A late SBD: caring
Hey, Beth, here’s another late one for SBD.
This isn’t funny anymore. WHO recommended this Nora Roberts book to me, huh? Fess up. Because this story is pissing the shit clean out of me.
I don’t care, that’s the thing. I don’t care about Cam, who had this privileged life tootling around Europe racing boats and dirt bikes, nailing Eurotrash in his spare time, buying pricey silk thong underwear, and now he’s stuck back in the States honoring a promise to his dead adoptive father who’s like a ghost now, only he (Ghost Dad) never says anything worthwhile, only, “You can do it, I know you can, you’re a Quinn.”
Guess I remember some things. His name is Cam Quinn. Sounds like a junior varsity cheerleader. But the book’s title? So not memorable.
The Something Tides. Rippling Tides? Festering Tides? I don’t know. First in the Chesapeake Saga. It’s a SAGA, for the love of God. That has to be worse than a trilogy, hell, a SAGA must be six seven eight nine books, and I can’t even get fired up about book one.
So. Cam. Adoptive Dad dies, has a Hollywood death which I’ve already bitched about (and oh, I see this one’s called Sea Swept, so I wasn’t even close, unless Random Nautical Title is close), makes his three sons swear to take care of young punk-ass Seth, Dad’s latest acquisition. See, all three of them, Cam, Moe, and Curly, they were all runaways who gravitated to Ghost Dad Quinn the way ferrets gravitate towards empty boxes and closed doors. But Seth, maybe he’s a real Quinn, which would mean Ghost Dad cheated on Mom.
zzzzzzzzzzzz
And there’s this social worker, Seth’s caseworker, and she’s supposed be this fugly librarian-looking chick one moment, hell on wheels the next. Cam has the hots for her, she has the hots for Cam because he looks good doing carpentry shit. I can’t remember her name, either. It took almost two hundred pages for them to end up in the sack and I still don’t feel any REAL magnetism between them, nothing that wasn’t artificially contrived by the author. I DON’T CARE if they shag and I don’t care if they don’t. I don’t care when Manny, Moe, and Cam fight like kids in the car because
zzzzzzzzzzzzz
Getting back to Cam. Why don’t I care about him? Because his life in Europe was shallow, not in the emotional sense (well, that too) but in the characterization sense. Because his desire to get back to his old life is neither interesting nor sympathetic simply because that old life feels and looks like a cheap postcard. Because he has no emotional life. We’re told (insert show and tell lecture here) the only woman he loved was his adoptive mother. But I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything from Cam, least of all his passion for Ms. Social Worker.
Life’s too short for this. I’m in the mood for romance, and I’d prefer to try out a new writer other than my old standby Jennifer Crusie, but this book is so not worth it. I think I’ll reread that one Crusie novel about the guy who decided to become a detective more or less on a dare. THAT one had feeling. Or Bet Me. That was a good one, too. Both of those books had heroes and heroines I cared about.
Because in romance, if I don’t care about either the hero or the heroine — then what’s the point?
D.
Hell always sounded more interesting anyway
I mean, really, how horrible is this?
The Vatican has added seven new deadly sins:
accumulating obscene wealth*
polluting the environment
genetic engineering
drug dealing
abortion
paedophilia**
causing social injustice
I get nailed on genetic engineering: 1983-1997, here and there. I dabbled. None of my victims lived to squeak talk about it. Of course, they already had me dead to rights on Lust,
“Be gentle with me,” I said. “I’m a lot younger than you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she purred. “You’re an animal.”
Raquel was twenty-seven, I was five. She changed my life forever.
When it comes to losing one’s soul, a child can do a lot worse. Anyway, it occurred to me the Vatican had left out a few deadly sins. I would add,
Destroying families by stealing from trust funds, wrecking their mortgages, etc.
Not bathing for weeks before seeing your doctor.
Bumping into and knocking over handicapped people in public places because you’re too caught up in your own personal drama to notice there’s a LITTLE WOMAN WITH A CANE RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU. (That one really pisses me off.)
Care to add a few?
D.
* From the comments at the Sydney Morning Herald story, linked above:
Did i just read that the Vatican have made accumulating obscene wealth a sin ?
Hmmmm, thats exactly what i thought the Vatican have done for the last 100 years.
Hmmmm, 100 years? But, yeah, that was our reaction, too.
** Um. Ditto.
Quick self-pimpage (with update)
I put up an old story of mine over at Daily Kos:
Not your typical political diary.
Only the oldest of old-timers here (like Pat) will remember this one — it’s from May ’05. And even then, I updated the story with a new revelation.
Enjoy.
D.
HOT DAMN! I made Diary Rescue!Â
Titles, arrrgh
I wrote about 2800 words today. Not bad, but if you look at that as a weekly total, not great, either.
Cracks me up what I’m using as the file’s title: my main character’s name, Lisa. Is that the best I can do? (Apparently so.) But I’m at a loss on this one. The novel wants a different shape than what I had intended — that whole Scheherezade thing may never materialize. I’m reluctant to give this a title without having some knowledge of the finished product.
How about you — when do you title your stories or novels? Do you wait until the end? If you title it at the beginning of the project, does that shape the direction of the work?
If I had to title it now, I think I would want something which resonated with those goofy 50s science fiction movies. Escape from Mars, Mars Needs Women, that sort of thing. Only we’re not going to Mars; but hell, where Lisa’s going, maybe it’s CALLED Mars without being Mars.
See? The title affects the project. Okay, then, maybe I could find a list of titles from 1950s SF movies. Just have to keep from getting distracted by a funny movie trailer. Grr.
Hmm . . . She Came From Outer Space, perhaps? (More accurate would be, She Came From Earth. Not bad!)
In other news: TUCKER CARLSON HAS BEEN CANCELED! WOOOOT!
D.
PS: Ever think how great it would be if the MST3K gang took on a BIG iconic movie? Wonder no longer.Â
Geeks rule!
This warmed my heart:
The scientist and engineer activists are out in full effect, including current and former Fermilab scientists and support staff and academic colleagues of Bill’s. There are several people here from around the country who went to grad school with Bill and are incredibly excited about his campaign.
Some background: in Illinois today (IL-14), voters will select the replacement for former Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert. IL-14 is a solid red district, and this election was never supposed to be much of a horse race. Conventional wisdom had it that Republican dairy millionaire Jim Oberweis would take the seat without much fight. But then former Fermilab physicist Bill Foster (who got his doctorate from Harvard) stepped into the race. (Look at him, he even looks like an eggheaded geek. GEEKS EFFIN RULE! Do you hear me? WE RULE! Yes, I contributed to Foster.)
Now, it’s a competitive seat, and it’s costing the NRCC nearly one-third of its cash on hand to try to hang onto it.
I’m following the results here. Nothing back yet.
FOSTER WINS!
Remember, live blogging tonight.
D.
Everyone loves a tart
Listening to Melody Gardot over on YouTube. What a voice! She reminds me of Cat Power, but there’s more oomph to Ms. Gardot. Yes, more oomph. Now you know why I don’t write more posts about music.
Check out the Wikipedia piece if you get a chance — she has quite a back story.
Here’s Worrisome Heart.
***
For our twentieth wedding anniversary, Karen and I went to the French Laundry, the idea being we would hemorrhage $$$ and in return get stuffed with food we would likely never be able to taste elsewhere. It was an unforgettable experience, if for no other reason than the Terminal Truffle made us both flash on the same thing. Anyway, we bought Thomas Keller’s cookbook, too, took it home, and promptly forgot about it.
That was back in 2004. It has taken me this long to make anything from The French Laundry Cookbook; hey, it’s not every day you get a yen for braised stuffed pig’s head in cheesecloth, or pan-roasted breast of squab with swiss chard, sauteed duck foie gras, and oven-dried black figs.
Today, I made two of the desserts. Here’s one of them, and guess what: this recipe is easy.
Leather Goddess of Phobos visits Earth
Today’s Friday Flickr babe: bow down to your goddess, by legskirtluver.
I think I might finally be getting the right mindset. WRONG is to approach the domme thus: “I would love to be your slave; I would love to lick your feet, be your human ashtray, etc. etc.” RIGHT is: “Please let me serve you.”
Because it’s not about what the sub wants, loves, desires. It’s all about serving the domme.
Of course, it’s about the sub’s desires, too. If the sub didn’t want this, he wouldn’t be in the sub role in the first place. But he doesn’t say that is what he wants, because saying so is an assertion of dominance, which violates the role. Got it?
I hope I’m understanding this. Can’t wait to see what the muse does with all this lovely information. You gotta feed the muse.
D.
Another Thirteen
I could have done Thirteen Fruit Desserts. Baked apple! Rhubarb crumble! Port-poached pears!
I could have done Thirteen Hospitals. My son and I were born in the same hospital — how exciting is that?
And I could have done Thirteen Coins. Thrill to the story of the controversial 1878 Trade Dollar — Liberty on a Commode!
I could have done any one of those Thirteens. But would it have been fun?
Naaaah. Instead, I chose . . .
More Magic 8 Ball
Jake’s giving me a heart attack. He asked the online M8 Ball, “Will I live to see my next birthday?”
And the first answer was “No.”
He went for best two out of three, and fortunately, the next two were variations of
Yeah, Jake, go ahead, give your superstitious old man a heart attack. See who pays for your college education then.
ANYWAY: I need one of these Magic 8 Balls for my office. You wouldn’t believe how often people ask me questions which are far more appropriate for the 8 Ball than for me.
Is this antibiotic going to work?
Is it a bad idea for me to go flying this weekend?
Is my nose just going to start bleeding again?
One thing is for certain: if I start whipping out the 8 Ball every time I’m asked one of these questions, I’m gonna get one hell of a rep.
D.