Protesting Pudding?

Honestly, I don’t mean to be crass, I’m just...flabbergasted. (A word I can’t recall ever having typed before!) A couple of days ago, a man burst into a busy central London restaurant and chopped off his own penis with a knife in front of horrified diners

Um, uh. Why????

Obviously, this man has some serious mental issues. He’ll now have physical ones to go with them, though the severed article has been surgically reattached. And, presumably, he’ll now get the help I think we’d all agree he needs. So, that’s disposed of, if you’ll pardon the phrase. But, on hearing about this event, my thoughts went instantly to all those poor diners and waitstaff he’s traumatized—this took place in a popular restaurant just after a marathon, so the dining room was likely even more crowded than usual, and the guy actually climbed up on a table so everyone could see him before he did the deed.

I don’t know what went through his mind, or the minds of his unwilling audience, but I’d be willing to bet that not one entrée was eaten afterwards. (Think of it: Could you eat, after that?) Though I doubt that was his intent. There must, after all, be easier ways to protest meat-eating or what-have-you.

Unintentional or not, I expect it will have at least a slight effect on local dining habits; at least, I doubt many of those diners present will be heading to other restaurants any time soon. Just the thought of being exposed to something like that is enough to make me want to order in—or maybe fast awhile—and I’m all the way on the other side of the Pond! But of course, the reason this got press coverage is that it’s so unheard of; rarity makes for good read-through. The unlikelihood of this happening again should soothe digestions and ease minds.

Unfortunately for my own peace of mind, it so happens that I just this week checked the etymology of the word “pudding,” for reasons that now seem too trivial to explain; normally, as an American, all those horrid puns and jokes like the post heading wouldn’t have occurred to me.
Have to admire the reporters (at the Guardian, no less!) for not indulging. Though, if English EMTs are anything like their brothers here, I’d bet someone made a joke or seven along those lines. Humor’s a defense mechanism, they tell me, and I should think everyone exposed to that man’s insanity—no, that pun wasn’t intentional—would need some defending.

As horrors go, this was relatively minor; nothing like the geographically nearer bloodsheds we've been hearing about recently. Perhaps that’s why my mind stuck on this, as a sort of mental vaccine against the others. But there’s a horribly tasteless appeal to the sort of thing a friend calls “winning the Darwin Award and living to collect.”

And, oh, damn, there’s another pun! Tasteless, indeed.

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The Ever-changing View

Some writers talk about the Great Divide: Plotters v. Pantsers. There are those who figure out every turning point before they begin to write, and those who begin with an interesting character in an interesting situation and figure out the rest as they go. Likewise, some writers work in sequence from the story's start to its end, while others hop around, writing what they feel like writing at any given point in time.

I'm the worst sort of grasshopper--I hop from one story to another, lured by some interesting spark of a scene; think of a new and fascinating character, and set aside the H&H (&H, sometimes) I've been playing with to move on to my new love. Of course, a contract will keep me nicely focused--yes, that's a hint! --but without that...happily, hoppily, grasshopping I shall go.

Last week, I intended to do some research for a project I've been meaning to get around to. Just a small bit of fact-checking, a couple of resources. Really. Had my search terms all laid out, knew just what I was looking for and more or less where it should be found, set aside the time, sat down at the keyboard--and hopped. From recipes to biography, etymology to viniculture to sculpture, advertising, and beyond. Including some of the tackiest shoes I've ever seen. Yes, folks, there is a coin slot in the heel!

I may be an impoverished writer, but somehow...no. Still, someone must buy the things, in some one of their many versions (they come with dollar signs or kisses, too!). Imagine if you will the sort of person who could wear these, and the stories of their lives.

Imagine me, flipping through my mental Rolodex, checking to see if any of my current heroes are in need of such women--or such footwear.




Some people have views of the water, eternal and ever-changing. Me, I have the Internet, somewhat less soothing but capable of infinite diversion. Still haven't found what I was looking for, either, but I can't really complain. It's one of the benefits of being a writer: I can always claim it as research, because sooner or later, it will prove to have been. Well, maybe not the ultra-tacky shoes, and I can't think what use the too-clever Suicidal Bunny ad campaign might be except that it made me laugh, but I'll do something with the rest.

Probably. Unless something more interesting happens to bounce its way across my path.

Oh, wait! What if that bunny were animate? Cursed, perhaps, or strangely blessed (chocolate being the gift of the gods, and all). Aware. Hmm. I could probably do something with that...

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Whole, giant hives of squick!

Doing some publisher support today, in a small way—well, they took a chance on my work, the least I can do is drop by the odd loop day and say hi—and one of my old friends there referred to me as the Science Nerd. It’s not an insult; I’m proud to claim that title. Thing is, it made me realize that I haven’t written anything particularly nerdish in a bit. So I migrated over to the overloaded science section in my RSS feeder, and found...

Scientists claiming that termites are “social cockroaches.”

I nearly lost my lunch.

Not entirely sure I could explain that so-extreme reaction. Termites have never affected me that way before! I don’t exactly like termites, or insects generally, with the exception of those six-legged sea creatures cooked and swimming in drawn butter, but, at least from a distance, I can appreciate the design of some of them. I even appreciate some insects, the ones I know are beneficial, so long as they stay outside where they belong. But cockroaches?

No.

Not the little ones, not the giant sort we call waterbugs or Palmetto bugs out here, none of them. A cockroach is a pest is a pestilence, and must be destroyed—unless it’s a giant outdoor one and it really is out of doors, in which case it’s sometimes easier simply to run. And if you think I’m kidding, then I hope that someday you’re out when the damned things take flight, wearing shorts and a tank top or some similarly abbreviated outfit. They will knock into you!

Nasty things.

And let’s not even think about the Madagascar Hissing Cockroach, okay? (Though at least they don’t fly.) There’s an old theory that fear of sharks is hard-wired into the human brain, from the days when we, too, were sea-creatures. Perhaps cockroaches share some ancestor, or perhaps they give off ultrasonic threat-signals; whatever the reason, a great many more people are disturbed by cockroaches than seems logical, and I’m among the more severe sufferers.

They make my skin crawl. And apparently, it’s enough to label something a cockroach—because termites never used to squick me out! Actually, I’ve always found them rather interesting. They build amazing structures, at least some of them eat literally twenty-four hours a day, archaeologists and environmental scientists find them useful... Do a search for termites and “biomolecular archaeology”; you’ll be amazed. And, just because I like the article title, check out “Termite Guts Can Save the Planet”

But now that they’re being classified as cockroaches, I can’t think of them without getting queasy. Ain’t the power of suggestion a wonderful thing?

What I find strangest about this is that I know the mantids are related to roaches, but I don’t have that same response to them; in fact, I kind of like the praying mantis. Why, then, should I be so freaked out about what’s really nothing more than a slight shifting in classification that puts termites in pretty much the same degree of relationship to the so-scary cockroach that the mantid has?

Maybe I’m neophobic? No, that can’t be it; I like (some) new things. Maybe I’m just disturbed by people messing with the classifications? No, it’s probably not that, either; this is hardly the first re-classification I’ve been around to see. Maybe it’s just that damnable phrase. “Social cockroaches.”

Yep. By the full-body shudder as I typed those words, that’s the issue. Imagine if cockroaches learned from their newly acknowledged cousins and ganged up on us!

Oh, ick. I really wish I hadn’t said that...

pxj

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Did someone steal my XX when I wasn’t looking?

The chromosome, I mean.

As you probably know if you found your way here, I am a writer of erotica. My work comes—pun not intended, but that’s the last time I’m saying that! ...where was I? Oh, right: My work comes in a couple of broad categories, separated on my web page into Romance and Fetish, with subsets (and some unavoidable overlap, getting worse all the time). Generally speaking, my characters a) find what they need and/or b) get what they deserve. Getting what they want isn’t nearly interesting enough for me to bother with all the work of writing and submitting and promoting. So, generally speaking, I don’t.

But, y’know, authors are supposed to pay attention to what readers want, and besides, I was curious, so when this article popped up in my RSS feeds, I clicked through. Hey, why not? My readers are mostly women, after all.

Not sure they’d be any more interested in this new release from Chronicle Books than I am, though. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly don’t object to the odd bit of exposed rippling male flesh, even if that male should happen to be wielding an iron or a curtain steamer or what-have-you at the time, but...there are things I’d rather see. That male without the fabric-care implements, for instance.

And I write beta heroes as often as alphas. Many of my romantic leads are kind, caring, sensitive men who give fantastic foot rubs and don’t insist on taking turns, who produce breakfast without being asked, who may well buy flowers for no reason at all. I just don’t think cleaning the bathroom is terribly sexy no matter how hunky the guy is who’s doing it!

Apparently, that makes me an aberration. Okay, so I’m overstating the case, but according to the Cambridge Women’s Pornography Cooperative, at least as paraphrased in the linked article, what turns women on are these home-making scenes. Men taking on what I’d call their share of the housework are unbearably sexy.

Um-hmm. If you say so. Always knew my tastes weren’t exactly middle-of-the-road, but I really didn’t think I was that far from center. So I don’t spent much time panting over what’s-his-name from Lost, that’s not reason enough to revoke my NOW membership, is it?

Hey! If housework’s so infernally sexy, should I worry that I’ve never felt the need to drag Mr. Coffee off to bed?

pxj

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I Confess: I am an April Fool

Yep, Google got me. There is no such thing as Google Paper.

Didn't even occur to me to wonder. But then, I've never paid much attention to that "holiday." Rubber crutches have always seemed more cruel than funny to me, and I tend to class most practical jokes as being more or less related--most especially this one, because I hit the floor hard yesterday!

Sigh.

I can appreciate things like NPR's fantastically funny Maple Woes, things so obviously hoaxes that one can only laugh, but this one...was too close to my heart, I guess.

Ah, well. I still appreciate Google, and I suppose there's no real harm done, but, oh, I'm glad that's over for another year.


pxj

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All Hail Google...Paper

So I’m on the desktop today. Um, desktop computer—get your minds out of the gutter, folks, this post isn’t about what my characters all find so fascinating. Thing is, I run Firefox on my laptop, with that nifty little Save Session add-on, and I’ve always got my Google home page open, complete with a preview of my inbox. All of which is by way of explaining that I don’t often see the Gmail sign-in page.

Today, though, I was using the desktop, and decided I wanted to check something in my e-mail. So I wandered over to mail.google.com...and saw an announcement for Gmail Paper.
Yes, folks, Google will now print out any message(s) you desire, and mail them to you. For free.

My response? Oh, thank you!

You see, I’m one of those people who really does live a paperless life. (No, that’s not a typo: I don’t do paper, so Google Paper makes me happy.) Okay, almost paperless; there are a few exceptions. I still read hardcopy books, even prefer them sometimes (lounging on the beach, for instance—my Dana by Alphasmart’s allergic to sand). I still choose to receive bills in paper, mostly because the pile of them serves as a reminder to pay the blasted things. But I don’t deal much with paper beyond that; I’m a telecommuter whenever I can be, I write using the Dana or a computer... Hell, I don’t even own a printer any more. When the last one died, I just sort of put off buying a replacement. For going on three years now. It’s not like I need to print all that much; the occasional contract or invoice, that’s about it. And not all of them, as some states allow digital signatures. I think the last time I really needed a printer was back in December!

So why am I excited about this Google Paper thing? A couple of reasons: Because every now and then, I want a paper copy of something. And when I do, it’s usually something pretty disposable. A book I’d like to edit at the beach, for instance (curse that sand allergy!), that I just can’t see printing out in all its two-hundred-plus-page glory. Sure, it’s easy enough to get the edits back onto the computer, but then what do you do with all those hardcopy pages? I’m a child of the Reduce-Reuse-Recycle era; the thought of all that waste stops me in my tracks.

I can’t see using Google Paper for that, either, honestly, however much I like the thought—postal mail uses fuel resources—but they are using recycled soy paper, an item my compost pile adores. What really makes me smile is the idea of ordering my next contract that way. Hey, the last one cost me $12.00 to print, with all its tome-length garrulity! I have no problem proclaiming myself a starving writer (garret does NOT equal luxury penthouse!), and I have no qualms about the idea of sending a contract with ads printed on the back of every page. If folks who want to hire me electronically to work on a computer don’t understand the idea of a digital sig, they can just deal with giant red ads on the unused parts of the paper.

Actually, I think it’ll be a great statement—and I can’t wait to hear the response! Okay, folks, someone hire me, quick! I want to do this. I do.

But there’s one major, giant, shout-hallelujiah reason that Google Paper gets me so excited, the reason that prompted this post: Readers without e-readers.

You see, I write largely for the electronic market. You can find a couple of my pieces in print, but mostly, they’re e-books. (Available at Amazon.com and Fictionwise! /hint) I know of at least a few people who’ve bought my books and read them sitting at their desktop computers, because they have no electronic reading devices. And, to my sorrow, I know some people who choose not to buy e-books at all—even mine! —because they associate them with that uncomfortable posture. Other people print PDFs, but that adds expense and inconvenience to what should be a wholly pleasurable experience.

Now there’s another option: buy your e-book, have it delivered to your Inbox, and get Google to print it—at no cost to you. You have the file, so you can read on-screen while you wait the two to four business days for your printed pages to arrive. And you’ll have a print copy to share and re-read and read in the bath, or on the beach, or to mark up for future reference...

Oh, yeah. Definitely something to tell the readers. Ooh, and the e-Garret subscribers! I’ve been uploading PDFs until now, but I think I’ll offer to e-mail them to folks, so they can take advantage of this free printing thing.

A new way for readers to enjoy my work. Oh, hosannah and alleliu! And other people's work, too, of course. Hmm. Surely there’s a book in my Inbox suitable for beachside reading? Think I’ll go check.

Happy reading, all, and...

print some x-rated joy!

pxj

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