My Choice to Self-Publish

When it comes to actually publishing what we've written, there is a new choice that must be made by all writers: to go the traditional route with publishing or to self-publish. I say new but, to be honest, it's not a particularly new idea. Writers have been self publishing since, well, people started putting pen to paper. But the difference is now it's a viable option.

Let me give you a breakdown of the state of publishing in 2012. With the advent of e-books, publishing a novel or short story is easier than ever. If you can write a story, you can publish. Whether or not you can sell is a different matter and depends on a lot of factors.

If you choose to go the indie route, the pros are:

• you will make a much greater percentage of the profits (35-70%)
•  you have greater creative control 
• you don't have to wait around for the supposed gate-keepers of the industry to accept you. 

Now for the cons to self-publishing:

• you are responsible for everything (editing, cover design, formatting, promoting, writing the blurb...everything!)
• there is the stigma of being self published working against you. You can't get into bookstores, it can be hard to find professionals to review your work, and some readers refuse to read books that are self-published.

What if you want to go with traditional publishing? Well, the pros are:

• you can actually get into bookstores 
• the pride and prestige of being accepted by the industry gate-keepers (something that, frankly is worth less and less with each Stephanie Meyer and E.L. James that comes along) 
• not having to do all the work yourself so that you can spend more time actually writing. 

As for the cons with traditional publishing:

• you make a measly amount of the profits (10-15%) 
• apparently it's common practice to not give authors any data about the amount of sales made so that they don't even know how much they should be earning
• the enormous amout of time spent waiting. It takes years to find an agent, then years to get a publisher, than possibily another year to actually get published.
• you don't have control over things like titles, covers, blurbs and, sometimes, even content.

Solid arguments can be made for both routes, but what it really comes down to is what the writer wants. Traditional publishing offers prestige while self-publishing offers money. Personally, prestige means little to me and I've already achieved a life goal by being an author, so traditional publishing hasn't got much to offer me at the moment. Since self-publishing is where the money's at, that's the way I'm going.

Can a writer still enjoy reading?

Yes and No

Let's start off with the "No", shall we? I think writers have less tolerance for a)bullshit, b) poor grammar and or punctuation, and c) shitty writing.

Bullshit would include things like stereotypical, cardboard cut-out characters or lame, non-sensical plots, or super shitty behaviour that is never addressed or condemned, like if you have a racist or sexist character who is never so much as challenged or questioned about it. Grrr.

Shitty writing is head-hopping (when the chapter starts off from one character's point of view and suddenly switches to someone else's, inexplicably.), bad dialogue, or over-writing.

As a relative newbie to this game, I still struggle with these three things, of course, but I've also become an expert at finding them in other people's work. Isn't that the way it goes? Fingding fault in others is ever-so-much easier than finding it in ourselves.

On the other hand, when a story is really good, I'm that much more impressed because I know how hard it can be to write something that is just right. I have pages of my journal filled with lines from books that just floored me with how succinct yet complex they were. Two years ago, I might have read a really good book and thought "Well, that was nice.", while now, it's a joy.

I have a much great appreciation for world-building as well, whereas before, I never really noticed it. Take The Wheel of Time series for instance. I hate these books with a fiery passion (well, maybe not the first, but each subsequent book I read just made me angrier, until I finally gave up after book 5).

Now, I can really appreciate the magnitude of the task Jordan took on in creating Middle-Aglaesia...whatever the world was called. It really is amazing, even if he did steal heavily from Tolkien. That being said, he really took it to a whole other level. I'm pretty sure you could have asked him any question about the world and he would've known the answer, that's how thorough he was. Mind you, everything else sucked. He couldn't write a decent female character for shit, he was long winded as hell, and had the plot moving like molasses.

That being said though, you never really know if your tastes have changed until you go back and re-read some stuff. I re-read Christopher Moore's Bite Me and still liked it, although the spelling mistakes and head hopping was a bit distracting. I think, if the book is good, I'll over look little things like that. BUT, if the book is badly written, I'll toss it.

The Buried and The Forgotten

This is another writing prompt I heard on another writing site I frequent. The prompt is this: write a short story (or whatever) about returning to a childhood home only to find it is condemned. Maybe it's the fact that I'm slightly macabre* in what I write, but this totally feels like the beginning to a horror story or something. So, here it is, for your reading enjoyment:

*Speaking of "macabre", don't you hate it when you only ever use/see a word is in it's written form so you have no idea how to pronounce it? I love this word but I never use it in conversation because either way I try to say it, sounds wrong. Actually, they both just sound pretentious as f@#k, so I try to avoid them.

The Buried and The Forgotten

                "Condemned DO NOT ENTER"

                The words were written across a paper and taped to the heavy wooden door. The sign bulged in the middle, where the brass knocker sat beneath it.

                “Shit,” Penny said, looking over the door. “It’s not that old.”

                “Maybe it’s asbestos or something,” Gerald said and took  a step back.

                Penny darted down the porch steps and looked up at the house. Her short, black hair blew against her hand that shielded her eyes from the sun. “Do you think the cellar’s locked up?”

                “I don’t know. Probably. Can we just get out of here?” It wasn’t his idea to come in the first place.  

                “Where’s your sense of nostalgia?”

                “Nostalgia isn't even a sense, Penny...it’s a feeling,” Gerald said, stomping down the steps. He stopped on the last one and kicked it a few times with his heel. “Hear that? Termites. Place is falling apart.”

                “It hasn’t come down in the last 20 years. I think it’ll last a couple more minutes,” she said. She looked down either side of the street. The coast was clear.  “You coming or not?” she asked before disappearing behind the side of the house.

                Gerald cursed and kicked a divot into the brown grass but followed her.

                Penny knelt over the cellar doors, examining the lock. It was a cheap padlock fixed around a loosely held slide lock. She turned and greeted Gerald with an Oh please look.

                “Heads up,” he said, tossing her a broken chunk of cement.  If you can't beat 'em..., he thought.

                Penny took off her pink cardigan and wrapped it around the cement block. A dull clang echoed through the air and the lock was discarded. Penny held up her cardigan to reveal a gaping hole in the middle and made a face.

                “I thought you hated that sweater,” Gerald said.

                “I do. It’s just...now I have to go buy a new one.” She tied the sweater around her waist and pulled the particle board doors open. They fell to the sides with a thud.

                “Pen,” he said, grabbing her by the arm before she could descend the stairs. “Are you sure about this?”

                “It’s what Mom wanted, Ger.”

                “Yeah but what if someone sees us, recognizes us?”

                “That won’t happen once we’re inside, now will it?” Penny turned back to the black filled hole before her and stepped down the cement steps. “Pass me a flashlight.”

                Gerald shrugged the knapsack off his shoulder, letting it fall into his hand. He threw her the larger of the two flashlights.

                Like a submarine exploring the inky depths of the sea, she descended into the dark cellar.

                Gerald  walked up to the steps. The warm, humid air seeped out like vaporous mildew. He crinkled his nose and followed behind, flashlight poised in front.  His hands followed the cement wall as he took each step. There are some things that stay with you no matter how far away or long ago they were. The feel of course cement, the taste of moist air laden with cement chalk, the sound of a sledge hammer against...

                He was back on level ground, at the bottom of the stairs. Penny was already ahead, searching the cellar. Was she still feeling...nostalgic?

                “It hasn’t changed. Seems smaller now, though,” she said, flashlight searching the room.

                “You were a kid when we left here. I’m surprised you remember it at all.”

                “I wasn’t that young, Ger.”

                “No. But people have a way of forgetting...some things.” 

                Penny shone the light in his eyes, blinding him. “I remember.”

                He threw a hand over his eyes. “Yeah."

                She turned away and went back to looking around.

                Gerald followed her with the flashlight. The stairs were only a few feet away. They were steep and wooden, probably rotted through by now.  Luckily for them, what was under the stairs was what they were here for.

                Penny stood by a wall, examining  the tools and pictures fixed to the wall. The old  man’s things. Gerald had no interest in revisiting them. He went straight for the stairs. Crouching beneath them, he scanned the floor with his flashlight. The outline of the hole was as obvious as ever. A thin layer of newer, course cement spread over a thick layer of plaster of paris. He shook his head at his mother’s amateur notion of masonary.  “Found it,” he called to Penny.

                “There you are,” she said, looking down at the floor. “Think he’s just bones by now?”

                “I don’t know. Probably.”

                “If we bust this up we can’t fill it back in, can we? Not now, like this.”

                “No, we can’t. But they’d find him anyway, if they ever got around to tearing this place down,” Gerald said, knowing that it was never going to stay hidden forever. 

                “So it doesn’t matter?”

                “I didn’t say that. But you’re right. It’s what Mom wanted. Go close the doors,” he said, opening the knapsack again. Finding the rubber mallet and railroad spike was easy. They were two of three things left in the bag.

The little light filtering into the cellar from the hanging doors was snuffed out with a bang as Penny closed up.  The teeth-jarring sound of iron chipping away cement resounded through the dark cellar.

Gerald and Penny would never understand why it meant so much to their mother to be buried along with their father but, like it or not, it was her last wish. And the sooner it was finished, the sooner they could go back to their own anonymous lives and never see the other again.

Guess who's gonna be a punctuation expert!!!

Who would want to be an expert in punctuation you ask? A writer, that’s who. A masochistic, self-hating writer, who never bothers to think things through before making grand proclamations. That’s who.

Trouble is....punctuation is f-ing hard. Seriously. I had to look through pages and pages of information before I found a good reference site that had all the shit I needed. And even then, I was left with questions that I’m, currently, too spent to even write out right now.

So, new handy-dandy punctuation site in hand (on screen?), I set to combing a 3000-word story, looking for punctuation mistakes. It took awhile. There were highs and lows, commas and semi colons, eye twitches and moments of catatonia, but I did it. My head still hurts.

P.S. For the love of god, please do not point out the irony of any possible mistakes I made in this post. My brain is tender at the moment and couldn’t handle it.

P.P.S. Please do not point out any improper uses of the word “irony”. 

When the Doorbell Rings, I Hide in the Bathroom For Five Minutes

The truth of this statement is hilarious to me. I honestly do hide in the bathroom everytime someone rings the buzzer downstairs. When I eventually come out again, I creep timidly back into the livingroom and look around before getting back to what I was doing. Even then though, it’s too late and I’m super paranoid that the doorbell is going to ring again.

I know what you’re wondering and no, I’m not a hermit or an agoraphobe. There are several completely rational explanations that in no way suggest that I am crazy or maladjusted.

     Here is the simplest: My apartment is freaking tiny and my buzzer is super loud. No matter where I am in my place, if the buzzer goes off, I jump.  High. And then I swear. A lot. I admit, I’m a naturally jumpy person. If anyone wants to scare me in any given moment, they probably could. But this is too much.

 I hate this buzzer more than I’ve ever hated anything in my entire life.  I haven’t the foggiest idea why the buzzer needs to be loud enough to hear downstairs in the street (true story) but it is. Maybe extra loud buzzers were on sale due to an overwhelming amount of heart attack complaints so my landlord thought he’d save a buck.

As a result of this buzzer from the lowest depths of hell, I flee to the bathroom (the farthest point in my apartment from the door, which is sadly still only like 15 paces away) so that if the person downstairs rings again,  maybe....maaaaybe I won’t jump again. This never works, but I’m an eternal optimist.

Now, you’re probably wondering why I don’t just answer the door. Well, there’s another good reason for that which again, is totally (maybe semi) rational.

Reason #1- Failure to Communicate

     I live in Spain and my Spanish is still...imperfect. But I’m working on it, and I can get by in most conversations. However, people who come to the door don’t know that I'm spanish-challenged and usually talk really quickly, dropping syllables like it’s hot. Plus, my speaker is awful (really crackly) so that I can never understand WTF they’re saying. Even when it’s something really simple like “I have a package”, I can’t get it so then I’m left asking over and over again who they are and who they’re looking for before they finally get fed up and leave.  This is not a fun situation for me. Probably not for them either but hey, my house.

Reason #2- It’s never for me

It’s almost always a guy selling something, a friend of the guy downstairs (this is particularly infuriating since there are only two apartments) or homeless people asking for money (that happens a lot here). 

So after living here for 3 years, I’ve come to the conclusion that answering the door is for suckers and not foreigners.

3942 Words aaaand...GO!!!!

Alrighty, so today is Day 1 of the 60 K words in 29 days Challenge (catchy, huh?)

I have to admit, I started a little bit early. I was already a couple hundred words into this story when I heard of the challenge and I tried, I promise I did, to stop myself from writing anymore but I just couldn’t. If you have a story on the tip of your tongue, you can’t just ignore it. And to be honest, you wouldn’t want to.

Don’t let your story grow cold!

Fiction is best served piping hot!

Another random heat analogy (the study of anuses...ani??)

Anyway, yesterday I had an awesome day of writing. I got 2000 words in just over 2 hours which is a personal best for me. I was feeling pretty good. I though, I can totally do this. And then today happened.

It went like molasses this morning. I just couldn’t get into it and find my rhythm. I eventually got my 2000 words but it was arduous.  4 ½ hours !!! That’s painful to admit to.

It makes me wonder though if it’s a time of day thing. I’ve been keeping a writing log pretty well since I started writing and I’m starting to think that writing in the morning is just plain garbage for me. I would like to make graphs so that I can see for sure but in the two years I’ve been out of school, I’ve literally forgotten everything I learned about Excel. It’s like my mind rejects anything to do with graphs. I also tried just looking at the raw data I’ve accumulated. But that shit’s boring.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t have the attention span of a fish. But then I see a squirrel and I’m happy again :)

Writing Challenges!!!!

Ugh, for being a woman, I’m horrible at multi-tasking. 

I haven’t been posting on my blog lately because I’ve been writing another novella. I tend to have my blinders on when I’m writing something. Great for being a writer....bad for being a blogger.

I also have a couple challenges coming my way that I was trying to prepare myself for. The first being a new NaNoWriMo- like challenge. Not official like NaNoWriMo, I don’t think it’ll have a webpage or anything but still. I only started writing seriously in November so I came too late to the party to be involved in it but I really liked the idea. For those that aren’t familiar, it stands for National Novel Writing Month and the challenge is to write 50K words in November. 

So, I was recently skimming KindleBoards and saw a new challenge for February, write 60K words in 29 days. EEEEEEK!

Okay, if I thought NaNoWriMo was scary...this is crazytown.  Once you break it down though it’s only 2069 words a day. Normally, I write between 1000 and 2000 words a day but mostly only because I’m bloody lazy and love to dick around on the internet for hours. So...if I just cut out a little bit more internet-time-suck then I’ll totally be able to do it.

Right?

Hello???

Anyway, the other challenge I had in mind was Blogging A-Z in which you write a blog everyday of April, except for Sundays. Each day has a letter (starting with A) that you have to base your post on.

Again, I really liked the idea when I first heard it and immediately started planning for it. But now, after not really posting much in the past month because I was so task focused on writing a book, I’m reconsidering. After all, I want to be a writer, not a blogger. I blog because I enjoy it, not because I want to make money off it so I don’t think it’s a good idea to turn it into something I’m forced to do. Also, I really don’t want the blog to turn into “Oh look what stupid post she put up now so that she can get through a challenge she’s only half-assed committed to”.  No one wants to read that blog. 

The Hardest Genre to Write

I think it would have to be comedy. If you’re going to write something funny, first you have find a way to make a situation funny and next to write it in a way that the reader also finds funny.  Or at least gets that it’s suppose to be funny.

It sucks writing something you find hilarious only for the reader to think it’s sad or cruel (at least I imagine it would). I guess that’s the fine line dark comedies walk. 

It’s also really hard to write a punch line. I suppose it’s easy for someone who is naturally hysterical, but that’s not me. I’m funny, yes, well kind of, but I don’t always know why. 

I guess the trick is to write whatever tickles your particular fancy and if other people appreciate it then all the better. But isn't that the way with all writing? Write for yourself and you'll always have an audience and all that.

Ooops...there it goes

Does a story ever just get completely away from you?  Like, you start off writing something that you think is going to be totally, awesomely, A and then, eventually...over a period of paragraphs, it starts to feel a little more B-ish...and before you know it, the damn thing’s become full-blown C?

God I hate that! Take this damn story I’ve been writing for weeks now...It started as a writing prompt “Write a story about an uninvited guest showing up at a party”...awesome! I had some great ideas and I finally went with a funny story about unrequited love. It was going to be good. But then I started listening to a lot of Moist (as stated previously) and that shit’s anything but funny. So, feeling all dark and tortured, the story took on this new, sad...dark and tortured edge that I just wasn’t digging. I’ve since erased all that nonsense and gone back to my comedic roots (the stories comedic roots that is).

The trouble is now I don’t know where the hell to take it. I’m seriously stuck, I don’t know what the hell to do with these characters and even if I did, I don´t know if I’d want to. I’m just a little fed up with this story and I think we need to take a break. Give eachother some breathing room. See other stories.

Does that happen to anyone else? That you spend so much time trying to keep a story on track that any interest you had in it just dissolves?

The Thing With Poetry

I heard once that poetry is great to write and murder to read. I both love and hate this idea. I love it because it’s kinda true and hate it for the same reason.  A lot of poetry is so chock-full of allusions and vague metaphors that a huge amount of research and speculation (or presumption) is required to make heads or tails of it. And that just isn’t my bag.  I’m never going to be someone who sits down and invests a whole wack of time on something that I don’t even know is good or not.  I know, it’s probably my own loss.

     Unfortunately, that’s not all. It would be easy if I could just say, “Nope, sorry, poetry just doesn’t do it for me.” But the fact is, I like a lot of poetry...it does in fact do it for me. Only a particular type though. I hate the flowery stuff. I hate the convoluted stuff.  Just say what you want to say without bringing your cousin’s neighbor’s pet octopus into it and expecting me to understand the reference. Because I don’t.

     That being said, I do like writing poetry. Maybe it’s too simple for some people but that happens to be why I like what I write. So there. Take this for instance.

The names of lovers and losers

litter the walls and stalls

Scribbled in pen and passion

Scratched with pins and sins

Whispered in ink and

hushed in paint

Ever remembered though long erased.

     I quite like it. I know I’m not supposed to say that since it’s mine but it’s true. I usually feel pretty proud once I finish a poem. Unlike when I finish a short story at which point the overwhelming feeling is usually frustration or disappointment or general self-loathing, but that’s another story.

Do you want to know what the underlying message in this poem is?

     Nothing.

     This a poem about people writing shit about each other on bathroom walls. It sucks and no matter how much paint is used to cover it up, the person will never forget it.  I think (and correct me if I’m wrong) that part is pretty clear. Does that make it bad? For that matter, what makes a poem good? Maybe I’ll enjoy it more once I know if it’s good or not. 

Lessons I'm Learning

  Writing is definitely a learning process. Not just style and grammar either. In the few  months I’ve been writing, I’ve changed the way I write. It’s much more structured now.
       Something I’m learning is how important it is to write with the internet turned off!  Between youtube, CritiqueCircle,  my blog roll and CNN (no, not the intelligent stuff, sadly) I can dick away hours and get zero writing done. But once I disconnect the internet, it’s like Boom! Take off!
       It’s also important to know more or less what I’m going to write about. Staring at a blank page is more terrifying for me than exciting. Is that wrong? I remember when I was looking at university programs and totally intimidated by the situation and my father couldn’t understand why. “This is exicting,” he said, “you can choose anything...blahdiblahblahblah”. And you know what Dad? No, it wasn’t. It was awful.
It’s like that with a blank page too. What if I start with the wrong premise, what if it leads to a bad place that I can’t get out of, what if everything just falls to shit and I quit before I can finish. And sure, you can go back, fix some things, make adjustments, but you can never really start again can you?
        I also know, that for sure I can't listen to music. When there's a good song on, I just can't concentrate on something else. For instance, if I'm driving in the car and a good song comes on, it's a huge pet peeve of mine if someone wants to talk during it. So, unless I listen to boring music, tunes are out of the question. And really, who wants to go out of their way to find boring music to listen to?
Maybe I’m putting too much thought into this. And no, writing is not really as stressful as I make it sound. At least not always. I’m still just beginning.

Maybe You'll Live Forever

“Mind if I join you?”  the girl from across the bar hollered. She had arrived alone. Kevin had watched her sitting at the bar, trying to catch the bartender in a conversation.  

“Seat’s all yours,” replied Kevin, gesturing. They’d been collecting strays all day at their table, what was one more.

                She made her way over. “I’m Violet, ” she said, sitting down.  She was cute with her dark eyes and short hair. Her clothes were simple but hugged her figure in a pleasing way.

                “I’m Kev, these are my buddies Andrew and Len. That’s...” he began, pointing to the girl across the table. Shit, he couldn’t remember her name.

                “I’m Kelly,” she said, saving him with a playful look.

                “Sorry, that’s Kelly.”

                The two girls at the end introduced themselves, letting Kevin off the hook.

                “Are you all in the same program?” she asked.

                “We are,” Kevin said, flicking a hand between himself, Len and Andrew.

                “I’m in economics,” Kelly said and rolled her eyes. Kevin barely knew her name but already had a thorough understanding of her distain for her program.

                “You’re in bio-med right?” Andrew asked the two girls at the end, showing them that they weren’t forgotten. Not by him.

                They nodded and whispered behind the backs of their hands.

                “And how’re you guys gonna die?” she asked, looking around the table.

                Kevin was slightly taken aback by the question.  It wasn’t unheard of, but they’d just met this woman. It was a bit sudden. Len put down his drink for the first time and the girls at the end stopped talking.

                “I just found out. Yesterday,” she said, cheerfully oblivious to the rest of the table.

                Kevin shifted forward in his seat. “Yesterday? How old are you?”  Her abruptness made more sense.

                “21. I’m a late bloomer,” she said with a smirk and shrug.

                “Jesus,” said Len. “All this time you had no idea?”

                “Nope. So come on, I showed you mine. How will you die?” she asked looking  into Len’s eyes.

                “Heart attack,” he gave up.

                Her eyes moved to the guy sitting beside him.

                “I get shot,” he said.

                “Wow, that’s dramatic,” Kelly said.

                “And you,” Violet asked the next person. They went through the rest of the table, learning all their deaths. It was Violet’s turn, “I’m going to drown.”

                Andrew shifted in his seat. Len and Kelly looked away. The two friends at the end of the table exchanged a look. Only Kevin spoke. “Shit....that’s-”

                “Yea, I know right?” she said, all the humour gone from her face. “Do you guys ever wonder if maybe it would be better...easier at least, if we didn’t know.”

                “Never knowing how you’re going to die?” Len asked.

                “Yea, leaving it a mystery,” she said.

                “And spending your whole life wondering how it would happen. Worrying every time you jumped out a plane or raced a car, smoked a fucking cigarette?

                “Or  whenever you got in the car or walked through a dark alley? Sounds fucking awful.”

                “I wouldn’t want to live like that. Christ, could you imagine?” Kelly asked. No one spoke for a moment.

                “I don’t know,” Kevin finally said.

                “Don’t know what?” Len asked.

                “How I’ll die. I still don’t know.”

                “What? You never told me that.”

                “You never asked.” The truth was, he’d never told anyone that he didn’t know. His dirty little secret.

                “Cause I assumed...I mean, you’re so much older.  How do you not know?”

                “How do you know?” Kevin said, defensively turning the question around. No one wanted to be the one to explain it to him.

                Violet took a deep breath. “You just...feel it,” she said, looking off somewhere.  “When I close my eyes, as I’m falling asleep, I imagine the water all around me, filling me. I suck it into my lungs. It’s there every night. Like an old blanket.”

                “But it’s itchy,” one of the girls added.

                The rest of them had stopped shifting in their seats. They looked down into their beers or over to the wall. Anywhere but at Kevin while they nodded.

                Violet turned her attention back to him. “So what does that mean, then? That you don’t know.  Are you lucky?”

                “Maybe I’m just a late bloomer too.”

                “Maybe it’ll be a surprise.”

                “Maybe you’ll live forever,” Violet said sadly. 

That's so 15 years ago...PSYCHE!

I’ve recently began reliving my teen-years and man am I loving it. What does that include you ask? Well, not insecurity, apathy and pimple cream I assure you. 

 It all started with re-watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I have no idea why I started watching it again to be honest. It’s been years since I even thought of the show and I didn’t even watch the whole series when it was on. I think I stopped watching it in the beginning of the 6^th season. It got a little bit...heavy later on though.  But start watching it again I did and man is it good shit. How is this show is not still on? I see 90210, Mad About you, hell even M.A.S.H. is still re-running (and yes I understand that there is a big difference between MASH and Buffy but it’s also been a lot longer people). As if!  So where’s the Buffy??

I think I even enjoy watching it more now than before cause I get all the blink-and-you-missed-it dirty jokes and more of the references (my favourite being Trogdor the Burnator....I’m deep I know).  As goofy as the title sounds, it was a great show that had a lot of really significant story lines. It’s amazing that it’s still worth watching and relevant even after 10 years. 

I can’t say that for all the shows I used to watch though. I tried to get into Ally McBeal again. I remembered it being really funny and I loved it as a kid. I was really sad to learn that the show sucked. I watched a whole season before throwing my hands in the air in defeat. It wasn’t good.

Also, I started listening to music from the 90’s and omigod does that bring me back. Where did all the good music go? The 90’s were awesome for alternative rock. That’s what it was called at least...alternative. I don’t know what exactly that means or what the difference between that and regular rock is but that’s what we called it. These are the things I’m listening to the most right now:

Moist  (Creature) This was my very first C.D. I remember sitting on my bed and popping it into my little blue C.D. player and listening to it over and over again. I also remember feeling like the lyrics were vaguely sexual without really understanding why. I still don’t know what the fuck he’s singing about but damn if it doesn’t sound good.

Our Lady Peace ( Clumsy)- Anyone else remember when you couldn’t have the radio on for 10 minutes without hearing something from OLP?  This was a great C.D. I’m not a fan of the stuff they’ve done recently but this was the shit.

The Tea Party- nuff said

Silverchair – This band was the shit. Didn’t hurt that Daniel Johns was crazy hot

Econoline Crush- I totally forgot about this band until I started looking for 90’s music. Thanks to the “Big Shiny Tunes”, I managed to find a ton of old music.

Collective Soul (Precious Declaration, Smashing Young Man, Where the River Flows, Gel)....good gravy that’s good stuff!

                Oh man, this list goes on and on. 

                Now I just have to start drinking gut-rot inducing amounts of Rev and hanging magazine cut-outs on my wall and my regression will be complete.  I don’t think my husband would have the same enthusiasm for having Jason London, Skeet Ulrich and James Marsters plastered all over our bedroom as I do though (pouty face). I’ll ask.

Peace Out Peeps