Sometimes, I feel like I’m horrible at being a girl. Presently, it’s because...well...I don’t like romance novels. I know, shock, horror. The horror and thriller writer doesn’t like romance novels. I’ve always found them horribly trite and boring. It’s just sex wrapped up in an “Omg tru wuv!!!” jacket with a “What the fuck” hat perched jauntily on its head. Listing to the left a little. Maybe with a feather.
The thing is, I've been bumming around Smart Bitches Trashy Books for a majority of today, and I have a hankering to read a romance novel. Which I normally despise. There's no real reason. The inner five year old sitting in my chest is kicking at my ribcage with her plastic pretend heels that she got at the two dollar store, mum's makeup smeared on the right side of her face, where she fell asleep on the couch and left big, trailing lipstick and drool marks. She's looking rather insistent, actually. Saying something along the lines off "I wanna be a princess! I'm a PRINCESS, READ A STORY ABOUT A PRINCESS AND A HERO OR I WILL EVISCERATE YOUR BOWELS." She'd do it, too. The last part of that sentence was said in a rather satanic tone of voice.
I've been reading books from Luna Fantasy, recently. All women writers. I had no idea, until today, that they were an offshoot of Harlequin. I keep giving the books the benefit of the doubt, because the first one I read, Urban Shaman, was a fucking good read. And I just found out that there's sequels! Two of them! Which I don't own! To Amazon I go! The others, though...well. I've read three. And they were rather promising. And The Compass Rose was kind of fun, really. I adored the two main characters, right up until everyone started marrying each other.
I don't like romance for romance's sake. Take Benighted, for example. Again, another book I adore. Why? Because the romance was believable. Kit Whitfield created a world I could believe in, and then had the heroine completely freak when he discovered who the man she'd flirted with at the bar was. Just. Yes. Yes a million times yes. REAL CHARACTERS, PLEASE. That is ALL I ask for.
Apparently, however, it is rather hard to deliver. Every time I pick up a book, there's something in it that makes me want to throw it against a wall. I think it might be because I get irritated with the romance aspect. A lot of the things -I- write have romance in them, but it's a background thing. I don't really understand the need to have your character getting laid every five seconds.
Anita Blake, I'm looking at you.
Also, on the batshit insane front, Anne Rice, who we all know has discovered religion, is writing another Lestat novel. I wonder if this one with have viscous liquid and arrows of lust. Because it if does, I think I might just have to fall over and die. I couldn't get past the first half of Queen of the Damned, because I couldn't stop laughing.
Of course, I've strayed from the original topic, once again. My point is, romance novels sicken me, and I want to read one.
Also, for the curious (hah! As if there were any curious!), I will post some writings up on my lj. Gimme a second. Hoorah. Blogger is unhelpful in regards to show-hide links. Wankers.
So, have the first two chapters of a novel in progress. I recently picked this story up again. I'd forgotten how much fun it was to write. Ricker, the main character, actually belongs to Bard, who kindly consented to let me borrow him. <3 *smooshes her into a million tiny pieces.* Luca, Marcos, Eddie and Lauren belong to her too. Such FUN characters.
Anyway, off I toddle!
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Conversations in my family. Version 101010110
Conversations within my family unit tend to be a little odd. I have examples.
As in, tonight.
Mum: *seeing me make another coffee* You love that mug, don't you?
Me: I love this mug. I adore this mug. I'm going to MARRY this mug. I'll have little mugheaded babies and drink coffee out of their brains.
Mum: ...right.
Me: *walking oast to reheat my coffee a little while later, smiling* Mug headed baaaabies.
Mum: no grandchildren of mine, god forbid you have any, are going to have mug heads.
Me: ...grandchildren? Plural? As in more than one?
Mum: you said babies. That indicates more than one.
Me: ...drat.
---
Brother: *blinking and looking up* What?
Me: ...Hello cheeeeekin. What's goin down, M-dawg? What's shakin? where are you headed tonight?
Brother: ...city.
Me: where in the city?
Brother: ...city.
Me: ....right. okay. so. Northbridge, harbour town, freemantle, what?
Brother: .....City.
Me: ...Have you heard of something called the wheel?
---
Grandad: This was nothing like when I was a younger man.
Me: When you were a younger man, they didn't have cars, the hubble telescope or fire.
Grandad: ...Or hearing aids.
Me: ...sneaky old bastard.
(grandad is irrevocably deaf. He can't hear jack shit without a hearing aid in.)
---
Me: YOU KNOW, YOU ARE IMMENSELY ANNOYING WITHOUT YOUR HEARING AID IN. IF YOU PUT IT IN, YOU WOULD UDNERSTAND WHAT WE WERE SAYING. *said slowly, annunciating each word, forming coherent and concise letters*
Grandad: ...I didn't understand a word you just said.
---
See? See what I have to put up with? D:
And then we come to the older conversations.
Conversation one, as of the other night:
My mother fell asleep on the back couch. The one outside. I was designated the "Bring the woman back INSIDE" spokesperson, so I wandered out there around one in the morning to rouse her.
The conversation went as thus:
"Mother, dearest, light of my life, brightest star in the strange looking velvet thing that's used as a backdrop for stargate. Time to get up and go to bed."
"Furroff."
It was eloquent. She's such a well spoken lady.
"No, I'm serious. You need to get to bed. You know, that invention they've had since the dawn of time?"
"Oh, they have not." She cracked an eye open then, glowering at me with enough heat to make the dog curl into a tighter ball in his bed. Either that or it was just cold.
"They have too. Beds are not a recent invention."
"I'm sure they didn't have a proper bed back then." She was waking up more, mildly disgruntled. My plan, it was working!
"Sure they did. It might have consisted of rocks and a dead bear, but they had beds! Which is more than I can say for you, oh queen of the couch and that one river in that one area around where Mesopotamia used to be."
"Oh, fuck off and go inside, you silly bitch. I'll come in when I'm ready."
I BARELY resisted locking the door after myself when I headed in.
----
Also, from last year!
Mum: You're a dickwad.
Me: You can't call me that. I taught you that word. You can't call me that.
Mum: and I OWN you. I totally own you. I can call you whatever I choose.
Me: YOU MAY TAKE MAH PANTS, BUT YOU CANNAE TAKE MAH FREEDOM!
Mum: What?
Me: I reiterate. YOU MAY TAKE MAH PANTS those being jeans and wear of the under persuasion BUT YOU CANNAE TAKE MY FREEDOM
Mum: I CANNA TAKE WAHTEVER A WANTA!
Me: ...mum, it's supposed to be Scottish, not Italian.
Mum: you're not exactly speaking in Scottish either. What the hell is that meant to be?
Me: That's my Scottish accent!
Mum: it doesn't sound very Scottish.
Me: okay, so it's more like broken welsh.
Mum: Sounds more like - *trying to unlock the door, having a large amount of trouble seeing in the dark* I can't find my keyhole.
Me: ...I'm totally saying that now. When people are all "what accent is that?" I'll be all "I CANNAE FIND MAH KEYHOLE!"
---
Again, from a long time ago.
Mum: I am going to go put my dressing gown on and go sit out with the dog because nobody else loves me?
Me: I don't see why I should love you if you can't find your keyhole.
---
As in, tonight.
Mum: *seeing me make another coffee* You love that mug, don't you?
Me: I love this mug. I adore this mug. I'm going to MARRY this mug. I'll have little mugheaded babies and drink coffee out of their brains.
Mum: ...right.
Me: *walking oast to reheat my coffee a little while later, smiling* Mug headed baaaabies.
Mum: no grandchildren of mine, god forbid you have any, are going to have mug heads.
Me: ...grandchildren? Plural? As in more than one?
Mum: you said babies. That indicates more than one.
Me: ...drat.
---
Brother: *blinking and looking up* What?
Me: ...Hello cheeeeekin. What's goin down, M-dawg? What's shakin? where are you headed tonight?
Brother: ...city.
Me: where in the city?
Brother: ...city.
Me: ....right. okay. so. Northbridge, harbour town, freemantle, what?
Brother: .....City.
Me: ...Have you heard of something called the wheel?
---
Grandad: This was nothing like when I was a younger man.
Me: When you were a younger man, they didn't have cars, the hubble telescope or fire.
Grandad: ...Or hearing aids.
Me: ...sneaky old bastard.
(grandad is irrevocably deaf. He can't hear jack shit without a hearing aid in.)
---
Me: YOU KNOW, YOU ARE IMMENSELY ANNOYING WITHOUT YOUR HEARING AID IN. IF YOU PUT IT IN, YOU WOULD UDNERSTAND WHAT WE WERE SAYING. *said slowly, annunciating each word, forming coherent and concise letters*
Grandad: ...I didn't understand a word you just said.
---
See? See what I have to put up with? D:
And then we come to the older conversations.
Conversation one, as of the other night:
My mother fell asleep on the back couch. The one outside. I was designated the "Bring the woman back INSIDE" spokesperson, so I wandered out there around one in the morning to rouse her.
The conversation went as thus:
"Mother, dearest, light of my life, brightest star in the strange looking velvet thing that's used as a backdrop for stargate. Time to get up and go to bed."
"Furroff."
It was eloquent. She's such a well spoken lady.
"No, I'm serious. You need to get to bed. You know, that invention they've had since the dawn of time?"
"Oh, they have not." She cracked an eye open then, glowering at me with enough heat to make the dog curl into a tighter ball in his bed. Either that or it was just cold.
"They have too. Beds are not a recent invention."
"I'm sure they didn't have a proper bed back then." She was waking up more, mildly disgruntled. My plan, it was working!
"Sure they did. It might have consisted of rocks and a dead bear, but they had beds! Which is more than I can say for you, oh queen of the couch and that one river in that one area around where Mesopotamia used to be."
"Oh, fuck off and go inside, you silly bitch. I'll come in when I'm ready."
I BARELY resisted locking the door after myself when I headed in.
----
Also, from last year!
Mum: You're a dickwad.
Me: You can't call me that. I taught you that word. You can't call me that.
Mum: and I OWN you. I totally own you. I can call you whatever I choose.
Me: YOU MAY TAKE MAH PANTS, BUT YOU CANNAE TAKE MAH FREEDOM!
Mum: What?
Me: I reiterate. YOU MAY TAKE MAH PANTS those being jeans and wear of the under persuasion BUT YOU CANNAE TAKE MY FREEDOM
Mum: I CANNA TAKE WAHTEVER A WANTA!
Me: ...mum, it's supposed to be Scottish, not Italian.
Mum: you're not exactly speaking in Scottish either. What the hell is that meant to be?
Me: That's my Scottish accent!
Mum: it doesn't sound very Scottish.
Me: okay, so it's more like broken welsh.
Mum: Sounds more like - *trying to unlock the door, having a large amount of trouble seeing in the dark* I can't find my keyhole.
Me: ...I'm totally saying that now. When people are all "what accent is that?" I'll be all "I CANNAE FIND MAH KEYHOLE!"
---
Again, from a long time ago.
Mum: I am going to go put my dressing gown on and go sit out with the dog because nobody else loves me?
Me: I don't see why I should love you if you can't find your keyhole.
---
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