Ann Aguirre

There are any number of things that make it impossible for me to write: the dog barking nonstop at the cats, the cats yowling at each other, the kids acting like absolute prats. Whenever I’m trying to work, the smaller denizens of the house sense it and then they conspire to go batshit simultaneously at the worst possible time.

That’s not what I intended to blog about today, however. I’m noticing I don’t want to surf to writer blogs lately. Why? Because of the constant deconstruction of the process. How do you do (X)? How can we make (X) better? For me, writing is magic; it’s not a mechanical process. And for me to think about the nuts and bolts that make the machine run, well, it’s like telling a bumblebee he is not aerodynamic enough to fly. The poor bastard’s first reaction is, “Huh? What?” and then he plummets to earth. Logic, once applied to magic, cannot be undone.

My writing is like that poor bumblebee. I don’t know how it works; it just does. It’s lovely, sparkly, and I don’t think about the process. In fact, I shouldn’t think about the process. Because now that I have been, I’m finding it hard to write. I second-guess myself more than I used to. I need to go back to the old ways, where I simply listen to whatever the characters have to say and write it down. That’s truly all I do, and it works for me, profoundly.

I’m not a reviser. I either sell my product or I don’t. Once a work is contracted, my editor will tell me what changes to make, and if the book doesn’t sell, all the revisions in the world probably aren’t going to make a difference. All that accomplishes is to eradicate an author’s unique voice, ruthlessly squelched by endless critique rounds. Your crit partners are well-intentioned, but unless they are bestselling authors, they don’t have any more idea what sells than you do. They have opinions, of course, but so does everyone. Too much interference will kill the muse.

Mine is sickly, poor thing. And so I’m not going to read blogs where they talk about the best way to do this or that. Or how do I do such and such? I can’t analyze it. When you dissect something, you find out how it works, sure, but you no longer have a dynamic, vital entity. Just ask the poor frog floating in Formaldehyde.

Why? Check this out.

The 2.3-square-km Longshuihu village in the Shuangqiao district of Chongqing municipality, also known as “women’s town,” was based on the local traditional concept of “women rule and men obey,” a tourism official told Reuters.

“Traditional women dominate and men have to be obedient in the areas of Sichuan province and Chongqing, and now we are using it as an idea to attract tourists and boost tourism,” the official, surname Li, said by telephone.

“We welcome investors from overseas and nationwide to invest in our project,” he added. The motto of the new town would be “women never make mistakes, and men can never refuse women’s requests,” Chinese media have reported.

When tour groups enter the town, female tourists would play the dominant role when shopping or choosing a place to stay, and a disobedient man would be punished by “kneeling on an uneven board” or washing dishes in restaurant, media reports said.

How awesome is that? Women rule and men obey.

I also want to point out the modification to my template, which I did myself. To your left toward the bottom of the sidebar, you will see two buttons. One is pink and black and reads Blogroll. The other is purple and reads Thursday 13. When you click those buttons, the blogroll for each appears. The first is my personal blogroll. Just say something in comments if you want me to add you, or you can drop me an email. The other is the TT blogroll, which I’m told I have to display somewhere on my blog. Since both blogrolls were long and ran all the way down to the bottom, I changed the template to make them expand and collapse. So if you’re wondering where my blogroll went or what’s with the buttons, there you have it.

That’s enough for Odd Friday, I think. Have a great weekend, everyone.

Thirteen Things you probably didn’t know about me 1. Even though I don’t craft, I’m totally into people who do. I special order my soap from a woman who makes homemade bars with luscious fragrances. My favorite so far is the Pumpkin Spice. 2. I collect stained glass pieces and scented candles. 3. I enjoy wasting time on Ebay, looking for unique handcrafted items. I want a distressed, vintage suitcase that has something unique painted on it. I believe they call this shabby-chic. 4. I lust for purses and handbags the way some women jones for shoes. I just bought a homemade bag from a lady in the UK. The faux fur looks like pink and white cowhide and it’s lined in black satin. I’m going to tote my Ibook around in it. 5. This is my dog, Daisy. She’s part basset hound, part dachsund, and she’s okay. A few weeks back, her stitches tore, but she’s healing fine and driving us all crazy. 6. Daisy is my husband’s bitch, and she gets really riled up when he kisses me. 7. I have two male mixed Siamese cats, named Don Quixote and Dulcineo. We thought at first that Dulce was a girl because he had really small testicles. Turns out they’re both male, but I think Dulce is gay because he’s always humping his brother. 8. My first designer handbag was DKNY. 9. My favorite purse is by Coach. 10. I want a Juicy bag, a pink velour thing that’s over the top girlie. I don’t care, I want it anyway. 11. I have a Prada bag I’ve never used. 12. I prefer quirky vintage bags that I am sure I will never find on anyone else’s arm. 13. I totally covet this bag (it’s a pineapple!) and don’t you think it would be awesome for the beach? But I think Andres might hurt me if I bought it.

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Since I don’t want to become one of those authors who is all “me, me, me” all the time, I’m giving ya’ll the floor. What do you need help with, right now? No, I’m not coming to dig the gunk out of your garbage disposal and scrape the Playdoh off your dining room wall. But if you need help with something in your writing life (or your personal life for that matter, for you non-writers), then I’m all ears today.

Put your quandary in comments and I’ll try to help.

random link — Looking for a new web template, but don’t have a lot of money to spend? Well, I think I may have an option for you. Check this thing out. My non-technical mind boggles at how they achieved this. A new template every time you refresh it? Generated randomly? Theoretically, with a little patience, you might stumble across a very cool template, which they explain how to use for your own site, here. I could see how this would be an easy way to make (or update) your own website. Keep clicking until you get a design you like, save the code, and then start tailoring it to your needs. Maybe add a few pictures and a header… how cool is that?

random update — After much contemplation, conversation with my husband, and consideration of your sage advice, I’m now writing Touch and Go. I’m supposed to work up a series overview soon. I gather that’s like a synopsis for each book? But how long? A page? Two? Three? I’ve never done anything like this before, and given the fact that I don’t write synopsises… synopses? WTF-ever. Before I write a book, I’m not sure how I’m going to manage this. If anyone has experience with this kind of thing, please guide me, I’m begging you.

I’m so excited about this series for reasons I probably shouldn’t discuss yet. If you’re really curious email me. Otherwise, I don’t have a lot to report. Falling is still on submission in NY with various editors, and Touch and Go is flowing really well.

random searches — Here are some random ones that made me laugh or made me go “Huh?”

plot holes + Nora Roberts
Why did that lead to my blog? I’m pretty sure I never discussed that.

gerard butler - naked butt - images
Well, I can’t blame you for trying, but I don’t have any.

banana sucking contest
What a great idea! For my next context, I’ll make the entrants take a pic of themselves sucking a banana and post a link to the image in comments. No? Maybe not.

sperm props for Poser
WTF? What does that even mean?

hilary sares likes submission
Uhm. I hope this means she enjoys someone’s manuscript, and not that she has a crazy stalker looking for BDSM fan-fiction about her.

random endorsement — Monk. I love this show. Just finished watching season four on DVD, and the love story they’ve written between Adrian and his deceased wife, Trudy, is one of the most poignant I’ve ever seen on television. In most series’s, I would be impatient for him to have a love interest, but I’m not sure I could accept it if he had one, now. He’s Trudy’s man, and it doesn’t matter that she’s gone. He will never, ever stop loving her. *sniffs* I’m getting verrklempt just thinking about it. *waves hands* Talk amongst yourselves.

This is a mini-rant, mixed with a whine. So cut yourself a slice of your favorite cheese and listen up.

First of all, who the hell does Google (and other websites) think they are? I’m sick and tired of having my preferences changed without my consent. It seems like every time I click to a site, they decide I want all my content in Spanish because they recognize my ISP is out of Mexico. Yes, I live in Mexico, but it doesn’t mean I want all my online content in Spanish. Why don’t they give me a choice about it? Or better yet, let me change it myself, if I need it done. Fact of the matter is, I do okay in Spanish, but it’s not my native language. I write in English. I do business in English. So why are they making me waste my time, struggling to find the way to switch it back when I didn’t switch it in the first place?

That makes me feel ill at ease about how much information is readily available just from accessing a site. I click and they know I’m looking at their page from Mexico, using Prodigy Infinitum, so they decide to change my subscriptions without asking me? WTF is that? I’m starting to think websites know entirely too much. They’re crossing the line in trying to anticipate my needs. I don’t want some web-bot doing that, just like I don’t want my online content translated without my say so. It’s often like that when people think they’re doing you a favor — by not asking first, half the time they mess up what you had going.

Moving on to the whine portion of our program. Got your cheese handy? Good. My WIP isn’t going well. I’m not feeling it, I don’t want to write it right now. It’s not under contract or anything yet, so I have no obligation to it. I really want to do a sequel to Falling or Good Touch, at this point. I was trying to be smart in a business sense. Guide is sold, my editors want a sequel telling Darnell and Maya’s story. Said they’ll contract on a partial. The other two books aren’t sold, don’t know if they will be. I was going by the “bird in hand beats two in the bush” edict, but my muse thinks this is a lame-ass idea.

When do you guys put a project on hold and move on? Do you force yourself to slog on through something you’re not feeling? Or do you follow your muse wherever she leads? I could use some advice.

It’s Sunday, sunny and 78 degrees. The noche buena tree outside my office is in lush red bloom, likewise the pink and purple bougainvillea growing on the terracotta courtyard wall. On the other side of the garden, the roses are struggling a bit because it’s been dry, but the mandarin orange tree is thriving. So is the palm tree and the aloe vera plant. The hydrangea looks lovely as well. This is one of the things I love about Mexico. Flowers bloom here pretty much all the time.

Since it’s such a pretty day here, I’m gonna give ya’ll something pretty to admire. Without further ado, I give you: hot guys for the hell of it.

These are beautiful men from all ethnicities. I hope you see some old favorites and some new faces that make you go, “Daaaaaaaaaamn, he’s fine.” You’re so welcome.

Here you go. Vin’s my personal long-term crush. I’ve been digging him since I first saw Pitch Black, quite a while ago now. I’m nothing if not loyal. If he’s not sexy enough, find your own hot guy!

Erica nominated me for the prestigious Thinking Blogger Award for this post.

If you aren’t familiar with the Thinking Blogger Award, these are the rules:

1.If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think,

2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme,

3. Optional: Proudly display the ‘Thinking Blogger Award’ with a link to the post that you wrote.

I’ve done the linkage above, that means it’s my turn to tag five people whose blogs have made me think. Ready now? Here we go.

April Martinez — Her blog has a lot of great information regarding cover art and how to make said cover art or how a particular cover came to be. It’s almost always funny on April’s blog, but this post in particular made me stop and think. How do other people perceive us? What does our behavior say about us?

Carrie Lofty — Her blog intersperses tidbits about writing with family life, insights on motherhood, book, music and movie reviews. Very electic, but always thoughtful. Here’s the post that made me think. Laura Kinsale even commented, how cool is that?

Cora Zane — I check her blog pretty much every day because I love her sense of humor. Here’s a post that considers the impact of ebooks vs print books, and I found it quite thought-provoking.

Dionne Galace — She has an irreverent humor that means nothing is off limits. This post was funny as hell, but it also made me think about the way religion influences sexuality. I’m not sure if that was her intent. Dee is kind of an Internet shockjock, but I’m never sorry I read her. She has a mind like a steel trap.

QB — She’s a contest judge and an avid reader of romance. I first went to her blog because she commented on mine (and I try to reciprocate whenever possible). I also add people to my blogrolling if they comment regularly because that’s how I make new blog friends. QB has a great sense of humor and is very knowledgable about the genre. Her insights are priceless. I loved this post. We writers don’t think about the reader’s point of view as much as we could, and I found this insight fascinating.

Well, that’s five. I wish I could nominate everybody on my blogroll, but the meme says five. So ya’ll take your shiny Thinking Blogger Awards and start tagging people.

This post probably isn’t about what you think. I’m not gonna ramble on about HQN plotlines today. I’m going to tell you the story of how my life became a HQN plotline. I make the joke often enough, and then it occurred to me that this is a story worth telling. It’ll also let you get to know me a little bit better by the time I’m done. (Don’t worry, I’ll skip the sad and/or boring parts.)

I was born in a small town in Indiana and grew up with the usual amount of dysfunction. When I was seventeen, I went away to college. I studied English Literature. I intended to teach, but halfway through my student teaching, I fell ill and had to be hospitalized. They wouldn’t let me return to student teaching, due to the missed days, and I couldn’t afford another semester without working. So I dropped the Education degree, graduated with a Lit degree that qualified me to do jack shit and went out into the world to look for work.

Around that time, I moved to Indianapolis, which is a big city by most Indiana standards (unless you happen to live in NW Indiana near Chicago). In classic writerly fashion, I held a series of crappy jobs, most of which I didn’t stay at for more than a year. Let’s see, I worked as a daycare teacher, a retail clerk at Sam’s Club, and a voice actress, just to name a few of my gigs. By 24, I hadn’t really gotten my shit together, but I had a decent job at least, one I liked fairly well. I started working at an animal hospital as a receptionist but before long, they made me office manager. It was a small clinic and I was in charge of all the HR stuff, hiring, training, evaluations, firing, scheduling, overseeing client appointments, all that jazz. Sometimes it sucked being around the sick or injured animals, but I do love animals so overall I enjoyed the work. I’d always wanted to be a writer and I still messed with it some at night, but I was nowhere near ready to do anything with it. I was still reeling from having my stuff subbed in NY at 21 and hadn’t recovered from the rejections yet. My writer-skin was baby soft back then, ya’ll.

So my social life was nonexistent. I had a few guy friends, but they were stoners I had to throw out of my apartment after a while because if I let them, they’d turn my house into a hippie crash pad. I don’t make friends easily, and even back then, I was much more likely to stay home after a long day’s work than to hit up a club. Ya’ll are gonna tease me about what’s coming next, but I don’t care. I’m coming out, dammit!

Back then, I socialized mostly on AOL. There was an RP channel (no, not “spank my ass, I’ve been a bad monkey” type RP either) where I liked to hang out. Not as myself but my online persona, a character if you will. Syn was tall, wore leather pants and carried a silver knife around that would’ve made anyone think twice. She was slinky and dangerous; she’d kill you as soon as look at you. Reminds me a little bit of Danny Valentine, now that I think of it, from Lilith Saintcrow’s books.

I wrote all kinds of stories with a wide variety of people whose names I didn’t know in real life. Adventure stories, fantasy, sometimes romance. Man, that was fun. It wasn’t to please the market or anything; it was just for the pleasure of it. Well, eventually, Syn got herself a love interest, a mage (think White Wolf Mage). Eventually I started talking to this guy OOC (out of character) too. I started getting to know him.

His name was Andres, he was nine months younger than me, and he lived in LA. He was attending Pepperdine University at the time, or he had just finished up there. I can’t remember which. He was originally from Mexico, and his family still lived there. We got on real well, and I’m not embarrassed to say we were totally crushing on each other. Oh, we tell people who can’t handle an ‘online’ lovestory that we met in a bookstore, but I’m not shamed to say how it really went down.

We talked online for about a year, I guess. In April (he’s an Aries) of the next year, he begged me to let him come see me because we were nuts about each other by then. I was a little bit nervous (massive understatement) but I said okay. I made chili for him and baked him a chocolate cake. He said both were the best he ever had. He spent the weekend at my place, and I’m not gonna write a whole lot about that, except to say it was smokin’ hot.

In August of that year, he moved from LA to Indy to date me. He started school at University of Indianapolis, doing a masters in international business. I didn’t know anything about his family. He didn’t really talk about them. I assumed (somewhat stereotypically, I admit) that he came from a poor(ish) Mexican family who would be happy if we sent money home so they could eventually join us in the States. I didn’t worry about whether they would like me or how they’d feel about their son seeing a white girl.

He went home periodically to see them, but I never went. The trip would’ve cost me a lot and I wasn’t making tons of money, although that changed when I went to work for the phone company. In that job, I made 50K plus including sales incentives. I hated it, though, it was soul-killing. I worked in a cubicle, all that. I supported us while he went to school.

We were together and happy as clams. A few years down the line, my dad died. I remember Andres asking me about a condom, and I was so messed up in the head, I ran the numbers and did the math wrong (I suck at math anyway, never mind when I’m grieving). I just wanted to forget for a while, so we went on and did it like crazy love-hungry fools. I came up pregnant in a few weeks.

I called him from work to tell him. He got real quiet and asked me, “Are you sure?” like ten times. It must have scared the shit out of him. There was no question that we’d raise the baby together, and we made it official when I was six months pregnant. We eloped to Vegas and got married.

I still hadn’t met his family, though. When you have a small baby, the last thing you want to do is get on an airplane and take a long flight. Andres called them once a week, though, so I assumed they knew about us.

Man, was I wrong. See, he never mentioned his wife or family when he called home. He says he didn’t know how to break the news over the phone and the longer he waited, the harder it got. Plus, they were estranged. He’d rebelled against working in the family business and run off to the States.

Yep, you read that right. Family business. It was years before I knew the truth. Far from struggling, his folks belong to the upper class. They own a pharmaceutical company that makes medicines for the social security program. They supply government contracts. They’re like the Eli Lily of Mexico in some respects.

Mind you, our son was fifteen months old by the time I found all this out. He didn’t warn me, the first time we all came to visit. I walked into his mother’s home, this gorgeous place with marble floors, chandeliers and stained glass in my grubby jeans with toddler drool on me.

That’s when I realized I hadn’t married a poor college student after all, but an heir to the dynasty pretending to be such. Andres still likes to brag, “I so got you and I didn’t even have to flash my checkbook either.” You can imagine this led to some trust issues, though, because that’s a huge secret to keep. I understood why he didn’t mention it at first; he couldn’t be sure I wasn’t some golddigger, but after I had his child, you’d think could’ve clued me in, no?

We’ve put each other through some crazy soap opera shit that I won’t write about because it’s sad (and real life sometimes is), but we’re still together after ten years plus. And I love him. His parents were a bit cool to me for a while (I think maybe they didn’t know what to make of me or this white girl their precious boy had gone and married without their approval) but we’re getting past that as well. We moved to Mexico City two years ago, and I imagine this is where I’ll be for the rest of my life. It’s been weird adjusting to what is definitely a privileged lifestyle. I had no fucking idea what to do with a maid when we first got here. I’d run around cleaning up before she arrived because I didn’t want her to know what pigs we are. Andres found that hilarious. I’ve adapted, though, and put down roots. I’m slowly making friends.

I hope you feel like you know me better now and you’re glad you stopped by. What about you? How’d you meet your man?

I didn’t get to post Monday and Random Tuesday was all about the contest, which means my posting schedule is hosed for the week. Since variety is the spice of life and all that, I’m defenestrating the schedule until next week. That means you never know what you’ll find here for the next three days, but I will say this: there’s gonna be some nearly nekkid men on here by Friday.

Anyway, I woke up this morning and put on my ranty-pants, so I’ve got to handle that first. Rejections. There are a lot of schools of thought as to how a writer should deal with them. Some people hide them or immediately throw them away. Some people keep a scrapbook, some people pin them on the wall and throw darts at them. Some people post them on the internet and others keep a running tally of how many they receive. Me, I think it’s important to stay positive and move on. So that person didn’t get your work; someone else will, unless it’s really, heinously bad. I cling to the mantra of that’s one person’s opinion. That mindset helps a lot.

So really, what I want to talk about at this point is the feedback that comes along with a rejection from an agent or editor. Some writers, usually folks just starting out, get all riled up because this person doesn’t send specific feedback, telling her why this precious wondrous gem got rejected. First of all, that’s not in the job description. These people are industry professionals and they don’t get paid to crit. It’s really a yes / no decision. I get that, and I’m perfectly happy with a rejection that just says, “No,” or “Not right for me at this time.”

My gripe is this: rejections with monumentally unhelpful feedback. Like “I couldn’t connect with the characters,” or “The premise was engaging, but ultimately the plot seemed too familiar.” Okay, what? That’s publisher-doublespeak that means, “No.” At the base of it, it simply means no, and the writer can’t do anything with that “feedback” to try and improve her book. She can only drive herself crazy wondering what the hell it means.

The coldest rejection I ever got from an agent, after she’d requested the full was, “I will not be offering you representation at this time.” That’s it, a one line email, maybe a month after I sent the full. I got frostbite from that email, dudes, but it got the job done and I didn’t waste time fretting over it. I actually preferred that one to the touchy-feely note from another agent explaining that she’d been so excited about my book and about the possibility of working with me, but “as it turns out…” See, it’s still a no. All the sugar plums and fairy dust you sprinkle on it doesn’t make it a yes. And yes, the touchy-feely email offered some of that fortune cookie feedback, where you need to be Confucius to decipher it.

Now I know a lot of soft-skinned writers like the touchy-feely feedback, even when it doesn’t actually mean anything because that offers some personal contact, but I prefer a simple rejection. If the person has time to write something I can use, like, “The heroine’s motivation for sheltering a strange man at the start of chapter two needs work,” then I’m all for that. I can do something with that. Otherwise, just tell me no. I’m not Confucius.