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Saturday, November 15, 2014

Observations on Dieting OR OH NOES, NOT ANOTHER DIET BLOG!

So I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, which is usually rich material for blogging.  Last week I looked at the appointment on the calendar and then looked at my scale and thought, "I should go on a diet."  Then I looked at HIM, the man to whom I'm married, and said, "You should go on a diet, too."  HIM looked at me and said, "But why?  Why me?"  I said, "Because I have all the power."  HIM said, "I'm leaving you until you stop dieting."  (Most of that conversation was really in my head.)  In my head I yelled back, "AND I'M TAKING ALL THE HALLOWEEN CANDY!"  Then HIM screamed, "NOES!  Don't take all the Halloween candy!  Please!"  Then the whole imaginary conversation denigrated into what my version of Pulp Fiction should have really been about, because I went on a diet and my brain immediately broke.

1.) Dieting sucks.  I walk by the Halloween candy every day.  My daughter, who got a ton of candy, doesn't really eat it much.  (So not my daughter.)  I'm not even talking about the yucky candy like the dum dums or the gummy bear package.  (I don't know which sick bastard gave her a package of pretzels but I hope he got TP'd.)  She's not eating the Snickers bars or the Three Muskateers bars, or, horrors of horrors, the Reeces Peanut Butter Cups.  I don't know who could not eat the Reeces Peanut Butter Cups, but they must be a zombie.  Therefore I've come to the conclusion that my daughter is a zombie because she won't eat the Reeces Peanut Butter Cups.  (Conversely I'm sort of proud of her.  When she wants something she gets it, but mostly it's good just when she feels like it.  There's no eat the candy until she pukes, unlike how I was when I was ten years old.)
2.) I'm sick of salads after seven days.  I'm not even eating them more than once a day.  This was the menu for the week.  Brekky muffin with poached egg.  Green leafy salad for lunch.  Yogurt snacky poo mid-afternoon.  Regular dinner with low carbs.  I've lost six pounds in one week but I hate it.  I want to barf if I look at a poached egg again.  I want to smother everything with cheese, lots of cheese, mounds of cheese.  Salads suck.

3.) HIM is a cheater.  Not the kind where he goes off and finds wild women, but the kind who cruises past the vending machines at his work.  (What I imagine he says to the vending machine: "Hey, baby, looking good with G4.  Give me that chocolate nougat yumminess.  I have a few extra quarters.")  I don't work there, you see, and he knows I don't work there.  Plus I can't tell the people he works with to watch him to make sure he's not diet-cheating.  (That should be shortened to di-eating.  Get it?)  But hey he eats his brekky muffin with the poached egg.  (I added spinach, mushrooms, and green onions to it, so it wasn't completely bland.)  Then he does his lunch.  By the time he gets home he's ravenous.  Then I go to bed and eats all the Cheezits in the house.  HIM sucks.
4.) The half gallon of vanilla ice cream in the freezer that's been there for about a month is calling my name like a diabolical fiend from the realm called Diets Will Fail!  "CAREN!" it calls.  "We need you to eat us!  We taste good!  We're vanilla-y good!  We will melt in your fat mouth!  Come to us!"  Leftover ice cream sucks.

5.)  Watching television is pure f**king torture because I've come to realize that those sponsors know exactly when to play the food commercials.  Arby's.  Hardee's.  Red Lobster.  All of them, criminals. This is what they say: "Look, here's our super ultra fatty food that you must eat, b*tches!  You want it!  And we have mounds of cheese, too!"  I bet they have a group of fat testers who tell them stuff.  "Put the commercial on right about 8 p.m. when all fat people are wavering dangerously.  Make sure the cheese is dripping and there's bacon on everything.  Play upbeat music.  Make eating fun, delicious, and sexy."  TV sucks as much as dieting.  (I tried sticking to the kid's channels for Cressy, but you know what, you can salivate over an Easy Bake oven commercial.)
6.) Exercise sucks.  Right now I'm doing walkies.  I walk for 30 minutes a day.  I walk my ass off.  So I get home, sit down, and then I can't get up.  What the he-ell?  And my hips hurt.  What do my hips have to do with walkies?  Is this some arcane sign of old age that no one filled me in on?  Walkies suck.  Old hipbones suck, too.
7.) I need to interject something about the cat we adopted recently.  Splotch was a free range cat, i.e., someone lost him or dumped him.  He was that way for years which is why he wants lots of love and LOTS OF FOOD.  I call him Hoover Cat.  Hoover Cat weighs 15 pounds now and the vet has told me that Hoover Cat needs to loose weight.  However Hoover Cat wants to  So I decided I have to hide the food from Hoover Cat.  One would think that Megaroy, the other moron cat, would have lost weight, but somehow Megaroy has gained a pound too.  I always think it's a big laugh when the vet tells me that my cat(s) are fat and need to loose weight.  It's not like I don't have to listen to that from my doctor because, oh, yes, I do.  Now I have to listen to it from the cats' doctor, too.  This sucks.
In conclusion, everything sucks.  I want a cheeseburger.

Sunday, November 9, 2014

On Writing OR Who Knows What Fat Woman Will Say or Not Say?

 Every once in a while I get a letter from a reader who says something like, "I liked your book...but..."  The but is usually in reference to something I did wrong.  I do make mistakes.  Of course I make mistakes.  Every writer makes mistakes.  It doesn't matter how many people go over the manuscript because the mistakes will still be there.  A recent typo from Deadsville: The man came out wearing a flowered shit.  We all know that most people don't wear flowered shits.  I hope that most people don't wear flowered shits.  I've never personally seen a flowered shit.  It's possible I will never personally see a flowered shit.  In any case, it was supposed to be flowered shirt.  I actually caught this one when I did my first run through.  I even posted it to Facebook because if I can't tease myself, who can I tease?  So I thought I fixed it.  Then I gave the manuscript to my first editor, who also caught it because it hadn't been fixed.  Somehow I neglected to fix it.  I gave it to my other editor, who missed it, because she's human, too.  Then my husband and all of my beta readers missed it.  (Or I missed that my beta readers caught it and then I didn't fix it...again.)  Then I missed it again on my final read through.  So it came out in the ebook and someone commented on Facebook how hysterical it was that I had left it in.  (I could pretend at this point in time that I did it on purpose, but I didn't.)  So it's fixed in the paperback copy but I haven't gotten to revise the electronic copy yet, so it remains there, a testament to flowered shits everywhere.
Okay then, my mistake.  My bad.  However a letter from someone said, "I liked Deadsville but it had all these misspelled words and words used incorrectly."  It was the "all these" part that got me.  I want to know where I went wrong.  Give me an example.  I can see some homonyms possibly happening.  It's possible I used a word incorrectly.  (I'm sure there's a few in there.)  But why would someone write to an author, say that, and then flounce away without giving a few examples?
I read quite a bit myself.  I do catch typos in books, but it doesn't really bother me.  Poor formatting irritates me more.  Occasionally plot details annoy me.  I remember reading about a character who had acquired a Cobra.  (A real Shelby Cobra, not a replica, or the Cobras from the 2000s.)  Then the character threw something into the backseat and I went, "Oh no they dint."  But did I rip out a nasty email to the author and chastise her authoric impropriety?  No, I did not.  It was an honest mistake and not worth emailing the author at all.  (Besides which someone probably already beat me to it.)  Every once in a while I hear someone lambasting The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe (You can see why they cut the name down for Hollywood).  In the original novel Crusoe strips down (some argument about how much he stripped) swims out to the wreck of the ship he came on, and then fills his pockets with biscuits.  (Nekkid and without pockets being the problem here.)  But no one is complaining that this error on the part of the author makes Robinson Crusoe less of a classic.  (And I'm not comparing myself to Daniel Dafoe in any way.)  My point is merely that authors make mistakes.
In any case, when I do get a letter from a reader, complaining about mistakes, and they name the mistakes, I usually politely thank them, note the errors in my big list, and make sure I know to correct that in the next revision.  I may not be able to correct each one right away because it takes a little bit of time to come back to the revisions.  I'm just about wrapped up with all of my backlog.  I have three more books to do.  Dial M for Mascara, Missile Rats, and The Life and Death of Bayou Billy.  These are my worst selling books, so I've taken my time on getting back to them.  I usually offend people when they read Bubba and then they buy one of these and expect Bubba, so I warned people in the description of Bayou Billy, but for some reason, people aren't reading the whole description.
This is truly ironic because I think Bayou Billy's plot is the best one I've ever come up with.  However, in the end of the first chapter is where I usually lose most of my readers.  If you've read it, you know what I'm talking about.

I don't mind people telling me they didn't like something I wrote.  Thank God we have the right to do that, but it's the mixing up of grammar and objectivity that bothers me.  English is hard enough as it is without throwing in the susceptibility of people to believe that if they think it is so, then it must be correct, and worse, it must be the only one that is correct.  This is what is called subjectivity.  When an editor tells me, for example, that I cannot use italics for when my characters are thinking, I'm inclined to ask, "Why not?"
And now I'm denigrating into the realm of Let's-Break-Rules-Shall-We?

I recently got a letter from Mark Coker, who is the CEO of Smashwords, about an event that was ongoing, and I wrote back to thank him for his efforts on behalf of indie writers.  If it were up to mainstream publishers, none of the indies would have a voice, much less one that people want to argue with.

Okay then, I now shall dismount from my high horse and go back to writing Bubba and the Ten Little Loonies, for I have rules to break and grammar to fracture into teensy weensy wittle pieces.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

All Bevill Ebooks on Sale!

Yup.  Everything is on sale.  If it isn't free already (Bubba and the Dead Woman, Veiled Eyes, Sea of Dreams, The Moon Trilogy) then it's $.99, so grab it quick.

Of course, I will say that Bayou Moon is not published by myself, but by Macmillan, so I can't reduce the price on that one.  Sorry.

My list on Amazon here.

My list on B&N here.

My list on Smashwords here.

And don't forget to search for C.L. Bevill on iBooks or iTunes because they're all on sale there, too.

Don't forget that you can give ebooks as gifts, too!

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Stuff, More Stuff, Random Stuff, Stuffity Stuff

Let's see.  Today I shall probably ramble.  Rambling is good for the soul.  I suspect that rambling is a way of dealing with mental issues.  If people could only ramble more we wouldn't need Prozac.  (Just an opinion.)
This doesn't work in my house because they both
talk about it, before, during, and after.
Life with adopted cat.  Cat number 1 thinks that Cat number 2 sucks.  Cat number 1 thinks that he will turn his nose up and slink off.  Cat number 1 also thinks that we suck for adopting Cat number 2.  Cat number 1 decided that he will now sleep on Cressy's bed in protest and never darken our bedroom doorstep again.  Fine by me, I like having my half of the king sized bed to myself.  If you haven't woken up drenched in sweat because a cat is draped over the lower half of your body, well, then you just haven't lived life to the fullest.  (This is also applicable to dogs, who know for a fact that the bed isn't just for humans.)
Not sure what happens when Cat number 1 bodyslams
Cat number 2, but it's like the WWE, cat style.
Sometimes it's like sumo wrestling.
I should really get the camera out next time.
We have inlaws visiting.  Cat number 2 thinks this means his life is over and goes and hides in the garage.  But he can't just hide.
He's not really this fat, but his tummy flaps when he runs.
No, Cat number 2 climbs up into the engine compartment of the 1954 Chevy truck in the garage and takes cover over the engine.  How he managed to get his chubbiness up there, I do not know.  (Don't tell the cat but the vet says he has to loose weight.  Don't tell the vet that I can tell she's looking at me suspiciously.  I can't help it if Cat number 2 hasn't learned that the food will not be yanked away if he doesn't eat it instantaneously.  Totally not my fault.)
I couldn't find one where the cat was in the engine compartment of a car.
Who knew?
HIM, the man to I'm married, went on a motorcycle trip with my FIL.  Cressy went to an overnight funfest with friends.  (I think their parents bit off more than they could chew.)  I watched cheesy horror movies on the Syfy channel all evening and then some The Walking Dead marathon.  (The Governor is cool; did you know he has a British accent in real life?  That didn't come out right.  He's British so he doesn't really talk like the Governor, which messes with my mind.  But then so is Rick and Maggie.  If Daryl had a British accent my mind would be totally blown.)
I love the Simpsons.
But then I also watched the cheesiest movie ever.  Chain Letter.  You remember about ten years ago when everyone emailed all the chain mails we got to everyone we ever knew or would ever know or met briefly at a convention and felt like we should know them?  Well, this movie decided that that still happens.  And the bad guy would keep track of everyone who deleted the chain letter, then go kill them in a horrid, gory fashion.  Well, dah-am.
This is the most messed up movie poster ever.
What the hell does the bar code mean?
I don't know because I fast-forwarded
through too much of the movie.
I would have noticed two chains coming from
the garage and I almost never back up my car,
because basically I can't back up very well.
In the beginning there's this girl all duct taped up and chained in the garage.  She opens her eyes and realizes she chained to...dadadah, the two cars in the driveway, which is bad news because they're pulled in backwards and her parents don't notice that there are chains coming from the rear going into the garage, which is open by about a foot and a half.  So off they drive, turning up their radios, because if they actually noticed anything, the movie would end.  And then I started fast-forwarding through the movie because it was beyond stupid.  It turns out that the girl in the garage is actually the end of the movie and we're forced to go back and see what happened first.  The first kid gets the chain letter, and his sister forwards it, then cinematic mayhem ensues in a bloody fashion and I can't figure out why all of these kids, beautiful, attractive, intelligent, are all alone in their big houses with a guy who likes to use chains.  Furthermore, I can't understand how the guy with the chains can keep up with all the people the chain letter will have been forwarded to.  I think the serial killer would have a mental breakdown because he missed some.  In fact, he probably had to hire an assistant to keep up.  (I'm trying to imagine the advertisement for assistant serial killer.) Anyway, that movie was about 90 minutes long.  It was about 20 minutes when I was done with it.
This doesn't have anything to do with the movie, but I thought it
was funny.
Of course I couldn't sleep in an empty house, not necessarily because I had been watching scary-ass movies all night, but because there was a rumble in the litter box.  Cat number 1 decided to bite Cat number 2's ass.  (He does.)  Cat number 2 takes it for a few minutes, then bites back because it doesn't feel good to have one's ass bitten.  (So I've heard.)  Then the shizz started to happen.  All the way down the stairs, through the living room, out on the porch, back from the porch, back through the living room, and back up the stairs.  Sound effects were included.  (Translation went like this.  "EFF YOU!"  "NO, EFF YOU!"  "NO, EFF YOU AND THE GERBIL YOU RODE IN ON!"  "I'LL NIP YOUR TUSHY!"  Etc.  It went on like that until I was wide awake.  (I think they wore each other out because there wasn't any blood around.)
This segues nicely into wanting ice cream at 2 am.
Then I get up to see if there's any ice cream left in the freezer and remember I can't eat it because I'm not supposed to eat at night at all.  Of course, I eat it anyway.  (It's ice cream, it's in my house, and no one is looking at me.  That's enough of an explanation.)  Then I spend half the night in the recliner watching more The Walking Dead episodes from the last season.  Man, those bitches at Terminus are in big trouble.

Only five hours until season 5.  Whoopee.