road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs**

Last night I went to bed between nine and ten. I wanted to sleep through the night and get a lot done today. Instead, I woke up at 2 a.m. to some great news in an e-mail from Tim regarding a project we’re working on. I’ll be glad when that’s at a point where I can speak more publicly about it–but that’s not yet.

Of course, I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I got a few things accomplished through the night, then went out early this morning. Sent my galley changes to Kensington for A COVENTRY CHRISTMAS. Got some birthday cards in the mail. Yesterday was James’s birthday, so in his honor, I had breakfast at our favorite Baby Barnaby’s. I love that place, and it would have been better except for the very tall woman sitting at a nearby table who was showing two inches of butt-crack. Why does anyone think the rest of us want to see that while we’re eating breakfast? Stupid low-riding jeans.

On the way home, with all kinds of plans in my head for work on TJB5, I realized I was getting a migraine. I could barely see to drive. Instead of having a wonderfully productive day, I took drugs and went to sleep until four p.m. So much for my good intentions.

**Bonus points for anyone who knows the source of this entry’s title

Confidential to redleatherbound

The secret’s in the skillet. Seasoned. Cast iron.


Real buttermilk. And whether you use a mix or make your own, no sugar. NO SUGAR.


Don’t overmix your batter. Coat your skillet with bacon grease and GET SKILLET HOT (either on a burner or in your oven) before you pour the batter in. A hot skillet is key. Use a drop of water or a pinch of cornmeal and listen for the sizzle. Did I mention there’s no sugar in the mix?


Place in a 400-degree oven and keep an eye on it. Most mixes (cake or cornbread) shouldn’t bake as long as the directions call for. Knowing that will always prevent dryness. By the way: cake mix? Sugar. Cornbread mix? No sugar.


Golden on the top.


Brown on the bottom.


Light. Not dry. And NOT SWEET. Because there’s no sugar.

To those Southern cooks who might scoff at me for using a mix, I say, “People have wept over my cornbread.” And to those who use sugar, I weep over your cornbread. (Sorry, Shawn!)

locally…

Tom and I decided to check out one of Lindsey’s favorite little hangouts, Cafe Artiste. We drank coffee (each cup is individually brewed) and ate. Tom got chicken and spinach quesadillas (thumbs up), and I got a flavorful chopped steak smothered in grilled bell peppers and onions. I had to bring half of it home, because it was preceded by a delicious salad of mixed greens, including baby spinach (I love uncooked spinach).

Other good points: Low-key, spacious yet cozy, has wireless, has bookshelves if you want to grab something to read. I can totally see myself working there on my laptop.

one from my birthday

Tonight I had an errand to run, then I went WAY out to the suburbs to Lynne’s to borrow something. (More on that tomorrow night.) We figured out how to transfer six months worth of photos from her camera to her computer. Among them was one from my birthday party. I liked it because Tim is in it, but I also liked it because it looks like I’m blessing my friends. This is right after we walked in the door of the restaurant and I was trying to comprehend who all was there.

Since I ventured outside the Loop tonight, I filled my gas tank out there with $2.79/gallon gas. Which is good, because here in the hood, it’s ranging from $2.89 to $2.95/gallon. Gougers.

Lynne, I hope everyone who’s ailing out there is well soon. I’ll have pictures of you-know-what sometime tomorrow. =)

More on writing

I wonder if there’s a single published author of popular fiction who isn’t shuddering over the situation with Kaavya Viswanathan and the charges of plagiarism against her.

As a writer, I’m constantly observing, absorbing, processing, and reshaping everything I see and hear. I couldn’t possibly count the number of times a friend has told me something, and my immediate reaction is, “May I use that?” If it’s an incident that happened to the person, I feel relatively safe, because by the time it goes through all my filters and adjustments and the other machinery of my imagination, it’ll probably be very different from its origin. But if it’s a great line or quip, how do I know where that person got it? Maybe it was in somebody else’s book or movie or play or TV show.

One of the eerie things about writing with four other people is how often we think the same thoughts and articulate our visions the same ways. If it can happen among the four of us, who’s to say it can’t happen between multitudes of us?

That situation is even more pronounced with Tim and me, because we seem to share a brain when we write. We both admit that there are passages in our novels whose writers we can’t identify. Were they conversations or ideas we once shared that turned into text? Are we subconsciously mimicking each other’s styles and word choices because we know each other so well and have to write in a single voice?

Beyond that, we are all just bombarded with so much from pop culture. There’s no way anyone can remember every sight gag, every brilliant line, every idea that s/he is exposed to. I’m sure there’s a lot of borrowing that’s entirely unintentional. And certainly there’s a lot of imitating that is meant to be a tribute to the original…or to replicate its success. A blockbuster movie, bestselling book, or highly rated TV show will spawn dozens more just like it.

And some things are just accidents. I think I’ve told the hamster story on here before. Among the companion animals of my life were a dog named Hamlet and a hamster named Houdi. When I began writing A COVENTRY CHRISTMAS, I decided to turn those two into one animal: Hamlet the hamster. In a conversation with my friend Tandy after my novel was half-written, she said, “A hamster? Like Janet Evanovich?” I’d never read a Janet Evanovich book in my life, but I immediately went out and got her first book about Stephanie Plum, the bounty hunter who has a hamster named Rex.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I turn Hamlet into another rodent-like thing? Then I remembered that Harley Jane Kozak has a ferret in her mysteries. For all I knew, the shelves of women’s fiction were teeming with more gerbils, moles, squirrels, and lemmings, than a rainforest–or a Captain and Tenille song. Finally, Tom said, “Just because someone once wrote Lassie doesn’t mean no one else can ever use a dog in a book.” So instead of offing my fictitious hamster, I found a way to pay conscious and deliberate tribute to Evanovich and Rex within my story.

I didn’t steal Rex and turn him into Hamlet. The same way that, even though I JOKE about this, the writers of Queer as Folk didn’t steal the TJB character Ken Bruckner and turn him into Ben Bruckner. There is such a thing as coincidence.

While part of me scowls at the idea of plagiarism, another part of me quakes at the thought of being accused of it. Mostly, I can’t help noticing (and I’m not the first to comment on this!) that every time the media runs the Kaavya Viswanathan story, mention is made of the huge advance she was given to write her books and the fact that she got a movie deal (which is where the real $$$$ are). If she’d been barely compensated the way most writers are, would people be less inclined to study every sentence in her novel and compare it to the writers she’s accused of plagiarizing?

I don’t know. But I do know this. When you get wrapped up discussing these concepts on your Live Journal, you forget that cauldron of homemade soup you started. And then you end up with:

Does Janet Evanovich have days like this?

TJB, part two

Timmy and Paul arrived safely. We have given Paul the official stamp of Friend Approval. (Like Timmy cared; he already knows how great Paul is.)

Here are the men folks–minus Tom–behind the birthday cake I make every April 28 in memory of my friend Steve R. (Well, it’s a different cake every year, but it’s always chocolate–Steve’s favorite–and it always has Pooh characters on it because Winnie the Pooh and Piglet were a Steve and Becky thing.)

And Paul, in return for taking fantastic photographs throughout the weekend, wanted only some Southern cooking on his first trip to the South. (Technically, it’s the Southwest, but I’m a Southerner, so within the boundaries of The Compound, it’s the South. At the very least, I know how to put together a Southern table.)

So here’s Paul, holding his plate of fried chicken, purple hull peas, corn, cornbread, fried okra, salad, mashed potatoes, and gravy.