I dunno—you mention a “green man” to me, I’m thinking pagan god, face of oak leaves, all of that. Or maybe a serious case of decomposition, depending on my mood.
Spock was green, right? I could commit to him.
As always, peace and (x-rated or otherwise) joy!
pxj
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Is Green the New Sexy?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Published, America?
PA claims not to be a vanity press. Fine, whatever—doesn’t matter to me. As an author, I’ve chosen to submit to publishers with business practices and lists that appeal to me. As a reader, I choose to read stories that appeal to me. And if that should mean purchasing a PA book, I don’t suppose that I’d melt into a pool of shame or anything.
But I have to admit that I, like many others, tend to assume that any book published by PA isn’t going to be worth reading. This may not always be true, I know, but it’s a pretty safe bet just on the percentages.
Scanning the new books at the local public library recently, I came across a PA book. First I can recall having seen there! I’m sure there are others, I just haven’t seen them. Or noticed them if I have. This one, I noticed.
REPLACEMENTS
Mary Elizabeth Garrison
ISBN 1-4241-7103-2
Without any commentary on the quality of the writing—I haven’t read the piece, you understand—I present to you the backtext. Verbatim.
REPLACEMENTS
Thispschologicaldrama adetailsayoungw om an’sstruggle
to overcom ehertroublesom elife.Raised from childhood to
doubtherow nm ind and perceptions, the centralcharacter.
M arlow K issingerisdoing herbestto succeed in herw orld.
Experiencing lonelinessandalienation, the “right” thing to
do doesn’tseem to be crystal clear.This character-driven
story unfoldsasM arlow desperately seeks the approvalof
those around her.The everyday realities ofM arlow ’s life
experiences are som etim es shocking and disturbing.
How ever,herstory isa tribute to the tenacity ofthehum an
spiritandhow life can provide replacem ents for thosew ho
need strangers to becom esurrogatefam ily.
CoverArtD esign by Paige T.Leatherm an
You know, in the print world, writers are sometimes told to comb over their pre-print galleys “with a microscrope” to catch every possible error; it’s easier and so much cheaper to correct mistakes at that stage. The equivalent post-typeset instruction is sometimes rendered as “fix all those mistakes visible from a distance of six feet.”
My eyesight’s not that great, but somehow, I think this qualifies.
As I understand it, PA authors upload their own files; chances are, this is a simple matter of the author not understanding how properly to generate the desired output format. It happens.(1) But where was the pre-release review? Did no one look at this before it was released? And, as a reader—do I want to waste my time (and money, should I be purchasing instead of borrowing) on a book so obviously unseen by any editorial eyes that they can’t even get the spacing between words right?
To all the editors, proofreaders, beta-readers, ARC reviewers, typesetters and assorted miscellaneous people who work to ensure that the books on bookstore shelves are readable—
Thank you.
pxj
(1) Hey, it’s happened to me! Ask me about my first encounter with PageMaker for an amusing imitation of your basic rabid mammal. Lovely program, but horrible instruction manuals.
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Incredible Reappearing Author
No, I'm not...that word. I'm not, really, and please don't jinx me by saying it! But I do seem to be popping up more often. And since I'm trying to reclaim my health as well as the rest of my life, I've joined the lovely Celia Kyle's Incredible Shrinking Authors (and Industry Peeps)
Come on by, take a look! Lots of different goals, lots of different approaches, lots and lots of support.
Happy (healthy) curves!
pxj
Friday, August 15, 2008
Friday Flash: The Postcard
In an odd mood today, so here' an odd little short. Happy weekend!
The Postcard
Silver bleeds to salmon as night becomes dawn, and I sigh, watching soft petals fold away. How long until night falls again?
...goodbye, the breeze whispers. Good day.
Noon, glaring gold and faded green, wilted heat. Promise of thunder in the distance, but only a tease; bone-white clouds fray and fade away. Ducking into a market, I am served a brown drink like mud-flecked water. Delicious! Tamarind. Bought you this postcard and a shirt, pale gauze, voluminous. The cloth smells of the shop: bay rum and citrus. I wonder if it will glow in the moonlight, as the petals do?
(Imagine me rising from a blossom, clad only by the moon and wreathed in flower-scent. Does that thought make you smile, too?)
Late afternoon, the sunlight gold as honey, shining through drought-thinned leaves and melting over melted post-work pedestrians. Office workers swelter in their sweaters and jackets until they can shrug free, rushing for their air-conditioned cars. I nibble crisp jicama white as starshine, flavored with lime and chile, and smile as they pass wiltingly by. They are so very beautiful, a garden's worth of blossoms, similar and yet unique.
Once, you were such a face, chance-spied, limned by the rays of the setting sun. And I...
I, arrayed in silver-white, sit lotus in the garden and wait for the moon to rise. My eyes are closed, yet still I perceive Moonflowers’ slow unfolding, furry calyx yielding to the need of the luxuriant satin petals to be free. The urgent approach of nightbird, moth, bat, seeker after sweetness summoned by perfume. A slower drawing-near, footsteps light as goosedown but not at all hesitant.
Your smile, as you wait for me to turn.
The heat of you in the cool night, and the satin brush of petals over our skin...
See you soon!
pxj
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Five-Ring Circus: Condom News Round-Up
1. Gold medal for condom ads!
Man, I am SO far behind on condom news. (Well, not having posted anything in...um, moving on.) Have you seen the Beijing Olympic Condom ad campaign yet? A series of clever stills like the image above is garnering nearly as much chatter as the games themselves! The company, Elasun, has some clever take-offs on other ads as well. No need for a quip here, I think the ad-folks have created humor enough.
For now, anyway. -G-
2. Happy Birthday! Wait...who are you?
The female condom turns 15. An earlier roundup, unposted due to illness, included a study on female condoms and barriers to use. (I'll see if I can turn it up.) IIRC, price wasn't the primary objection women had to the things; the major reason these aren't used more is that a lot of us don't really know what the things are or why we should care. 15 years in production. And 00 in advertising time.
3. Sadly, you'll need more than 35 seconds
Spray-on condom has technical and approval issues Y'all remember this, right? The condom in a can, about which I confess to having made my share of jokes. Well, it's no longer coming soon.
Le Sigh(tm).
4. Every Man's Dream:
CDC pays (popular) men to talk about (safe) sex
Sort of. Actually, the program gives gift cards to social leaders, not $$ per se. No word on whether those cards can be redeemed at condom-sellers.
5. Can I be an honorary Canadian?
National Sex Day 2008 – August 21
http://canadianpress.google.com/article/ALeqM5hWc-aGdi5XyxnXo7kL53F3Ldu1tA
A day to celebrate sexual well-being. And, yes, the organizer is providing free condoms.
And, finally:
6. While you're waiting for designer phalli
Intellx recently announced a line of, well, let's say interestingly shaped condoms. SafeSexyShapes, they call them, made with a new technology that allows them to move a bit past the, um, natural model. Oh, the possibilities! The press release mentions a number of future options--Submarine, anyone? (Down, periscope! Oh, stop me. Please.) Or maybe you'd prefer to be a beer bottle, hourglass, baseball bat (!)... Available now are a flat-top model "YourTube" and the ever-popular dolphin--complete with, ahem, "pleasing bottlenose."
The deponent rests.
pxj
Monday, August 11, 2008
...just casually sauntering by...
Let's get one thing straight: I am NOT back. Over the course of my illness-and-recovery cycle, call it the past year or so, I've declared my return several times, and each time, something bad has happened. Not always terrible, but always a setback, consuming time, money, and energy I'm quite sure I could better have employed in some other way. And, frankly, I'm sick of it.
Also, growing superstitious. "Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action"? Not unless the Universe doesn't like me anymore... Horrible thought, out of which such things as throwing spilled salt over shoulders is born! So, no, I'm not back. Really. I'm just posting. Saying hello. Maybe I'll do it again. But I am not back.
Even if you should happen to see me on a loop. Or in real life. Say hello, by all means, buy me a cup of coffee if you like, tell me about your new book--I'm always interested in that--or whatever's got you smiling or amusingly ranting. I miss you all, and I'd love to get caught up!
Just...don't, please, whatever you do, say "welcome___" to me.
K? Thnx.
pxj
Friday, May 2, 2008
Friday Flash: Pick of the Season
Strange couple of weeks. Haven't had any issues with my memory in a while--the last symptom of my illness and by far the most disturbing. The doctors cleared me to get back to life, though with lots and lots of cautions. And the Universe...promptly gifted me with jury duty. A whole blessed week of jury duty.
This, I need?
Haven't yet converted that ordeal into fiction, sorry. But, hey, it's spring! Incredibly vibrant, cheering, blooming-and-blossoming-and-burgeoning all over SPRING. End of the loquat season, beginning of mulberry. Yummy spring, bright and warm, and it feels so wonderful that (gasp!) I had to reach for my keyboard and celebrate.
Hmm. Maybe I'm not quite back to normal, if that was the first impulse? -G- Can't complain too strenuously, though I'm not yet certain where this particular fruit-inspired story is going. But you'll see what I mean...
Ivan watched sidelong as, just outside his window, the nymph tipped back her head, exposing the long column of her sunbrowned throat, and sank small white teeth into the sunset-hued fruit she had just plucked from his tree.
His tree. Seed planted with his own two hands, in the rich soil of his land, planted to grrow where he could see. And still! Birds and wasps he expected--thiefs of nature who yet gave back as much as they stole--but this was no bird to pay in song for the fruit she ate.
Not...exactly.
Eyes flashing, he rose, headed for the door. But a mirror gave him back his appearance, reminding him he was not appropriately attired. Changing his guise took no effort, only a spark of will. A man of this age, this place and time. A man to charm this unwinged thief.
The mirror told him he now wore greying hair, shaggy if not unkempt; his reflection looked at him from earth-brown eyes. Neat pressed denim pants and a shirt of similar weight showed shoulders broader than his own form had, a lightly muscled chest, a stomach softened with age though not quite fat. Older than the nymph--the woman, he corrected himself. A father figure, perhaps.
Or perhaps she, too, was older than she looked. He paused in the doorway, neither indoors nor out, and stared. Bright sunlight picked out silver strands within the russet hair, and faint pale lines radiating outward from her eyes. When he spoke, she turned at the first sound of his voice, her lips shining with fruit juice, cheeks coral with emotion, spring-green eyes wide.
He met her gaze and he felt--
Something.
"Excuse me?"
Caught in the act, Sadie could only wince. It's not as if you don't know better, she reminded herself, and slowly turned to face the (presumed) owner of the tree she'd been robbing. Harvesting. Over-ripe fruits fermented at her feet, proof enough he had no use for the things. So was it really stealing?
The cops would say so, if asked. She could only hope the tree's owner would be satisfied with scolding her and sending her away.
"Excuse me, please?" the voice came again, and Sadie paused in her glacial motion, caught by the rich tones--and the accent. Like something out of an opera. Russian? Yummy as fresh-picked loquats, she giggled, and the smile stayed on her juice-sticky lips when, at last, she faced him.
Oh, yum-yum-yum! Loam-brown eyes in a sun-weathered face, brows raised quizzically. A thatch of greying hair flopping to the collar of a shirt that framed broad shoulders. A strong but not too strong chin. And those lips--
Sadie blushed as she realized what she was thinking. Blame it on the perfect day; spring always made her frisky. And there'd been the delightful feeling of naughtiness as she crossed the sidewalk, venturing near the house, the allure of those golden-sunset fruits hanging so temptingly, their taste...
"Excuse me, please," it wasn't a question now, the voice firm though still melodic, "I asked you, what are you doing to my tree."
To the tree? That's nothing, tovarisch, she thought, swallowing laughter and nearly choking. Ask me what I want to do to you! Better he didn't; the way she was feeling, she might tell him. Which would open up a whole new can of...fruit.
"Loquats," she managed, holding out her hands, a cluster of ripe yellow-orange fruits balanced on one palm, the fruit she'd just bitten into when he caught her in the other. Her gaze followed his as he stared down, and seeing the clear juice welling from creamy flesh, she sighed. Licked her lips.
"They are...you find them good to eat?"
A good sign. The folks who asked that didn't usually call the cops. (And you know you need a new hobby, she scolded herself, when you've racked up enough past encounters to judge that! Right? Right.) The standard loquats-for-dummies lecture rose to her lips, but she didn't speak it. Instead, she plucked a perfectly ripe fruit from the cluster and held it out to him.
His brow furrowed: a forehead-centric frown. "Show me."
She looked at him, this homeowner who, so far, hadn't really objected to her trespassing. He stood barefoot on the slate steps, in jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves folded back, and made no motion either toward her or away. Cell phone in his pocket, so if he'd wanted to dial 911...but instead he simply stood, waiting. Watching her as much as she watched him.
Okay. Her purse lay still where she'd dropped it, by the sidewalk, but she had a small pocketknife on her keychain, used that to slit the fruit in half. "You can't eat the seeds. Poisonous. Pretty, though." Two large tiger's-eye ovals flew as she flicked the knife. "And you'll probably want to pull the membrane. Some gourmets blanch and peel the fruits, at least for cooking, but fresh," the blossom-end cut away, she extended the fruit to the man, "well, here."
He took one half from her, delicately. "Show me."
Sadie watched his eyes as he bit into the creamy flesh, but saw nothing. No flash of surprise or of pleasure, no ecstatic slow closing, not even the suspicious narrowing of a man who thinks a trick's being played on him. He bit down, chewed, swallowed, but showed no reaction at all.
It worried her. But the sun's rays warmed the fruit-half still in her hand, releasing its unique bouquet, and she remembered his request. Demand. Show me, he'd said, and so she would. Feeling a trickle of juice making its sticky way toward the hollow of her palm, she decided to truly give him a show.
Step one: put the knife away. That was harder than it should have been, even after she wiped the blade clean; her hands were shaking, just slightly. What was it about this man? Something. One thing at a time. The blade snicked home at last, and she stifled a relieved sigh. Step two: Um, next? Oh, right; she needed both hands free. So all the fruit, except for that one still-leaking half, she laid by his feet.
Noting their oddly squared appearance in passing, and the old-ivory sheen of his toenails.
Rising, she took a sudden step back, out of his shadow. Shivering. She panted, tasting copper, wondering. Fear--like a storm--had swept over her, through her, but surely there was no reason to be afraid. There was only an attractive older man standing on his front stoop, asking, quite reasonably, why she was picking fruits from his tree.
An attractive older man willing to listen, to try, to learn. And he'd asked her to show him...
Ivan shifted his weight back on his heels, adjusted his newly broadened shoulders to let the sunlight pass unimpeded. She'd flinched from the touch of his shadow, sudden fear darkening those light green eyes. A moment he had not chosen, would have side-stepped had he been able to, but he hadn't expected her--yet--to kneel at his feet.
Laying his own fruits down in offering. Brazen, this woman!
And no sooner had he thought it than a new light was in her eyes, mischief dancing in green like the legends of his home that led wanderers a merry and dangerous way. Could she be more than she seemed? But, no, she was human, salt sweat and strong emotion and the rich red blood beneath the skin. Human, mortal, thief.
Her mouth would taste so sweet.
No, that's not all there is. That's not even all I've written today---but it's all I'm going to post right now. In part because I've already gone over wordcount, but also because there are three separate and distinct paths I can see for this story. And I'm feeling greedy enough that I want them all! Were I to post the next bit, that only works with one path, I'd feel obligated to keep traveling it.
But, hey, if you have any preferences...
The happy hermit,
pxj
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