Be-Mused — Karen Templeton

I haven’t blogged in a couple of days. That’s what happens when you sell one day and get a line edit on the upcoming book the next. Busy, busy. Plus, after thinking I was hot stuff for getting my Romancing the Blog column uploaded early, wouldn’tcha know somebody else posted on an almost identical topic. So I had to go fiddle with something else I’d already started to replace it. Oh, the original one’ll have its day in the sun eventually, but not this coming Sunday.

Nor will I ever, ever post early again. That’ll larn me.

Twenty-seven minutes until The Apprentice, although if I don’t see more, I don’t know, personality or something from this group, I might give up on it. It’s enough to make me long for Amarosa, I’m telling you. Or even Hootenanny Danny. I mean, c’mon, half the point of watching the show is being able to make snide comments about the cast, er, contestants, um, job applicants, right? Although the prissy blond PM from last week has potential, don’t you think? Oh, and the spooky dude with the long hair who’s done everything save genuflect in front of the Donald. He is so going down.

Speaking of spooky, did anybody else catch the premiere of COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF with Gina Davis? Something seemed to be missing there (although not, God knows, Gina Davis’s red lips), but I’m not sure what. It was fun, however, to see Tiffany from ONCE AND AGAIN all grown up and important with her big White House job and all. Guess she went on to school after her marriage to Sela Ward’s ex fell apart (because, yeah, like that was gonna last more than three minutes).

Loved the final round of dancing on SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE last night. I’m gonna miss that show, if for no other reason than watching those kids dance their hearts out just made me feel so darn good. And like getting up there with them, or at least mamboing around my living room, neither of which would be a pretty sight.

Anyway, if I don’t drop in as frequently over the next few weeks, it’s only because I’m writing. As in, the stuff somebody pays me to do. But I will be back. Promise.

I’m officially contracted for three Special Editions and Silhouette is reissuing my three Yours Trulys from the late 90’s (which sold like five copies each originally) as a 3-in-1 anthology, sometime late next year.

V. happy camper, here.

Warning: Random thought processes may follow. Read at your own risk.

Just found out my November book got a 3 from RT (that’s Romantic Times to the uninitiates among you). Yeah, yeah, I know the drill — one person’s opinion, reviews don’t influence sales, nobody dies (except the heroine’s second husband, actually). Still. “Eh” hurts. I’d almost rather get a 1.

Then again, maybe not. I recently ran across a reader review of an older book online — man, she shredded that sucker. She didn’t even like what the heroine wore. I will give her one thing — she was thorough. And she actually thought the book was well-written, even if she did have issues with basically every element of the story. Which I suppose at least somewhat mitigates her “At least this one wasn’t as bad as the last one, which I absolutely hated.” Uh. . .thanks? One does wonder, however, why she tried again, considering her reaction to the first book.

Speaking of issues, think I mentioned a few days ago that I had some serious rewrites to do on my next Special Edition, since my editor thought my hero was “icky.” And yes, that’s a quote. So I’m in the process of un-ickifying him. The good news is, I think I’m making good progress. I may groan and moan — usually because I live in perpetual, heart-stopping fear that I won’t “get it” and my revisions won’t work the way my editor wants them to — but deep down (waaaay deep down) I do enjoy the challenge. Growth is good. Or something. In this case, nearly all the hero’s interior monologue has to go, but instead of simply rewritting his thoughts, I’m actually replacing the IM with more dialogue and action. You know, SHOWING? This is not a bad thing, believe me. And it’s taking both me and my guy in directions I didn’t think either one of us could go. So I’m exhausted, but more or less pleased.

As opposed to exhausted, but pissed, which may well be the case tomorrow, you never know.

Desperate Housewives — I have come to the conclusion that I have a serious love/hate relationship with this show. Adore the dark humor, the snappy dialogue, the delightfully wicked characterizations. Bree, Edie (ten points for the funeral hat!), Gabby. And Alfre Woodward rocks. I mean, can she do creepy or what? Her smile, her voice. . .[inject shuddering sound here]. But the plotholes. . .ohmigod, you could punt Pluto through them. Not to mention the five million commercials, which I’d sure like to punt Pluto through. But still I watch, because when it hits those high notes, it’s brilliant. Or at least deliciously entertaining, in a sick and twisted sort of way.

What else. . .oh, wrote and submitted my first official blog for Romancing the Blog today (see the link down at the bottom of the page, I’m too lazy to do the link here right now). But it won’t be up until Oct. 2, so don’t bother rushing over. Trust me, I’ll remind you when it goes live. And the books I sent for the AAR Katrina relief auction never made it to D.C., so I’ll be sending extras to the winner from here. We decided, if/when the originals show up, to send them on to the Nora Roberts/Turn the Page book drive for evacuee shelters.

Until tomorrow. Or whenever. . .

Like probably ninety percent of the population, I followed Hurricane Rita’s approach from the time it was an itty-bitty baby out in the Atlantic. The last news I heard before heading to bed last night was that it was expected to come ashore some three or four hours after that.

Seven a.m. bam, I’m outta bed and downstairs, clicking through the channels to see what happened. Since NBC had on a golf tournament (At 7 in the morning. Boggles the mind.) and being as I live in one of the five cableless households left in the country, I switched back and forth between ABC and CBS.

The commercials were more exciting.

Not that everyone wasn’t wearing their Serious Faces, and doing their best to inject appropriate gravity into their voices as they stood in Galveston or Houston or Beaumont or Port Charles. But the fact was, after Katrina, news of uprooted trees and downed power lines just wasn’t gonna cut it.

Now here comes the sick part: I felt as cheated as all those correspondents clearly did.

Let me (quickly and fervently) interject here that I don’t get off on other people’s suffering. I was horrified at Katrina’s destruction and was incensed by the lack of timely response for many of the victims. I cried for their loss, and cried again each time I saw a family reunited, or entering their new apartment for the first time. I can’t imagine the gut-wrenching feeling of finding nothing left of your home except a pile of boards or having to pick through the debris, hoping to find slivers of your life. And yet, I have to admit an almost ghoulish fascination with the power of the storm itself.

Clearly I’ve watched far too many disaster movies.

How big could it get? I wondered. How hard could the wind blow? What kind of damage could a Category 5 do if it came ashore at Houston? I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, certainly. Or lose their homes. So why was my relief, when the storm began to fade, tempered with — dare I say it? — disappointment? Is it because we’ve become so complacent about increasingly spectacular special effects on the big screen that we — or at least, I — have at least partly forgotten that in real life, big booms aren’t fun for anyone involved?

Or — even worse — have our lives gotten so boring that we’re reduced to finding other people’s tragedies entertaining?

Scary.

Having mucho trouble choosing between SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE or the new Martha Stewart APPRENTICE tonight. What’s a shallow girl to do??? At least #5 has his evening planned — he’ll be watching LOST on the TV in our bedroom.

On a more serious note. . . Along with the rest of the country, we’re watching Rita’s path with held breath and many prayers. #1 recently joined the Nat’l Guard in Kansas, there’s some thought that he might go to the Gulf Coast, possibly even NO, for a couple of months. Now wondering if he’ll end up in TX, instead. If at all, as nothing had been decided when we last talked with him.

We donated both to the Red Cross and Animal Humane for Katrina, so we get frequent e-mail updates on their relief efforts. Animal Humane reports they’ve rescued more than 6000 pets so far, most of which are being housed in a single facility, and that 400 have been reunited with their owners. Unfortunately, however, they’ve been too late for many pets left behind, and haven’t been able to secure official government aid to help in the rescue effort. Individual Guardsmen, etc., have been assisting when they can, however, but without official sanction, they could be reprimanded for it. They desperately need more volunteers in LA to man that shelter, too — I’d be there in a heartbeat if I didn’t live hundreds of miles away.

I tell ya, though, I wouldn’t be surprised if Albuquerque has a sudden population explosion as storm-battered folks realize just how peaceful, weather-wise, it is out here.

For the first time in several years, hubby and I took #5 and one of his friends to the NM State Fair today, otherwise known as Coronary Central. Puke-inducing rides, smelly animals and booths selling fried, greasy and/or sugar-saturated food as far as the eye can see. Heaven. I really, really wanted to try the deep-fried cheesecake (no, I’m not kidding), but apparently we never passed that particular booth, which also specializes in deep-fried Snickers and Milky Ways, among other things. So we settled for mountain-sized cones of wispy blue cotton candy (a real bargain at only a buck), which I finished up when the kids started to turn green instead of blue. Spent way too much money but those were two of the happiest kids you ever did see, and we felt like Good Parents once again.

Turns out, though, we missed half of it (I kept saying, “I want to see the chickens! Where the hell are the chickens?”). This is a biiiiiig fair. Serious fair-goers return several times each year, and for good reason. Besides the normal fair stuff (food, rides and animals), there’s a halfway decent art exhibit, various ethnic pavilions (Native American, Hispanic, African-American), a model railroad exhibit, a shark tank (yeah, we missed that, too), major musical events at night and horse racing. And all that disgustingly sinful food. The kids paid fifty cents each to view the World’s Largest Hog, a four-foot tall, seven-foot long monster who lounges in an airconditioned crib-like thing listening to stunned “Ohmigods!” all day long.

Came back to an expected email from my editor, detailing her issues with the hero of my next Special Edition. I tossed back, “No problem, I’ll fix him,” so I should be under contract again soon. Of course, once I get back into the book, I’ll will undoubtedly regret my cavalier attitude, but for now it’s all cool.

My kid is happy, and I’ve more or less sold another book. Life is good.

I’ve been invited to be a regular columnist on Romancing the Blog, whoo-hoo! And since I’ve always thought of myself as the Erma Bombeck of Romance Novelists, hence the title of this blog.

Should be fun. And a heckuva lot more time/energy efficient than sitting in booksignings.

UPDATE ON THE HISTORIAN: Story’s picking up, so my interest is, as well. But there’s still some 500 pages left to go. . .

I dunno about this one. I’m about 125 pages into it and frowning a lot. And skimming, which is not a good sign. I’m alternately bored and slightly grossed out (I say “slightly” because I somehow didn’t expect a story with Vlad the Impaler as a major player to be exactly a giggle-fest. The dude had serious control issues). Since I paid hardcover price (albeit with a Sam’s Club discount), I’ll probably finish it. The writing is good, no bones to pick there, but day-um, this is one loooooong book.

Which in and of itself shouldn’t be a problem. Lord, used to be I’d haul home from the library the biggest, heaviest historical epics I could find. Remember SARUM by Edward Rutherford? Scarfed that one down (with more than a few “eeewws” along the way — definitely not a story for the weak of stomach) in a couple of days, as I recall. So now I’m wondering if ten years of reading primarily commercial fiction, with its snappier pacing and generally shorter word count (Harry Potter excluded) has spoiled me for meatier reads, that I no longer have the patience for leisurely storytelling I once had.

That, or the book is just boring, Vlad’s escapades notwithstanding.

(And yes, I know I said I wouldn’t publicly pan a book, but I’ll make an exception when large advances and mega promotional hype are involved. Besides, it’s just my opinion, which is worth about a nickel on the open market these days.)

Why on earth would anybody make placemats that can only be spot-cleaned? Or that, despite the label that says “washable,” come out of the ordeal looking, well, like all my old placemats? Yeah, I know, there’s always plastic, but having ditched the last Sesame Street jobber some time ago, I’ve grown rather fond of the grownups-actually-live-here-look. Except that even grownups spill food when they eat. And oddly enough, often on their placemats. So I’m guessing all those “spot clean” placemats are meant for houses where the inhabitants don’t actually eat. At least not in their own house.

Why did Ghiradelli think changing their Double Chocolate chip recipe to include more fat and less taste would improve the product?

Why did one of the kids up the street think pouring Coke in #5’s hair was a good idea?

And why did #5 wait until five minutes past his bedtime to alert me to this fact?

Okay, so they staggered the donations so people’s brains wouldn’t explode, which means that my stuff will be included in tomorrow’s auction. If you go HERE you can bid on a bunch of my books, along with some by Lori Wilde in the same “set” (nope, had no idea they were going to do that). Auction goes “live” tomorrow, Sept. 16.

And speaking of updates. . .after sleeping ’til noon, and a nice lunch, the dog (whose nom du jour is Gulliver) is gone again, off on new adventures. Apparently he can indeed open the gate. Now of course we’re wondering if he’ll show up when he gets hungry again.

Which is what the kids do, so why not?