I had no idea you could add VIEW to a blogger URL (shall we call it Earl?)for dynamic views of blogs. If you're like me and didn't know about this, you do have to make sure your settings are right and dynamic enabled or something like that. It's kind of cool because you can easily see posts going back years.
I'm not sure of the benefit of such a thing other than fun, but there might be one.
DYNAMIC VIEWS
I'd briefly thought of taking both my website and blog to Wordpress, but I've given up that idea and am sticking with Blogger and my website-building for idiots. I'm messing around with my Blogger header, so it might continue to change off and on until I'm happy with it.
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR ANNE FRASIER
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
FILE UNDER NONFICTION
I was having a conversation with a friend the other day and he was telling me a story I'd heard years ago. I laughed just as hard this time, so I started thinking about how tough it is to translate real-life humor into writing. It's not just a case of you had to be there, because the verbal teller can work the story for years and years. But when you try to write it down, it feels flat and lifeless.
Emotional replays often work better in text, so why is humor so tough?
Here's a little experiment. This is a bit of the conversation I had the other day, but I'm not sure the humor holds up in this form. This is just the beginning of the story. It goes on and on. It might help to know that Mark is a burly farmer.
Mark:
We’re standing in the mall, and there’s this display of shoes at the front of a store. My wife picks up a cowboy boot and looks it over, then she hands it to me and says, “Put this on.”
I check the size and see it’s an eight. I wear a ten. Sometimes eleven. “This won’t fit,” I say, and start to put the boot back on the table.
“Put it on!”
“It’s an eight.”
“It’s on sale!”
I’ve seen that look a million times, so I sit down on this padded seat, take off my right shoe, just to show her that I can’t even get my foot all the way in the boot.
“Put it on! Force your foot in there. Just shove it in there! Shove!”
“Can’t. It’s too small.”
“It’s on sale!”
If you know Darlene, you know she won’t take no for an answer, so I cram my foot in there, mash it in there, and my toes are layered one on top of the other.
“Too small,” I gasp, grimacing in pain.
“Walk,” she commands.
I hobble around, and my toes are screaming.
“That’s a nice-looking cowboy boot,” she says.
“It’s too small,” I tell her.
I tug off the boot, and my toes pop back. I’m tying my sneaker when I look up and there she is, standing at the counter, paying for the damn boots!
Then she’s aiming herself at me, handing me the bag. “Put them on. Wear them home.”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“Put them on.”
So I sit back down and shove my feet into the boots. I wonder how in the hell I’ll be able to stand, but I’m finally upright. Then, like a baby learning to walk, I hobble out. My knees are bent, and my feet feel like balls.
“Hurry up!” she says, looking at her watch. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? What the hell do you think?”
As I hobble to the car, she keeps casting glances at me and my new cowboy boots.
“Those look so nice,” she says, beaming.
“They’ll look a helluva lot nicer once there off my damn feet.” I’m looking forward to hiding them in the back of the closet. Maybe burning them.
“You should wear them all the time. Whenever we go to town.”
“All the time? I need a wheelchair to wear these.”
“They look nice.”
“They’re killing me.” My elbows are sticking out, but my legs are finally straight. My body is already figuring out how to walk without toes and it's like walking on stilts.
“They were on sale,” she says.
“What does that have to do with anything? There were adult diapers on sale back there, but I’m not forcing you to wear them.”
She glares at me. You know Darlene.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
WHERE DOES THE TIME GO?
It's been a busy few weeks, and I'm finally getting caught up. Went to NYC. Got home. Edited galleys. Shipped galleys. Got sick. Cold. Asthma. Found my old inhaler with expiration date of 2006. Used it. Got better. Once Upon a Crime book signing yesterday in Minneapolis. Lovely dinner last night with writer friends. Back home. Corpse Kitty wouldn't let me sleep in. Relax...
One thing I keep wondering: Does it make sense to blog? It seems that most of the people who read my blog follow me on Facebook, so I wonder if blogging is redundant. But the big advantage to blogging is that the posts don't vanish or roll off the page in a matter of minutes. But Facebook is just so much faster. And feels less formal. And people can share what you post. And people are more likely to comment. So I don't know.
But anyway, here's a bit of my New York trip that I posted on Facebook a while back but am now posting here. And I'm not even going to try to catch people up, just drop you in the middle of a scene. Because I'm lazy that way.
The cocktail party: the CEO of Hachette introduced all four authors, me, Joel Salatin, an organic farmer, Jerry West, NBA star, and Lemony Snicket. Then the publisher of Grand Central introduced me. So glad I was up first. So nervous for days, but once I was up there, I wasn't nervous at all. But definitely one of the weirdest evenings of my life. It felt like I was in a Truman Capote movie. Not In Cold Blood, but Breakfast at Tiffany's.
Almost all of attendees had already read my book. (I thought I was supposed to tell them about it!) When I was finished, I sat down next to my editor. She handed me her glass of wine which I promptly chugged. Next speaker was Joel. I finally calmed down by the time Jerry West spoke. He's written an autobiography that will be out in Oct. I really want to read it. Then Lemony Snicket. He and his illustrator were droll and charming and hilarious. He shared a baked apple recipe with me that I must try. A peeled, cored apple and Tab. Their book comes out in about a year. It's a compilation of worst (or best) breakup stories. I'm sure it will be hilarious.
Before the event: Met my editor for lunch where we ate sushi and talked. (Hadn't met her before.) Then she took me to see the publishing house which was basically across the street. Super modern glass building with a very sleek, Swedish look with pale floors and walls and pale wood. Very crisp and orderly. I had to show an ID at a desk, get a photo taken before I could pass through a certain area. Elevators require a code and don't respond until you type in the code. then the box will show which elevator you should stand in front of, A - J. Elevator won't respond until it detects you in front of designated door.
Day after event: I met my agent for breakfast in a cafe attached to Grand Central Station. Once we were done, she invited me to see the Century Association. I had no idea what she was talking about, but soon I was following her through Grand Central Station and out into the street and right in the middle of the St. Patrick's Day chaos. OMG. OMG. We lost each other several times. Streets were closed. Green drunks shoulder to shoulder, shouting in unison for no apparent reason. Finally made it to the Century Association, a club that is basically for the artistic elite of NYC. Walls were lined with paintings of members old and new. Winslow Homer. Teddy Roosevelt. First edition books from floor to ceiling. Can't even describe it, but you can find a bit about it on Wikipedia.
Now somewhere in this chaos was my daughter. I was supposed to catch up with her so we could visit Central Park. OMG again. And I have to mention how glad I was that she came with me. I can't imagine trying to navigate NYC for the first time in my life without having her along. We finally found each other in Central Park. She'd spent the past few hours trying to escape the crazy green people, so we were both wiped out and had probably walked miles by that point. But it was a gorgeous day! In the seventies!
No restrooms. A gazillion people in the streets, and no portable toilets anywhere. Restrooms in Central Park were locked. So we went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and and paid $15 to pee. While we were there, we checked out Guitar Heroes and some mummies.
And then the train ride back to the hotel. Another OMG Really, I just wanted to laugh. The trains were so packed that the doors wouldn't shut because asses were hanging out. I mean real asses. And the people would stand there blank-faced while the door continued to close and open on their butts.
One thing I keep wondering: Does it make sense to blog? It seems that most of the people who read my blog follow me on Facebook, so I wonder if blogging is redundant. But the big advantage to blogging is that the posts don't vanish or roll off the page in a matter of minutes. But Facebook is just so much faster. And feels less formal. And people can share what you post. And people are more likely to comment. So I don't know.
But anyway, here's a bit of my New York trip that I posted on Facebook a while back but am now posting here. And I'm not even going to try to catch people up, just drop you in the middle of a scene. Because I'm lazy that way.
The cocktail party: the CEO of Hachette introduced all four authors, me, Joel Salatin, an organic farmer, Jerry West, NBA star, and Lemony Snicket. Then the publisher of Grand Central introduced me. So glad I was up first. So nervous for days, but once I was up there, I wasn't nervous at all. But definitely one of the weirdest evenings of my life. It felt like I was in a Truman Capote movie. Not In Cold Blood, but Breakfast at Tiffany's.
Almost all of attendees had already read my book. (I thought I was supposed to tell them about it!) When I was finished, I sat down next to my editor. She handed me her glass of wine which I promptly chugged. Next speaker was Joel. I finally calmed down by the time Jerry West spoke. He's written an autobiography that will be out in Oct. I really want to read it. Then Lemony Snicket. He and his illustrator were droll and charming and hilarious. He shared a baked apple recipe with me that I must try. A peeled, cored apple and Tab. Their book comes out in about a year. It's a compilation of worst (or best) breakup stories. I'm sure it will be hilarious.
Before the event: Met my editor for lunch where we ate sushi and talked. (Hadn't met her before.) Then she took me to see the publishing house which was basically across the street. Super modern glass building with a very sleek, Swedish look with pale floors and walls and pale wood. Very crisp and orderly. I had to show an ID at a desk, get a photo taken before I could pass through a certain area. Elevators require a code and don't respond until you type in the code. then the box will show which elevator you should stand in front of, A - J. Elevator won't respond until it detects you in front of designated door.
Day after event: I met my agent for breakfast in a cafe attached to Grand Central Station. Once we were done, she invited me to see the Century Association. I had no idea what she was talking about, but soon I was following her through Grand Central Station and out into the street and right in the middle of the St. Patrick's Day chaos. OMG. OMG. We lost each other several times. Streets were closed. Green drunks shoulder to shoulder, shouting in unison for no apparent reason. Finally made it to the Century Association, a club that is basically for the artistic elite of NYC. Walls were lined with paintings of members old and new. Winslow Homer. Teddy Roosevelt. First edition books from floor to ceiling. Can't even describe it, but you can find a bit about it on Wikipedia.
Now somewhere in this chaos was my daughter. I was supposed to catch up with her so we could visit Central Park. OMG again. And I have to mention how glad I was that she came with me. I can't imagine trying to navigate NYC for the first time in my life without having her along. We finally found each other in Central Park. She'd spent the past few hours trying to escape the crazy green people, so we were both wiped out and had probably walked miles by that point. But it was a gorgeous day! In the seventies!
No restrooms. A gazillion people in the streets, and no portable toilets anywhere. Restrooms in Central Park were locked. So we went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and and paid $15 to pee. While we were there, we checked out Guitar Heroes and some mummies.
And then the train ride back to the hotel. Another OMG Really, I just wanted to laugh. The trains were so packed that the doors wouldn't shut because asses were hanging out. I mean real asses. And the people would stand there blank-faced while the door continued to close and open on their butts.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
WRITE OF SPRING # 9
WRITE OF SPRING No. 9
SATURDAY, APRIL 2
noon until 4:00
ONCE UPON A CRIME
604 W. 26th St. Mpls.
612-870-3785
From Pat and Gary at Once Upon a Crime:
It's beginning to look a lot like Spring, and there's lots to celebrate, so we're throwing a party! We're approaching our 24th year anniversary (on Friday April 1st - seriously), we'll be off to the Edgar Awards Banquet to receive our Raven Award later this month (April 28th), and between the two, we have an incredible lineup of authors heading our way.
We're kicking off the month (and don't forget Brian Freeman tonight, and C.J. Box Thursday night) with our annual author open house: The Write of Spring. Most of you are familiar with it - it's a wonderful way to relieve your cabin fever. This year's slate has 50 authors and honored guests. Attached is a printable schedule. Lots of local authors to meet, from award winners and nominees, debut authors and seasoned best sellers...something for everyone and every taste. We'll even have a few pre-release sneak previews of upcoming books. Plus give-aways, lemonade, and cookies! So check out the attached flyer, or visit our website www.onceuponacrimebooks.com for more information.
Thanks for a great 24 years!
Pat & Gary
SATURDAY, APRIL 2
noon until 4:00
ONCE UPON A CRIME
604 W. 26th St. Mpls.
612-870-3785
From Pat and Gary at Once Upon a Crime:
It's beginning to look a lot like Spring, and there's lots to celebrate, so we're throwing a party! We're approaching our 24th year anniversary (on Friday April 1st - seriously), we'll be off to the Edgar Awards Banquet to receive our Raven Award later this month (April 28th), and between the two, we have an incredible lineup of authors heading our way.
We're kicking off the month (and don't forget Brian Freeman tonight, and C.J. Box Thursday night) with our annual author open house: The Write of Spring. Most of you are familiar with it - it's a wonderful way to relieve your cabin fever. This year's slate has 50 authors and honored guests. Attached is a printable schedule. Lots of local authors to meet, from award winners and nominees, debut authors and seasoned best sellers...something for everyone and every taste. We'll even have a few pre-release sneak previews of upcoming books. Plus give-aways, lemonade, and cookies! So check out the attached flyer, or visit our website www.onceuponacrimebooks.com for more information.
Thanks for a great 24 years!
Pat & Gary
Monday, March 7, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
APPLES
It's been a busy couple of weeks. Hardly any time to blog or tweet. I'm being vain, wishing my hair didn't look horrible because I'm flying to New York to meet my editor and various people in the publishing house. Hopefully have a drink with my wonderful agent and hug her hard. And I have to give a five minute talk at an event. Last year's speaker was Tina Fey. No pressure. For someone who rarely does readings and hardly ever steps out of my writing cave...well, this could be interesting.
I've been around long enough to know how unusual all of this is, and I'm not sure I'm ever going to grasp going from being unable to get anyone to even read The Orchard to what is beginning to look like some pretty major backing. The good news keeps coming. I try not to get my hopes up, and yet at the same time I tell myself I might as well enjoy the sense of anticipation no matter what happens down the road. The best time is often before the book comes out. Like waiting for Christmas.
The cover is beautiful. The back is beautiful too. A red apple. Genius!
I had to shut off the comment section because of spam. I'll probably turn it back on for a couple of days after each new post, then shut it down again.
I've been around long enough to know how unusual all of this is, and I'm not sure I'm ever going to grasp going from being unable to get anyone to even read The Orchard to what is beginning to look like some pretty major backing. The good news keeps coming. I try not to get my hopes up, and yet at the same time I tell myself I might as well enjoy the sense of anticipation no matter what happens down the road. The best time is often before the book comes out. Like waiting for Christmas.
The cover is beautiful. The back is beautiful too. A red apple. Genius!
I had to shut off the comment section because of spam. I'll probably turn it back on for a couple of days after each new post, then shut it down again.
Monday, February 21, 2011
THE INTRODUCTORY ESSAY
Sometimes an agent will ask for an essay to include with a manuscript submission. It's usually a short explanation of why this book, why now. I think the personal introduction has become more popular in these tough publishing times and it's utilized for both fiction and nonfiction. If done correctly, it can set up the book and trigger an editor's interest.
This is the essay I wrote for The Orchard:
May 2010
I spent years dreaming about writing The Orchard, but I knew switching from genre writing, my only means of support, to memoir, would be a financial risk. I constantly talked about the project as something that would happen in the future, while worrying that the opportunity to write it might come too late, or might never come at all.
When I suddenly found myself with no deadline and no contract to fulfill, I made one of those big life decisions. If I sold my home in St. Paul and purchased a tiny cabin in the north woods, I might be able to live on the proceeds from the sale for two or three years. It was a huge gamble, but it would give me the solitude and freedom to write The Orchard.
I sold the house and began looking for a secluded place to write. In an odd twist, my real estate agent had a listing he thought I should see, but it was located nowhere near my search area. Another negative—it was located in farm country, a landscape and culture I’d avoided since moving from the farm. How could I possibly live in a farming area again? Ignorant of my history, the agent talked me into looking. Just looking.
The property was a prairie-style church built in the late 1800s in a now non-existent village called Perley Station. Perley Station was the brainchild of a lumber baron, philanthropist, and horticulturalist named John Perley. In 1905 the village burned to the ground, and the only thing left in the middle of fields, woodland, and prairie, was a church. And that church was selling for the price of a cabin in the north woods.
I still questioned whether I could immerse myself mentally and physically in a setting that brought back so many painful memories, but in the end I bought the church and moved to a remote and beautiful building in a town that no longer existed.
The church studio is surrounded by Perley Lilacs, courtesy of Mr. Perley’s horticultural skill.
In the backyard is an apple tree. As I write this, the tree is loaded with blooms, and I’m anticipating the apple pies I will bake this fall.
I like to imagine that the tree was planted by John Perley. I don’t know if this is truth, but I can say the tree is very old, and it doesn’t have many years left.
In this setting, surrounded by history and farm fields, an apple tree just beyond my window, I wrote The Orchard. The writing of the book, the farm fields that I walk past daily, noting what has been planted and how well the crops are doing, have led to a reclaiming of a life I left behind.
This is the essay I wrote for The Orchard:
May 2010
I spent years dreaming about writing The Orchard, but I knew switching from genre writing, my only means of support, to memoir, would be a financial risk. I constantly talked about the project as something that would happen in the future, while worrying that the opportunity to write it might come too late, or might never come at all.
When I suddenly found myself with no deadline and no contract to fulfill, I made one of those big life decisions. If I sold my home in St. Paul and purchased a tiny cabin in the north woods, I might be able to live on the proceeds from the sale for two or three years. It was a huge gamble, but it would give me the solitude and freedom to write The Orchard.
I sold the house and began looking for a secluded place to write. In an odd twist, my real estate agent had a listing he thought I should see, but it was located nowhere near my search area. Another negative—it was located in farm country, a landscape and culture I’d avoided since moving from the farm. How could I possibly live in a farming area again? Ignorant of my history, the agent talked me into looking. Just looking.
The property was a prairie-style church built in the late 1800s in a now non-existent village called Perley Station. Perley Station was the brainchild of a lumber baron, philanthropist, and horticulturalist named John Perley. In 1905 the village burned to the ground, and the only thing left in the middle of fields, woodland, and prairie, was a church. And that church was selling for the price of a cabin in the north woods.
I still questioned whether I could immerse myself mentally and physically in a setting that brought back so many painful memories, but in the end I bought the church and moved to a remote and beautiful building in a town that no longer existed.
The church studio is surrounded by Perley Lilacs, courtesy of Mr. Perley’s horticultural skill.
In the backyard is an apple tree. As I write this, the tree is loaded with blooms, and I’m anticipating the apple pies I will bake this fall.
I like to imagine that the tree was planted by John Perley. I don’t know if this is truth, but I can say the tree is very old, and it doesn’t have many years left.
In this setting, surrounded by history and farm fields, an apple tree just beyond my window, I wrote The Orchard. The writing of the book, the farm fields that I walk past daily, noting what has been planted and how well the crops are doing, have led to a reclaiming of a life I left behind.
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