Stephanie Gayle

I got a thin envelope in the mail on Thursday. It had the address label I use on the envelopes I send out with story submissions. So I recognized it immediately for what it was: a rejection. I opened it to find a 2 inch by 4 inch piece of paper with the following: The Carolina Quarterly. Due to backlog of fiction submissions, we have been unable to read your manuscript in a timely fashion. We are very sorry for the inconvenience, and we encourage you to resubmit your work after September 1, 2007.

In pen someone had written the title of my story, "Lost Boy of Passadumkeag." Odd, I thought. I withdrew that story from other magazines once I got word it had been accepted by The Fourth River. And what the hell did the note mean? Did they ever read my story? It didn't indicate rejection in a plain manner. None of the 'not right for us' or 'good luck placing it elsewhere.'

So I went to the color coded submissions spreadsheet to discover just how untimely The Carolina Quarterly had been in not reading my manuscript before sending me a cryptic note. At first I couldn't find it on the sheets. I began doubting my system.

But then I found it, much further back in time than I expected to find it. I submitted to the magazine on November 9, 2005. Their note came June 28, 2007. Pardon?

If they were so backlogged, why didn't stop accepting new submissions so as to get caught up? Why not
give notice to contributers that it would be many, many, many months before they could expect to hear a response?

I understand that the running of a literary magazine is a time consuming, labor of love affair. You don't make much (if any) money and you receive very little thanks.

But that's no excuse for taking 18 and a half months to send not-quite-rejection notes to writers who are spending valuable postage money and effort on submitting to your magazine.

Had The Carolina Quarterly committed one offense I would have said no more but the combination of serious delay and cryptic note demands that I give them the spanking of the week. There! Now pull up your pants, and don't make me do this again.

Posted by Stephanie at 07:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

For all of you who want to preview the first few pages of my book, or who really enjoy reading the Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data, click above and take a look.

Posted by Stephanie at 11:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Now that my novel is officially out I can go hunting in local bookstores. Playing "where is my book" is fun except when it is not. It's fun when it's easiest, when my book is up front on a table! It's least fun when my book is tucked away from eager book buyers whose attention spans might not be long enough to take them to the shelf on which my book is hidden, spine out.

Face out is much better, but face out is rare, because it takes up valuable shelf space. Face out is usually reserved for bestselling authors or authors of multiple books or authors whose names don't end in Gayle. Fuckadoodle! (Think that will get me a more 'adult' blog rating? Or will my made up curse fail the censors' check?)

Today I found my book spine out beside a face out book and my fingers itched, they positively itched to take my poor, unloved novel and put it, face out, atop the other book. But apparently I have morals or ethics because I couldn't. It felt wrong. Besides, what had William Gay ever done to me? Nothing. That's what. And that's why his novel, Twilight, remained unmolested, and damn it! Damn it! I had to look up the title of William Gay's book because I was uncertain. His book came out in October and the paperback version is due out September. Pal, you had a good run of shelf hogging. I've only had two days of shelf obscurity.

Perhaps my morals are not as fixed as one might suppose...

Posted by Stephanie at 07:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Mingle² - Online Dating

Oh, this is pathetic. I used a little device to check my blog's audience rating (equivalent to MPAA ratings). I got a G for General Audiences. What?! The only G movies are animated or very family friendly. My only no-no was using the word bitches once. You know what I say? Fuck that.

No one embraces curse words more than me! In fact I'm still trying to get twatwaffle into common speech (since Gawker decided it could not replace douchebag. The hell it can't!)

Apparently mentioning alcohol and drinking got me nowhere. I'm going to have to step this up. Hmmmm.

Okay, let's hope this post gets me at least into PG-13 territory. I've got a rep to protect here folks. Damn twatwaffles. Trying to bring me down.

Posted by Stephanie at 12:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I would be the person on the right. Left is Jesse Haley, of Haley Booksellers.

Last night was crazy. So many friends and complete strangers showed up to Redbone's for the launch of my novel, MY SUMMER OF SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT. My first grade teacher, Mrs. Wood, came! Personalizing her book was easy. "Thanks for teaching me to read." She did, actually, so yay plus she came all the way to Somerville for my party. All night I kept telling people, "My first grade teacher came!" Folks must have wondered which lady in the crowd was Mrs. Wood and I bet they guessed wrong because Mrs. Wood looks fiiiiiiine. I have no idea what the secret of her youth is. Working for years with children? That would have the very opposite effect on me, I fear.

I spent the early part of the evening hugging people and signing books, more hugging, more signing. I worried that I'd be too hoarse to read. Gin is not good for a pre-reading throat. A tip for the youngsters out there.

The very handsome boyfriend skipped out of his class early, brought me flowers and fetched me water when I expressed concern about my throat. He's so good to me. And he brought friends who bought books. He's a triple threat!

My best friend Julie introduced me and kindly refrained from pointing out that I was drinking at 8:30 PM the prior evening when I called to ask her to introduce me before my reading. (Thanks Jules!) And then I read for a very large number of people. It felt good, and I think the audience liked the excerpt. They laughed in the right places and even groaned in a good spot. Then I asked if anyone had questions, expecting that since people hadn't yet read the book, they wouldn't have questions.

I underestimated my audience. Those folks were full of questions, from process to editing, to Natalie's name and the nature of male-female relations (what?!). That last one threw me for a loop, but otherwise I felt it went well.

Then I signed a few more books, hugged some more folks, and devoured a Jamaican jerk sandwich because I was suddenly very hungry and very tired. After two and a half hours of being "on" I felt weary.

Jesse and Dick said the event went well and I think we sold some copies so huzzah!

Proof that I can sign my own name!

I can read. Thanks again, Mrs. Wood!

Posted by Stephanie at 05:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Today we launch MY SUMMER OF SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT!
I hope to have excellent pics and such from tonight's event to post to the blog.
Until then, wish me luck!

Posted by Stephanie at 03:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Today I got it into my head that my book launch would be a raving success if I could find the perfect pair of jeans to wear. If not? Remainder bins meet my novel. Hyperbolic? Yes, thank you for noticing.

In my family the person who got the shopping genes is my sister Lesley. She could probably find a bargain in Barney's if so challenged. She has unflagging energy and doesn't whine that she has to pee, needs water, food, or that her back hurts (like me). She was this way before having four children.

When I go shopping I might start out enjoying the activity, but if it involves more than three stores I start getting peevish. I do enjoy playing "what would you rather wear" with Maggie, whose talent for finding outrageous outfits is legendary, but even that pales after 1.5 hours.

Today I braved downtown Boston, intent on my goal, prepared to spend more than my customary $29.99 on jeans. Prepared, if need be, to spend $100. Perhaps it's due to my lack of shopping, but color me shocked to discover upscale jeans (True Religion, 7 for Mankind, etc.) retail for approximately $200. What? Do they clean your house? Cook you breakfast?

I got what I wanted from Banana Republic for $78. More than my miserly soul wanted to spend, but not so pricey as to make me howl when I paid for them (bet that would startle the ladies at Sak's).

While I was in Jasmine Sola, trying on expensive jeans the salesgirl outside asked how it was going. I laughed. She asked if it was a bad laugh. I told her it was. I had just tried on a pair of low rise jeans. I hate low rise jeans. I don't like them because they attack my lady bits with their tiny zipper area of fabric and no one can sit in those jeans without exposing more than is proper and I don't care if this makes me sound old. Then she says, "Let me see."

Let her see? I just told her I hated them. Why would I let her see the jeans? So she could convince me that the jeans I hate are really terrific? By then I'd already whipped them off, so I told her that. She insisted on seeing the next pair, which were comfortable but about 2-3 inches too long (a strange problem given that I'm tall). She suggested I could get them hemmed. I nearly told her that for $198 the pants ought to self-hem, but didn't. I figured she wouldn't laugh and I had no energy to explain that I never get things hemmed and didn't want to start now. I went so far as to pretend to consider said jeans. Then I put them away and got the hell out of there.

Now I have the jeans. So everything is going to be a raving success only tomorrow's forecast is for temperatures in the high eighties. Not really denim weather. Excuse me. I need to call my sister.

Posted by Stephanie at 04:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

On Thursday I finally met Dick and Jesse of Haley Booksellers. I felt as though I knew them, since we'd been in contact for several months. We met at Redbone's to scope out the area where the launch party would occur. We chatted about books and authors, and as we prepared to go they told me, "Don't do anything bad in the next four days." My first thought was: you mean, don't get arrested? They explained, "Don't fall down any stairs."

For all those familiar with my accident prone nature you'll realize this is a difficult promise to make. I said I'd take extra care. So yesterday, after my massage (the same one after which the therapist told me she could spend another entire hour working on my back and neck and the stress inside) I used the handrails walking down the steps. Because I didn't feel attached to my body, and it's times like those when a person must exercise caution.

You know those signs they have on construction sites that say: X days without accident (for which X represents a number?) Maybe I should have a sign like that. Then again, maybe not.

Posted by Stephanie at 10:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I guest blogged recently at a website I like to visit called Bookseller Chick. Linsey, the former bookseller chick in question, was gracious enough to let me hijack her blog not once, but twice. Here's the link to the second blog. Scroll down two entries to read the first.

I found the Q&A interesting and fun. There are kittens involved. Plus, it's always surprising to see what questions people have about your work. At least if you're a self-involved artist it is. So, yes, it was great.

Thanks Linsey!

Posted by Stephanie at 03:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Today I was calculating how many hardcover copies of books I need to sell to earn past my advance. It felt as if I were transported back to math class. If the royalty rate for 1-5,000 copies is 10% and...you get the picture. That made me think. Then things at work went hell in a handbasket. The man from Apple computers tried to explain the delayed delivery of two machines by saying "Apple's success often creates backlogs of hot products." Wow. Good business plan! And excellent customer service. I won't even go on about his suggested 'fix' for my problem.

So later, to unwind, I visited the smart bitches at Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. And that's when I stopped feeling sorry for myself because ship dates were postponed and I'd have to work really hard to promote my book. That's when I got sad and angry because I'm a woman and nothing gets at my core of emotions like a tale of abuse against a woman.

I'm not sure how I missed the story of Dua Khali Aswad's death. It happened in April. The 17-year-old Yazidi Iraqi girl was set upon by a crowd of men, some family relatives, and beaten and stoned to death. Armed policemen stood watch and did nothing. She died on the ground at the mob's feet. Cause of death: fractured skull and broken spine.

Someone videotaped the murder on their cameraphone. You can watch the video. I will not.

Is it important that the reason she was attacked was because she had been seen in the company of a Sunni Muslim and this was an 'honor killing'? Inasmuch as horrific practices exist and need to be outlawed, yes. Inasmuch as the motive can never excuse this atrocity, no.

Courtesy of Smart Bitch Sarah: "A month later, Joss Whedon wrote about Khalil on Whedonesque, and his entry inspired a group of people led by Skyla Dawn Cameron to put together “an anthology of responses to Khalil’s death and the issues Whedon raised in his original essay ([the] culture of misogyny, violence against women, and the need for equality). It will be printed through Lulu.com, with all proceeds going to charity.” The planned release date is the one year anniversary of Dua Khalil’s death, April 7, 2008.

The book, Nothing But Red is seeking writers and artists to participate - and all formats, media, and genres are open - as well as volunteers to help put the book together. The first article will be Whedon’s original post, though the organizers are looking for anything that serves as a response to Khalil’s death. Submissions are being accepted from 1 August 2007 until 1 November 2007.

You can find out more at the Nothing But Red site, or email Skyla Dawn Cameron directly."

For me, violence against woman touches a nerve that reverberates without end. I shake in anger at these stories and at knowing so many more go unsaid, unwritten, and unknown.

I think I'll submit to Nothing But Red the one story I've written about this topic. It's called "Only Girls Know" and was published in the May/June 2006 issue of Ellipsis:Literary Serials and Narrative Culture. I wrote that story because I was trying to explain how it feels to be a girl and know that violence hangs over you and touches, if not you, your sisters and mothers and friends. It is a constant threat.

I'll also be spending quality time scanning Equality Now and doing what I can to promote the passage of good laws (like those that convict sex tour operators of, you know, doing something wrong--yeah, Gunter Frentz of Fort Worth, TX, I am looking at you.)

Thanks to Sarah for reminding me that there are bigger, more important things than book royalties and shipping deadlines. And thanks to all the men and women who continue to fight on behalf of women the world over.

Posted by Stephanie at 01:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Recently I wrote a story about a man and some dolphins. It started with a good first line and had some interesting bits. I quite liked it when I was done. Then I showed it to my fellow Master Fiction writers and they found flaws. Flaws? Yes, flaws. Dirty, little stains and huge gaping holes. Worst yet, these flaws, once revealed, became apparent to me. How had I not seen them? Could I mend them? Did I want to bother?

I let the story sit for some weeks. Major repairs, for me, require time away. Time not to think of dolphins or of how crappy my first drafts can be without my knowing it. I've been working on it the past few days and it's making inroads into my waking life. While doing something in the kitchen (not cooking--that I know) I had a realization about how the narrator should feel about something. It bordered on epiphany. Then I realized I had to work it into the story, subtly. I couldn't just write "He wants to feel exactly what the dolphins feel here."

Often that's the hard bit. Working meaning into something without hitting your readers over the head with it. Did anyone see the film, Crash? Crash beat you over the head with its message: racism is bad. Well, duh. I never want to write Crash or an equivalent of Crash. This may lead me to shy from meaning too much, also a problem.

Another thing I realized was problematic with the story were things I the writer knew and didn't convey to the reader. Just because it's in my head doesn't mean it makes it onto the page. Another reason an outside reader or many can be damn helpful. Getting that information onto the page without stopping your train at Exposition Junction is also important. Subtlety, finesse.

The good news is I that I have ideas for making the dolphin story better. It's a lot easier to sit and edit when you have the ideas for change in your mind, when you're fairly certain you can make things better and not just different.

So now you know what I'll be doing tonight. That and laundry. Ugh, laundry. I have found no way to make laundry better.

Posted by Stephanie at 03:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Today, after work, Maggie and I are going to play tennis. By play tennis I mean we are going to attempt to hit the ball in the direction of the other side of the court (not into an adjacent court, as I've already mastered this skill). We both took lessons two? was it two? years ago at MIT. They were good lessons. Don't blame the lessons for our lackluster performance on the courts.

There will be no scoring. Rarely will there be a formal attempt at serving. There will be volleying and rallying and laughing. There will be several attempts to look nonchalant once the ball has sailed past one of us. There may be apologies to people who may be playing in adjacent courts. There will be fun.

Maggie and I already have poor playing excuses in store for this evening. Mine is my rotator cuff. Hers is being sore from playing tennis with her dad on Sunday. "He wanted to keep score," she told me yesterday.
"Like a real game?" My tone was full of horror and pity. What kind of man was Maggie's father?
"Yeah, but I fixed it," she said. "I said, let's keep rallying for a while." She also scored the better half of the court at some point and refused to change sides, so as to keep the good half of the court. I admire that.

So if you happen to see two incredibly hot, inept tennis players in the Cambridge/Somerville area courts tonight, duck and run. It's in your best interests.

Posted by Stephanie at 04:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My editor routinely emails me with updates about my novel. She forwards good reviews and good news. It's a nice pick me during the day. Today's pick me up really picked me up and threw me across the room. It was that fantastic. Apparently on page 72 of the July issue of Redbook MY SUMMER OF SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT is featured as one of summer's best books. Ack!

When I got the news I promptly printed the PDF and accosted the nearest grad student and made him look at it and make happy noises. Thanks Jay!

Then I called my mom. And promised to call my Dad after I had the interview with the reporter from BostonNOW who was writing a piece about the book. So all you local commuters: forego the Metro for BostonNOW on Wednesday and read about the book and me! See if I managed to come across as a reasonably intelligent author.

Then I called my Dad, and emailed the very handsome boyfriend, the best friend, and Stacie at work who gets what a big deal this is.

Then I did work of the financial and filing variety.

After work I raced to the nearest bookstore and picked up a copy of Redbook. There it was! On page 72 as promised. My book! When I got to the counter where two salesgirls stood I said, "I know this is geeky, but look! It's my book!" I pointed to the open page. Salesgirl #2 said, "Congratulations!" Saleslegirl #1, who rang me up, said nothing. It is a testament to my high spirits that I didn't pick up the nearest hardcover and beat her with it while saying, "What? You're such a misanthrope you can't even manage a polite, 'good for you?'"

I ran into the talented Patty Keough while we ascended separate escalators, side by side. That was funny and brilliant. Everything is funny and brilliant now.

I giggled to myself as I walked home, unable to stop. After I showed the roommates the magazine I announced I was going to act like an author and go drink in my room. Ah, the dark and stormy. Yum yum!

And hours later I'm just...wow. Still wow. This is amazing.

Posted by Stephanie at 09:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

The other day I was thinking about my novel's launch and how great an event it would be and then I started worrying about details: which scene I would read, for how long, the music: was it good and Southern enough, what about the signing? Dear God, the signing! Which pen should I use?

I looked through my signed books for a pattern, but there wasn't one. About half of them are signed with ballpoints and the other half are not. In some cases an author (Steve Almond I am looking at you) signed some books in ballpoint and others with rollerball pens. Gah!

These are the tricks of the trade no one tells you when you begin your publishing journey.

So I moseyed on down to Bob Slate, Stationer today to peruse pens. There were a lot. I quickly decided that although for everyday use I prefer the Pilot BP-S pens, these were not to be my signing pens. They are too fine and the ink a bit too pale. I wanted something thicker, more declarative. I stood in front of a locked glass case of very expensive pens and thought, "I hope I don't have to buy a $50 pen." And then the realistic brain that is responsible for bathing and feeding me said, "Jackass, of course you don't need a $50 pen. No one does, and how many absent minded authors do you think can keep track of such a pen before losing it?"

So I walked the aisle picking up pens and testing them. It soon became clear I didn't like the ballpoints and I needed something thicker than fine and extra fine. I scribbled a few sample swirls and words. I started to write my name, got oddly self-conscious, and stopped. So there's a pad of paper that reads "Ste" in the store.

I settled at last on the Uniball Gel Impact 1.0mm pen in black. I bought the last two that were on display. Then I walked to the nearest counter and asked if they carried pencil or pen toppers.

"Erasers?" the salesman asked.
"We have grips," the woman beside him told me.
"No, I was thinking something that says serious author. A fuzzy troll? Glittery strands?"
It's sad when your attempt at humor is met with a straight reaction. They both looked at me as if I'd sprouted horns.
"No trolls," he said. "We have erasers and grips."
The woman suggested I try the toy store next door. I did, but all they had was Sponge Bob eraser toppers.

I had no idea it would be this hard to pimp my pen. But the important thing is that I have the pens. Everything else is frosting.

Posted by Stephanie at 06:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

When I was a young(er) writer, beginning to submit to the world of literary magazines, I had little guidance and few tools. Sure, there was Writer's Market, but it cost about $25 and its listings didn't always give a true sense of what types of fiction the magazines were seeking. The tubes of the Internet have made the game a lot easier, now that many mags have samples of stories online. There's nothing like reading a sample of published fiction to give you a sense of what the editors like.

I used to laugh when, in the submission guidelines, magazines would urge you to buy a sample copy. I understand the idea: it gives the writer a true sense of the publication and literary magazines die without monetary support but often new writers can hardly afford to buy a copy of every mag they might be interested in sending a story to. Hell, I remember that the postage costs for sending out stories and entering a few contests made a dent in my small checking account. A dent that doesn't bounce back when your story finally is accepted by a magazine, because the magazines I've been published in (thus far) paid me in copies.

So the Internets have made searching easier, as has Duotrope's Digest, a
site that allows you to search magazines by story length, payscale, and genre. They even allow you to exclude from your search magazines that are not currently accepting submissions. It is super useful. Go visit.

Another unexpected tool I learned to use in my Grub class taught by Ellen Litman are collections of best short stories such as the O'Henry or the Best American (if you're sending off to mainly US magazines). Often a magazine may have one or more stories represented in the collection which shows you: hey! good magazine! and what they've published in the past.

And talk to other writers. You may find out the widely respected Magazine X is notoriously late in response time though they demand your submission be exclusive. (Exclusives suck). Or you might discover that the editors of Magazine Y really dig your current fiction motif of animal chefs. Who knows?

Posted by Stephanie at 09:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

There are many, many books I didn't write. I didn't write Fun with Dick and Jane or Moby Dick. I didn't write Atlas Shrugged or Middlemarch. You know what else I didn't write? I didn't write a book called My Summer of Southern Comfort. But the MIT Libraries says I did. Of course they also say my first name is Stephani, which takes me back to filling out standardized tests in grade school when they never allotted me enough letters for my first name but more than enough for my last.

Anyway, I think we can all agree that there is an important difference between comfort and discomfort. And Southern Comfort? Um, yeah, that's an entirely different beast. My Summer of Southern Comfort sounds like an alcoholic's memoir. Possibly a fine book, but not MY book.

Also: I didn't write Dialysis: An Unanticipated Journey, though if you type my name into some online bookstores, it's the first book to show up because two of the books' authors have one part each of my name.

I'm glad we've got this straightened out.

Posted by Stephanie at 03:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Wow. I wanted to keep this birthday (unlike previous, monkey pinata beating birthdays) low-key. I succeeded. But the day still kicked ass as friends and coworkers and MIT students alike showed me love. Thanks y'all. Here are just a few highlights from Birthday 2007.

Waking up to find the new roommate, Kayla, had baked me strawberry cream puffs. (I thought I must be having an "oh crap I'm still asleep but dreaming I'm awake" dream at this moment but the cream puffs were real. Deliciously real!)

Wearing my panda ears around work. They're comfy.

Getting loads of happy birthday greetings from my peeps all day long.

Being surprised with a balloon sculpture, floral arrangement, book array installed after an MIT student was sent to lure me out of my office on a false pretext. This would have worked a lot better for him if I weren't such a suspicious person.

Getting invited to participate in the Somerville News 'Writers Festival' in November alongside Tom Perotta, Steve Almond and Robert Pinsky. Hot damn!

Having Amy call me to sing Happy Birthday to me and then say, "I hope you appreciate that I'm doing this in the middle of Barny's. People are looking at me."

Finding that Tracey bought me the panda school folder I wanted from the grocery store but didn't buy because I was pretending to be an adult that day. She knows me better than that.

Finding that all my novel copies had arrived from HarperCollins. What a happy coincidence!

Getting the pink cupcake holder from the very handsome boyfriend. The very same cupcake holder I was extolling the virtues of the day before. It holds 36 sweet cuppin' cakes.

Eating more strawberry cream puffs.

Watching "Breaking Away" again. Very handsome boyfriend had never seen it. I have a spot spot for that film.

It was a lovely, happy day. Thanks to everybody who made it so.

Posted by Stephanie at 11:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

When I got home today I had a thin envelope from the Fellowship Committee. I remembered thin envelopes from the days of college applications. They boded no good. Indeed, my assumption proved correct. I'm not getting a fellowship. I'm not getting waitlisted for a fellowship. I'm rejected.

I didn't expect to get the fellowship, so the rejection isn't a shock, more of an unpleasant surprise. Ah well. Who needs three weeks of solitude in a cabin to write?

Saddened, but not bested, I turned my attention to the Lux Sailor Pants I've been anticipating for a week. Urban Outfitters (I know, color me shocked too) had the wide legged trousers in a too-big size, so I mail ordered the size I hoped was just right. If the distance between my ladybits and my navel were about three inches shorter, I'd have been delighted. As it was, not so much. I've got a long torso. This sometimes causes problems. It's gotten to the point where I can look at pants and cringe, aware that the zipper seam would hurt me if I let it.

I think I may be more devastated by the pants than by the fellowship. These were extremely comfortable, casual-yet-dressy pants. Damn it. It's nearly my birthday. Were perfect pants too much to ask? It seems so. If, however, I follow the Calvin Trillin theory of spent money, I can now reinvest the money I'll get back when I return said pants into something else that will delight me.

Hmmm...what to buy, what to buy?

Posted by Stephanie at 05:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Last night as I was baking some seriously kick ass scones (it's true: butter makes life better) Tracey told me we were going to get a new oven. My instinct was to go fetal on the floor and start moaning. I've been known to do this when life kicks me in the gut. I did it at this year's Oscar-viewing party when someone (Maggie?) told me that Renee Russo turned Christian and regrets her superhot sex scenes and nudity from the movie, The Thomas Crown Affair. I fell to the floor, fetal, and began moaning, "no no no." How is it that a belief in God would cause you to publicly renounce writhing naked on the floor with Pierce Brosnan? Honestly, that would be the "oh God is real and he loves me" moment for me.

But I digress. My point is that I don't want a new oven. Granted our gas oven is from the 1897 Sears catalog and requires "coaxing" to work. You have to let the gas build up and the wave the front door to make the flame go whoosh, or if you're daring and stupid, lean down and blow until the flames leap out at you. But I've become accustomed to its tricks and I know where its hot spots are and how it cooks. Most ovens don't cook at the temperature you choose; they may be close but not exact. I know mine tends to run a wee bit cooler but it cooks hotter toward the front right so I need to rotate baked goods so the right side of the cake or tray of cookies doesn't burn. My oven is quirky and has dramatic tension: what's that gas smell? I love my oven.

I'm not 100% clear on why our new landlords even care about our oven, and we are deeply in fear of what type they'll pick out. Taste is not their forte. These are the same folks who've installed a sign on our lawn that reads "GARGES FOR RENT" I've had friends ask if my house is the one with the big misspelled sign on the lawn. Yes, thanks for noticing. They tend to favor cheap, ugly things, so we're not in good hands.

I wonder if the seventy-something landlord's husband will install it, and, if so, if he'll have his gun tucked into his jeans as he did when he installed our sink. No, I'm not kidding, and yes, I'm pretty sure it's illegal too. I laughed about it when Tracey told me though I kept asking, "He has a permit? Yes, but not a carrying concealed permit, right?" But this time I'm not laughing. This time the very-bad-at-installation man with a gun is coming to take my oven and I do not approve.

If revenge is a dish best served cold, I may be in luck. I don't trust him to install the oven properly. All our dishes may soon be served cold. Though I don't think that's what the adage meant. Damn it.

Posted by Stephanie at 10:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I meant to post a picture of my smiling face beside my hot-off- the-press copy of MY SUMMER OF SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT, so you all could appreciate the beauty of it and the way I am capable of smiling like a hyena when I'm very happy. But I didn't because I got in late last night after attending a Sherman Alexie reading and having dinner w/Anna (who used to be my supervisor but is no longer 'the boss of me.' Heh heh. I really enjoy that phrase.) Then I got home and called Julie and talked until bedtime.

Side note: Sherman Alexie doesn't read passages from his book. He performs them. He recites a whole chapter, using different inflections for different characters, and he NEVER once looks down at what he would be 'reading' from. Amazing. It both wowed me and turned me into a pool of quivering fear-Jello, because my readings will never approach that level of hot damn.

Get an ARC in the mail to a reviewer yesterday. This plan failed because I don't have any advance reading copies of the book at work anymore and last night's plans ensured it wasn't happening after hours. I should probably bring in spare copies to work for just such situations.

I meant to call my cousin, Megan. Okay, I suck because I meant to do that all week. Oh golly, ditto that on my sister, Lesley, too. Damn, I suck.

Okay, I just called Lesley. So I suck slightly less than before.

Should have written to several local newpaper folks to push the book. Didn't. Should do that today.

Meant to submit a short story yesterday, but I realized the cover letter lacked the title of the story I was submitting (the dangers of cut and paste manifested). Had no time to fix it or go to the post office because of that job thingy I have.

Other things I failed to attend to yesterday:
Watching sufficient amounts of pandacam ( because 5 minutes is not enough)
Painting my toenails
Reading more of the mystery I'm currently reading which I know I read years ago and yet I still don't remember how it turns out--and sadly, my memory is such that I'm enjoying it almost as if I'm reading it for the first time
Developing a super power
Completing further research into Voodoo Doughnut and Wedding Chapel in Portland, OR
Writing fresh, witty prose that knocks the reader onto her ass
Sleeping enough

Ah well. Once more into the breach!

Posted by Stephanie at 09:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Wendy from HC (I love Wendy) overnighted me a copy of MY SUMMER OF SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT to my office, so at approximately 10:43 AM I nearly assaulted the mail carrier.

"This is the best package ever! Do you know what's in this package!"
The woman shook her head. "No."
I scissor the top of the bubble envelope in a not-safe way. "It's my book! My book!"
"You wrote a book? Congratulations." She looks it over, and hands it back, says congrats again and then slowly edges away from my hysterical joy. She's going to have a tale for the other mail carriers today.

But it's here! And it's bright! And it's real! It has an ISBN and a Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data!
Okay, head between the knees time. Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe.

It's here!!!!

Posted by Stephanie at 11:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It's funny. I was just reading a lot of articles on bad reviews by authors, including a recent post by Jennifer Crusie. How to react to them: general consensus is don't react publicly no matter how incensed you are about the review. How to treat them: as one person's opinion. And today I discover that amid the very nice reviews my editor has been sending me there is a bad review, which she did not send me. I've been pestering the very handsome boyfriend to look it up for me via Harvard's library database because MIT doesn't carry the magazine that has the review.

So I just got email from him in which tells me he doesn't think I need to see the review as it isn't "exactly constructive" and it also "isn't pretty." By that I think he means "it's awful, horrible and it's going to hurt you to look at it." He's right to advise me not to look, but I'm not sure I can. I want to see how bad it is. I told him to send it along and promised him I'd turned on pandacam so that as soon as I finished reading I could get a dose of panda calm. Truly, Tai Shan is like opium. Soothing, soothing panda.

I'll let you know whether a panda can trump review rage soon!

UPDATE: I got the review. I read it. I thought, "Man alive. That reader really didn't like my book." I felt a little sad, but not truly gut-punched sad. It's a bad review, no doubt. But I don't buy what the reviewer is selling, just as the reviewer didn't buy my story. I guess we call it a draw.

Panda is still cuter than ever.

When the very handsome boyfriend sent the bad review, as I ordered him to, he also sent me PDFs of three very positive reviews to act as a chaser. So thoughtful.

Posted by Stephanie at 10:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Good news! Tracey has returned to the house. Yay! Now there is psycho-killer fodder. When I told her I'd missed her and why she laughed. That's why I like her. She didn't mind that in my safety plan she's just the corpse that let's me get away free. Bless her.

Bad news! My back didn't get better, and I had to go to see someone about it and now I have super duper pain pills. The same kind I was taking last year when trying to come up with a new book title. I guess the upside is that no one's asking me to title a novel this time around.

And now for the day's resolution, which is more of a let's break this bad habit before it necessitates an intervention, shall we? I'm going to stop Googling my book title multiple times a day. Really, this obsession must stop. I have managed to avoid the trap of checking my Amazon ratings (after all the book is only in pre-sale mode) and now I will stop Googling. I could be doing more productive things: like writing, or sending short stories to magazines, or editing, or curing cancer (though I'm pretty sure this goes beyond my 9th grade understanding of biology and definitely beyond my 10th grade understanding of chemistry.)

That's all kids. It's time for Momma's pain meds, which means I'll be asleep right about...njfghdasbLJblf sd.

Posted by Stephanie at 08:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My former roommate Sara used to make the best noise when she was really stressed out: it was 'eh weh weh' and it sounded eerily like an infant. I can't make that noise. Good thing. If I could, I would. And I'd freak people out: at work, at the grocery, wherever.

I'm cranky because I've been sleeping badly. All the roommates went off to various locales leaving me alone in the house. In one respect this is lovely. The house is mine! I always get to check the mail. Yeah, I enjoy collecting and sorting the mail. What of it? But it's bad because at night in my old creaky house, this leaves only me as pscyho-killer fodder whereas when everybody's home the psycho killer would have to wend his way upstairs and down the hall, killing everybody in his path before reaching my room, by which time I've escaped to safety via my window and a carefully knotted sheet rope.

When I told others about this disruption in my life they suggested I make dummies in my roommate's beds, which, admittedly, would be pretty funny when they got home and saw fake people in their beds. But I don't think a few lumpy beds are going to scare away or slow down a psycho killer. See how sometimes a vivid imagination is not your best friend? For every contingency plan I create my imagination has an immediate response. And it all ends badly, for me.

I'm further made cranky because I'm sore. My neck hurts and my back aches and I think it's from yesterday's weights/run combo. I lifted before I went running, which Self magazine tells me burns more fat. But it also makes me more tired and it's much harder to do my interval running. Interval running requires me to jog, then sprint, then jog, then sprint. I like it (normally) because there is something childish and liberating about running flat out for a full minute. This is much harder to do when you've been lifting weights mere minutes ago. Stupid Self magazine!

And that reminds me that I need to write Self a letter and tell them what a genius idea it is for them to write articles about the erosion of our environment and its negative effects on our health and in that same issue feature a full page ad for a Hummer on the back of this issue. Way to buy into your message there, editors.

You know what would make me feel better? Flying my Hasselhoff plane. One of the grad students at the lab made mine more aerodynamic by weighting the end with a paper clip. To obtain your own David Hasselhoff airplane, go here: airplane and download the PDF. Then fold and fly, my friend. Your day is looking brighter. No need to ehh weh weh after all.

Posted by Stephanie at 02:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

As a confirmed Masshole and sweetaholic, I like my doughnuts. So imagine my excitement when I came across an article entitled, "America's Best Doughnuts." Huzzah! Like a pointer dog to a falcon, this article can point my ravenous maw in the right direction.

Thus imagine my pain when I read further and discovered that I was mere footsteps away from Vermont's best doughnuts mere days ago and I didn't eat one. Not one! I saw the doughnut shop and verily did i consider entering but I believe that on the first occasion it was closed and on the second occasion I was overheated and not feeling the doughnut love. Damn my delicate constitution!

Of course, much like any "best of" list, omissions will occur, mistakes will be made. But I prefer to think of such lists as guidelines anyway.

Oh my God. What if I planned my book readings around the locations of the doughnut stores listed? After all, I discovered that Northshire Bookstore (also very near where we vacationed in VT) is fabulous--exactly my kind of bookstore. If we return I can do a reading there and get the doughnuts I missed from Mrs. Murphy's. It's a win-win!
This is an excellent idea.

Posted by Stephanie at 01:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)