Archive for the 'silliness and stuff' Category

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What Stace had to say on Monday, August 8th, 2016
I Am Stupid

Oh, I have many, many things to blog about, or rather, I have many ideas for things to blog about, one of which is my hair–which is why it’s merely an idea instead of a plan; do you guys want to read a blog post about my hair and the hair extensions I got for my birthday? They’re nano ring extensions: tiny little rings that you pull your hair through, insert the metal tip of the extension, and then clamp shut with pliers. I have pictures and all, but I don’t know if the topic would actually be of much interest. This isn’t a beauty blog, after all, although I am always happy to discuss hair/make-up/etc. Anyway.

This is a nano ring:

See? It's tiny. The Queen is wearing it like a big hoop earring here.

See? It’s tiny. The Queen is wearing it like a big hoop earring here.

I also have some thoughts on, well, other topics. Topics of a political nature, sort of. See, it’s not that I want to blog about politics per se; I don’t, and never really have. You guys may remember my reasons. I still think those are valid reasons, and the Hubs and I were just having a conversation about this yesterday in which we discussed the main reason (as we see it) which I do plan to blog about. But there are some peripheral sort-of-political topics that have been troubling me deeply; they’re really more social/sociological in nature, but again, I don’t want to bore you with my political/sociological/whateverical blatherings. (As my friend Ben Weasel said, “Politics are fucking boooring.”) Everybody and their brother is talking about politics these days, what with the latest round of Douche vs. Turd Sandwich getting in high gear and all. (In fact, it’s more like X-Treme Douche vs. X-Treme Turd Sandwich Cage Match Scum-a-Thon this time around. How I long for 2008, when I could honestly say, “They both seem like good guys and I bet either of them will do a decent job.”)

But today I’m going to talk about something completely different. I’m going to talk about the epically, epically stupid thing I did.

I wear contact lenses. I wear contact lenses because my vision is so poor that I get free eye exams. Without corrective lenses, I am legally blind–and in fact, if my vision gets much worse I’ll have to have contacts specially made, because I am about half a degree away from the “We don’t make ’em that strong” category. (My other option would be to wear the strongest possible lenses plus reading glasses. Ugh!) But for now, I can still wear contacts, and I wear the extended-wear ones and have for a looong long time.

So a couple of weeks ago I decided it was time to take the lenses out and change them (I wear disposables), so I did. And the next day I grabbed the box of lenses (they come in these little plastic packets, which are packed inside a box) and took one out and put it in my right eye–or so I thought, but when I blinked my vision was still all blurry. Had I dropped the lens? What happened to it? Had it dissolved in my eye or something? I pictured myself as the Opening Scene Girl in some awful horror/sci-fi B-movie, They’re Coming For Your Eyes! or something like that. The lens dissolves, the camera pans to my feet, and a few seconds later you see the bottle of lens solution fall to the floor in slo-mo, followed by the sound of my bloodcurdling scream and maybe a few drops of blood. Cue opening credits and Moog synthesizer (or maybe something like Danzig’s “Blood and Tears,” hee).

Several minutes of myopic hunting around didn’t turn up any lenses, and Hubs was going to be home any minute and dinner was already late so I didn’t have time to go feeling around every inch of the kitchen floor to look for the thing–it wasn’t like I was going to put it in after it had been on the floor, anyway; I regularly steam-clean the tile with my steam mop, but still. I also regularly stand there in my bare feet and drop/drip food on the floor as I cook. So I took another lens out of the package, popped it in, and ahhh–clear vision! Time to shrug and move on, right?

Except the same thing happened with the left eye. This time, though, Hubs had arrived as I prepped to put the thing in (you know, if you didn’t know the “thing” here referred to a contact lens, that sentence could take on a whole new dramatic implication), and the kids wandered into the kitchen, and so I was not only distracted but in no mood to go hunting around for the “lost” lens. I put another one in and got on with dinner, figuring, eh, weird, and I’ll go to the eye doc asap to ask him about it, but no biggie. I was/am pretty sure it’s impossible to see properly if you’re doubling your vision correction, so I wasn’t going to worry about it.

Fast-forward to Wednesday night. My eyes have been a little dry and irritable, and Hubs and I watched a sad movie so I got a little teary, which for some reason always makes my contacts impossible to see through afterward. I usually take them out, give them a rinse, and put them back in, but it won’t hurt my eyes to go sans lenses for the night.

I take out the right lens and put it in its case. It magically becomes–yep–two lenses! (Just wait; I promise it gets even stupider.) Two lenses. I’ve been wearing two lenses in my right eye this whole time. How the hell I managed it is beyond me, but I managed just the same. The thing I can’t figure out is why the double-lens didn’t blur my vision, but hey, maybe I’m wrong about that. It’s certainly possible, given that I’m the dumbass who actually considered the possibility that my contact lens somehow dissolved in either thin air or somewhere in the process of application, so…

I brace myself and remove the lens from my left eye. This time, though, there’s only one lens. Yay, sigh of relief. (Remember, I wasn’t sure about the left eye; the lens could have fallen off my finger, and I didn’t really spend much time hunting thanks to my magically-disappearing-lens-theory.)

Now, if you’ve ever worn contact lenses you know that when you first put your glasses on after wearing contacts, everything looks really weird and tiny and it can be nauseating for a little while. (If you haven’t ever worn contact lenses and didn’t know that, well, now you do.) So I stumbled my way through the bizarrely teeny world on my suddenly-miles-away miniature feet, grabbing things with my munchkin hands for balance, and sat down to focus on my laptop until the queasy ickiness passed.

But my glasses didn’t seem to be doing their job properly. I could see through them, nothing was outrageously blurry, but things were blurry enough to make me wonder. Maybe I was just tired, I thought, so after working for about an hour I went to bed–I don’t have the same vision weirdness when I put on my glasses after getting up (in fact, often when I’m going to take out the lenses I do it late at night and go straight to bed without even putting the glasses on at all–I just feel my way upstairs through a blurry house).

Trust me, guys. It gets even stupider.

I’m sure it won’t surprise you to hear that things were not better in the morning. Something wasn’t right. My left eye seemed blurry and weak when my glasses were on, but when I took them off, my left immediately became dominant. What was going on?

Now, before you laugh too hard at me, remember that I’d taken my lenses out and two had come out of my right eye, but only one from my left–but my vision in my left had definitely deteriorated when the lens came out, which, if I were wearing two contacts, both of which had equal vision-correcting ability, shouldn’t have happened, right? If you need a -9.5, which I do, and you have a -9.5 in your eye, your vision would be perfect/corrected. That’s pretty basic. So if my vision is not corrected, it stands to reason that I don’t have a contact lens in that eye.

So I’m getting worried. I talk to Hubs about stopping in at the eye doc the next day, and hopefully he’ll have time to take a look or help me out. Shit, were my years of lens abuse catching up to me? I have never been good about taking out my lenses every two weeks like you’re supposed to; in fact, I’ve been horrible at it, like, wearing my lenses for an obscene amount of time. I rarely remember to deep-clean my lenses or use an enzymactic cleanser (meaning, before I started wearing disposables–are enzymactic cleansers still a thing?). For months a long time ago I wore a lens with visible protein deposits, a lens cloudy with age, because I was poor and lazy and twenty-one years old so couldn’t be bothered spending money on vision correction when there was beer to be bought instead. Was it finally catching up to me? My eye doc–a hunky Aussie whom I adore–informed me at my last exam that my eyes were in excellent shape even though I had no right for them to be (yes, he literally said this, because he is awesome and hilarious), and that if he hadn’t watched me take those lenses out he wouldn’t have believed that I wore them based on the pristine condition of my eyes. (The lesson here, of course, is that if you’re irresponsible with your contacts, your eyes will be healthy and strong.) I’d been so proud, and now this.

(And you know, I’m joking, but the idea of losing my eyesight is genuinely terrifying, as I’m sure it is for many of you. I was pretty sure nothing was seriously wrong, because “vision has improved” isn’t usually a symptom that something is seriously wrong with one’s vision, and my vision in my left eye definitely seemed better, but still. It was a little scary.)

Then it occurred to me that I’d just taken those lenses out of the one box and put them in. Was my script still the same in both eyes? Maybe it wasn’t. I couldn’t remember for sure. And my vision has actually improved a tad since the appointment before my last, going from a -9.75 to a -9.5 (my current script); the only benefit to getting a little older is that many people start to become a bit farsighted, and when you’re severely nearsighted that’s a good thing. So maybe my left eye hadn’t required as strong a prescription to begin with, and maybe I’d accidentally put in a lens too strong for it, and that was why I was having this fairly-minor-but-still-unsettling issue.

That needed to be checked out! So back into the house I hop (I’d been outside having a cig–smoking is also Good For Your Eyeballs), to check the prescription strength on the boxes. This was it, I was sure of it. I opened the cabinet, yanked out the box–it’s the cabinet where we keep all the medicine and first-aid stuff, so a bunch of band-aids and aspirin and shit tumbled out onto the countertop, which is always fun–and took a look at the prescription strength written on the end of the box.

-3.75.

-3.75? Now, I couldn’t remember if my left eye had improved, or if it had, how much it had improved by, but I was pretty damn sure that it hadn’t suddenly become better by over half. I haven’t been a -3.75 since childhood, I mean, my eleven-year-old Faerie is a…oh, for fuck’s sake.

I’d been wearing my daughter’s contact lenses.

THAT was why doubling the lenses gave me fairly acceptable vision.

Even better, Faerie’s contacts are Daily Wear. I’d had them in for a week and a half.

Good lord.

See, back in April or thereabouts, Faerie asked for contacts, as she’s been doing for some time. I talked to Hunky Eye Doc and he agreed to try it despite her only being eleven, given my extensive experience with contact-wearing and my agreement to monitor her closely; while we both–well, and all of you, now–know that I am not always as on-the-ball (no pun intended) as I should be with my own lenses, being lazy with my precious Faerie’s beautiful big brown eyes was NOT going to happen. (Both of my girls have their father’s big gorgeous brown eyes, which is lovely, though I do admit wishing at least one of them had blue eyes like mine. It was a possibility, since hubs’s father had blue eyes, but it didn’t happen.)

So he gave her a set of trial pairs, and she tried them out, but quickly decided–all on her own–that she was not ready for the responsibility yet, and that she would rather just stick with glasses for a while longer. We were all very proud of her for making that decision, which was difficult for her. And the end result is that we had several pairs of these -3.75 Daily Wear disposable lenses floating around the house, and her mother, in a fit of blinding (pun intended) stupidity, mistook them for her own lenses and then invented bizarre theories about dissolving silicone to cover for her own moronic lapse.

Sigh.

I am now wearing my own contacts again, of course, and Hubs and the girls will probably use this failure to think as teasing fodder for years, but it’s only what I deserve. Seriously, guys, I wore my daughter’s contact lenses, how stupid is that? Sheesh.

Other news: Still no proper treatment for my carpal tunnel, but I am pushing through and working very hard. I will have some news for you soon, and a new excerpt of MADE FOR SIN (and the first review for it has come in–it’s a Reviewer Top Pick at Night Owl Reviews! More on that in my next post) and some excerpts of other stuff, including, if you’re good, a glimpse at Downside 6.

If you want to cheer me up by telling me about something monumentally stupid you’ve done in comments, that would be great (remember, I DO allow anonymous comments) but not necessary.

What Stace had to say on Wednesday, January 21st, 2015
Spoilers

(No, there are no spoilers here, or rather, not of any of my work. I promise.)

A few weeks ago I had the misfortune of catching the movie The House at the End of the Street on TV. I say “misfortune,” because no one watching this thing could ever feel that they were experiencing anything but bad luck, or the laughter of fate. It’s not that it’s an awful movie; that’s the problem. It’s not interesting enough to be awful. It’s just dull, a series of nothing moments that lead to nothing, and every time the movie makes you think something interesting is about to happen, it decides instead to show you another very dull or pointless thing.

This isn’t a movie review, or rather, the movie itself isn’t the subject of this post. Spoilers are the subject of this post, and it was conversation about this movie that inspired that subject, so I’m talking about the movie as background and example. And along the way I’m just saying–for informational purposes, really–that The House at the End of the Street pretty much sucked, despite its rather interesting and spooky-sounding premise.

Here is that premise: A girl and her mom move into a big expensive house on a secluded street. The house across the street (or behind them, I’m not exactly sure; what I do know is that neither house was actually at the end of a street) was the scene of a murder years before, wherein a teenage girl murdered her parents and then presumably drowned, though they never found her body. The movie give us one moment of “Hey, what’s that? That’s creepy” when Elisabeth Shue (who plays the mother and looks gorgeous) sees a light on in that house, and looks scared by it. Lucky for us, though, the movie is quick to reassure us–almost immediately, in fact–that there’s nothing to be frightened of, there’s just a dude living there. No ghosties or anything, just the son of the murdered parents/brother of the murderous sister, who is around twenty-one now. He was away visiting an aunt when the murders occurred, so of course, like any normal young person, he wants to keep living all alone in the big huge secluded house fifteen miles outside of town where his parents met their violent ends at the hands of his sister. Makes sense to me, sure.

So. There’s some dumb scene with a subplot or something with some guy who skeeves all over Jennifer Lawrence (and, okay, I’m sorry, but I don’t get it. I do not see the “OMGMOSTBEAUTIFULGIRLEVERANDSOCHARMINGANDTALENTEDTOO” thing. Sure, she’s a pretty enough girl, but so is just about every other young actress. JMO.) and her walking home from a party; it’s a ten-mile walk, we are told, so it makes sense that she wouldn’t try to get someone else to take her or attempt to call a cab or anything. A Mysterious Guy drives past and asks if she needs a ride; she wisely says no, but then it starts to rain and she gets in the car after all.

It turns out–here’s where the post topic comes in–that this guy is Ryan, the suburban murder-house hermit. It turns out he’s taking classes at community college, slowly making his way toward, and saving up for, a four-year college education. Anyone might be forgiven for thinking, “Dude, if you sold that enormous chunk of real estate you rattle around in by yourself, you could skip the community college,” but apparently it’s all Ry-ry has to remember his family by, and that’s why he stays, all by his lonesome in a house where his family were slaughtered in a town that openly loathes him. Yes, Ryan, I’m sure your parents would want you to struggle and be ostracized in their death house because pictures just aren’t enough sometimes.

Anyway. We meet Ryan. He drops Jennifer Lawrence at her house and goes home. We watch him for a minute or two as he wanders around, a tiny lone figure in a huge house, and makes some soup from a can or something (it might have been spaghetti-Os? I don’t recall). He puts the food on a tray and heads downstairs into the basement, where he pulls back a rug on the floor to reveal a trapdoor, which he lifts, which reveals a whole ‘nother underground hallway–I mean, not a tunnel, but a full-on hallway–which leads to a locked door (he leaves the key above the doorframe, because why would you keep that key with you?), beyond which is a small bedroom, and in that bed is a girl in a slightly ragged nightgown with semi-ratty blonde hair. The girl sort of grunt-screams and tries to attack him, but he sedates her with one of those tranq syringes it’s so easy for people to acquire just in case. “Calm down, Carrie Ann,” he says, and we in the audience stop rolling our eyes and guffawing long enough to gasp! In shock! Carrie Ann is the name of his murderous sister! Clearly he, when he was a teen, dug and remodeled this sub-basement to keep his sister a prisoner because he loves her and can’t let the law or a hospital have her (or maybe his parents did so, because they wanted an extra guest room and thought it would be fun to treat their guests like prisoners at a gulag? Maybe they just really wanted to dig out a secret room under their house as an experiment in engineering? Maybe they planned to mine coal in secret, for kicks?)! Clearly, this is why he stays in town–it’s not the memories, it’s so he can keep his sister locked in this sub-basement rather than keeping her in some other above-ground bedroom somewhere nobody knows them and thus would not recognize her! Clearly he keeps her there because it would be awful to alert the authorities and thus get her the help she needs! It makes perfect sense!

Now. At this point we are barely thirty minutes into the film. We have just met Ryan, and the camera has essentially stayed with him from the moment he meets Jennifer Lawrence all the way through his fascinating food-making and into the basement to his conversation with and drugging of Carrie Ann.

I went hunting around for reviews and such of this film, and found many that mentioned this plot point: Ryan lives in the house and keeps Carrie Ann in his basement.

Every one of those reviews had someone–often numerous people–bitching about the “spoiler.”

You guys, something the movie shows you in the first half-hour is not a spoiler. It’s a plot point.

When a movie introduces you to a major character in that first half hour, and follows him back to his house to show you-the-viewer what’s in his amazingly professionally-finished sub-basement, that’s not a spoiler. That is a character and plot point that the movie wants you to know before it goes any further.

When a movie’s trailer essentially says to you, “ZOMGYOUGUYS CARRIE ANN’S LIKE TOTALLY STILL OF THE LIVING CHECK IT OUT” by showing you characters conversing with and about Carrie Ann…that’s not a spoiler. It is a plot point. (Seriously. That shit is in the trailer. See for yourself.)

A spoiler is something the movie makers (or author/s or songwriter/s or whatever) want to keep hidden. When M. Night Shyamalan made The Sixth Sense, he did not, in the trailer, show any bits of the film’s final scenes. He did, however, include the kid whispering, “I see dead people,” which tells you that it’s not a spoiler to say the movie is about a kid who sees dead people. In fact, even without the trailer, it’s not a spoiler to say the movie is about a kid who sees dead people, because not only is that a pretty intrinsic part of little Cole’s character, which we as viewers are shown this pretty much right away when we’re introduced to him, but it’s an intrinsic part of the movie’s plot.

So, to get to the essence of my point, I personally think any events which take place in a movie’s first half hour or so–or the first third or so of a book–or any character points which are brought to light while we are introduced to that character, are not spoilers. They’re plot points which must be laid in place before the rest of the story can unfold. Every damn thing is not a spoiler.

What do you think?

(Oh, and if you’re curious, the House at the End… movie goes on to be a basic, and very dull, sort of quasi-slasher movie, where people do stupid things for stupid reasons and it never occurs to anyone to call 911 like a normal person would do, and it’s all just dull, dull, dull. It’s not even fun to make fun of, it’s so dull and insipid.)

Also not a spoiler: I’ll have some news for everyone soon.

Also also not a spoiler: I have been very busy lately, making lots of new words.

What Stace had to say on Tuesday, August 5th, 2014
Judged by Netflix

Goodness, it’s been a while again, hasn’t it? I’m sorry! I’ve been working very hard, and now the girls are off school for the summer so we first had a bunch of school activities and now me trying to keep them amused. And by “me trying to keep them amused,” I mean me taking two or three times as long to do any household task because they’re “helping” me, and me teaching them how to play Solitaire in the desperate (and failed, sadly) hope that it would give them something to do other than hanging out and “helping” me with the aforementioned activities.

At the end of next week they’re going to visit their grandmother (my MIL) for about five days. I’m kind of freaking out about that–I’ve never been away from them for so long, and while I’m glad they’re going to go and hope they have fun, and I’m looking forward to the uninterrupted work time…ack, they won’t be home with me!

Aaanyway. One of the things I do when I’m alone in the kitchen is watch Netflix on my phone. Watching it on my phone means I’m limited to UK Netflix, which is frankly rather shitty, so I watch things I may not otherwise watch just because at least it’s available.

But here’s the problem with UK Netflix–it seems to be a slight issue with US Netflix, too, but to a lesser extent, because on US Netflix you can click on a category and see everything available, whereas here you only see what in that category UK Netflix thinks you might be interested in based on what you’ve watched before. Which means UK Netflix is constantly making these weird suggestions to me based on the fact that, for example, I watched ten minutes of the first episode of Sons of Anarchy before I switched to something else. (Sons of Anarchy actually seemed like a pretty good show, but one I’d have to pay real attention to, which isn’t easy when I’m watching in the kitchen because, you know, I’m cooking or doing dishes or sweeping or whatever.) I am still getting recommendations from them based on Sons of Anarchy, and that was four months ago that I watched those few minutes.

And their recommendations are, well, they don’t make much sense, because of the categories they put things in. I watched Memoirs of a Geisha one afternoon in May. I am still getting recommendations based on it, and those recommendations are all romantic comedies/chick flicks. I watched Memoirs because I read and liked the book and have seen the movie before, and because I was in the mood for something sort of historical and about Japan. So recommending Confessions of a Shopaholic to me based on the fact that I wanted to watch something historical and Japanese makes about as much sense as recommending Fatal Attraction to me because I watched a movie about bunnies (it would not surprise me to learn this actually happened).

Now, I sound like I’m whining, and that’s not my intent–I love Netflix, I really do, and hubs and I have been absolutely spellbound by House of Cards over the last few weeks. My intent is simply to use the above to illustrate why I am also afraid of Netflix.

See, I have a lot of interests, some of which are rather odd. Some of which aren’t odd at all but are rather odd for me. For example, in the last few years I’ve developed this weird but semi-passionate interest in mountain climbing. I have never climbed a mountain and I have no plans to–my idea of exercise is baking bread (you would be amazed how much upper-body strength that can require, if you’ve never done it yourself) or having to walk the girls to school instead of driving. I am not an outdoorsy girl at all; I don’t even like picnics or eating outside (I loathe insects). So while there’s nothing particularly odd about being interested in mountain climbing, it is rather odd for me to be interested in it.

But I am. So I’ve watched a lot of mountain-climbing documentaries and read quite a few books/listened to a few audiobooks. I’ve spent more time than I should online reading articles and stories (especially haunting Outside magazine’s excellent website. I even caved and bought a copy of Jon Krakauer’s INTO THIN AIR, even though I have some issues with Krakauer (I find it really annoying and borderline irresponsible the way he keeps insisting Christopher McCandless died of accidental poisoning instead of admitting the truth, which is that the kid starved to death; I found this same “I admire this person therefore they cannot have possibly made a mistake” attitude evident in INTO THIN AIR but still enjoyed the book). Documentaries on Everest? Of course. Ghosts of K2? Bring it, baby. The amazing Eiger: Wall of Death? Hells yeah. And pretty much any other doc I can find.

But here’s the thing. I find mountain climbing and, really, stories about mountains fascinating. But that doesn’t mean all of my interests necessarily follow, which is why I am afraid of Netflix judging me.

See, there’s some documentary on Netflix that looks like it could be rather fun, in a weird and ridiculous kind of way. I can’t remember the name offhand, but it’s basically a documentary that claims the Bush family was responsible for the death of John Kennedy Jr., presumably because of politics/GWB running for President in 2000–I’m not entirely sure. And I really do not mean to get into politics here (you all know this is not a political place) but I find the idea of this so, well, silly, that I would actually like to watch this documentary, because it seems like such a far-out idea that I’d enjoy seeing what evidence they’ve managed to come up with for this theory.

But when we first got Netflix, I made the mistake of watching David Brashears’ Everest documentary (the one filmed in IMAX; it loses quite a bit on a regular TV, I think, but it was still pretty good). Netflix decided that my interest in Everest must also translate to an interest in all things outdoorsy and, well, neo-hippie-like, which means that I am *still* trying to clear my suggestions of various documentaries about the evils of corporations and Enron and militant environmentalism and whatever else. It’s not that I don’t think any of those issues are important; it’s just that I don’t care about them enough to want them recommended to me instead of things I might actually want to watch. And it seems like no matter what other things I watch, no matter how frivolous they are, no matter how many times I click “Not Interested” or try to “refine” my interests, Netflix insists on suggesting documentaries about soccer and environmental terrorism to me.

So you can imagine my fear of actually watching that JFK Jr. documentary on Netflix. What would Netflix think of me then? What in the world would they start recommending to me based on that? There is no box to tick that says, “I’m watching this ironically,” or “I just think this might be amusing but it’s not a topic I care much about.” That box does not exist. Netflix insists on seeing me as, I dunno, some sort of chick-flick loving environmental activist from a motorcycle gang who likes to snowboard. I cannot imagine what they would add to that if I watched some JFK Jr. conspiracy movie. It’s at the point now where I quite literally skip watching things that might interest me because I’m worried about what dark paths of the soul it might lead Netflix down as far as recommendations.

I know this is paranoid…but I bet I’m not the only one, either. (I hope not, anyway.) Anyone else find their Netflix recommendations rather silly or impossible to change?

I will have some news-updates next week.

What Stace had to say on Wednesday, July 9th, 2014
Random Things (mostly about TV)

I realized some time ago–but promptly forgot again, because I’m forgetful that way–that my posts from here were no longer mirroring to my livejournal blog. I know, ha ha ha, livejournal, it’s so 2002 or whatever. But I actually liked livejournal and still do; it’s a pretty simple platform to use. Anyway. I’m considering starting to copy-paste my posts back over there until I can get the plugin fixed or get a new plugin or whatever it is that needs to be done, but I’m also wondering if maybe that would be a good place to post recipes and such. Because right now I have–I am not exaggerating–six notebooks stacked in the corner of my kitchen counter which are full or half-full of random recipes and notes (I tend to just grab whatever notebook is handy for both of those things, and I copy recipes into notebooks and take them into the kitchen rather than take my computer, and I make notes on how I’ve altered those recipes in the notebooks). It would be nice to save some of those elsewhere.

Oh, and it’s fun the way I copy a recipe down without titling it or specifying what it is, and sometimes I end up not making it, and then two months later I’m flipping through said notebook and wondering wth all that stuff was supposed to be. Was it a muffin? Was it cake? Bar cookies? Who knows? One of these days I’m just going to start cooking random recipes and seeing if I can figure out what they were supposed to be.

A week or so ago I found myself looking online at AV Club recaps of The Office (US). They weren’t recaps so much as reviews, and it kind of got me thinking about one of the stupidest and silliest little disappointments in the world: that feeling you get when you read a recap/review of a TV show and find the writer missed your favorite joke, or missed a point, or loves a character you hate or vice versa. Because it kind of ruins the recaps from then on, doesn’t it? Like, I never really watched that show How I Met Your Mother. It just wasn’t my thing, really, although I usually found it at least somewhat amusing when I turned it on–largely because of Allison Hannigan and Jason Segal, and of course Mr. Harris–but it just never grabbed me. I found the conceit irritating, and I could never figure out why the show had to focus so much on that awful annoying Robin character who I hated. Of course, turns out the show was pretty much all about her. Turns out, too, that everybody loves Robin except me. It makes you feel so out of touch with the world when everyone is slathering spitty-sloppy love all over an insufferable jerk of a character, or an annoying one, or a stupid one, or whatever. Or am I alone in that feeling, too? Heh. Here I go again on my own…

And speaking of TV, I’ve been having tons of fun watching old episodes of Beverly Hills 90210. Some of you may recall that I was a huge fan and avid viewer of this rather ridiculous teen soap opera, which makes me seem like a total dork, but I don’t care. I love the show and the characters, and am a die-hard Kelly/Dylan person. I WILL FIGHT TO THE DEATH FOR DYLAN AND KELLY TO DO SEX AND LOVE TOGETHER. One of the reasons I did not watch the “new 90210”–aside from the “god, really?” factor, which was admittedly the main reason–was learning that although Kelly would be back, Dylan would not, and in my mind Kelly and Dylan are together 4ever. I also heard that David and Donna were split up on the new show; I can only assume this is because David’s insipid semi-melodic whining made him a Huge Star in that “Hip-Hop Nation” he was always giving “props/shout-outs/thanks” to. We all know there was no harder hip-hop than “You’re so precious to meeeee…am I precious to yooooo-oooouuu,” right? Sing it, David! Sing it hard.

Do not, however, let this discussion of recipes and TV make you think I’m not working hard. I am. Very hard. In fact, really? I’m working so hard that I have very little else on my mind, which is why I keep blogging about rather inane subjects–there’s not much room for anything more weighty in my head these days. But I have promised to be more on top of the blog and around more in general, and I hate neglecting you all, so I hope frivolous me is better than nothing.

What Stace had to say on Monday, June 23rd, 2014
Oh the things

So who else is watching the World Cup?

I don’t actually care much about soccer, really. I never watch it outside of the Cup (and I don’t always watch or pay attention to the Cup, either). I don’t watch gymnastics or swimming competitions outside of the Summer Olympics, either, or likewise with any of the winter sports. But I am having fun watching this year, and it’s not just because of how insanely hot a lot of the players are, or the amusing way they all stand in a line cupping their balls when there’s a free kick, like preschoolers who really have to pee. (Even funnier is the way the camera always zooms way out when this is happening, and even funnier than that are the occasional players who do something like put their hands deliberately behind their back as a way of psyching out the opposing players or demonstrating to the audience how they don’t worry about getting racked by a soccer ball because their own balls are literally made of steel, motherfuckers! Bring it ON!)

(I also noticed that none of the Iranian players did this. I don’t know if it was modesty or toughness. Because man, those guys fought hard. It was very impressive.)

(Why yes, I suppose I do spend a weirdly long amount of time thinking about the players’ balls. So? You act like there’s something wrong with that, when in fact I suspect most people are thinking about balls at least 30% of the time. Men would be thinking about their own–and possibly those of other men–and women would be thinking about the ones they wouldn’t mind getting a peek at or perhaps fondling in a friendly manner. Or balls they have known in the past, or whatever. Point is, people think about balls, so it’s not at all weird to notice a bunch of grown men standing in a line gently cupping their own, sometimes with their other hands over their hearts like the national anthem of the world’s weirdest country is being played and they are all loyal citizens. Imagine the flag of that country.)

Anyway. So I’m watching, and enjoying it. I don’t have any idea who’s going to win the whole thing, because–as I said–I don’t pay attention to soccer any other time, and haven’t really paid a lot of attention to the standings and such, although I seem to think Argentina is the general opinion? Or was, anyway, because from what I’ve seen a whole bunch of teams aren’t performing as expected, either for the worse or for the better.

Meanwhile, I am busily at work, rewriting stuff and making notes and all that sort of thing. I am also trying to find the time for the fun thing I want to do here over the summer–it requires rather a lot of prep work, see. Also, now I feel like I’m building this up way too high and everyone is going to be disappointed, because it’s really not that big a thing. It’s just an old piece of writing of mine that I thought was lost forever, but which has been found, and I think it might be really fun to post some of it here. But that requires me reading the whole thing to find the choice bits, hence the delay.

Also, it’s hot here. Hot and sunny, and some of you may remember that my productivity takes a nosedive when it’s hot out. Not because I’m out hiking or swimming or doing other healthy outdoorsy things in the sunshine like a girl in a Noxema ad, but because I’m inside with all the curtains drawn, cursing the heat, slathering myself with unguents, and wishing I could sleep more than four hours without being awakened by A) the stupid fucking sun or B) the stupid fucking heat. Sometimes I’m debating the logic of sleeping in the car with the engine running and the AC on, but I generally discard that idea as impractical. Oh, and I spend time trying to think of things to make for dinner that won’t result in my kitchen turning into a sweatlodge. I do not have a lot of luck with that.

But I am chugging on, though I’ve reached the point in my latest edit/rewrite where I start thinking, “God, why am I bothering, this is just a piece of shit and nothing can fix it ever.” I hate this point. But I force myself to keep going because I have so many other things I need to do and won’t let myself do them until I’m done with this. So there you go.

And yes, of course I saw the Game of Thrones finale last week. OMG!!

What Stace had to say on Monday, December 9th, 2013
Death and Eggnog

Okay. I’m going to start posting the story tomorrow (a couple of last-minute things I needed to do, and because I’m flaky I want to give it a better title so am busily trying to come up with one) but I had to share this.

First, my Faerie turned nine yesterday, which is just insane, and she had a slumber party on Saturday to celebrate. The girls (she had four guests, so with her and Princess we had six girls in the house) decided they wanted to play Beatles Rock Band. They pretty much sucked at it, hee, but honestly, that game isn’t as easy as it looks. Anyway. The best moment, I think, was when the hubs decided to give them a real challenge and have them try out “Helter Skelter.” Imagine, if you will, four nine-year-old girls singing “helter Skelter.” Now imagine that those nine-year-old girls do not know the song, and are not (of course) drunk–which, let’s be honest, the only way one can really get into the full non-shy spirit in which Rock Band is supposed to be played–so are basically just tunelessly chanting “Helter Skelter” in a weird little-girl monotone. In unison. It was honestly like we’d invited the Manson Family over for popcorn and cookie cake.

Anyway. Last night the hubs and I decided to start our Christmas Movie watching, and we started with LETHAL WEAPON. The Christmas elements in this one are pretty thin, really; a couple of vague references and some lights and a tree, but still.

Now, I remember when this movie came out, and what a huge deal it was. I remember watching it quite a few times and thinking it was great. And to be fair, it is still a decent movie–once you get past some of the ridiculous dialogue and contrivances and such. But you know, we were having fun with the ridiculous dialogue, and sort of laughing and poking gentle fun as we went along.

Then we got to the death of Michael Hunsaker. Some of you may recall that the movie’s plot spins directly from the death of Michael’s daughter Amanda, who was high and so distraught by the fact that she had apparently misplaced her bra and so was forced to be the film’s 80’s Gratuitous Boob-Baring Girl that she leapt from a hotel window and died. Michael was in the ‘Nam with Roger Murtaugh, which is how Riggs & Murtaugh got involved in all of this, and there you go.

Anyway. Here we have Amanda’s funeral (or memorial service). It takes place, we suppose, at the Hunsaker house, on a cliff overlooking the ocean:

See all those mourners there, behind Mel Gibson being stoic and manly? Because it's a funeral/memorial service.

While the mourners listen to speeches about how Amanda’s breasts were taken from the filmgoers long before their time, Roger and Michael have a Serious Talk about the sneaky Vietnam-vets-smuggling-heroin plot that led to Amanda’s death.

"This is too big for you to stop, Roger!"

In fact, Michael is so upset–which we can imagine, since his daughter is dead, and he’s having to admit to the police that she’s dead partly because of him and his heroin-smuggling business–that he has to turn away and cover his eyes. Because of all the sorrow.

Note: the mourners are still out there, because this is a memorial service and thus a sad occasion.

We feel very sorry for Michael. What a rough time he’s having. And now he’s having to admit not only his involvement in crime, but the fact that he’s terrified his other daughter will be killed or even that he himself may be killed, and his certainty that the police cannot stop it because the Bad Guys have trained mercenaries who have forgotten more ways to cause pain that you or I will ever know. He’s looking at his expensive study and his spiffy stereo and his lovely well-tailored suit, and realizing none of it was worth the loss of his child and his soul.

I’m amazed he’s not drunk, in fact. I imagine a guy could use a drink when his daughter is being buried. And Michael Hunsaker is no exception. He’s thirsty. Thirsty from all the talking and dehydrated from all the crying we assume he’s done and, well, just thirsty. So we totally see why he’d want something refreshing to drink. Good thing he keeps eight cartons of eggnog right there by his desk!

Mmmm, eggnog!

Oh, wait, sorry. That’s not just any eggnog. That’s “Party Nogg.” Because hey, it’s not just a funeral, it’s a party! If there’s anything that will make the memorial service for a twenty-two-year-old girl more festive, it’s Party Nogg. I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t keep multiple cartons of Nogg in their offices, right there in easy reach for whenever the Nogg mood strikes.

And you know how Nogg is especially good, right? Not just straight out of the carton, the way the classy folk drink it. But straight out of the carton kept right in front of the ocean-facing window, where it has plenty of time to absorb the warmth from the setting sun’s rays every evening. Now that’s good Nogg! I like mine with extra botulism, how about you? And when it curdles, well, it’s not just a drink, it’s a meal.

Delicious!

I mean, really. He keeps eight cartons of eggnog in his office? By the window? It’s his daughter’s funeral and not only is eggnog (Sorry, “Party Nogg”) the first thing he reaches for when he’s thirsty, he just drinks it right out of the carton?

What kind of funeral is this? Is it the kind where as soon as the ashes are blown away by the wind, the guests change their clothes from black to green-n-red and the DJ starts spinning those dance hits? (Tip for the 80’s DJ at this particular funeral-cum-Christmas-party: Do not play Murray Head’s “One Night in Bangkok.” I suspect it will not go over well.) Is the Party Nogg there to add a much-needed touch of holiday cheer to a young woman’s funeral service? To remind them that even in death, eggnog is delicious? I mean, I know I personally have often sat at funerals thinking, “Man, I could really go for some eggnog right now,” or “What this funeral needs is some Party Nogg to get everyone in the mood,” but I thought that was weird of me. I guess not? Is this one of those funerals where they celebrate the soul passing into another realm/being with [Deity of your choice] and everyone is supposed to be really happy for the dead person, and envious of them because now they get to float silently in the ether without a body or whatever while we living people are stuck here drinking and eating delicious food and having sex and other things that suck about being alive?

Are the guests all eggnog addicts (seriously, look at that first image. There are maybe twenty people there. Do you really need four gallons of eggnog for that many people)?

Who can drink that much fucking eggnog?

Perhaps Michael Hunsaker could, but we’ll never know, because out of nowhere, Gary Busey appears in one of those cool movie helicopters that is basically silent until it ascends over the cliffs, and shoots Hunsaker in the chest. But not just in the chest. In a hugely shocking cinematic touch that is in no way the whole reason why we have a man guzzling eggnog out of the carton while burying his child, Hunsaker is shot through the Nogg.

Couldn't Mr. Joshua have waited until I polished off all this Nogg? My wife won't be able to return it!

If you look closely, you’ll see that there’s no blood on his shirtfront. There is only Nogg. Now, I get that the idea is the bullet went through the carton, so eggnog would spill out both holes, but it raises some interesting Bathory-esque theories, doesn’t it, about why he has so much eggnog in his office, just sitting there? Why he seems to crave it so much he can’t even wait for a glass? Why it doesn’t bother him that he’s drinking a warm eggnog-flavored bacterial stew?

Is Michael Hunsaker made of eggnog? Perhaps the real story of the film isn’t heroin dealing, it’s experiments that created Nogg-blooded superbeasts, and the lengths to which they will go to ensure they are never without the Nogg they need to stay alive. Now THAT would be something, wouldn’t it?

Hell, perhaps this is actually all about the eggnog, and the heroin is a ruse. Maybe Gary Busey works for a rival eggnog firm (“Funeral Nogg,” anyone?) and is trying to destroy all the Party Nogg out there, and woe betide any who get in his way.

Seriously. This is even stranger than the end of Ghostbusters 2, where a crowd of people faced with eternal darkness and the Titanic’s arrival and ghosts wandering the streets and a museum covered in an impenetrable shell of otherworldly slime and the Statue of Liberty hopping off her plinth to go for a walk–basically, with terrifying evidence that something Extremely Bad is happening and they could all be dead in the next few minutes–nonetheless decide they’re not only going to celebrate the new year, they’re all going to toast each other and sing “Auld Lang Syne” while they wait for their seemingly inevitable death-by-slime. You know, because life must go on, and from all the signs, there’s good reason to think that this year will be the best ever.

So the moral here is, Gary Busey hates eggnog. And you.

What Stace had to say on Thursday, August 2nd, 2012
Your Questions II!

(Before we start Auntie would like to point out that today is the UK/Aus/IRE release of CHASING MAGIC! So, you know, please go buy it.)

This next question is extra-special, because of the level of respect shown by the readersheep in question. Good for you, little sheep! You *might* even qualify as Not Totally Stupid!

Auntie, you’re obviously a wealth of knowledge, and I know, as a moronic reader, I am completely unworthy of your time , but I wanted to thank you. I found your recent post to be a wonderful eye opener – it’s great to finally known exactly what my role as reader actually is! I am extremely grateful for you making it clear, and can’t thank you enough!

However, I have a question, and I can’t quite work out what your thoughts would be. What do you think about authors paying for positive reviews? If the job of readers is “solely to love and promote your book”, then why on earth would you pay such lowly creatures to do what should come naturally? Yet, on the other hand, would it be wise to do so – a pittance of what you will eventually be earning once the world knows you are the World’s Most Talented Author – when everyone will automatically love your book once reading this one positive review, due to the hivemind?

That’s about offering to pay for a positive review, but what about those readers who require – actually have the nerve to ask for – a fee in return for a positive review? Are these particular morons not thinking them superior to the mighty Author? Or are they providing a service, where payment, despite their zero importance, seems fair? I think it would be absolutely fascinating to know hear your opinions on such things – not only would it be great advice for authors, whether to steer clear or to take advantage of, but also to us reviewer readers, so we know how best to help our authors.

Thank you so much for taking time out from advising our godlike authors to read an email from such a lowly reader – if you managed to get this far. I would be beyond humbled to know you gave me the time of day!

Well, I did manage to get that far, but only because of how well you seem to have learned your place. Auntie has no time for readersheep who insist they matter in any way, so it’s nice to see one like you who has learned the error of her me-me-me little ways.

So let’s start at the beginning, which I know is important because try as you might you little sheep are incapable of understanding anything not perfectly linear.

First, you’re right. Authors shouldn’t have to pay for any sort of review, because duh, the free book is payment enough. Even THAT is a slippery slope, in Auntie’s opinion, because it’s frankly giving the readersheep WAY too much power, and swelling their silly little heads to mammoth proportions, to behave as if they deserve anything in return for their obligatory praise. In writing it all should work the other way around: everything for The Author, and nothing for The Reader.

However, because some traitorous authors have actually gotten into the habit of behaving as if the readersheep matter–and I don’t capitalize “Author” there because they are unworthy of it–and especially because of the, well, sheep-like nature of the readersheep which means they move blindly from one book to the next baa-baa-baa-ing as they follow their little sheep pals and buy up anything one of those pals says is any good (and I realize the incongruity of saying “pals,” as if readersheep are capable of feeling things like friendship, when in fact only hatred burns in their dark, envious little hearts)…well. I suppose sometimes we Authors must bite the bullet.

And I admit, giving them free stuff does make it easier later to inform them of their obligations. Much like Don Corleone dealing in favors, so must we be. And our retribution must be as swift, if they make the mistake of thinking they’re entitled to their own opinions.

It is rather confusing, and you being a readersheep I don’t blame you for not immediately knowing how to handle it all. After all, you are not very smart, are you? Poor little dear. What it boils down to, really, is this:

*Readersheep owe Authors positive reviews
*Whatever an Author must do to get positive reviews is justified
*Readersheep have no right to charge for positive reviews, BUT
*If Authors want to pay them for them, that’s fine, because anything Authors do is fine
*At least charging for reviews makes clear that the readersheep are not, as they claim, simply people who love books, but crazed egotists who are desperately trying to exert some sort of control over the behavior and careers of Authors
*Better that we have some paid readersheep out there to sway opinion
*Readersheep are always dumb

Auntie SpecialSnowflake, can you help me write better 5 star reviews? I want to make sure all the amazing and talented authors out there become rich and famous.

As well you should.

Auntie can indeed help, of course, and good for you for recognizing your responsibility! Here are a handy list of phrases you can use:

*The best book I’ve ever read
*Made me cry from its sheer beauty
*I felt like I was inside the story watching it all happen
*Better than {insert bestseller’s name here}
*You wont[sic] be disappointed
*Deserves a Pulitzer Prize
*I’ve never read anything so amazing
*Made me laugh, made me cry, made me cheer! {the exclamation point is very important}
*The most original story I’ve ever read
*Deserves to be a bestseller
*Deserves to be made into a movie

Any combination of those will work very well. And don’t forget, you can also check the five-star Amazon reviews for a number of self-published books to get a whole lot more of them–many of those reviews will even be written by the actual Author, so you know they’re good!

Auntie may still have a question or two in the queue, but tomorrow we may see something different here. It depends.

What Stace had to say on Wednesday, August 1st, 2012
Your Questions Answered!

(Note: This is Part One. To include all the questions would run a bit longer than I’d like, so Auntie graciously permitted me to do two separate posts. The next one will be up tomorrow.)

Auntie Specialsnowflake here! So many of you silly little readersheep sent in questions, and good for you! It is so gratifying to see how many of you acknowledge your lowly status, and that you need to modify your behavior in order to make this world a better place. Auntie is proud of you–well, as proud as she can be, considering that you still have not achieved anything of any importance (i.e. you have not written a book).

So let’s get to it!

Dear Auntie Specialsnowflake,

Readersheep want a cool, and attractive author. How can I make myself seem more cool and attractive?

Yours,
Fat and over 40. 😉

Well, Fat, of course they do! Readersheep are incapable of seeing beyond the surface of anything, which is why they’re such sad failures and why they do things like give bad reviews to books that have lots of errors, just as if writing ability matters or something (we Professional Authors know it does not). As I said before, the obvious and best answer is to steal the photo of a Canadian model from a photographer’s Flickr account. This works especially well if you repeatedly talk about how your manager wants you to get more professional photos like that done but you’re just so down-to-earth you’re not necessarily into that, and you can also mention how hard it is to find people who like you for YOU and not just because of your golden hair and “blue eyes to die for.”

However, if you cannot find a photographer whose copyright you’re ready to trounce upon in the name of entitlement (which, how silly! Of course you’re entitled!) or a model whose image you are happy to use and whose career you are happy to potentially damage, there are other things you can try.

*Along that “picture” vein, find one of yourself taken, say, fifteen years ago. Make sure that it looks like it was taken during the heyday of Glamour Shots (i.e. shiny satin wrapped around your shoulders, hair piled eight inches off your scalp, heavy makeup, lots of fake pearls; science has yet to discover any look more flattering, or one that so loudly screams “Professional Author,” as what I’ve just described) or that you are otherwise wearing clothes or a hairstyle which are seriously dated. That photo of you with big poufy bangs and a perm wearing a Rick Springfield t-shirt will do nicely.

You can also skip the “old” picture and go for one which is “artistic.” Like, say, one where so much Vaseline was smeared on the lens that you resemble nothing so much as a sort of flesh-toned amoeba, or maybe one taken from fifty or sixty feet away, or perhaps a silhouette or an image taken basically in the dark.

Don’t forget, too, that nobody says you have to post a picture of your whole face. Take a close-up of the back of your head, or your hand. Not only will this be flattering, it has an ironic “hipster” feel that will be much appreciated by the younger readersheep, who will never see through any of these ruses.

*Use hip lingo. In my last post I mentioned how valuable “LOL” is, especially when discussing things which no sane human would ever think are actually worth even a smile, much less a full-on laugh. Use “LOL” a lot. This sort of “cool code-word” will immediately clue in the kiddies that you are young and fresh!

*Talk about popular culture. Apparently there’s some young singer called “Justin Beaver” or something. Post some pictures of him. The readersheep will immediately see that you are clued into what the kids are doing these days.

*Post a lot about very personal things. Let it all hang out! Talking about your sex life is guaranteed to excite the readersheep–they have the mentality of raincoat-wearing old men in pornographic theaters, you see, a voyeuristic delight in hearing or reading about anything having to do with sex–and make them come back for more. Auntie can picture them now, drooling as you explain your latest orgasms to them. Don’t forget to totally objectify any man you may happen to write about, as in, “I ran out to the convenience store to get a drink, and the guy behind the counter was totally hot and flirted with me so much I was tempted to peel off my jeans right there and let him see what he so obviously wanted!” The readersheep will be titillated beyond belief at this, especially since everyone knows they themselves can never manage to find anyone willing to have sex with them.

*Prove that you are tough, just like they are. We all know young people today are basically animals with no brains or impulse control. Prove that you are one of them by, of course, following the advice Auntie’s already given, but also by doing things like visiting forums hosted by TV networks for their reality shows and picking fights and calling names. There are no end to the places on the internet where you can demonstrate your amazing linguistic abilities and lack of self-censoring.

*Misspellings and poor grammar. As I mentioned, this will let the readersheep know that you are one of them, casual and unpretentious. Everyone knows that only fuddy-duddies and The Olds care about such things. YOU are an artiste! Young and hip and happening, just like Rimbaud!

*Don’t forget the importance of lying. This is the internet. Nobody has to know how old you really are!

*Make sure you rant whenever you can about how awful the readersheep who don’t like your book are and how much you need the support of the readersheep who do. This will get them on your side and make them want to run around the internet attacking those who give your book bad reviews, which will in turn make it appear that you are young, popular, and cool, with legions of fans (we Professional Authors always refer to the readersheep who like us as “Fans,” btw). Win!

Dear Auntie,

The Readersheep are overrunning my sock puppet reviews on my book. They tell me my book is bad. How can it be bad when it’s over 1000 pages?!

Epically yours,

A Stenographer of the Heart

Oh, dear, Stenographer. It can’t be, of course. Your book is the best and most amazing and touching novel ever put on paper. The problem is–as deep down you know–those stupid jealous readersheep. They hate that you managed to write such an intricate and involved tale, and that you have the dedication to put such a huge number of words on the page, especially since we all know that the only other Authors who have ever managed to write that many words are people like Tolkein and Dickens and Clavell, and obviously your book puts you in their ranks.

The only way to combat such stupidity from such uneducated, snivelling, hate-filled readersheep is, of course, to report them and their reviews to whatever site they’re posting on, including web hosts. Get all of your sockpuppets to report, too. In addition, use all of their names in your next book for characters of whose lifestyles you do not approve, or who have diseases or are otherwise imperfect. That’ll show em!

What Stace had to say on Monday, July 30th, 2012
Bringing It Home

NOTE: For the next few days I am turning my blog over to my dear friend Auntie Specialsnowflake,* who will teach new authors everything they need to know about Promoting Their Books, Making Themselves Famous, and WINNING THE INTERNETS.** I urge you all to follow these tips to the letter. I think we’ve all seen recently how well this works. Fame and money will soon be yours!

Well, yes, Auntie skipped posting on Friday. Because unlike you people, she actually has a life. So there. You see, being the enormous Bestselling Author that she is, she is simply inundated with requests to do tours and sign autographs and all of that; she is hounded everywhere she goes, just like all us Bestselling Authors are. (Yes, we are recognized in public ALL THE TIME, because no one is more recognizable and celebrity-like than Authors.)

Anyway. Let’s get to your own blog, shall we? And how to use the momentum you’ve gained through Auntie’s special program of sockpuppets, insults, lies, threats, and general tantrum-throwing to truly cement your place in the Authorly Stratosphere.

Why is your own blog so important? Because, duh, if you don’t take the battle to your own blog, you run the risk of the situation–and the ATTENTION–dying down. Also, being on your own blog will add credence to your lies about how many people are looking at you/your post and how they’re all rushing to buy your books in support of it. If you’re on someone else’s blog how could you know this? But on your own…hell, even if the hit counter you have up indicates only, say, 12,000 hits more than it showed when the whole mess started, you can still easily claim 25,000 people checked out your site and blog, and of course, most of them bought your book. This always fools the readersheep. But of course, if it’s not on your blog you can’t lie. And we can’t let that happen, can we? Noooo.

So. You start by writing your own blog post, in which you simply tell the truth and nothing but the truth about how those evil readersheep have injured, damaged, and hurt you personally. How they have ganed up on you and left you bereft. How your innocent attempt to point out the error of their ways–an attempt those ungrateful bitches will never admit how much they appreciate, but we all know they do deep down because all idiots like having their idiotude pointed out. How the hell else are they going to learn, right?–has suddenly snowballed into the most vicious type of aggressiveness.

This will be 100% true, because we all know how the readersheep run their carefully orchestrated campaigns. Auntie believes they have learned to do this by studying the writings of General George S. Patton, because there is of course no way they’re smart enough to orchestrate something of this nature on their own. Hence, you have a whole cabal of readersheep, sitting in front of their computer screens, overeating in a vain effort to silence the gnawing pain of Not Being An Author Like You and cackling madly while they shout, “I’ve got you now, you magnificent son-of-a-bitch! I READ YOUR BLOG!!”

Now, for the first time ever anywhere, Auntie will outline for you the exact methods these readersheep mafiosi use to discredit and attack you:

If Readers catch up to you in a dark alley one day, you are done for

*They quote you. All over the internet. You’ll find your words in places you did not put them. This cannot be countenanced, and is proof that they hate you and all Authors. (It also gives you the opening you need to start adding “You’re violating my copyright!” to your list of legal threats. This will terrify them.)

*They will comment on the things they quote. Just as if they have the right to interpret anything you say. It’s another show of their arrogance, like their stupid misinformed twaddle about your book, which they are obviously just not smart enough to understand.

*They will actually discuss their interpretations of your comments. I know. Something must be done to stop this nonsense. Everyone knows that whatever you say on the internet is intended for your eyes only, or for those of your close circle of friends. No one else has the right to look at your words. This is especially true because you are an Author, and baby, if they want to read what you write they should pay you. Unless of course it’s one of the posts you write based on the following advice, in which case they should be strapped to a table and left there with only your posts to read until they agree to concede that you are far, far better than they can ever hope to be.

*They may put your books on Mean Shelves on Goodreads. Like “Won’t Buy” or “Author Behaving Badly.” Like they have any right to judge the behavior of an Author and make any sorts of buying decisions based on it. You and your book are completely separate things and they are beholden to completely ignore anything and everything about you as a person and just shut up and buy your book. (Again, unless of course they love you. Then they should buy all of your books and give them great reviews simply because that is the sort of support they owe you.)

“Auntie,” you say, “I see this whole bad-shelving thing, but I admit, I’m curious why it matters so much.”

Ah, you poor little thing. I pat you on the head. It matters because the readersheep see even a single instance of such shelving and immediately decide that no matter how much they may want to read your book, they never ever will. All it takes is one to destroy your publishing career forever (there are numerous case studies that support this). The Readersheep know this, so they do this “shelving” thing just because they have nothing better to do and it amuses them to destroy those who have achieved things in life. Remember, just by virtue of writing some words and self-publishing them, or maybe signing a contact with a brand-new epublisher (that means they’re going to show all those big mean established houses!) you are automatically a great success in life.

I repeat, readersheep are incapable of making their own decisions. What one says, thinks, or does, all the others say, think, or do. Period.

ALL of these things can and should be addressed on your own blog. I recommend you begin by using that most mature and guaranteed-to-win argument ever: They Started It. Hey, if they hadn’t been mean about you, you never would have been forced to jump in and defend yourself, right? And they did that knowing how much it could hurt and harm you. They did it just to ruin your life and, especially, to attract your attention. That’s all they want, is for you to notice them.

So first, you point this out. How you were attacked and wounded. Say whatever you want, because the fun isn’t in this initial post–although you must make clear how hurt you are, and how disappointed that they have failed in their responsibility to you–will come in the comments. See, at least one Readersheep is bound to take umbrage at this. Like all stupid people, they get very offended when their stupidity is pointed out to them, even gently. Which you will not be, if you know what’s good for you, because gentleness doesn’t sell books.

So one or two of them will make some moronic comment about how disrespectful you’re being. This is typical of them; they try to make everything about themselves when we all know it’s actually about YOU. Simply let them know that you’re not falling for their attempts to pretend they’re the injured party. You know why they’re on your blog, and it’s because they’re having too much fun attacking you to go away. All you’re trying to do is set the record straight and here they are quoting you and picking at you like the dirty vultures they are.

One or two other Authors–well, I hesitate to say they’re worthy of the title, because all true Authors will see things the way you do–may attempt to get you to remove your post. They will pretend this is because they care and want to help you. This is utter bullshit. They simply do not want you to steal their thunder, because they themselves have been planning a similar Surefire Publicity Campaign and you’re stepping on their territory. Either that, or they’re just kissing ass, hoping the readersheep will see them and buy their books. They do this because they’re just as stupid as the readersheep. Readersheep never buy books from authors who support them, because they have no respect for such a stance. Trust me on this one.

Your post must contain a large amount of self-justification and references to both the stupidity of the readersheep AND how many better things they should have to do AND their bad taste. AND, of course, their meanness, which is what this is all about. A good way to do this is to mention the names of other, more famous Authors, thus implying a bit of modesty and pathos by admitting that, for example, you are not as famous as Stephen King, which means they are extra cruel to attack you. You could of course use J.K. Rowling instead of King; this is especially good if you refer to her as either “JK Rowlings” or “JK Rawling/s.” (Same for calling Stephenie Meyer “Stephanie Mayer,” or similar. All of these are guaranteed to make the readersheep see you as the delicate flower you are, and they will understand how little you deserve to have them express an honest opinion about your book that is not 100% positive. Or anything you do or say.) Once again, it proves that you’re not a crazy egotist, you’re not unable to accept criticism, you’re just a sensitive and extremely talented little snowflake trying as hard as she can to make it in this big scary world, and the readersheep have unjustly targeted you for ruination simply because they get off on such things. Don’t forget to mention all of the things we covered before: the health problems, how important your book is to you, how you’re a good person and they are not, how you don’t deserve such cruelty just for having a dream, etc. etc.

Now–if you’re lucky–you’ll find your blog post linked to or discussed elsewhere. Good for you! You’re becoming a Real Celebrity. Wheaties will be calling you any moment to get your picture on the box, so leave those phone lines open. Most of these posts will be readersheep pretending to be upset by what you’ve said. Do not fall for this. They’re talking about you because your name is now tattooed on their very souls, and they have already begun the process of buying multiple copies of every book you’ve ever written. Deep down they are hugely impressed by you.

But you must at first pretend you don’t know this is the case. You also must–and this is so, so important–NEVER LET THE MATTER DIE. EVER. The name of the game is “Attention at Any Cost,” and you must make them pay for what they’ve done to you. Make the biggest stink you can. Enlist your sockpuppets to start leaving abusive comments on every post on their blogs. They’ll never know it’s you. Threaten them some more. Apply more pathos.

If you’re *really* committed to becoming a huge Bestseller, you’ll try the following:

*Write more blog posts. Write several a day, exposing them for the scum they are. Discuss in great detail how they gang up and bully Authors like you, who did nothing to them except try to share a piece of your heart with the world.

*Make great and excessive use of “LOL” or “< g >” or “HAHAHA!” I recommend “LOL” for most situations. And most of the time what you’ll want to use “LOL” for are things that are not only not funny, but that no one would ever consider funny EVER. For example, you could say “Oh, well, I guess I’m just a jerk that way LOL” and it’s not really funny, but one can see where the “LOL” just might fit in as an indicator of sarcasm or you being asshole-y-ish gleeful about your assholehood. But that’s not what we want here. So try to think in terms of things like, “Sorry I have to go eat dinner LOL” or “My phone is ringing LOL.” Remember, if it makes sense or is something any actual human being would actually laugh at, “LOL” is probably wrong. I recommend “LOL” and “< g >” also for when you’re being a straight-up dick. Like, “I guess I should listen to what you dumb bitches think < g >” or “Go get a life you miserable cunts < g >.” That way you can later pretend you were joking and man, it’s not your fault they have no sense of humor. (“HAHAHAHA!” is best left for threats.)

*Take screenshots of their comments and post them out of context. It doesn’t matter if they’re quoting you calling them fiendish fuckheads. The point is, you have an image where one of them says the phrase “fiendish fuckhead.” Therefore they called you that and no one can prove any different. (Make sure you delete their comment immediately after screenshotting it.)

*Make up other screenshots/posts. The beauty of allowing anonymous comments on your blog is that YOU can post anonymously, too! Of course, you’re already doing so with your supportive sockpuppety friends, but don’t overlook the potential there. You can easily post attacks to yourself for all to see. And once again, not only can no one prove you’re not doing this, they’re too sheeplike and dumb for the idea to even occur to them!

*Don’t just use anonymous sockpuppets, either. Use some who pretend to be your literary agent, or who claim to be lawyers or publishing insiders. If you’re with a small enough publishing house, you can possibly get an editor or higher-up from there to come and go batshit all over the place, which will prove to the readersheep not only how much said publishers believe in your talent, but how important and trustworthy their judgment is. Which, duh, is a lot.

*Inform everyone that you’re receiving private death threats and are talking to the police. Tell them you’ve handed over all of their private information to the authorities (as well as, of course, your own attorney who will need it for those slander suits). This will not only invoke their sympathy and make them see how they’ve gone too far, it will also prove to them your omnipotence (don’t worry about the potential logic issue with this; they certainly aren’t capable of seeing it). As they cower in fear, your name–and book covers!–will be imprinted on their brains, forcing them to buy your books even if they don’t think they want to. They do. Why? Because YOU are dominant, and you have proven it, and now they will submit. Readersheep, being weak little fools, are guaranteed to roll over and do what you want once you take a firm hand.

*Get your friends to keep commenting on your blog and any other that discusses the situation.

*Hunt down every comment they make about you anywhere. Discuss them all with your sockpuppets in detail. Post long blog posts about them.

*Don’t forget to punctuate all of this with more statements about how hugely your sales numbers are rising with every passing second, how they have all made you famous, and you couldn’t pay for that kind of publicity so you thank them. This will make them feel foolish and, of course, prove to them that they have been outsmarted. That works especially well if you begin informing them that THIS is what you expected all along, that you orchestrated the whole thing just to expose them and their evil scheming, and that they have played right into your hands and showed the world who they truly are. THE WHOLE WORLD NOW KNOWS THEY SUCK AND ARE HATEFUL HATERS. HAHAHAHA!

Saying this is proof that you are a Winner

*And, as your last, bold move to Win It All, you must delete everything. Just delete it.

This will leave them guessing and wondering, delighted and amazed. This will leave everyone talking about you. You’ll become a legend: the Amazing Vanishing Author. They’ll debate about you for YEARS.

And you will have cemented your future forever. You, dear Author, are a hero.

TOMORROW: AUNTIE WILL ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS! SO IF YOU HAVE ONE YOU HAVEN’T YET ASKED, SEND IT IN OR LEAVE IT IN COMMENTS!

*Do I really have to explain that this is satire? Please tell me I don’t.
**This does not work. Ever. This is for entertainment purposes only.

What Stace had to say on Thursday, July 26th, 2012
The Most Important Battle You Will Ever Fight

NOTE: For the next few days I am turning my blog over to my dear friend Auntie Specialsnowflake,* who will teach new authors everything they need to know about Promoting Their Books, Making Themselves Famous, and WINNING THE INTERNETS.** I urge you all to follow these tips to the letter. I think we’ve all seen recently how well this works. Fame and money will soon be yours!

Auntie would like to thank you all, first, for your comments. Of course, because most of you are readersheep she takes your compliments as only her due, but it is nice to see some of you finally growing up and accepting that your job is to support authors in any way you can. It’s not like you have anything better to do, after all.

So let’s get right to it, because this is–and Auntie is not being modest–THE MOST IMPORTANT BLOG POST YOU WILL EVER READ IN YOUR LIFE EVER. EVER. Why? Because contained in this post are the secrets to making yourself an International Author Superstar. Now first, a quick apology; I’d intended for this post to be all about you on your own blog, but it occurs to me we missed some steps, so it’s a bit of a mix.

Okay. You’ve done The Right Thing (in other words, Everything Auntie Advises) and responded to some reviews, calmly and rationally pointing out where the reviewer has been neglectful in her sacred duty to promote authors, where she has been mean about you personally by saying she didn’t like something in your book, where she is an idiot, where she doesn’t have the right to say such things because she is just a readersheep and not an Author, and where, well, she’s a bitch and it would probably be best for the world if she would just shut the hell up and let people with actual brains–that is to say, Authors and not readersheep–get about the business of doing things with books.

That’s a good start. As I explained before, the Readersheep are probably making little rumblings at the moment about you, but secretly they are superimpressed by you. And, far more importantly, the rest of the world supports you wholeheartedly.

But what to do about those readersheep making those rumblings? How can you prove to them that you are not only more special than they are, you are smarter, more important, more deserving, and a wonderful person to boot? How can you make them all give you your due?

First, you must threaten them. This is a surefire way to make them see how serious you are, AND to make them respect you. See, in the readersheep mind, authors are mythical figures of power, much like Goddesses. (Yes, they hate them, the way frustrated toddlers hate the Mommy who won’t let them stick a fork in the toaster. Which, believe me, those readersheep would probably do that if they could figure out a way to either attract more attention to themselves by doing so, or blame an Author for it.)

This means a threat coming from a Real Live Author is, well, just about the most terrifying thing that can possibly happen to them. Remember, they talk a big game because of their fanatical hatred for people of talent and worth in this world (which they are not), but really, they’re a cowardly, timid little bunch, given to erupting in vapors at the faintest hint that an Author is On To Them.

There are a whole bunch of people out there who will advise you not to threaten other people, or never make threats you can’t back up, or whatever. They are all a bunch of pussies. Authors who are afraid to threaten readers? Well, Auntie has a name for them, and that name is “Failure.” Threats are one of the best ways possible to draw attention to yourself, and attention automatically equals book sales!

The best way to start this is with legal threats, especially ones about slander. Now, some people will claim there is a difference between slander and libel, the first being spoken and the second written. They’re all morons. Everyone knows there is no difference at all, if “libel” is even a real word, which I bet it is not. Trust me, nothing will strike more fear into the hearts of the readersheep than you threatening to sue them for slander. And nothing will impress all of the others more, either. Your accusation of slander is like…like a calling card, a secret Code Word that lets the whole world know that you are a person not to be messed with.

You can make this even more impressive by mentioning that you have already spoken to your lawyer (or “attorney,” if you want to be really fancy) and he has assured you that they are in fact going to jail for a very long time because of the cruel things they’re saying. They will RUE THE DAY!

“But, Auntie,” you say, pathetically. “I don’t have a lawyer!”

First, that matters not one iota. You might know that and I might know that, but the readersheep do not. Because they are so very gullible and empty-headed, it will never even occur to them that you could possibly not be telling the truth. Merely mentioning the word “lawyer” will strike fear into their hearts. Second, Yes, you do! You just don’t realize it. You see, simply by virtue of being An Author On The Internet, you are in fact a fully qualified attorney, granted the ability worldwide to give extremely accurate legal advice on any and every aspect of the law.

YOU are the only attorney you’ll ever need:

Being a lawyer is so easy!

Now, that should take care of it. Not only should they immediately stop being meanies, but once again, you will have so impressed them all that they will immediately buy your book. It’s like some sort of Readersheep Mysticism, wherein your book sells copies simply because your name has been seen (and you’ll make mention of this later).

But what if it doesn’t? Occasionally you may come across some readersheep who are so invested in trying to make themselves look good that they will pretend not to be impressed by your legal threats.

This is where you reach for a handful of other useful phrases/threats, which I have helpfully illustrated for you below. You may want to print this image out and hang it on your wall, as a handy-dandy guide to Winning The Internets:

Any one of these is GUARANTEED to make the readersheep cry

Now, remember, all of this is being backed up by your friends and sockpuppet accounts. It’s especially useful if those accounts interact with each other, applauding and backing up, and ganging up on whomever opposes them. Also, keep in mind that as a Real Author, you know for a fact how little information is conveyed by things like syntax, word choice, phrasing, grammar and punctuation, etc. So there is no need to try to give your sockpuppets different “voices.” The one thing readersheep do not know how to do is interpret or analyze text; well, we know that, don’t we, because if they were so good at reading they wouldn’t have disliked your book to begin with! There is no possible way they will catch on to the fact that not only do you always say things like “for all intensive purposes,” five brand-new commenters with no internet footprints do the exact same thing!

Oh, dear! I almost forgot the importance of a thing Auntie likes to call “lying.” The beauty of the internet is that not only can no one ever prove you’re not telling the truth about things, but they won’t even GUESS! Readersheep believe everything they’re told, automatically. So when you make your breathtakingly mature and clever comments, make sure you insert some of those “lies.” A couple of them are already in the museum-quality illustration above, but here are a few more:

“My blog gets thousands of hits a day already.” This shows how important you are, and that you don’t need the good opinions of these particular readersheep. Thus proving that you’ve visited them on this particular occasion just to gently correct their mistakes and shower them with the golden joy of your attention, which they crave. I cannot emphasize enough how impressed they will be, how much this will immediately make them realize that they too need to jump on the bandwagon and buy your books. We call them “readerSHEEP” for a reason, and that reason is they have no decision-making capacities of their own and immediately do whatever they’re told, or whatever the other readersheep are doing.

“I am a Bestselling Author.” There is no way for anyone to check up on this, and readersheep are always impressed by an author of whom they’ve never heard making this claim. Hey, you didn’t say where! And nobody can make you, either. You are, after all, the Best Selling Author In Your Home, are you not? You get bonus points if you have ever hit an Amazon list that is so narrowed down that there are only a dozen books that could even possibly be on it. That totally qualifies. You are definitely on a par with Stephen King [we’ll get to him tomorrow], J.K. Rowling [her too], and Stephenie Meyer, and deserve just as much in the way of awe and accolades for the fact that your book sold ten copies on that one Tuesday when you had ten friends all go buy it at the same time so you could call yourself a Bestselling Author. Once again, the word “Bestselling” immediately tells the readersheep that you are a serious genius, a force to be reckoned with, someone whose very existence demands respect. The subtle blessed aroma of Bestsellerhood will drift over them, much like those sex pheromones, and make them see you in a totally different, totally respectful, light. They’re messing with a Bestselling Author, you see, and everyone knows Bestselling Authors have the power to get them fired from their jobs with just one phone call, or make lead into gold, or change the weather using only their awesome brain power. Oh, and the Bestselling Author can immediately blacklist any other person from anything to do with publishing, too, which means no more ARCs for those sleazy freeloading readersheep who are, after all, nothing more than a bunch of thieves. Just like those scumbags who use the library.)

“I have sold movie right/I am about to sell movie rights.” Again, no one can possibly check up on this. And the readersheep will be so impressed they will immediately rush to buy your book because, hey, if somebody else they’ve never met likes it, they will too!

“I have Another Secret Pen Name under which I write huge bestsellers that you all love.” Now, this one works especially well if you are an author starting an epublishing house (and Auntie is considering a post especially for those people, who clearly need her help), but it is worthwhile in this situation as well. Reason being that it is conclusive proof that the review isn’t about your book but about YOU; this is personal for them and nothing they say will ever prove it is not. Because it is.

At this point, people will be talking about you ALL OVER THE INTERNET. Everyone in the whole world now knows your name, even people who use the internet exclusively for porn and buying shoes. Even, in fact, people who have no internet connections. This will immediately translate to sales (or, as the Real professional Authors call them, “sells”), and it is time to begin pointing this out. Good phrases include:

“You guys are just selling my books for me, HAHAHAHAHA!”

“Keep going! You should see my sales numbers (or “sells,” of course) increasing! HAHAHAHAHA!”

“My sells have doubled/tripled/fourthupled since your review went up! HAHAHAHAHA!”

“Hollywood producers have started calling me! HAHAHAHAHA!”

“You guys are totally proving how mean you are! Go ahead, show everyone! HAHAHAHAHA!”

“You are totally making me famous! HAHAHAHAHA!”

Or, if you want to really strike fear into the hearts of the readersheep:

“I AM GOING TO EXPOSE ALL OF YOU FOR THE LYING LIARS YOU ARE AND IT WILL DESTROY YOUR ENTIRE LITTLE WORLD BECAUSE EVERYONE WILL SEE YOUR EVILHOOD! HAHAHAHAHA!”

You see…

And don't ever forget it.

Sadly, I did not really get to your own blog. But I sort of did, because all of these tips can be easily modified to use there. There was just too much to cover here. I’ll do that tomorrow.

ANOTHER NOTE: Auntie Specialsnowflake is happy to answer questions and give advice on any sort of publishing subject. Just use the contact form on the website here. I’ll pass your questions along and post answers as we go or in a separate post or whatever, depending. Auntie already has a question or two in the queue, so keep ‘em coming!

*Do I really have to explain that this is satire? Please tell me I don’t.
**This does not work. Ever. This is for entertainment purposes only.



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