet – No power in the ’verse can stop me…

How are you feeling?

2005-03-28T14:37:00.000-05:00

Got my full MS out to the agent who requested it on Friday, which is a good thing since this week is already shaping up as the “week of no writing.” Too much other stuff going on, including days off for the kids for “teacher professional enrichment days.” Which makes me think of that Simpsons’ episode where the teachers are partying at the ski lodge and doing the conga line dance during their “professional day.”

Also got a very nice rejection (for Polkadots) in which the agent called my pitch “both intelligent and intriguing,” but she’s “taking on close to nothing now.” The agent goes on to detail how harried and stressed out she is. Which made me feel bad for her, tempting me to recommend some stress-reducing herbal remedies and maybe even some Zoloft.

Or better yet, let’s get her to send a video to Sen. Bill Frist so he can diagnose her and suggest appropriate treatment. In fact, I recommend Sen. Frist as the cure-all to our nation’s health care woes. To hell with going to see your doctor, just send a tape to Frist, just like you were auditioning for Survivor, and he’ll tell you what’s wrong with you. Put all those HMOs out of business, and just name the kindly doctor as the nation’s Physician Laureate. So what if he sees that blemish on your face (or dust on the camera lens!) as the Bubonic Plague, we’ll save billions!

The only downside to this is that the old boy may get a bit jaded with being the only doc in town and take on a Simon Cowell complex. We’ll just have to get used to the insults—“You think that tie looks good with that Port Wine stain? Please!” and… “Is all America waiting to hear your whiny complaints about your lumbago? I don’t think so!”—with the diagnoses…

Only in America, right? Janet – No power in the ’verse can stop me (except that tiny little misshapen mole…right…there…)

High Anxiety

2005-03-22T22:22:00.000-05:00

Went to a workshop on anxiety and depression in adolescence tonight, which didn’t help me learn anything about my kids but helped me to diagnose myself. I've apparently been clinically depressed and pathologically anxious since I was three years old. Guess I should've known something was up when I missed the entire nine-times table in fourth grade due to that nervous breakdown.

The woman who led the workshop was a therapist, which I would've guessed even if she didn't plaster her credentials in big bold letters on the projection screen. She kept saying things like, "Does anyone have thoughts on obsessive compulsive disorder?" and "What do you think of free-floating anxiety? Anyone? Anyone?"

Her written presentation, projected on the big screen, was riddled with grammar/spelling errors such as those ubiquitous misplaced possessive apostrophes, the word "disguise" spelled "disquise," and such statements as "more girls THEN boys suffer from phobias..."

I discovered a new phobia of my own—typo-phobia. It makes my heart pound, my fingers itch, makes me want to grab the offending text and circle all the glaring errors! Sure, I can take a deep, cleansing breath, I can “redirect” and write about my feelings, but I'm afraid typo-phobia is a compulsion I'll never beat. I'll be sniffing out misplaced apostrophes and your-for-you’re everywhere...

Janet - No power in the 'verse’s can stop me

No power in the 'verse can stop the postal service!

2005-03-21T20:39:00.000-05:00

I am officially sick and tired of rejection letters. I know, I’m in the wrong business if I’m going to let “the big no” from an agent bother me, but it does sting when you get four in one day!

And wouldn’t you know it, after I dissed the post office in last week’s rant they go and deliver some of my SASEs—faulty zip codes and all. Not all of them have come back, and I don’t think they all will, but some sharp-eyed postal employee caught a few of them and directed them my way. That adds to my “rejection overload,” I now have the pleasure of being rejected twice by the same agent!

The good news is one of the letters contained a request for pages, which I’ve dutifully printed and sent out. Not before rereading and re-editing the chapters of course. I’m anal…which reminds me of last week’s digression into my bottom and its trials and tribulations. I just can’t seem to get off my ass, can I? Explaining the ever-expanding girth of said bottom as well.

Okay, putting that topic behind me, I’ll get back to writing. I put aside my contemporary romance—boring—and picked up “…And the Angels Sing” again, my follow-up to the mystery, Polkadots & Moonbeams, so I’m back in WWII, writing about spies and interracial romance and tough guys who smoke and say “doll” a lot. Couldn’t be happier.

I’m also noodling with another mystery (I’ve been “noodling” with it for about ten years!). It’s a contemporary and I swear to follow every formula rule in the book if it means I might get it published. It’s called “Murder in Salem: The Curse of Hannah Barlow.” Here’s the pitch: The staff members of the local history museum are dropping like flies. Have they fallen prey to the curse of a woman hanged as a witch in Salem centuries ago—or is one of the museum’s employees on a vengeful rampage?

This story’s true to life given that I worked in a museum in Salem for six years and I contemplated murder of more than one of my coworkers at one time or another—something anyone who’s ever worked with other human beings can surely relate to.

Janet…no power in the ‘verse can stop me (but being buried under a multitude of rejections can certainly slow me down!)

Too dumb to live...

2005-03-11T09:01:00.000-05:00

That’s how I felt after realizing I’d made a stupid mistake while sending out queries to my last batch of agents. I was moving along pretty damn well, having finally honed my query letter to perfection, a brilliant pitch guaranteed to get me rejected only 98% of the time rather than 99%. I’d slashed chapters 1-3 into a tight, fast moving narrative that sings. I’d gotten another request for a full (via e-mail). I’d sent out ten queries over the last two weeks…

And then I realized my mistake. Somehow I’d transposed the first two numbers of my zip code on my SASE address labels. So all the rejections—and maybe that one request for a partial or a full—were or will be sent by our good friends at the Post Office into a black hole. I feel like a stupid dummy girl, as my kids say. A teeny, tiny mistake that effectively wastes my time, the agents’ time, and several $$$ in stamps.

What to do? Well, I could just write the queries off as painful experience. I’m sure if the SASEs were returned to the agencies as “undeliverable” they went or will go right into the circular file. If they didn’t make it back to NY, then I could try to find the post office in the town where they ended up. Given my oft negative experience with the postal service that’s probably not a good idea. I mean, does anyone working there NOT suffer from a serious case of stinging hemorrhoids? (And before you, constant reader, slam me for dissing the USPS, let me assure you, I KNOW how that feels, only worse. I'm an expert on afflictions where the sun don’t shine--a long story involving words like "fissure" and "cauterize" followed by "scalpel," shouting in the O.R. that I had to pee, a nitro-glycerin treatment and subsequent “explosion” jokes, and a humorous, award-winning, PUBLISHED essay. Yes, writing about my aching ass actually got me published!)

Anyway… I finally decided to make lemonade out of my bitter lemon and re-sent my query, explaining what a stupid dummy girl I am and would the agent please take the time to reject me again. This was my top tier of agents and I at least want to have it confirmed they weren’t interested before I go on to the next. When I finally do land an agent (and provided he/she isn’t hit by a bus the day after signing me—see “Janet’s Law”), then this will be just another amusing, slightly irritating story to look back on…like my ass escapades.

Janet – No power in the verse can stop me (except maybe the fearful power of zip codes!)

Million Yawner Oscar

2005-02-28T11:35:00.000-05:00

Well, in spite of high hopes and Chris Rock, the Oscars were duller than ever before. I yearn for an unscripted Oscar moment, like when John Wayne browbeat the audience into singing God Bless America, and dammit, he wasn’t leaving the stage until they did. I’d even put up with a Vanessa Redgrave political rant just to see some LIFE in the old show. But no, not even a perilously exposed cleavage to liven up the night. By the end, I was desperate for something to mock.

I had a bad feeling about it from the get go—the pre-show was full of tasteful gowns and ingratiating compliments and even Joan Rivers was boring. Army Archerd—hosting his 43rd Academy Awards for the two people in Peoria who listen on radio—looking as if he’d been embalmed and propped up next to the giant Oscar statue was THE most exciting moment of the pre-show.

The opening montage of old films was a thrill for a movie fan like me, who smugly called out the title of every movie they had clips from, but I can’t imagine the average viewer not nodding off to Dustin Hoffman’s clichéd voiceover (“Movies are our past…and our future”). Then Chris Rock took the stage, to thunderous applause and a standing-O. Thence came his best line of the night, “Sit your asses DOWN,” and a stinging monologue that really stuck it to the Hollywood—and George Bush, of course. A real howl. But that was the end of that.

Round about hour two, I was praying for Salma Hyack to trip coming down the stairs (why do they always have stairs for gowned and stiletto-heeled female presenters to navigate?), do a triple gainer and land with her Versace Couture up around her ears. Even Chris Rock looked like he wanted to drop the F-bomb by that point. They tried to speed up the show, assembling nominees for the lesser awards on stage like a herd of nervous cattle. This prompted Rock to swipe, “Next year they’ll be giving out the Oscars in the parking lot.” If they use a hidden camera and get Simon Cowell to comment on the acceptance speeches, then I’m in.

Anyway, enough of the complaining, here’s my assessment:

The Awards:
1. Poor, pitiful Marty Scorsese. He just can’t get a break in that town. At least Clint didn’t kick him in the head going up to get his Oscar like Roberto Begnini did to Spielberg in ’99. Ah, sweet, un-dull memories of Oscar’s past.
2. The best acceptance speech: Morgan Freeman. Short and pithy, and how can you not love a man who looks at Oscar and remarks, “Heavens to Murgatroyd?”
3. Worst “speech:” That dude who won for best original song, who accepted his award by singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” (or something like that).
4. Apparently Hilary Swank didn’t get the memo about nixing the laundry list of people to thank. I really had to pee by that point and was hoping for the commercial, but yak, yak, yak… At least she remembered to thank her hubby Chad this time (IMHO, the main reason she won this time—the Academy wanted to give her a chance to right such an egregious wrong). Thankfully, she didn’t kick Annette Bening in the head.
5. Isn’t it ironic the winner of documentary short was cut short? And when the guy who won best score went on and on to Hilary Swank lengths, they never played the music to cut him off; some kind of music man conspiracy?
6. Of course, Jamie Foxx. His sweet, emotional speech guarantees him another shot at the gold guy, even if it’s for Booty Call II. Hollywood loves big, tough guys who can cry. BTW, I think I saw Paul Giamatti try to kick Jamie in the head when he ran up to the stage.

The Stars:
1. Three words for Renee Zellweger: No, no brunette!
2. Raccoon eyes are back! Blame it on The Incredibles and their raccoon-like eye-masks. Either the girls wanted to look Incredible and slathered on the mascara or there was a crap load of make-up wrecking crying going on backstage. Laura Linney was the worst abuser; she went for the raccoon-hedgehog hybrid look with black eyes AND a hairdo you could ski jump off of.
3. Separated at birth: Johnny Depp/Vincent Price; Annette Bening/David Bowie; Clint Eastwood/NH’s Old Man in the Mountain (except Clint’s granite cheeks have yet to crumble)
4. Was it me, or did Adam Sandler look like he’s been on the Orson’s Welles “too-many-candy-bars” diet? And Mike Myers, get thee to a barber, pronto.
5. Best Old Hollywood look: Scarlett Johanson, Drew Barrymore, who’s got the pedigree and the snout to look like she just stepped out of 1933, Charlize Theron, Mickey Rooney. Whenever someone mentioned Hollywood history, they cut to the Mickster. Because he’s old, he was there, and everyone else from Tinseltown’s Golden Age is dead.
6. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, Halle Berry is the most beautiful woman in movies. Now, if she could just pick a decent role…
7. Puffy Combs looks damn fine in a tux and no, that wasn’t his gun that went off when Jeremy Irons took the stage (the big bang prompted Irons to quip, “I hope they missed”).
8. Prince wore a purple tux (SHOCKING!) and looked like he was going to my prom in 1976.
9. Who were those people they kept cutting away to in the audience? With no Jack Nicholson or Meryl Streep for the camera to ogle, there wasn’t a familiar face in the theater; and there’s only so many times they could focus on Mickey Rooney before the home audience began to shout, “I get it; he’s not dead!”
10. Sean Penn is the last person I’d invite to a dinner party. A funeral, yes, but a place where there might actually be the opportunity to smile, no.

The songs:
1. Excuse me, is Beyonce (who should be locked up for glittery eye-shadow abuse) so broke she’s gotta sing every damn nominated song? Except for…
2. That other song, the one in Spanish that Antonio Banderas “sang.” He spent so much time slapping his thigh I wondered if his pants were on fire (and does that mean he’s a liar, liar?)

And finally, the Dead-O-Meter: The show went on so long and was so deadly dull, I expected to find Mickey Rooney’s name on the Death List by the time they rolled it out. And even THAT was predictable; though the applause swelled for Jerry Orbach, Ossie Davis, and Tony Randall, the most whoops came for Marlon Brando. The clips showed the dear departed smiling and looking very glamorous (as they did back in old Hollywood before hedgehogs and raccoons became fashion statements), except for the creepy clip they chose to honor the late, great Janet Leigh—her being stabbed to death in the shower.

The Oscars closed with Dustin and Barbra Streisand, both looking as embalmed as Army Archerd, handing out the award for best picture. Barbra and Clint made out for a few minutes, which had me calling for the music man to play them off, and finally the thank yous all around signaled that I could go to sleep. Which I’d been doing off and on through the evening anyway.

Until next year, Janet (No power in the 'verse can stop me)

Good news, bad news

2005-02-21T09:55:00.000-05:00

The bad news first... Got a rejection from the agent who requested a full of Polkadots & Moonbeams. Now the good news, she made some very nice, constructive comments and indicated to me that she'd read the whole thing. That made me feel good, unlike some other rejections I've gotten that have made me want to join Billy Joe in a leap off the Tallahatchie Bridge (it's so sad to admit I remember when that song was news!).

The agent said she just didn't feel "passionate" enough about the work to take it on. Now, that's an excuse I've heard a few times too many and I'm tempted to suggest these agents invest in some Viagra. I mean, maybe the problem isn't the work, maybe it's their libido. If they've lost that old lovin' feeling and can't muster a flame of passion for what they've been reading, never mind a raging blaze, then I think Bob Dole has something to sell them! Of course, it could backfire, like the warnings on the Viagra ads that say "If you experience dizziness, vomiting, or an erection sustained for more than four hours call a doctor and the Guiness Book of World Records." I can see these Viagra-stoked agents taking on every typo-filled, turgid piece of sludge that lands on their desk. People, people, that's NOT a good thing; just get the hots for MY work.

The rejection inspired me to a flurry of activity and I sent out a crap-load (as my kids say) of queries in the last week. Got a request for 50 pages, so we'll see how that goes.

My rant next week will be totally dedicated to the Oscars, my annual review of the highs, the lows, the dead-celebrity-applause-o-meter, and the hopefully terrible fashions. I don't make predictions but I will say Jamie Foxx is a shoo-in for RAY. Seems no power in the 'verse can stop him!

Janet

Comme si, comme ca

2005-02-11T17:24:00.000-05:00

This has been a good week writing wise. In addition to writing every day, working on two short stories and my WIP, “…And the Angels Sing,” I got a request for chapters and a rejection. I feel pretty damn good. Of course, whenever I get a response to a query, I always promptly reach for the Lindt Chocolate Truffles, whether to celebrate or mourn—any excuse for chocolate. I expect if I ever get an offer of representation or an editor offers me a two-book deal, I’ll end up in the ER with an OD of Lindt’s hazelnut truffles (sick but happy).

Got to thinking about the rejections I’ve gotten over the years and how there seems to be whole genres of rejection letters, particularly the form rejection. There’s the clipped, blunt kind that makes me feel awful for wasting that agent’s time. There’s the nice, encouraging kind that, after the sting of the “no,” makes me think, “hmm, I may not be so crappy after all.” Then there’s the typo-filled, grammar-butchering kind, usually addressed to “Sir or Madam,” that gives me a good laugh.

I know I’m not alone in having been rejected by agents who use my SASE to shill his/her book on writing (the ultimate indignity would be a promo for a book entitled, “How to Write a Query That Will Sell Your Book!”). I’ve gotten rejected with my own query letter, the agent’s terse “no” scribbled in over my killer opening sentence. I even got a rejection in my SASE addressed to someone else. I imagined the scene at the agency, the rejection letters zipping down an out of control conveyor belt and the poor slob being paid $5.50 an hour to stuff the envelopes scrambling to put them in order. Bet he needed a double dose of Lindt Truffles after that screw-up!

I guess agents are a necessary evil in modern publishing and I do feel for the agents who get thousands of bad queries each year (a little bit, anyway). I’m sure they have to deal with their share of disgruntled writers who won’t take no for an answer. Maybe that’s why the form rejections are sometimes worded so bizarrely, so that there is no risk of offending the writer (and perhaps end up with a dead squirrel stapled to your office door) or, worse, encouraging them (and maybe getting a live squirrel instead).

Keep writing and remember, no power in the ‘verse can stop me (except a bad agent).

You’re gonna be published! Wait—no you’re not!

2005-01-18T17:15:00.000-05:00

Happy new year (a bit late, or a bit early, depending on whose calendar you go by)!

Well, my road to publication just got bumpier. Not an axle-breaking, New England size pothole, but a little bump that actually proves my assertion that there’s a Murphy’s Law written just for me. It goes something like this: “If someone wants to buy Janet’s story, the magazine will fold.”

And that’s the story. Arabella Romances Magazine, which wanted desperately to publish my sweet historical romance story, “Miss Danforth’s Big Adventure,” has folded. Arabella was a fabulous idea, a glossy romance magazine with features on sexy travel destinations and romantic menus and a whole slew of fiction for romance readers to gobble up. I subscribed as soon as I learned of the magazine, and was impressed/distressed by the stories they chose to publish. Some were excellent, well-written and funny, some were horrendous, poorly-written and funny unintentionally. But I enjoyed it nonetheless.

I sent a few of my sickeningly sweet romance stories, was rejected a few times, then got a call one day from their editor telling me they thought “Miss Danforth’s” was a “dahlin’ story” and they wanted to buy it. Months went by and I didn’t get my contract, which was supposedly “on the way soon.” Then, bits of info about the mag I found on the Internet indicated financial problems and I figured poor Arabella was doomed. They announced their demise officially on Sunday.

I’m not as broken up by my lost publishing opportunity as I thought I’d be; I guess the thought that someone LIKED my work and wanted to publish it buoys me. Maybe the next someone who likes my work will be a great agent…or maybe an editor at a big-time publishing house who’ll offer me a three-book deal and a book tour!

I just won’t tell them about those other Murphy’s Laws written just for me—“If an agent offers Janet representation, s/he will immediately be hit by a bus,” and “If Janet gets offered a book deal, reading will be nationally banned as a matter of Homeland Security.” I’ll keep those Laws hidden away.

Janet – No power in the ‘verse can stop me

Let it snow...

2004-12-20T10:20:00.000-05:00

...Except on a school day! I love the white stuff as much as the next New Englander, but snow that cancels school on a Monday just before Christmas when I am thisclose to finishing edits on my manuscript so I can send it off to the agent who asked for a full... Well, I can do without! The kids were excited to say the least to hear the holy grail of school days words, "snow day." But me...

Well, I warned you on my website that I am a complainer, and anything that keeps me from my writing is worth complaining about. Besides, my complaining pales in comparison to my kids, who've inherited the complaining gene with a vengeance. I think the gene mutated with them, creating uber-complainers, each word a satiric, sarcastic art form out of their precious mouths.

I promised to focus on my writing career in this blog... 'Blog' I don't like that term, makes me think of The Blob, that 50s horror movie with Steve McQueen, which scared the bejeezus out of me. Saw it at my elementary school when I was a kid as part of an after school program for 'latchkey' kids. Other movies--full-color, tinny sound from the AV room projectors--included Mysterious Island and a disturbingly sexy version (for a 9-year-old, anyway) of Dracula. The goal was probably to keep us out of trouble (and to keep me out of the Marshmallow Fluff—a ploy that failed miserably), but it only served to make me a paranoid wreck—and a huge movie fan. Go figure.

But I digress... My writing has been in edit mode lately, interspersed with holiday duties and the usual crap that keeps me from writing (does Stephen King—or any other male writer, for that matter—ever stop in the middle of strangling a character to go put the laundry in the dryer because his kids will have to go to school naked if he doesn’t? Just asking…). I haven’t gotten any rejections lately, which is a good thing for my ego/psyche, but bad because that means I don’t have enough queries out there. The ones that are out there are in agent limbo, sitting on someone’s desk, and I wonder if I’ll hear from them before the post office raises the price of stamps again, making my SASE obsolete.

Time to go whip a few snowballs at my complaining children (add a bit of spit to ice them up good and you've got the original WMDs). Happy Holidays & Merry Christmas.

December 9, 2004

2004-12-09T13:43:00.000-05:00

It's my birthday; what better day to officially start my blog?

If you've visited my website, you know all about me. If not, a quick intro: I write fiction, mostly mystery and romance, have a couple of kids, myriad pets, a house in the 'burbs, and have celebrated more than a few birthdays. I used to get all excited about this annual cake-fest, especially when I was ten and learned that I shared a birthday with my dreamboat, Donny Osmond. Now that he's closing in on Social Security, well... Not that I get depressed about birthdays. It's more of a numb, stunned feeling, like, "Heh; wasn't I just 22?" Forty, that was depressing. My oldest son, clever boy who will some day be president, told me to look at it this way, I wasn't turning forty, I was thirty-ten. Now, thirty-sixteen doesn't sound so bad.

The day began with my kids waking me up singing Happy Birthday before they went to the school bus. I told them to go away. Old ladies like me need our sleep! Later, my dog Lily pushed open the bedroom door and, getting an eyeful of me getting dressed, quickly vamoosed. Whether out of respect for my privacy or horror at the sight of my saggy body, I'd rather not know.

Then the Jehovah's Witnesses, a perky mother-daughter team in holiday red and green, rang my doorbell. Apparently they didn't get the memo about me being a Blue State heathen who's already staked out a bunk in that very special hell. After I sent them on their bible-toting way, my mother called to sing to me. That's her present to me, my siblings, her grandkids—on your birthday, she calls and sings Happy Birthday. She's always off-pitch, but we love it.

She was in rare form today, punctuating her rendition with the announcement that she was in the ER (chest pains and ongoing heart trouble). She insisted the nurses ("who you can't tell from the janitor, everyone wears those ugly flowered smocks!" she says) bring her a telephone so she could call me. She also insisted they admit her or she was calling a cab and going home, with their heart monitors still attached. Well, though the hospital could risk losing one cranky old broad, they'd never risk losing costly equipment so they promised to find her a bed.

Bad—or weird—things always happen in threes, so I was expecting a big rejection from an agent in the mail today, but, surprisingly, all I got was bills and junk. There's still time for tragedy, my husband's taking me to his company Holiday party tonight, and who knows what will happen if I get a couple drinks in me. Well, okay, I know. I'll be unconscious on the floor (hey, I can’t drink like I used to—can you?) and I will probably have to be rushed to the hospital. Bet I end up in a room with my mother, who will insist I do a few chores, making my bed and straightening the cords on her heart monitors.

In closing, except for worries about the old lady, all in all it's been a good birthday—I've spent the day writing and editing Polkadots & Moonbeams to send to an agent who requested a full. Doing what I love most. I hope to update this blog once a week, posting news about my quest to be published and basically yapping on and on about me.

Thanks for stopping by. Janet - No Power in the 'verse can stop me!