Say Our Names

Big changes afoot here at Damned Scribbling Women, born of our rediscovered writing mojo. We're back, we're busy, and we're ready to tackle this business like never before.

So, to begin, a word about the shiny new names you see to the left of this post under "Meet the Scribbling Women." Kate D. is now the dazzling Kate Diamond, while theflitgirl has unveiled herself as Anneliese Kelly. We're tying the blog to our individual writing projects, so blogging under our writing names is a natural fit.

Yes, I said "writing names", not "names." Kate and I have followed in the footsteps of luminaries like Lemony Snicket, George Eliot, and all three of the Bronte sisters (Acton, Ellis and Currer Bell) in adopting pseudonyms, rather than publishing under our everyday names.

The decision to use a pseudonym of course brings up a host of conflicts and questions. It's fairly common in the romance industry, although increasingly less so. Writing under a name like Lulubelle von Flurryfeathers does feed into the stereotypes about this genre: frivolous, ridiculous, outdated, over-feminine. It also smacks of "hiding" behind a false name out of shame or embarrassment.

So why have two modern, unabashed women like us decided to go this route. For starters, both Kate and I are involved in education and literary studies. While we feel that writing romance only adds to our credentials as proud feminists, not all our current and potential bosses/teachers and coworkers/fellow students will agree. Additionally, the parents of the little darlings we instruct may not want to associate Junior's English teacher with lusty Regency dukes or shag sessions in lakeside cabins.

For me, however, there's another factor: my life-long love of names. Since I was a child I've poured over baby name books and as an adult must confess to an addiction to baby name messageboards. When else will I have the opportunity to name myself? My new name comes from my family history (my mother's maiden name) and from several of my favorite, most life-changing novels. Plus, it's pretty!

We'd love to hear from other readers and writers. What do you think about noms de plume? Would you/ Do you use one? Why are they more common in romance than any other genre, even mystery fiction?

Finally...what do you think of ours??

Big News

Guess what? The Boyfriend is now The Fiance.

How did it happen? Well, with lots of love, a few ultimatums, and almost four years together it all came together one Saturday morning. After hearing several stellar proposals engineered by my college buddies (Parag's roses and love notes tacked on trees, Riley's miracle rays shining down on Romanian mountaintops, etc), my own proposal story is deliciously mundane. I was puttering in the kitchen and told The Fiance I was getting frustrated with his indecision. He said something along the lines of, "Dammit! I haven't figured out how to propose yet and there's no way I'm going to top Parag, but I sure as hell didn't want to propose next to our nasty sink full of dishes." Whereupon I shrieked like a banshee, asked "Really?" several times, and finally made it clear that my answer was yes.

Maren wanted to know if I was wearing yellow dish gloves at the time of the proposal. Sadly, no--but feel free to spread that rumor. It makes the story more entertaining.

We decided to tell our parents in person. At the same time. Which was rather crazy, since the ring is a family heirloom that's been hiding in my mom's underwear drawer for about five years now. The Fiance didn't want to ask for it--because then my parents would know before his--and he didn't want to go looking for it himself, for obvious reasons. So, we invited our parents over for a Wednesday night dinner and on Tuesday morning I completed a Grand Theft Diamond after rooting through several hiding spots (my mother's all about the "places no self-respecting burglar would look." See underwear drawer comment, above).

Anyway, it was quite the high. I think I've missed my calling as a petty thief. Yet after the big production of stealing the ring and getting our parents together (not to mention the absolutely fabulous dinner I made), it was a little anticlimactic when we announced, "We're engaged," and they said, "We knew it!" Ah, well. Turns out I'll never be a professional poker player or an international spy. But who cares? As The Fiance said, "Honey, I'll be annoying you now for the rest of your life."Perversely enough, I'm looking forward to it. :)

Special bonus: I guess everyone knew before The Fiance and I told them. In Theresa's case, she knew long before The Fiance and I even contemplated marriage! On a trip to Washington several winters ago, she gave my mother a beautiful, handmade lace shawl. The knitting is gorgeous, and the pattern is all symbols of the Pacific Northwest. She said, "He's The One. When he proposes, give her this." My mother was so sure of what was happening, that she brought that shawl to dinner.

Thanks, Theresa! I love it!

Why I Hate Rewrites

I'm in the midst of rewriting my opening seven pages for the Emerald City Opener Contest. I've now, officially, spent half an hour staring at potential first sentences and agonizing that I might not pick the perfect one. So now I'm soliciting opinions from others. Which one do you like better? HELP ME!

Option A: "In the midst of her boyfriend’s achingly appropriate birthday party, Jessica Jo Carter began to think seriously about leaving him."

OR

Option B: "If it hadn’t been for the Gouda cheese, Jessica Carter’s whole life would have been entirely different."

I modeled that second sentence off of my favorite opening line of all time. Bonus points for anyone who can identify the original! (And if you are one of my friends that regularly visits this website but doesn't leave comments... please make an exception just this once!)

Judgment Day-- This Time It's Personal

I just got the scores from RWA for my Golden Heart submission. I was bummed when I didn't get "the call" announcing my status as a finalist (which, somehow, I'd convinced myself would happen). I'm even more bummed at receiving these scores.

First of all, my overall score places me in the bottom half of entries. Not too far down into the bottom half, but still there. That sucks. I've seen some of the crap that actually get published by the industry and had flattered myself that my book was better than a lot of it. To find out I'm not even in the top 50% of hopeful authors really stinks.

Second, the scores are kind of all over the place. Three of the five judges rank me pretty consistently in the mid level (5, 5.5, and--my new sworn enemy-- 4.2). Then two other judges rate it pretty highly, a 7 and a 9, the highest score possible.

I get that opinion's subjective, but how in an at least somewhat merit- rather than personal opinion-based competition can one judge rate my book a 4.2 (a D) and another a 9 (A+)? Of course, the Golden Heart gives no editorial feedback, so I have no idea what was so appalling to Judge 5 and delightful to Judge 2.

At least I didn't get any 1s. I guess I should take from this that I'm not a terrible writer, my book appealed to someone, and that I've got a long way left to go. A few more weeks left of the semester and then I'll throw myself into shopping Then Comes Marriage and writing Secrets and Spies.

Triplet Update

The triplets will be six months old on April 19th! I almost can't believe it. I call them "my little fatties," because they're getting to be so big. The other day I was over there and they were hanging out on their tummies, and I discovered they have little fat creases behind their knees. That, coupled with the dimples instead of knuckles, gets me every time.

So, here they are, hanging out in the onesies I got them over at Retro Baby. Am I a cool aunt, or what?

Slings and Arrows

As my dear, darling critique partner Kate D. now knows, it's official: I'm a rejected author.

Last week I received in the (e-)mail box my long awaited response to my first agent query (an exclusive, which is why I hadn't sent any others out). Then Comes Marriage was denied. Shot down. Turned away. And all those other we-don't-like-you-soundy phrases.

However, let us not despair. After about 20 minutes in which I surprised myself by wanting to cry, I pretty much got over it. Wannabe writers get rejected. That's part of the process. And at least I'm now a wannabe writer, not a wannabe wannabe writer.

The email was also a "good" rejection, and I feel rather fortunate to have received one of those famed breed on my first try. The typo in the first sentence leads me to believe it's not a form rejection (if it is, then this agency's a bit more slipshod than I thought and I made a lucky escape). With addresses and proper names omitted, it follows:

"Thank you for submitting to ------ Agency.

"We greatly appreciate your submission, and though Then Comes Marriage is not a good fit for us. The story line and love scenes were strong; however, it felt too familiar to be able to distinguish it in the market. Still, your writing shows promise and we would be interested to consider any future projects.We wish you the best of luck in your writing career.

"Again, thank you for thinking of ----- Agency."

Now I understand why they advise having a stockpile of ready manuscripts under your bed. If Secrets and Spies were ready to go, I'd shoot it off to the agency with a personal "Hey, you asked for this!" note faster than I could get to the post office. Sadly, it's only about 1/5 written, and I likely won't even have a first draft until the summer.

Still, I'm cautiously optimistic.

Sick Days Done Right

No writing news (still waiting to hear back from an agent), but I've spent my flu days this week watching some excellent movies any romance fan would love.

First up, the new BBC/PBS Jane Eyre. I caught most of this when it was on Masterpiece Theatre a few weeks ago, but missed about an hour--naturally, the hour in which Jane and Rochester declare their love and have the aborted wedding. So of course I had to order the DVD. It arrived yesterday and I watched all 4 hours in one sitting. One of the best Jane adaptations I've ever seen. Rochester is sexy and brooding, but also smiley and neither too movie-star handsome, nor too weird-looking and frightening. Jane is self-assured, not a quivering little nervous flower. Some liberties taken (as expected) but over all, strongly recommended.

Second, I caught Casanova on tv today. Not the Donald Sutherland /Fellini version (which is incredibly stylized and oddly compelling), but the 2005 version starring Heath Ledger and Sienna Miller. Heath Ledger makes a fabulous Casanova, witty, clever and charming. For once I don't hate Sienna Miller in a movie. Maybe it's her brunette 'do (and lack of leggings). It's a witty, frothy script and entirely fun. Plus, it's filmed on location in Venice, set in the 18th century and full of incredible Baroque music by Albioni, Vivaldi, Teleman and Handel.

Okay, off to use my last remaining strength of the day to pick up some sick reading from Barnes and Noble: Jenny Crusie, Celeste Bradley, Madeline Hunter and Susan Elizabeth Phillips.

Banter, Not Bedroom: A Plea

Here's the thing. I love American romantic movies. Really, I do. Sometimes, after a bad day at work, I'll indulge myself by spot-watching such sugary fluff as Just Like Heaven or While You Were Sleeping. But in all honesty? Unless we're talking about an old black-and-white film starring Cary Grant and... well, Cary Grant and anyone, really... there's just no contest.

The Brits do it better.

Why is this? I think that Americans have grown too dependent on the cinematically beautiful love scene. I'm tired of seeing the oh-so-masculine hand running smoothly up a toned, tanned thigh. I'm tired of the theatrical gasps, dewy-eyed gazing, and discreetly passionate music in the background. It's not romantic. Often, it's not even sexy. And if you're accidentally watching the movie with your father, it can be downright squicky.

So, when will American film producers (and American audiences) learn to love the Verbal Tease?

Brits don't torture us with gratuitous love scenes. Often if there is physical sex, it's awkward and funny and all-around entertaining. (Think Bridget Jones's Diary and the granny panties.) Mostly though, the Brits put eye sex and word sex into their films.

Case in point: Colin Firth gives the best eye sex of all time, especially in the A&E/BBC version of Pride and Prejudice. C'mon. Whenever he gives Lizzie a melty look over the pianoforte or what have you, all I can think is: hoo, boy. Shiver me timbers. You know that he's totally and hopelessly in love with her and the fact that he's so restrained and repressed only makes it hotter. Seriously. At the end of the six hours, when you finally see him smile for the first time, it almost feels like you're seeing him naked. Ooh, naughty! Teeth! What a reveal!

It's infinitely preferable to artificial Hollywood nudity, though I suppose I enjoy man candy as much as any red-blooded heterosexual woman.

Here's another lesson: word sex is important. Word sex makes the leading man. Even if he doesn't have an oiled six-pack, he opens his clever mouth and we fall in love. The banter. The accent. (Okay, maybe American cinema can't reproduce that, but really...) Again, case in point: Hugh Grant. Totally adorable in Four Weddings and Funeral as he stutters out, "In the words of David Cassidy, before he left the Partridge Family, I think I love you."

So, Hollywood, a task for the summer: I want banter. I want emotional suspense. I want the tease. In short, I want a decent script!

October/November Lightning Log

Nobody's Baby But Mine – Contemporary (Susan Elizabeth Phillips) – Superb

Only a Duke Will Do – Regency (Sabrina Jeffries) – Superb

The Dance of the Gods – Paranormal Romance (Nora Roberts) – Superb/Very Good

The Valley of Silence – Paranormal Romance (Nora Roberts) – Superb/Very Good

The Masquerade – Regency (Brenda Joyce) – Very Good/Good

Night Play – Paranormal Dark-Hunter (Sherrilyn Kenyon) – Very Good/Good

Eat Like A College Student, Write Like...

A Moveable Feast, indeed!

Every once in awhile I'm overcome with regret that I'm not an angry, chain-smoking ex-pat living in Paris during the 1920s. Tonight is one of those nights, and I blame it on the Hemingway lecture I'm preparing to give my students tomorrow. Why oh why couldn't I be a Great American Author, hanging out with other Greats as I pickle my liver in absinthe?

I suppose we all have our own form of greatness, just as we have our own Great Flaw. Hemingway wrote what are, in my opinion, the greatest American short stories of all time while he drank and wenched his way through life. My greatness? I'm still working on that one. The flaw, however, is over-committing myself to projects and people and then agonizing when I can't give every facet of my life the full attention it deserves.

Hence this evening. After a long bubble bath, I decided to forego the pleasures of finishing up my essay-grading. I should feel ashamed, I know, but I'm suffering a bad case of burn-out and it's only first quarter. So instead, I'm drinking red wine and eating my first tin of Danish butter cookies since the Great Butter Cookie Overdose of 2000. (Oh, the thrills of finals period my junior year of college... but that's a tale for another time...)

I'm also thinking about why I teach, and why I seem to be ignoring my teaching philosophies on a day-to-day basis. I'm thinking about the books I want to write, but never finish, and the vacations I want to take, but never do. I'm thinking about the relationships that are important to me, and the way I tell myself, "I'll let them know how much I love them tomorrow."

Perhaps this all sounds incredibly depressing and I suppose, objectively, it is. But hey, at least if I died tomorrow none of my friends would portray me horribly in their autobiographies, as Ernest Hemingway did to F. Scott Fitzgerald (basically calling him “a drunk, a weakling, a hypochondriac, a fool, an irresponsible writer, a nuisance, sexually insecure and wife-dominated…”

[1])

Ouch! With friends like that, who needs enemies?

Tonight, I'm wondering what I'm really doing with my life. When will I stop putting off my own ambitions? How can I be the writer, sister, daughter, girlfriend, friend, teacher and "wild woman" I feel that I was born to be?

When do we stop waiting for our dreams and actually take a step towards achieving them? Deep thoughts, I know, and not the usual norm for the public side of DSW. But hey, when I'm avoiding grading it makes me philosophical!

* * * * *

[1] Matthew J. Bruccoli, Fitzgerald and Hemingway: A Dangerous Friendship (New York: Carroll & Graf, 1995) 1.

Auntie Kate

Big Hand: the Brother
Baby Hand: a Nephew (Alex)

Just thought I'd let you all know that I'm now a proud aunt to triplet boys. Benjamin Thomas, Ryan Anthony, and Alexander Michael joined this rainy world on Thursday, October 18th. They made it to 33 weeks before demanding a birthday... which is pretty good for triplets, from what I hear.

Last weekend, I got to visit them for the first time. The family spent a marvelous hour or two tickling Alex's feet and laughing at Ben while he smacked Alex in the face (they share an incubator). The coup de gras: I got to actually hold Ryan. He was so darn adorable and wiggly.

Just a few weeks old and they're already proving what I suspected: they have my brother's energy, so we won't be able to turn our backs on them for a second!

My brother and his wife are doing well. They're back home in Olympia, but one or both of them drives to Seattle every other day to visit the boys. Ben's already hit his four-pound mark, and all three babies have begun to spend part of their day in an open-air crib before being returned to the incubator.

I am going to be That Disgusting Aunt. You know, the one who spends her entire paycheck on fabulous baby books and ridiculously cute baby socks? I think this is a lovely trait to add to my resume.

But what with nephews to spoil and parent conferences to survive, I haven't worked on my novel or--truth to tell--even thought much about the blog. Life's been a blur of Other Stuff. But today I have the day off from school... so, after I go into school for about three hours of grading and planning (see how that "off time" works?) I'm going to come home, clean my apartment, do a little shopping and then WRITE bef0re The Boyfriend gets here for our weekend.

Exciting, no?

The Creature From the Black Lagoon

Would be me. If by "Black Lagoon" one means "Library." Thanks to Kate D for single-handedly keeping hope alive.

Don't get me wrong, graduate school is fantastic, and I'm so happy to be reading and thinking and analyzing literature again in a more professional setting than online (not that talking romance here hasn't been great, too). But the utter neglect of my completed-the-week-I-started-school final draft of Then Comes Marriage had me low and it had me down.

Until this morning when, perhaps still under the effects of Halloween cocktails from last night, I grit my teeth and took the step I've been contemplating for weeks.

That's right, I entered Then Comes Marriage in RWA's Golden Heart contest.

So, let's see, what's left to tackle by the submission deadline of December 4? Reformat entire ms, write exciting and interesting synopsis, and cull first five chapters of ms into a gripping and cohesive partial.

And write three 20 page papers while keeping up the normal reading course load.

I'm sure I'll regret this imminently, but I think it's time I force myself to get back to work on my other potential career, and there's nothing like a deadline to get me moving.

Bonus! By entering the contest, I'll have my synopsis completed, and with trimming and revising, should be able to begin submitting to agents next month! Wish me luck!

Get Rhythm

Theresa recently posted about the ten songs she's listening to most often these days. And since I can claim the happy responsibility of introducing her to "Maybe it Was Memphis" by Pam Tillis, I thought I'd honor her list by coming up with one of my own. And so, in no particular order, here are the songs that make up my recent addiction:

1. Chasing Cars (Snow Patrol)
In addition to being a fabulous song by a fabulous band (who, not surprisingly, happens to be highly entertaining in concert), this is a Grey's Anatomy song. They've even made a video to it!

2. When You Come Back Down (Nickle Creek)
This is the ultimate song about Jessi and Jude and who they were in high school. I've been thinking about that a lot lately (teaching, as I do, at my old high school... where I can still feel the ghost of my old stress and insecurity lingering in the halls). I listen to this song and then I agonize over not working on my story.

3. The Heart of Life (John Mayer)
During my first long week of teaching (lately they're all long...) I became addicted to this song. I would listen to it ad nauseum on repeat on my way to work at 6:30 in the morning. No matter how miserable I am, no matter how much grading I didn't do, and even on days when my second period Evil Seeds beat each other with crutches, it helps to remember that the heart of life is good! Hey, whatever helps me get up in the morning...

4. I Walk the Line (Johnny Cash)
No playlist is complete without the Man in Black. 'Nough said.

5. I Know What I Know (Paul Simon)
Graceland is just a fabulous album, even more so when your coffee hasn't kicked in and you need a little Paul Simon to help you wake up. This I like to listen to in the morning. Currently it's on my classroom CD player, for a little pre-first period pick-me-up.

6. Night Train (Amos Lee)
I think I have to put Amos Lee on my list. (What list? C'mon, you've all seen Friends.) The man is talented, sexy, and drop-dead gorgeous. Plus, he's got the most awesome stage presence I've ever seen and an absolutely wicked sense of humor. I've seen him three times in concert now... the first being when he opened for Norah Jones at the Key Arena with nothing but an acoustic guitar. Hot, hot, hot. And this song is very soothing.

7. Superstitious (Stevie Wonder)
When I'm tired from a long day of work, and I worry that I won't be able to make it through another night of grading, I wake myself up by dancing to this song. (Bonus of living alone, and it being fall: with the glow of my living room lights and the darkness outside, my sliding glass door functions as a mirror. I can watch myself do all sorts of stupid dance moves and no, sadly, it never gets olds...)

8. Stayin' Alive (Beegies)
See above re: dancing around like a madwoman. This is also one of The Boyfriend's favorite songs. I'm always listening to it on a Monday night, when I have a long stretch of time to go before I see him again.

9. Easy Silence (Dixie Chicks)
This is probably my favorite song on the Chicks' new album. Makes me think of The Boyfriend. Check it: "When the calls and conversations / Accidents and accusations / Messages and misperceptions / Paralyze my mind / Busses, cars, and airplanes leaving / Burning fumes of gasoline / And everyone is running / And I come to find a refuge in the / Easy silence that you make for me / It's okay when there's nothing more to say to me / And the peaceful quiet you create for me / And the way you keep the world at bay for me / The way you keep the world at bay..."

Yes, could do with a little Easy Silence these days. Teaching, thy name is stress...

10. Creeque Alley (Mamas and the Papas)
This song is just a delight to sing along to in the car. And it makes for good desk-chair-spinning in time to the music when I'm trying to make entering grades just a little more fun.

Old School

Teaching at your old high school is, in a word, surreal. The worst is when my students accost me
in the hallways, asking if I remember their older siblings/friends/etc. (This is awkward, as often the answer is "no," followed up by, "Well, he remembers you. He said you hung out all the time!" The super awkwardness, however, came when a student tried to place me in her brother's high school experience by mentioning my ex-boyfriend and the girl he dated after I left for college. Very weird. Check out my full accounting of the experience here.)

But thus far, I'm actually having a good year. It's early days yet, but I prefer to be an optimist. My 6th period class alone would give me a reason for optimism! Those honors sophomores kids are fabulous; not only are they hard-working and self-motivated, they're well-read! And by "well-read" I don't mean that they sit around debating Sophocles and Kant all day. No, they bring books like Twilight to class with them. And one of my students--after talking to my mother--even loaned me the new Nora Roberts, Morrigan's Cross.

Now, I haven't read Nora Roberts in years. This is partially because (a) most of her books now release to hardback (b) I don't always like all of her novels and (c) sometimes it feels like if you've read one Nora, you've read them all.

But then my delightful student loaned me Morrigan's Cross, and I was instantly reminded why Nora Roberts is the Queen of Book Sales, and why she makes such a great gateway drug to people dipping their toes into the genre. MC is the first book in a paranormal trilogy that involves time travel, vampires, prophecies, and Irish deities... a combination which could have made me hate it, but actually that wasn't the case at all.

I loved this book! Hoyt, the hero, was deliciously broody and somber. Glenna was his perfect counterpoint, and you'll love the secondary characters as well... some more than others, admittedly. The most fascinating part of the book is actually Hoyt's relationship with his family. We meet him as a medieval sorcerer whose twin brother just got vamped; then Morrigan charges him with a quest that sends him to the 21st century in the blink of an eye. He loses his whole family... and they were very important to him... except for his twin brother who, as a vampire, lives on. And this is the most interesting bit of all, because for Hoyt it's been merely a day since the last time he saw his brother and for Cian it's been a millenium. Oh, the awkwardness! The guilt! The ties that bind us through time! Yum.

I would suggest reading this book, if only so you can keep up with the reviews on this site... I get the sense that I'll be posting about the other two in the trilogy as well, though how they could top the opening remains to be seen.

Where Have All the DSW Gone?

You may have noticed a dearth of Damned Scribbling Women on this website lately. Well, there's good reason for it:

(1) the Flitgirl recently acquired a puppy, and this adorable new member of her household keeps her up every night (barking). Not a distraction that a newly-minted graduate student needs as she sets out to make a name for herself!

(2) Kate D. has discovered that teaching high school students about the glories of Great Gatsby is rather akin to climbing a mountain of pudding. In her first year of teaching at a public high school, she's exhausted and a little cranky. Not much time for reading romance... or writing it... when you're assigning ever-piling heaps of work (that yet remain ungraded...)

(3) Both of these Damned Scribbling Women have joined their friend Theresa at Anatomy Lab, where they'll soon be picking apart the Season Premiere of Grey's Anatomy! In our minds, Thursday can't come quickly enough... although our need to obsessively review the doings at Seattle Grace Hospital means that our pathetically limited time is now divided between two blogs. Sorry.

If you're a Grey's fan, visit our new blog and add your comments to our own! And we promise to post more regularly once our lives settle down. Really. We mean that. Okay?

Movie Review - The Illusionist

The Illusionist is the perfect late summer movie. It's mellow and warm and golden-colored, like rich summer days turning overripe to autumn. It stars Edward Norton and Paul Giamatti, which is reason enough for anyone to see it. It's set in fin-de-siecle Vienna, which is reason enough for me to see it. And it's the kind of engrossing, classic fairy-tale like love story that all fans of romance would enjoy, which is reason enough for you to see it.

Edward Abramowitz was the son of a cabinet maker who began studying magic after a chance encounter with a traveling magician. As a teenager, he befriended Sophie von Tesschen, the daughter of a local nobleman. At their secret meetings, he would show her his magic and they would plot to run away together to the Orient. Then her family separates them.

Fifteen years later, Edward appears in Vienna as Eisenheim the Illusionist and takes the city by storm. Even Crown Prince Leopold attends one of his performances, at which he offers up his lovely almost-fiancee as Eisenheim's assistant. The woman in question is of course none other than Sophie.

After the lovers reunite, they begin a game in which they seek to be together, the Prince seeks to keep Sophie for his own and debunk Eisenheim's magic act, and the Prince's right hand man, Chief Inspector Uhl, seeks to untangle and increasingly complicated web of illusion, reality, love, politics and violence.

The cinematography is breathtaking. The director uses techniques from the early days of cinema, like irises and slow dissolves, to create a movie that's feels more like an artifact from 1900 than a mere period piece. The acting is uniformly good, with Norton's quiet intensity and Giamatti's slightly fussy, detached Inspector the two stand-outs. And the love story captivates like a fairy-tale -- it's heavy on mood, light on plot, and the characters are as familiar as archetypes from a legend.

The Illusionist is in limited release, but should be expanding to more theaters soon. If you get the chance to see it on the big screen, you'll be well rewarded.

Soul Maintenance

painting by Nicole Etienne

Before I launch into the heart of my post, I would like to apologize to all my fellow scribbling women that I haven’t been as present lately on your blogs. Alas, upon moving to Olympia I relinquished easy access to the Internet. I can’t hook up my townhouse until I get my first paycheck… and hurray for teachers, that doesn’t happen until the end of September!

In the mean time, I hope you’ll all excuse my somewhat erratic e-presence. Today I embark for a week-long stint of house-sitting for my aunt and uncle. I'll be at the house they built on the bay, with gorgeous hardwood floors and doors from antique European churches. I'll be sitting on the back porch, listening to music on their outdoor speakers, and drinking wine from their impressive collection.

I will also be writing.

Doesn't that sound like heaven? I'm excited to have such a lovely place to come home to, as next week I begin my professional development and, to tell the truth, I'm a little nervous. But this weekend is all about revising Revising Mr. Right. (My, that sounds awkward!) Not only will I finally be working on my novel again, but I'll be following the "routine maintenance schedule" as advised by Monica Wood in The Pocket Muse:

once a week: skip to the next part of what you're working on.

once a month: write all day without talking to anyone.

every three months: send something out for potential publication.

every six months: remove the detritus from your work space (sadly, yes, this includes the panapoly of useless file icons currently sprayed across your desktop).

once a year: take at least three days and give yourself a "Do Not Disturb" writerly vacation, wherein the creative muse stops only for eating and sleeping.

This is my once-a-year vacation for 2006... and unfortunately, the three days will be broken up by professional development for my day job. But this Saturday, Sunday, and Thursday I'll be writing, writing, writing... and wining and dining myself in high style, I might add!

It begs the question: how do you all take care of your inner writer?

The Ticking Clock

After a week away in Sag Harbor, NY and Santa Fe, NM, I'm back home in New York and the days are ticking down:

2 weeks until I begin school
3 weeks until I begin sending queries to agents and entering contests.

I finally have all four of my author (and Kate D) inspected manuscripts back. And it's unanimous...all five of us agree that my ending sucks. So while consulting the OED to find out if the phrases I use are Regency-period appropriate, fixing typos, and cutting about 20 pages, I also have to rewrite a good portion of the ending so my characters don't behave in ways that were pulled out of my ass. Oh, and I changed Peter to a viscount from a duke and changed his brother-in-law's name from Geoffrey to Alfred, so now I'm going through looking for every instance of "duke" and "Geoffrey." And there are a lot of them.

In good news, I chose a new title, not one that was previously listed here. Then Comes Marriage.

Relocated... and soon to be scribbling

Since I’ve been whining about the horrors of moving, it seems only fair that I admit to the fact that I absolutely love my new home. Olympia, the small but intriguing port city of my youth, has reclaimed my affection along with my residency!

(Yes, I know this is a website devoted to Damned Scribbling Women… but forgive me! I’ve been so busy lately with baby showers, weddings, and moving that I haven’t had time to scribble. Or even, tragically, read romance novels. For now, all I can offer you is an Ode to Olympia.)

Being an hour south of Seattle means that I can get more for my money, and I must say I’m loving the apartment amenities. I haven’t had a dishwasher in two years, so having one now is lovely… and I’ve never enjoyed having a washer and dryer in my own home. Three cheers for that innovation! No more wandering down to the basement with a bag full of quarters and underwear, hoping no one else is already washing her knickers…

I’m also fully settled into my kitchen which, unlike my last kitchen, contains (a) storage space and (b) electrical outlets. I’m happy to report that, after a mere fortnight in residence, the spice cabinet has already taken on an alluring odor of marshmallows and cinnamon. Mmm… makes me want to bake…

In fact, I christened the oven with a blackberry pie. This baby was homemade from the crust on up—I even picked the blackberries myself, from a wild patch on the other side of my little patio. Having grown up in the Pacific Northwest, I’ve been exceedingly spoiled in the berry arena. When I lived in New England, I hated buying berries at the grocery store. It seemed like cheating, somehow. But now I can get sticky, prickly purple fingers to my heart’s content… I’ll be making at least one more pie before the season’s over.

Three of my five items already listed, and (like Erica) I’m still focused on the proper care and feeding of my oh-so-spoiled stomach. I’m happy to report that I now live within walking distance of my favorite coffee roaster, Archibald Sisters, my favorite store on earth since approximately 1988. It’s not the random assortment of Curious George lunchboxes and statue of David magnet sets that attract me. No, those are fun, but it’s the perfumery in the back that’s held my attention for almost twenty years. I used to spend hours trying all of their different scents—much to my mother’s chagrin. Sadly, I am no stranger to the phrase “You smell like a whorehouse,” though these days I stick to the demure Peach Rose blend.

And there you have it. Reasons to enjoy my new location. Next time, I promise, I shall wax rhapsodic about something involving romance novels! But in the mean time... tell me five things you love about your home!

An Unwholesome Love

I would like to apologize to our readers for my serious delay in posting anything remotely new and/or interesting on DSW. I would love to tell you that my lack of attention to blogging stems from the fact that I've been holed up in my office, frantically improving upon my first draft of Revising Mr. Right.

Sadly, this is not the case.

Instead, I've been enmeshed in that horror of horrors that some people in this country refer to as "moving." That's right. As befitting any hapless young renter, I moved out of my Seattle apartment on the last day of July. Of course, my apartment in Olympia was not yet habitable, and so I had the great fortune to place my belongings in my parents' garage for several days. On this past Sunday, we removed said items from the garage and made our second U-Haul trip to the Olympia townhouse.

Bonus: the new apartment has stairs.

Now, I do not consider myself a materialistic person. And it used to be that I could fit all of my belongings into the back of a Ford Sedan. (Ask Theresa; she was on that particular road trip.) And yet, upon this particular move, I realized that I've been compromised by an unwholesome love. A fetish, if you will.

My friends, I speak of my overwhelming obsession with books.

There were boxes of books. Bags of novels. Paperbacks squirreled away in suitcases (ostensibly) full of winter sweaters. As I pulled my collection from the various nooks and crannies into which it had been packed, I had to ask myself: do I truly need all of these books? They make a decorating statement, and they're quite delightful to have around, but oh, how I HATE moving them!

And so, I petition the DSW readers for advice. Specifically, I want to know how you all weed down your romance novel collection. Because right now, I've removed the sad paperbacks that should never be read again in my life. I've enshrined my favorites on a special shelf. And I'm left with piles upon piles of books that were good, but don't quite merit "favorite" status. I reread them occasionally, but not often... so do I keep them, or pack them off to the used bookstore?

For the love of my big brother's aching muscles, give me some advice: how do I winnow down my most beloved, bulky book collection?