Alas, the site is not yet redesigned, nor has the story of the agent acquirement been written, but I must tell all y’all about Mary’s Writer’s Digest Webinar, and so my eventual agent acquirement story will be written sans punchline. But we can all pretend to be impressed and surprised once I do get it written, and announce that I signed with Mary Kole of Andrea Brown. (NOT EVEN LYING. I SWEAR.)

So! Mary Kole’s Webinar! All the cool kids are doing it. Here are the stats:

September 23rd * 1pm Eastern * 90 minutes long * Year long access to archived transcript

Best of all, every registrant is guaranteed a critique by Mary. Let me assure you, based on the notes she has given me, the critique will be a.) awesome and b.) worth every penny. For serious. Truly, the woman has a talent. I recommend taking advantage of it!

Here’s a link with all the details: Mary Kole Webinar 

It’s going to be good times, as anyone who participated in Write On Con already knows!

Me, staring into the future of Fanfreakingtastic.com

I have not been around much. Perhaps you have noticed. Perhaps you have thought, where is the witty? The entertainments? The delights? The bizarre obession with song lyrics? Where has it all gone?

It has gone to a variety of places, my friends. It went to FlowerFest, it went on a ten day vacation with strep throat, it went to work. Work, you say? Surely not.

Indeed, I reply, but not the work you think, the work involving phones and W-2’s and 1099’s. It was work involving writing.

Gasp! You say.

Yes, says I.

Things have been afoot in my writing world. It may even be that yours truly has–

DUN-DUN-DUN

An agent.

I know. Craziness. And so, Fanfreakingtastic is on the dark side right now, but it shall come back, a new and better Fanfreakingtastic. I have visions, my friends, visions. Also, dreams. Dreams even more glorious than nailing 99 Problems. (NOT A WORD FROM YOU, SEAN CANNON. MY RENDITION WAS AWESOME AND IT BROUGHT THE HOUSE DOWN.)

But I digress.

Please stay tuned to this channel for more. Do not be surprised to find some awesomeness occurring in the near-ish future. DEFINITELY by October, the hallowed month of my birth, there will be awesomeness.

In the meantime, probably more blather about song lyrics.

Me, On My Horse

But I digress. 

Rejection. More specifically, the question: “What Does Form Rejection Mean to Me?” Answer: Not much to nothing. For a more expansive response, I thought I’d sit down with an old friend and get her take. She is a lady with whom I see eye to eye on such matters, and I am sure her comments will speak for me. 

CLF: Some people find rejection unpleasant. So unpleasant it becomes a deterrent. What do you think about that? 

LM: Make thick my blood; Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it! 

CLF: See, this is why I had to talk this over with you! You have such a clever way of putting things! Now, another issue commonly associated with rejection is the What If disease. People are tempted to conduct a post-mortem, wonder why, mentally fidget with what could-have-been. 

LM: Things without all remedy
Should be without regard: what’s done, is done. 

CLF: That does make sense. Perhaps what looms largest of all in the writer’s imagination is the issue of failure. One works so hard, always trying to improve, better one’s writing, one’s self. It can be daunting to think the process itself will be the only reward, that one’s efforts will ultimately result in failure.  

LM: We fail?
But screw your courage to the sticking place,
And we’ll not fail. 

CLF: But there is no denying it, the writer has no guarantees. 

LM: Art thou afeard 
To be the same in thine own act and valour 
As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that 
Which thou esteem’st the ornament of life, 
And live a coward in thine own esteem, 
Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would,” 
Like the poor cat i’ the adage?  

CLF: I’m not saying the lack of guarantees should keep a writer from trying, I’m just saying. 

LM: (Silent Disapproval) 

CLF: Just sayin’. 

LM: Consider it not so deeply. 

CLF: Anyway! I don’t actually disagree with you, so let’s move on. You know, I’d like to add, it’s important to be at peace with the fact you can only control so much. You have control over your own actions, your own writing, and nothing else. It is best to simply endeavor to be the best writer you can be and let the chips fall where they may.   

LM: Why, worthy thane, 
You do unbend your noble strength, to think 
So brainsickly of things.

CLF: Yeah, I kinda thought we might not be on the same page with that. Anything else you’d like to add? 

LM: Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? 

CLF: What? 

LM: What? Wait, what did I say? 

CLF: Something about blood. 

LM: Oh. Yeah. That was about something else. 

CLF: Okay. Well, thus concludes my essay on rejection! Thanks to LM for stopping by and so generously doling out her wisdom!

Where I am.

THINGS OF NOTE

CATS 

• Kitten lounges upon the half-sized bookcase.
• Mama Cat’s tail and back can be seen as she walks past.
• Max looks down upon them all, framed above the bookcase. This picture of Max was given to me by my friend Tony. One of the best gifts I’ve ever received.
• The empty trashcan sometimes contains Pumpkin, who has a special way of unceremoniously lumping his fatness face first into it, before settling into a curled heap at the bottom.

BIRDS 

• Outside my window is my bird feeder
• Bird bath
• Other bird feeder
• Some pics had birds in them, but they were so blurry you couldn’t really tell what they were. Titmice, in case you were wondering. Or perhaps titmouses.

HOUSE 

• Beadboard walls are hard to paint. When we bought it the entire house, and I mean to say THE ENTIRE HOUSE – walls, trim, fireplace, light sockets, everything – was painted mint green.
• The windows are the old fashioned kind with the rope pulleys.
• The house directly across the street was recently gutted by fire. I look across and see the neighbor’s white cat, waiting. It will be good once the neighbor’s back and they are reunited.
• I love our house. It is small and it is old and it is home.

MISC 

• That box and laptop bag are not usually to the left of my computer. I’m kinda annoyed they’re in the shot.

Up close and personal.

DESK 

• Mug of something hot. Not usually in a Scorpio cup. But I am a Scorpio.
• Undealt with mail and miscellany piled to the left.
• Space for sleeping cat to the right.
• Prescription bottle of cat antibiotics.
• Cheap, half-destroyed headphones. Expensive headphones destroyed by Pumpkin. Cheap headphones half-destroyed by Pumpkin.
• Birds close at hand. Good for me, good for the cats. (Cat TV.)

 AND FINALLY: 

Jadwiga, Mama Cat and Little Bastard, from many moons ago.

An old photo, perhaps 2005. Before Jadwiga died, before Little Bastard got sick, before Mama Cat got old. The whole family sitting on my desk, looking out the window.

This post is almost as slow off the mark as I am (and as we’ve established, I am incredibly slow) but I wanted to share with all of you the book trailer for Truth Be Told. We had a great time making it. Axel Gimenez from AGBK Productions flew down from Brooklyn to direct (he also edited) and scores of local friends and friends of friends acted as cast and crew. The quality of the final result is a testament to what a great team we had. Thanks to everyone who participated!

Truth Be Told Book Trailer

Two ambulance men. Not MY ambulance men, but a close enough approximation thereof.

I did not think I would be writing to you again so soon, but here I am, already in the homestretch! So many of you have contributed, and if I were able to do math, I could impress you all with the incredibly high percentage rate of contributors. Alas, I cannot. But let me just tell you, anecdotal evidence suggests a very high percentage rate!

This morning, as I slowly ran my way through eight miles around Furman University, watching the marathoners streak away into the distance in their tight black running pants, I reflected upon the generosity of my friends and family, and how this experience has been a journey.

In case any of you were curious, and had a lot of time on your hands – because, let’s be honest, I write even more than I talk – I thought I’d share with you how this all started in the first place.

Last January, I attended my company’s employee appreciation party, and there they unveiled a Wellness program that had some nice rewards attached to it. I went directly from there to the Biltmore Estate where I had a vacation package and roughly 40,000 calories of food waiting for me. I also weighed myself while there. Now, if I were able to do math, I could tell you how much weighed. Alas, I cannot count that high.

Upon my return I promptly tried to lose as much weight as possible before meeting with Jeff Thompson, our Wellness manager, who I suspected would try to weigh me. He did. He then said he’d think over my situation. The next week he sat me down and said, “Carrie, I have three goals for you. Before the end of the year, run in a 5k, a 10k, and then a half-marathon.”

It goes without saying I was deeply concerned for Jeff’s mental health, for obviously he was insane. I do not run. It is not something I do. And yet there was Jeff, optimistically handing me a sheet with a run/walk schedule that would get me to the point where I could run 20 minutes without stopping.  When I began, I could not run any longer than one minute. (Did I mention my cholesterol has dropped 50 points in the last year? Yeah…I was, you know, a little bit out of shape. Not a lot, or anything. Just a little.)

Before I knew it it was May, and time for my 5k. Jeff had picked out a “Take Back the Night” run around the Clemson University campus. Only we were going to be taking back the night at 8:30 in the morning. He kindly offered to be there to support me. “NO,” I said, accidentally almost yelling it. Like a wounded animal that slinks off into the woods to die, I preferred to be alone during my time of suffering. 

I had worked up to three miles in the area around my house, which is as flat as Kansas. I nervously arrived at the run, immediately got lost in the search for the start, and stupidly followed signs for the event for a mile before realizing I was following the course itself. Retracing my steps, I found the sign-up area, where a handful of people were milling around. They were frightening people in spandex and aggressively sleek eyewear. It is possible they were from the future.

I got in line for my number, but was immediately accosted by a woman. “The line is behind me!” she snarled into my face. Her boyfriend got behind her and shouted, “You go, Trish!”

“Am I going to get into a fight?” I thought. “Am I going to have to get into a fistfight and then run 3 miles? I don’t know if I’m up for that.” Thankfully, Trish and her cheerleader decided it wasn’t worth coming to fisticuffs over it. I wandered away, deeply grateful that at least I had my iPod. My little iPod shuffle had become my aural gasoline, fueling my gasping efforts to run the flat little loop around my house. It would be my lifesaver. I turned it on.

And it died.

After struggling with the desire to run home instead of running the course, I refocused, and remembered my battle plan – let all the runners go on, then I’d follow them, so that I could float in the in-between land between the runners and the walkers. My thoughts were interrupted by a woman making announcements, “…and an ambulance will be following the slowest runners…” to the woman’s surprise and mine, an arrogant snicker came up from the people from the future, in their spandex and aggressive eyewear. I tried to look inconspicuous.

The gun went off and I waited and waited and waited, until there were only walkers. I set off at a jog, and immediately realized I’d waited too long – everyone was walking in front of me! What the heck did they think they were doing, running 100 feet and stopping? I weaved my way through the pack, and as I did so, the ambulance got a bead on me. The ambulance men discovered that there was not a pack of slowest runners, there was just the slowest runner, singularly speaking, and that was me.

For the first mile I resented the ambulance lapped onto my flank like a remora suctioned onto the side of a whale shark, but even more I resented the sorority girls who could not decide if they were running or walking. Endlessly they’d sprint past me, get tired, walk, then I’d pass them, and the whole process would begin again. I think they deeply, deeply resented being passed by me.

Two miles ticked by, and I thought, wow! This is great! I could do this all day! Fantastic!

And then the third mile hit. The brilliant planners of this event charted the final mile as follows – from the Esso Club to Death Valley Stadium to Tillman Hall.

This is a photo of the actual hill that precedes Tillman Hall.

For those of you unfamiliar with Clemson, that route would read as follows – from steep to steeper to suicidally steep.

Within a 1/16 of a mile I was done for. I took a walk step.

“KEEP GOING!” hollered a deep, masculine voice. “DON’T STOP!”

It was the ambulance men.

I started running again.

“WE’VE BEEN ROOTING FOR YOU THE ENTIRE TIME!”

The path became steeper still, I slowed even more.

I then heard a strange, click, click and the whine of a P.A. system turning on.

Surely not, thought I.

And then the crackling voice of the ambulance men, magnified 100 times.

“KEEP GOING! YOU CAN DO IT!”

I will grant the ambulance men this. It is quite impossible to stop running once the ambulance men decide that you’re going to keep running.

When it became apparent that I would make it to the finish line, the ambulance men raced on ahead and jumped out, so that they might give me high fives as I entered the rope tunnel thing that foot races have at the end of them. The ambulance men clapped and said, “that’s pure determination right there!” (Actual, verbatim quote.)

I looked up ahead to see my time on the giant, electric light board. The time read 39 minutes, and seconds were ticking.

“YOU CAN MAKE IT UNDER FORTY!” the ambulance men shouted. And then:

“RUN!”

And, by God, I ran. Somewhere I found the ability to sprint home, reaching the finish line before the clock hit forty.

If I was able to do math I could divide 3.1 into 39 and give you my average mile time, but I think it will suffice it to say that it was slow. But apparently, ladies and gentlemen, I am pure determination, which is something in and of itself.

Shiny-suited Bret Michaels wins Celebrity Apprentice...and our hearts.

When did this happen? Seriously, I’m asking you. And don’t say the brain hemorrhage, because it had already occurred by that point. Had Bret Michaels not already become a national treasure, we really wouldn’t have cared. I mean, Gary Coleman just died, and as a nation, we were like, “mmm… yeah… bummer.” But Bret Michaels has a brain hemorrhage and it’s like, “screw coverage of the oil spill in the Gulf, NATIONAL TREASURE BRET MICHAELS is in peril!”

I am not immune from this phenomenon. It seems like yesterday I was turning my nose up with much judginess at Rock of Love (a show I still find abhorrent) and then somehow I magically started watching Celebrity Apprentice, ostensibly to see Cyndi Lauper, and then, all of a sudden, I’m rooting for Bret Michaels and then I AM VERY CONCERNED about his health and before I know it, I am actually caring about whether Bret Michaels wins a completely and totally bogus promo package disguised as a reality show and helmed by Donald Trump. I ACTUALLY CARED.

All of this led me to a most disturbing point yesterday afternoon, wherein I posted a comment on People.com saying that if Bret Michaels was the new Idol judge, I’d watch the show again.

What has happened to me? Seriously, I’m asking you. What happened to my pride? To my elitist disdain of Bret Michaels, let alone American Idol and People.com? When did I buy stock in National Treasure Bret Michaels? I can’t be certain, but I think it was around episode 5 of Celebrity Apprentice. To begin with, he annoyed the bejeezus out of me. I’ve worked with people like that, who talk and talk and talk, who use buzzwords ad nauseum, who never met a point they couldn’t belabor. Then two things happened. Firstly, I realized that nobody on the show treated others with more respect than Bret Michaels. He was gracious to the graphic designers, the editors, the guy holding the boom mic. Secondly, I think he improved. He became more effectual and less talky. He offered an appealing package of work ethic, self-deprecation, enthusiasm, and decency. Plus, he seemed so happy to be on Celebrity Apprentice. God bless ‘em, you know?

Then there were the photos of him in the hospital bed WEARING THE BANDANA. That’s a dude who lives the dream, right there. And I have no doubt he is a very tough guy. I couldn’t live on the road the way he does. I couldn’t maintain such a good attitude after how many weeks of promoting random products through oddly painful tasks on the Apprentice. I would be surprised if his toughness didn’t help him through the brain hemorrhage.  I suffer no illusions – Bret Michaels’ life would have broken me many times over, and maybe even killed me. I can’t help but respect him.

And finally, there was his duet with Casey on Idol. I didn’t watch the finale, but I saw a highlight reel. All the big stars had their moments alone, but Bret shared the spotlight with the blonde guy from Texas, the guy with the goat voice, who, mysteriously, was presented to me as though I should find him attractive. I didn’t, but I am sure he’s a very nice fellow. Seems to play the guitar well. Anyway, that moment summed up Bret Michaels for me, the National Treasure Bret Michaels I’ve come to know and respect – enthusiastic, tough, and generous.

I’m not going to lie. What I wrote on People.com is true. If Bret Michaels replaces Simon Cowell, I will totally watch American Idol again.

Moving on…

No joke - this picture triggers my gag reflex.

There is a song that has been simultaneously entertaining and annoying me for eight long years. Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock’s “romantic” ballad/duet, “Picture.”

Let’s start by drinking in the following series of words: “Kid Rock’s romantic ballad/duet.” That right there is worth the price of admission, provided “admission” is listening to the song for free in your car. Because I mean, hey, I’m sure I’m not alone when I say Kid Rock personally defines my romantic ideal. Am I right, ladies, or am I right?

So there’s that. And the song, on the surface, is an inoffensive enough little ditty, so uncomplicated it wouldn’t strain even Britney’s vocals. It’s the kind of song that slips by unnoticed, unless you make the mistake of listening to the words. Let me give you a condensed version of Kid Rock’s side of the story: 

Livin’ my life in a slow hell
Different girl every night at the hotel
Been fuelin’ up on cocaine and whisky
Wish I had a good girl to miss me
I put your picture away
Sat down and cried today
I can’t look at you while I’m lyin’ next to her

Fair enough, Mr. Rock. You’ve obviously suffered a bad break-up and are now engaging in a downward spiral of self-destruction wrought of heartache and loss. And now for the lady’s take: 

Somethin’ just ain’t right
I been waitin’ on you for a long time
Fuelin’ up on heartaches and cheap wine
I put your picture away
I wonder where you been
I can’t look at you while I’m lyin’ next to him

Pretty much the same story. Makes sense. After the break-up, she longingly wonders where he has wandered off to and what he is doing. She, too, finding false comfort in some random person. Fine.

Here’s my issue: THEY’VE BEEN SEPARATED FOR THREE DAYS.  1,2,3. THREE DAYS. THAT’S IT. Here’s how the song closes.

Both: Since you been gone my worlds been dark & grey (72 hours of dark and grey, ladies and gentlemen.)
Kid Rock: You reminded me of brighter days (Was it that hard to remember? IT WAS THREE DAYS AGO.)
Crow: I was headed to church
Rock: I was off to drink you away!

I just included that last little bit ’cause it’s hilarious. Anyway, back to business:

Both: I thought about you for a long time (THREE DAYS, PEOPLE.)
Can’t seem to get you off my mind (NOT SURPRISING.)
I can’t understand why we’re living life this way (Well, based on how you handle the passage of three days, perhaps because you’re RETARDED.)
I found your picture today (You FOUND it? You put it away the day before YESTERDAY. Do you have short term memory loss?)

In case you doubt my timeline, here’s what I cut out:

Rock: I ain’t seen the sun shine in 3 damn days

Crow: I called you last night in the hotel
Everyone knows but they wont tell
But their half hearted smiles tell me
Somethin’ just ain’t right
I ain’t heard from you in 3 damn nights

I submit this as evidence that we are, in fact, talking about the transpiring of no more than 72 hours. So what I want to know is, who are the people this song speaks to? Who out there lives life with the drama dial turned all the way to eleven, such that they can cram more histrionics into three days than I’ll put into ten years? I mean, by day two these people have reached an emotion it would take me two months (or more) to get to. SO FOREIGN TO ME. SERIOUSLY. I mean, I’m not trying to be Judgy McJudgalot. Diff’ent strokes for diff’ent folks, and all that. I’m just saying, FOREIGN. Also, I would submit the word, EXHAUSTING.

I’ve always been weirded out by writers writing about writing. Obviously, it can be done well. I was once given a book on writing by Joyce Carol Oates and I enjoyed it immensely. Everyone says Stephen King’s On Writing is exceptional. It is something that can be done well, and I can understand why a JCO or a Stephen King would want to tackle the subject. But as a subject of casual conversation, I don’t get writers writing about, or talking about, writing. It’s not something I feel comfortable with, probably for the same reason you don’t see too many paintings of people painting. Why paint a picture of someone painting a picture when there is an entire world out there of subjects to be put on canvas? Why turn inward when there’s so much more outward? These are my thoughts, anyway. And they are thoughts long held. As a teen I was a huge King fan, until he hit roughly the sixth book in a row about a writer whose imagination actually brings to life some monster. You know when a 16 year old thinks you’re self-indulgent, it’s a bad sign. All of that said – I am a wicked hypocrite, because this post is going to be all about a.) my writing and b.) my own very King-like experience.

Axel Gimenez, Fred Adams and Officer Richard Gooch.

As most of you know, this last week has been muy ocupado. My friend Axel came down to South Carolina from NYC in order to shoot a book trailer for Truth Be Told. I’m not sure who came up with idea first, but I know my thought was Axel would put some of his flash talents to bear and he’d make a little graphics and still shot trailer. Except he told me he was “writing it.” And I was like, “how the hell does it take you this long to write a little flash animation book trailer?” Then I got the trailer that Axel wrote. Holy Awesome, Batman! Axel had done a fantastic job, but I was blown away by how ambitious it was. I wasn’t sure if I could swing it. And then he called me to say he’d bought his plane ticket. It was go time.

Thanks to the generous nature of Southeners, locations and cast quickly came together. In the process, a lot of things changed from the book to the trailer. For example, Deputy Young is described as follows: “From the passenger side a deputy unfolded his long limbs. He was blonde and painfully thin, his body nothing but flat planes and points. The only round thing about him were his eyes, which were overly large and opalescent.” Playing Deputy Young was Officer Richard Gooch. Gooch is essentially the exact opposite of that description, but what he brought to the table was a whole other kind of scary, and it was awesome. 

For me it was a fantastic experience. I watched as this thing, which had previously lived inside my head, came to life in the outside world. As it came alive, it morphed and changed. Axel, the actors, and the locations stretched the scenes, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, and I loved it all.

As I hustled my bustle, pulling together eight locations, a cop car, a hearse, and a diverse cast, some things didn’t come together as easily as others. We quickly found our main character, the absolutely stunningly awesome Mary-Margaret Coble, as well as most of the other speaking roles. But we hadn’t found Paul. One night, about a week before the shoot, I sat in my tiny kitchen with Evan and our friend Dan Dinger. Dinger knows everyone. Literally. Dinger knows every man, woman, and child in a three county radius. I was fussing about not being able to find someone to play Paul, and Dinger said, “describe him to me.” And so I did. Dinger goes, “I know that guy. His name is Skinny.” Dinger picked up his phone, dialed, and said to the unknown man on other side, “My friend Carrie needs you to be in a movie. Here she is.” I told Skinny that Dinger was a trip and Skinny agreed. Right away I thought, the voice is right, but will he look the part?

Skinny rolls in the dirt.

The next day Skinny and Dinger came over to our house before we all headed out to dinner. As Skinny got out of his truck, it was as creepy an experience as I’ve ever had, and suddenly I knew why Stephen King became so enamored with this notion of one’s imagination coming to life. Skinny looked EXACTLY like the character I had written. He sounded EXACTLY like the character I’d written. And he behaved EXACTLY like the character I had written. This was unnerving, because the character I’d written was a serial killer.

During dinner I felt compelled to ask Skinny if he actually was a serial killer. I think he answered with, “maybe.” Or something else equally disturbing. Honestly, it took me a few days of being around Skinny to separate the real person from the character. I eventually learned Skinny has a pet squirrel and a cat named Charlie, he’s an extremely hard worker, super competent, and an all around decent person. In other words, he’s nothing like Paul. Except for the fact that, on the outside, HE IS EXACTLY LIKE HIM. SERIOUSLY, IT’S WEIRD.

All that said, it is still the Kentucky Derby, the high holy of all holies, and it would be wrong to leave it unmentioned. So, here is my recap of everything delightful about this Kentucky Derby.

• Calvin Borel wins yet another edition, making it three out of the last four
• The Todd got the monkey off his back (I was so over that story line)
• Toupee guy won $900,000+ dollars on a $100,000 win bet provided by Churchill Downs.

And that’s it! Super Saver himself? Meh. He’s a nice horse, clearly. Is he going to win the Triple Crown? Well, Calvin says he will. And who knows, maybe he will. If he does, I’ll celebrate like I’ve been on his bandwagon since the day his dam foaled him. But it’s hard for me to imagine a Triple Crown winner named Super Saver. Triple Crown winners are named things like Affirmed, Assault, Count Fleet, War Admiral, Secretariat, Citation. Super Saver doesn’t really feel of a piece with that list.

But he is a lovely horse. Let us close this post with a photo of him galloping:

Super Saver works.