I get that dressing in a costume and going door-to-door to score candy is fun. Costume parties are lively, as well. But I have a few questions. Maybe you can help me.
Why do 99% of Halloween decorations look so cheap, tacky and junky?
Which large corporation decided to convince us we needed to decorate for another holiday, and thus fund their Christmas bonuses? Maybe the same ones who invented Grandparents' Day and Secretaries' Day? Oh, and how many "Occupants" have supported their favorite corporations by buying said decorations?
Why would anyone WANT their house to look like it's haunted and/or deserted?
Similarly, why would people want to "decorate" their homes with things that are ugly? Don't we spend lots of time, money and energy trying to make our homes look GOOD?
Don't people who drape cotton all over their houses realize that, instead of looking like spiderwebs, it looks like . . . well, they draped cotton all over their houses? And that it looks like a teenage prank that occurred while they slept (similar to toilet papering the trees)?
When did the world decide that fear (a negative emotion that people spend THOUSANDS of dollars in counselling trying to eliminate) was FUN? Perhaps that is perpetuated by the drug companies who make tranquillizers, and secretly funded by psychiatrists?
Why would people think that decorations scary enough to give small children nightmares or make them cry are "fun for the kids?" I don't remember crying too often or having many nightmares as a child, but I do remember that those events were not synonymous with any type of "fun."
Oh! And when did Halloween become "sexy?!" Why is it that all girls' costumes larger than size 4T are trampy and suggestive? And where are the womens' rights people on THAT one?! Why are they not all over that?!
In my younger, less mature days, I spent many a slumber party watching the Halloween movies, the Friday the 13th movies, the Nightmare on Elm Street movies, etc, because we thought it was fun to be somewhat scared. But as I got past, say, age 19, it stopped being fun. I realized that the real world was scary enough (taxes, bills, interest rates on credit cards, crime, war in Iraq or anywhere else, corruption among government officials, people losing jobs, the list goes on). Why scare myself on PURPOSE? I just don't have time for that.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Don't write a book unless you are very, very brave. (This one is serious, so don't read it if you need a laugh.)
It's an emotional process, getting a book published. From start to finish, you are on a roller coaster. Oh, the excitement when you begin to write! But then you're like a raw nerve. As you write, there are times when you feel like your heart is spilling out onto the paper (or the computer screen, as the case may be). You become emotionally attached to the characters. You're surprised when inspiration hits and the story takes a slightly different route from the one you planned. You wait and wait while people proofread, and brace yourself for the ugly truth (which is never quite as ugly as you imagine). An editor chops it up and tells you what you need to change (also never quite as bad as you imagine). Then you wait expectantly for the release of your finished work. You're elated! But also nervous. Will people like it? Will people buy it? Ultimately, you are surprised at some who buy it. And you are surprised at some who don't.
It's a consuming process. You have a story sitting on your brain. You have to write and write and write until you get it out. You wrestle with it. You sweat and pray over it. Then the editing and proofing takes longer than the actual writing. Just when you think you are "finished," you realize that the publisher is going to take however long they take to get the book printed. People ask you daily, "When is your book coming out?"
It's like having a child. Simply carrying a child for 9 months isn't enough. You eat well, get enough rest, try to do all the right things. But even after the child is born, your job is not over. It has just begun! Now you must raise the child. Same with a book. Now you must raise your book, too, in the form of marketing. This, like childrearing, is the hardest part. Tom Petty had it wrong . . . the waiting is NOT the hardest part! It's the marketing.
To be a writer, you have to be one of two things: incredibly strong or somewhat sick in the head. Maybe both. You are going to experience rejection and pain. And you have to know how to keep on keeping on. Being a writer is not for the faint of heart.
So . . . in a few weeks, my new book will be ready to purchase, and I look forward to announcing it here! Stay tuned.
It's a consuming process. You have a story sitting on your brain. You have to write and write and write until you get it out. You wrestle with it. You sweat and pray over it. Then the editing and proofing takes longer than the actual writing. Just when you think you are "finished," you realize that the publisher is going to take however long they take to get the book printed. People ask you daily, "When is your book coming out?"
It's like having a child. Simply carrying a child for 9 months isn't enough. You eat well, get enough rest, try to do all the right things. But even after the child is born, your job is not over. It has just begun! Now you must raise the child. Same with a book. Now you must raise your book, too, in the form of marketing. This, like childrearing, is the hardest part. Tom Petty had it wrong . . . the waiting is NOT the hardest part! It's the marketing.
To be a writer, you have to be one of two things: incredibly strong or somewhat sick in the head. Maybe both. You are going to experience rejection and pain. And you have to know how to keep on keeping on. Being a writer is not for the faint of heart.
So . . . in a few weeks, my new book will be ready to purchase, and I look forward to announcing it here! Stay tuned.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Dusting off the Cobwebs
Excuse me while I blow the dust off my blog here . . . I have not blogged much lately. That is mostly because I am on the brink of releasing my next book: The Ballad of the Shirley T and Other Stories. It is a book of six short stories, mostly Southern, and several with distinct Lowcountry flavor. Paperback will be $.8.95 and e-book less than that (yet to be determined). Check perrincothranconrad.com or http://www.iuniverse.com/ in the next few weeks!
Getting a book out is hard work and leaves little time for . . . well, writing. There are proofs and polishing, followed by proofs and more proofs. And with every round, you never trust yourself completely, so you wait around while someone else's eyes scan and tell you that you forgot to dot an i . . . or that your cover needs an overhaul.
The second reason that I have not blogged much lately is that I have a 3 year old son at home. Sure, he goes to preschool 3 mornings per week, but when he's home, he requires lots of attention. If I am not actively engaged with him, I must watch him like a hawk. Anyone who has ever had a 3 year old boy will understand this. Just try to go to the bathroom, take a shower, run the vacuum in the next room. Go ahead. And when you come back, you will find your son on top of the refrigerator. Or perhaps he is very proud of himself for having outsmarted the childproof drawer latches and wants to show you the cool icepick he found.
Constant heartattacks. That's motherhood. Oh, and the 3 year old tantrums . . . they will leave you questioning everything you ever knew to be true in life and thinking you have gone terribly wrong as a mother. If you stay at home, you will become convinced that you have ruined him with your bad mothering skills and he would have been better off in daycare. If you work outside the home, you will wail and beat your chest, thinking your work schedule has caused him emotional problems, and if only you had stayed home . . . but none of these things are true. All of it is a phase. Or so I am told. "The good news is that they all turn four!" That's what I keep hearing. Of course, my son is wonderful . . . and so much fun. But every day is an adventure. Forget Halloween. NOTHING scares ME anymore.
So, just try having a 3 year old boy at home with you and trying to get your latest book out at the same time . . . you, too, will be wearing your spouse's sweats because you haven't done your own laundry in so long. You, too, will be coughing from the dust on your nightstand.
But I wouldn't trade my life for the world.
Getting a book out is hard work and leaves little time for . . . well, writing. There are proofs and polishing, followed by proofs and more proofs. And with every round, you never trust yourself completely, so you wait around while someone else's eyes scan and tell you that you forgot to dot an i . . . or that your cover needs an overhaul.
The second reason that I have not blogged much lately is that I have a 3 year old son at home. Sure, he goes to preschool 3 mornings per week, but when he's home, he requires lots of attention. If I am not actively engaged with him, I must watch him like a hawk. Anyone who has ever had a 3 year old boy will understand this. Just try to go to the bathroom, take a shower, run the vacuum in the next room. Go ahead. And when you come back, you will find your son on top of the refrigerator. Or perhaps he is very proud of himself for having outsmarted the childproof drawer latches and wants to show you the cool icepick he found.
Constant heartattacks. That's motherhood. Oh, and the 3 year old tantrums . . . they will leave you questioning everything you ever knew to be true in life and thinking you have gone terribly wrong as a mother. If you stay at home, you will become convinced that you have ruined him with your bad mothering skills and he would have been better off in daycare. If you work outside the home, you will wail and beat your chest, thinking your work schedule has caused him emotional problems, and if only you had stayed home . . . but none of these things are true. All of it is a phase. Or so I am told. "The good news is that they all turn four!" That's what I keep hearing. Of course, my son is wonderful . . . and so much fun. But every day is an adventure. Forget Halloween. NOTHING scares ME anymore.
So, just try having a 3 year old boy at home with you and trying to get your latest book out at the same time . . . you, too, will be wearing your spouse's sweats because you haven't done your own laundry in so long. You, too, will be coughing from the dust on your nightstand.
But I wouldn't trade my life for the world.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Things We Take For Granted
I am not accustomed to having car trouble, praise the Lord. Now, my car is not new. It's nine years old. But it's Japanese, and extremely reliable. I love my car. I take for granted, every day, that I can go out to the garage, get in my car, and go wherever I need to go. I take for granted that everything in the car will work.
So I have had a tough time over the last few days swallowing the fact that the blower motor in my air system went kaput on Tuesday. Tougher to swallow is the fact that the mechanic has been telling me since Wednesday morning that the "part is on the way." Now that it's Friday morning, I imagine that part taking one of those swirly, loopy routes marked by a dotted line in the old Family Circus cartoons.
But you know what? It's after Labor Day, and the weather has mercifully grown cooler this week. It could be much worse. What if we were still in the searing 100 degree days of July and August? I am thankful. And further, as I have to drive on the interstate today, I might have to do it in the loud, whipping wind. But my parents have offered me the use of one of their (newer, more luxurious) cars. Yes, please!
At the end of the first day sans A/C in my car, I had another thought. As I was taking a hot shower, I said, "Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to live in a place with hot and cold running water!" What a delight that hot shower was, just as it always is after I have been to walk, been gardening, etc.
Some other things we take for granted every day? The internet. Police and Fire Department protection. Access to medical care. Our children's teachers. Grocery stores close to where we live.
Despite the economic troubles we have seen in this country over last few years, we still live in a rich country, full of blessings and conveniences. Take a minute today and thank God for the conveniences in your life, even if they are fewer than they were a couple of years ago. Compared to lots of other places in the world, we still live in a spot where God's blessings are evident. Now, go take some of your blessings and share them with others!
So I have had a tough time over the last few days swallowing the fact that the blower motor in my air system went kaput on Tuesday. Tougher to swallow is the fact that the mechanic has been telling me since Wednesday morning that the "part is on the way." Now that it's Friday morning, I imagine that part taking one of those swirly, loopy routes marked by a dotted line in the old Family Circus cartoons.
But you know what? It's after Labor Day, and the weather has mercifully grown cooler this week. It could be much worse. What if we were still in the searing 100 degree days of July and August? I am thankful. And further, as I have to drive on the interstate today, I might have to do it in the loud, whipping wind. But my parents have offered me the use of one of their (newer, more luxurious) cars. Yes, please!
At the end of the first day sans A/C in my car, I had another thought. As I was taking a hot shower, I said, "Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to live in a place with hot and cold running water!" What a delight that hot shower was, just as it always is after I have been to walk, been gardening, etc.
Some other things we take for granted every day? The internet. Police and Fire Department protection. Access to medical care. Our children's teachers. Grocery stores close to where we live.
Despite the economic troubles we have seen in this country over last few years, we still live in a rich country, full of blessings and conveniences. Take a minute today and thank God for the conveniences in your life, even if they are fewer than they were a couple of years ago. Compared to lots of other places in the world, we still live in a spot where God's blessings are evident. Now, go take some of your blessings and share them with others!
Monday, August 22, 2011
Sometimes, I wish I were a cop.
I witnessed someone shoplifting yesterday. And I was powerless to do anything about it. *Sigh* I can't fix the evils of the world. There is only One who can.
My three-year old and I were sitting in the car, waiting for my husband to come out of the grocery store. Two men pulled up in a nice car (much nicer than mine - probably because they steal all their snacks, so they can afford a big car payment) in the space diagonally in front of me, to the left. The passenger had on a football jersey. He got out and walked briskly into the Dollar Tree, which was also diagonally in front of me, to the right.
Less than 60 seconds later, he walked VERY briskly out of the Dollar Tree. Wow, I said to myself, that was fast. The cashier must have been high on Jolt cola . . . then I noticed his hand under his shirt, along with a rawther large bulge. Ahhhhhhh . . . all became clear now. He was quick, because he didn't bother to check out! He hopped back into the car and immediately brought several small bags/boxes of snack-looking items out of his lap and into view.
Mmm. A reprobate, and not even good at it. This was not a young guy, either. It's not like you could argue inexperience. He was old enough to have been at it for a while. The driver, who looked to be in his 50's or 60's calmly backed out of the space and drove away like nothing was amiss. He either didn't realize he was driving the Dollar-Tree-Snack-Heist-Getaway-Car, or it was all in a day's work for him.
I didn't get the license plate, and I couldn't get out of the car to alert the Dollar Tree employees . . . such is the life of a mother. You have to think of the safety/comfort of the little person in your care first. But my question is this: If you're going to go to the trouble of stealing, why not go into Best Buy and go for a tablet computer? Still fits under the jersey nicely. And you'd be much less angry with yourself if you ended up sitting in jail over a $500 item than $3-4 worth of stale, off-brand snacks.
Just a suggestion to any of the scofflaws and reprobates out there.
But oh yeah, keep this one in mind: Hebrews 10:30-31 For we know Him who said, "Vengeance is Mine, I will repay," says the Lord. And again, "The Lord will judge His people." It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of living God.
Yup. I'd be more worried about that than jail.
My three-year old and I were sitting in the car, waiting for my husband to come out of the grocery store. Two men pulled up in a nice car (much nicer than mine - probably because they steal all their snacks, so they can afford a big car payment) in the space diagonally in front of me, to the left. The passenger had on a football jersey. He got out and walked briskly into the Dollar Tree, which was also diagonally in front of me, to the right.
Less than 60 seconds later, he walked VERY briskly out of the Dollar Tree. Wow, I said to myself, that was fast. The cashier must have been high on Jolt cola . . . then I noticed his hand under his shirt, along with a rawther large bulge. Ahhhhhhh . . . all became clear now. He was quick, because he didn't bother to check out! He hopped back into the car and immediately brought several small bags/boxes of snack-looking items out of his lap and into view.
Mmm. A reprobate, and not even good at it. This was not a young guy, either. It's not like you could argue inexperience. He was old enough to have been at it for a while. The driver, who looked to be in his 50's or 60's calmly backed out of the space and drove away like nothing was amiss. He either didn't realize he was driving the Dollar-Tree-Snack-Heist-Getaway-Car, or it was all in a day's work for him.
I didn't get the license plate, and I couldn't get out of the car to alert the Dollar Tree employees . . . such is the life of a mother. You have to think of the safety/comfort of the little person in your care first. But my question is this: If you're going to go to the trouble of stealing, why not go into Best Buy and go for a tablet computer? Still fits under the jersey nicely. And you'd be much less angry with yourself if you ended up sitting in jail over a $500 item than $3-4 worth of stale, off-brand snacks.
Just a suggestion to any of the scofflaws and reprobates out there.
But oh yeah, keep this one in mind: Hebrews 10:30-31 For we know Him who said, "Vengeance is Mine, I will repay," says the Lord. And again, "The Lord will judge His people." It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of living God.
Yup. I'd be more worried about that than jail.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Lip Gloss and Bullets
Lately, I have been super-focused on getting my second book out this fall. I just realized the other day that I had not blogged in a few weeks. Almost a month. But I am now waiting for the results of the editorial review by my publisher, and I have a little more time on my hands.
So yesterday, two of the highlights in my day were 1) getting my new lip gloss from my Avon lady and 2) attending Ladies' Night at the ATP Gun Shop and Range, where they teach you how to "shoot like a girl." I had not shot a gun in nearly 5 years, so the results shocked me a little (see photo below). Granted, I grew up around guns, because my father hunted, and I was taught from a young age how to shoot a gun and handle one safely.
Rewind: It's 1980, and I'm turning 8 years old. My Dad comes home a little after dark and tells me to come out to the back of his car. I follow him out there with some anticipation, figuring there is a surprise for me in the trunk. Maybe a Barbie townhouse. Maybe a new bike with pink and purple streamers. The trunk pops open. The light flickers on to reveal a 4-10 shotgun. "Happy Birthday!" Dad grins.
"Oh." I say. After a short pause, I follow it up with, "Thanks" and walk back into the house. I think I shot the thing at the skeet range like 3 times.
Fast Forward: Tuesday, August 16, 2011. Inside the ATP Gun Shop is a picture of Obama with the title "Gun Salesman of the Year." (Slapping my knee.) It's so true! I'm wearing pink glasses, pink headphones, and just received my hot pink "I Shot Like a Girl" t-shirt. And I'm tearing out the heart of the paper dude in front of me.
So, I suppose the message is clear. If you were thinking about breaking into my house, prepare to meet your Maker. Because we live in South Carolina, folks, and the Castle Doctrine applies here. Oh yeah. I'm proud to be a South Carolinian, y'all.
So yesterday, two of the highlights in my day were 1) getting my new lip gloss from my Avon lady and 2) attending Ladies' Night at the ATP Gun Shop and Range, where they teach you how to "shoot like a girl." I had not shot a gun in nearly 5 years, so the results shocked me a little (see photo below). Granted, I grew up around guns, because my father hunted, and I was taught from a young age how to shoot a gun and handle one safely.
Rewind: It's 1980, and I'm turning 8 years old. My Dad comes home a little after dark and tells me to come out to the back of his car. I follow him out there with some anticipation, figuring there is a surprise for me in the trunk. Maybe a Barbie townhouse. Maybe a new bike with pink and purple streamers. The trunk pops open. The light flickers on to reveal a 4-10 shotgun. "Happy Birthday!" Dad grins.
"Oh." I say. After a short pause, I follow it up with, "Thanks" and walk back into the house. I think I shot the thing at the skeet range like 3 times.
Fast Forward: Tuesday, August 16, 2011. Inside the ATP Gun Shop is a picture of Obama with the title "Gun Salesman of the Year." (Slapping my knee.) It's so true! I'm wearing pink glasses, pink headphones, and just received my hot pink "I Shot Like a Girl" t-shirt. And I'm tearing out the heart of the paper dude in front of me.
Monday, July 18, 2011
My Son, the Interior Decorator
This has been a really busy summer, so far. Between keeping Sam occupied and trying to get my second book ready for release, I have not had much time to breathe. And when it rains, it pours, so it figures that Chip and I have decided to have a bunch of people over to the house lately. Five sets of people within a two week period, if I am remembering everyone. That's a good bit of cooking and cleaning, but we enjoy entertaining. And once we have one set of friends over, it's usually, "Well, while we have the house good and clean, might as well have more . . . "
So a couple of Fridays ago, it was 10 people for dinner and games. There was last-minute vacuuming and mopping, cooking 24 hamburger patties, and general stuffing of things into closets to put on that false air of tidiness. I made extra coffee that morning and kicked into high gear at about 6:30 a.m.
So it made perfect sense that Sam choose THAT DAY to add a little interior design flair to the living room. Why not? I mean, he saw me sprucing up, right?
Sam was on the floor working on the grocery store for his shoebox village (we have been building a village out of old shoeboxes this summer). Sam's Save-A-Lot was looking good and getting some last minute crayon touches while I was on the phone. Suddenly, Sam caught my attention by moving to the corner and sitting down in the "Time Out Chair." With a little Mona Lisa smile, he said quietly, "I'm in time out."
Then I saw why.
In the center of my living room carpet (which is a shade of ecru called "Biscuit") was a giant spiral design in purple crayon. "I'm sorry," Sam giggled, "It was an accident." We're working on what "accident" means. I wish I had taken a picture, because it was really impressive. He started with a dot in the middle, and then with the precision of an engineer with a protractor, made an outward spiral that was about one yard in diameter. I almost left it, because it really looked like it could have been a deliberate part of the rug. Almost.
Oh, did you know that "Washable" crayons are only washable some of the time? It's true. So, half a spray bottle of Woolite carpet cleaner later, we were ready for our guests. As everyone sat on that area of the carpet that night for our game of Pictionary, I expected someone to whisper, "What's that wierd floral smell on the floor? It's rubbing off on my jeans." But no one did.
Lesson learned: Crayons go under lock and key when I am cleaning up for company.
So a couple of Fridays ago, it was 10 people for dinner and games. There was last-minute vacuuming and mopping, cooking 24 hamburger patties, and general stuffing of things into closets to put on that false air of tidiness. I made extra coffee that morning and kicked into high gear at about 6:30 a.m.
So it made perfect sense that Sam choose THAT DAY to add a little interior design flair to the living room. Why not? I mean, he saw me sprucing up, right?
Sam was on the floor working on the grocery store for his shoebox village (we have been building a village out of old shoeboxes this summer). Sam's Save-A-Lot was looking good and getting some last minute crayon touches while I was on the phone. Suddenly, Sam caught my attention by moving to the corner and sitting down in the "Time Out Chair." With a little Mona Lisa smile, he said quietly, "I'm in time out."
Then I saw why.
In the center of my living room carpet (which is a shade of ecru called "Biscuit") was a giant spiral design in purple crayon. "I'm sorry," Sam giggled, "It was an accident." We're working on what "accident" means. I wish I had taken a picture, because it was really impressive. He started with a dot in the middle, and then with the precision of an engineer with a protractor, made an outward spiral that was about one yard in diameter. I almost left it, because it really looked like it could have been a deliberate part of the rug. Almost.
Oh, did you know that "Washable" crayons are only washable some of the time? It's true. So, half a spray bottle of Woolite carpet cleaner later, we were ready for our guests. As everyone sat on that area of the carpet that night for our game of Pictionary, I expected someone to whisper, "What's that wierd floral smell on the floor? It's rubbing off on my jeans." But no one did.
Lesson learned: Crayons go under lock and key when I am cleaning up for company.
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