Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s acquired during the week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as actually sitting down and creating real content.
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Twenty Years is a long time to wait for one sentence . . .
. . . unless you’re John Irving.
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So, You Want to FTF?
Zoë Sharp, who is one of my favorite author-people, interviewed Timothy Hallinan—author, instructor, blogger, cool guy—the other day on Murderati,* one of my favorite author-people places.
It was mentioned that Mr. Halligan teaches courses on how to start and finish novels and had gathered his thought on the subject in one place on his website.
So I clicked over to check them out. I read one or two of his articles . . . then a few more. . . and then . . .
I bookmarked the page, closed out and started writing.
They’re that good.
And they’re right here.
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Nice One, Kid . . .
These are the earrings I picked up for myself at the Mall on Sunday while I was trying to ignore Janie.
“Those are perfect for you, Mom!” said Janie, as I was paying for everything.
“Why?” said Sunny, momentarily distracted from her new yellow flower purse.**
“Because they’re little pencils,” said Janie. “And she’s a . . .”
“A Mommy?”
“No. Well, yeah, but she writes stuff. And writers need . . .”
“Erasers?”
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Garrison Keillor says I can write fanfiction about Pirate Ninja Nuns from Mars***
So there, nyah.
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Social anxieties and spontaneous credit card combustion be damned—I registered for Bouchercon last night.
I also scored accommodations, though not quite what I’d wanted. The convention center has already sold out of the reserved block—the only room available in the hotel, if the reservation person was to be believed, was a three-person suite for $339 a night, which was tempting . . . but no.
I booked a room a block away and will frugally, if not cheerfully, schlep myself and my stuff back and forth.
So the only things I’m missing are a signed vacation slip^ and transportation, since my beloved Rocinante is in no shape to make the trip and I’d rather not fly if I can help it.^^
So if anyone within reach of this post hails from my part of the Midwest and plans to go to Bouchercon—or has always hankered to explore scenic Cleveland, it’s not my place to judge^^^—I’ll pay my share of gas and parking if you want to carpool or guard your stuff if you want to train- or buspool.
And if any of my posse are interested in sharing expenses for a suite . . .
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*While you’re there, check out the amazing Q&A by Gar Harwood and Brad Parks. Two brilliant men riffing off each other—priceless.
**It should be noted that she was sitting on the counter through this exchange because she refused to be parted from her new favoritest thing ever long enough for the clerk to scan the tag.
***Because I miss the Biker Mice, that’s why.
^I have to wait for the quarterly forms to come out, but it shouldn’t be a problem. If it is, I’ll either cancel or hold one heck of a poetry contest.
^^It’s not fear, it’s impatience, disgust, and expense, pretty much in that order.
^^^Though I’ll do it anyway, since I was born and (more or less) raised in Cincinnati, which means judging Cleveland is a deeply ingrained tradition. But I hear the river up there is gorgeous now that it’s no longer bursting into flame on a regular basis . . . and for Laura, I’ll keep quiet—if she promises not to bring up the Reds or the Bengals or Jerry Springer or Mapplethorpe . . . never mind.
Earful of Cider 