Check out this interview I did with Eric Ladau of Houston's NPR station, KUHF. (Warning: It has either bad words or bleeped-out bad words in it.)
I'll be reading Growing Up with Tamales for story time at Blue Willow Bookshop, in Houston, on Thursday morning, May 15. Tell everyone you know with kids in the Houston area. How do you find and support local indie book stores like Blue Willow? By going to Booksense.
On Saturday, May 17, I'll be in Dallas, reading and signing at the J. Erik Jonsson Central Library, for the 13th Dallas Children’s Book Fair & Literary Festival.
On June 22, here in Houston, I'm going to do a poetry workshop. It's free and open to the public, y'all, and they're having one every Sunday in June, taught by local poets I love and respect. So come on down.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Bad HabitI'm sitting here at 1:14 AM, cleaning up broken links on my web site and updating certain facts, and suddenly I notice that I've been writing this site for almost nine years now.
Dude. That's so weird.
In semi-related news, lately I've come across several online articles in which people disparage blog-writing as a means of becoming an author.
My question: Who ever said blogging would get you a book deal? Okay, maybe Blogger did. But that's beside the point.
Another question: Who in the name of god ever said blogging would improve your writing? (People whose writing it improved, maybe?)
I think that, if you think blogging is useless, you should refrain from engaging in it. Also, if you think bloggers are stupid assholes, you should refrain from reading blogs. Further, I think that if you want to publish a book, you should sit your butt down and write one, then submit it to publishers until one of them says yes.
But if you want to sit around whining about how bloggers are stupid assholes who can't write and don't deserve book deals... Well, then you should become an online columnist. Right?
I've been writing this blog/web site/online journal/whatever for nine years now because I like it. I like to write, and I like to connect with people, and this is a fun way to do both. It's also a tax write-off, now that I can use it to advertise my books. So... there you go. If that makes me a whiny, self-indulgent, grammar-less waste of a human being, I implore blog critics to go read Kaavya Viswanathan, instead. 1:16 AM # (4) comments
I'm in Love
Near our favorite pho place is a dry cleaner or tailor who has a bird. I think it's a myna bird. Sometimes this person sets the bird's enormous cage outside the shop, and we stop to look at the bird. He/she/it is very pretty - iridescent black with yellow and orange markings on the face.
Today, for the first time, the bird spoke to us. "I am MPO," he said, in a rusty little vocoder-sounding voice. Like a little robot.
Maybe he didn't say "I am MPO." Maybe he actually said something in Vietnamese. Still - it was cute as hell. And then he would whistle very, very loudly, with his little head turned way over. Then, he'd whistle quieter, with different notes. Then he'd say something else, in Vietnamese. Then he'd make a whistle like a video game.
"I love you, little bird. I love you!" I told him. And I wasn't lying. Man, I wish I could afford a bird like that.
When we crossed the street to our car, the myna bird did his loudest whistle. "I love you!" he called in his husky robot voice.
Aw.
Ethnically Conflicted Authors, Unite!
Today we went to the Asian Pacific Heritage Festival in hopes of finding cute trinkets and something good to eat. Instead, we saw a lion dance. And then I met this guy named Irwin Tang, who wrote a book called How I Became a Black Man and Other Metamorphoses. He seemed nice and his book was a short-story collection with a long title - my fave kind - so I bought a copy and let him sign it.
Irwin Tang gestured towards my boyfriend, Tad, and asked, "Is this your friend? Or boyfriend?"
I thought that was kind of funny that he just came right out and asked, but then again, I knew why. It's not common for Caucasion women to date Asian men, they say. Asian men mention it on their blogs rather often. Indeed, Mr. Tang brings it up in his book.
However, people don't usually come right out and ask me, "Oh, my gosh, are you, a Caucasion woman, dating him, an Asian man?!?" Even the local old Vietnamese ladies refrain from asking. (They make do with glowering at us disapprovingly, instead.) Everyone else, I assume, can see the love shining from Tad's eyes and mine, and they just know.
Maybe Tad's contacts were dirty at that moment. Or... maybe Irwin Tang asked because he was hoping I was romantically available.
Just kidding. Ha. So... On the way home, I read the first story in the book aloud, and everyone in the car laughed. So, if you see Irwin Tang at a festival in your town, you should pick up his book, show him your boyfriend, and give his stories a try.
Sighs
Now, in addition to annoying asshole neighbors who are making noises downstairs as we speak, my apartment complex features giant, flying tree roaches. Yay, right? God damn it, I don't know how it's possible for me to be readier to leave this place than I already am.
::wish::wish::wish::
[I'm not going to say anything about you-know-what (as mentioned below) until there's something worth saying. In the meantime, please continue to wish, wish, wish for me, okay?.] 12:19 AM # (4) comments
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Torture LimboWaiting to find out if I can scoop up a house in the neighborhood I'm trolling.
Just kidding. It's not really torture. I'm still very optimistic. It's just a little hard to wait for something you want and need very badly and very soon.
Professional Rejection
At least that feeling (optimistic torture limbo) distracted me from the fact that the last book I sent out to publishers has now been rejected by three of them. It was "only" a kids' book, but still, who wants to be rejected? No one, no matter how many books he or she publishes in his or her life. I'm going to print out my ms and show it to my friend who is a good editor. (It's Brie! Hello, Brie!) And see what she says. Something might be fixable about it. I thought it was good when I was done with it, but maybe it still needs something added or subtracted. Or maybe I'm just wrong.
That happens. Sometimes I'm wrong, and sometimes I fail. That's part of what it means to be a human being. Or so they say.
Outside the Comfort Zone
Besides that, I wrote a few poems. Don't ask me why - the reason is very convoluted. See, someone invited me to read at a poetry thing, and I pointed out that I wasn't a poet. But the someone said, "Just read your prose as if it's poems." But I think that's a cheap, sort of shady thing to do, don't you? So I thought maybe I would write some poems. The first one was okay, but not as awesome as I'd imagined in my dreams. The second one I'm very pleased with. I think it's pretty awesome. Maybe I'll write more poems. Or maybe I'll just read the second poem at the poetry thing, and then fill up the rest of my minutes with prose.
I'm very good at bittersweet essays. But I think writing bittersweet essays all the time, and never challenging myself, would be a cop-out. Sometimes I think that, I mean. Sometimes I think I'm just being stupid and making life hard on myself for no reason.
A Whole Big Canvas
If/when (When. WHEN!) I get a house (my house), I feel an oncoming tsunami of creativity, with the house being my canvas.
I think of all the times in my old life that I wanted to make things, and people (that person) hated on that aspect of me and on the things it made me make. And... no more. There are no more jealous, destructive haters living in my home. I think of my last few years in apartments, feeling like there was no use making things for temporary residences, and no effing more. My house is going to be beautiful. I can make things turn beautiful. You will see. My house will be art. People will see it and say, "Now that house belongs to Gwen. I can tell. And it looks freaking awesome."
For that reason alone, I deserve to have my bid accepted. Accept my bid, people, and I will make a beautiful house.
(I've been practicing, making little beautiful things. I know I still have it in me.)
But what about the writing?
Well, god, I don't know. I mean, I know I'm going to write something new soon. I have to write a new book, right?
Or do I?
I don't know. I go to the Borders, the Barnes and the Nobles, and I see the sea of books that other people wrote. And even if every single one of them was a very good book, I wouldn't have the money or the time to read them all.
"Maybe," I think, "There are already enough books."
Seriously, maybe there are. I mean, what's the use of writing a book if you don't really have something to say? Or to evoke? Or, at least, something that will make people laugh really hard?
I don't know. I have several half-baked ideas in my head, but nothing that nags at me, you know? Yet. Nothing yet.
It's okay if I never write another book, you know. If I feel like turning into a complete suburban woman - a single mother Martha - then that's okay.
Do you see? It's okay, no matter what I do. I'm giving myself permission to do what I feel like doing. (In the hours between work, homework, housework, and bed, I mean.) And it's o-freaking-kay.
I Wish
I admire and slightly envy artists who've reached the point where they can get paid to do whatever they want. Like Wong Kar-Wai did with his movie 2046. Or like Quentin Tarantino with Kill Bill, except in that case it's more sickly sour grapes bile I feel and not really admiration at all.
But still. Y'all get what I'm saying. I think the key is to do whatever I want, even if I don't get paid for it.
But it's hard to feel that free... When there is no money, I mean. And when you're always working, homeworking, houseworking, then going to bed.
But still. It's fun to try. All you can do is try. So that's what my life will be made of. 9:10 PM # (13) comments
Monday, April 24, 2006
I don't have time to say much, butI do have time to ask y'all for a favor. Would you please send good vibes to me today? (Or pray, or do a nice Wiccan spell, or whatever you prefer and have time to do.) Here are the general areas in which I need help:
1. Pray that my house bid gets accepted.
2. Wish for my house financing to go well.
3. Hope for my children to be happy in their new schools.
4. Petition the universe to smile on our moving out of Urbania and far, far into the suburbs - beautiful suburbs with an artificial lake and ducks. And plentiful good schools for smart little boys who don't deserve to languish on long waiting lists for the only good schools in Urbania.
5. Finally: vaguely dwell, if you have time, on the thought that maybe the long commute won't bankrupt me, because maybe my car will sprout wings. Or gas prices will fall. Or we will all convert to corn fuel. Or something...
Thank you. Talk to y'all again very soon.
Labels: domestic
8:49 AM # (17) commentsThursday, April 20, 2006
My FantasyMy fantasy is to walk up to a group of men in suits and say, "Hey, you guys, you know who's hot? John Doe over at ABC Corp. I mean, he is smokin' hot. Seriously. Is he married? You think he'd be willing to cheat on his wife this weekend after the XYZ Conference? Heh, heh. Because I would lo-o-ove to spend some time with him, if you know what I mean. Alone time. You know - naked. Hey, so have any of you guys ever stood next to him at a urinal? What's he packing? Anybody know?"
And they'd laugh and say, "You're a pistol, Gwen. I'll ask around - see what I can find out."
Or wait... this one...
I'd go to some industry happy hour and run into Jim Smith from Cogswell. After a few drinks, I'd put my hand on his waist and ask him if he'd like to continue the party at my apartment. He'd say some shit like, "I'm flattered but I'd really like to keep our relationship professional," or whatever.
Then, two months later, I'd be having a meeting with all the important men at my company. We'd be making decisions on a really big contract. Someone would suggest, "What about giving it to Jim Smith at Cogswell? His bid looked really good."
And I'd say, "No. Not Jim Smith. He has a really bad attitude."
And, from the look on my face, all the men would know what I meant, and they'd just smile knowingly and award the contract to someone else.
No, no, no - wait! Here's the best one:
I'd be a big-time manager at a big company, right? And some little hottie - say, Bob Jones in Accounting - would be walking down the hall amongst ten or eleven of his coworkers. And I'd say, "Hey, Bob. Lookin' good. Boy, I wish I could see what your wife sees when you get out of the shower every night. Mm, mm!"
And it would be so awesome, because Bob would have to smile awkwardly and stumble away, because he's know that if he told me to go to hell, I'd so totally have his ass fired. Or, at least, make his life really hard from 9 to 5, you know?
And then Bob would go out for drinks with his coworkers. Some of them would treat him like crap because they'd be assuming he was sleeping his way up the ladder with me. Others would tell him, "What are you going to do?"
And he'd say, "I don't know. If I complain to HR, they won't do anything about it. I can't go to Gwen's supervisor, Mrs. Gotrocks - she's the owner of the company and no one's ever seen her! Plus, if I say anything at all, Gwen will either have me fired, or else make my life hell."
"Why don't you quit?" his friends would say.
"I can't afford to," he'd reply. "I've been looking for another job, but I can't find anything."
Then, every morning as Bob drove to work, he'd be depressed. All day at work, he'd be jumpy, worried that I'd show up at his cubicle. He might consider suing my company, but he'd be too scared to lose his benefits because, like, his wife would have cancer or some shit, right? So, whenever he saw me in the hall, he'd get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, not knowing whether or not I was going to say something disgustingly inappropriate.
And I'd keep him guessing - that sexy little tease!
And it would be awesome.
Wouldn't it? I mean, I'm guessing it would be, but it's actually kind of hard for me to imagine.
If you're one of the people who lives those fantasies every day, write and tell me how it feels, okay?. I'm really interested to know what it's like to be you. 9:12 PM # (17) comments
Thursday, April 13, 2006
IdeaOn the way to school and work, my oldest son and I were listening to a particularly heart-quickening CD. I told Josh that it would be fun if, when I got into the office today and bypassed greetings of "Smile! It's almost Friday!" I would take that CD out of my purse, put it into my computer, and turn the volume all the way up. Then, I would go stand by the light switch so I could flick it on and off, on and off, real quick, while dancing and screaming, "Ow!"
That would be awesome.
Secrets
1. The sandals I'm wearing have cracks all over the insteps.
2. I like to be mean to handsome men.
3. Sometimes I wish I could call in sick just so I could have a few hours alone. And catch up with our laundry.
The Number of Crazy People Who Have Confided Their Craziness to Me So Far in the Part Week:
is two. (Not counting my mom, who called and very quickly threw out a few crazy sentences from her halfway house's laundry room's pay phone before her calling card ran out of time and we had to bellow "I love you" and hang up.) This week's crazy confessions were below average as far as interesting-ness goes. I usually average one crazy confession per week, though, so maybe if I get two in a week, they're supposed to be less interesting.
I keep wanting to tell y'all about how I'm a magnet for crazy people, or for normal people's crazy confessions. If I'm in a room with twenty other people plus one crazy person, that crazy person will usually zero in on me and immediately whisper a confession in my face. If a hitherto normal person I haven't seen in a while calls my phone, it's usually to confess something absolutely crazy. I think it's something about my face. It apparently says, "Hi. My mother is mentally ill, therefore I have a high tolerance for craziness. Please deposit your confessions here." I need to add, in fine print, "I reserve the right to remember your crazy confessions and reproduce them in fiction, non-fiction, and PowerPoint presentations."
Hypoglycemia
Every time I kick the sugar habit, I say, "I feel so energized and my mind is so much clearer, ever since I stopped eating sugar. You know what? I'm never gonna eat sugar again!!! Then I will write a million books and bead a million necklaces and sew a million fifties-style pastel tweed suits and my life will be awesome! AWESOME. Awe... some!!!!!"
Then, a few months after that, I'll eat a piece of white, refined, high-fructose-corn-syrup-y bread because there's literally nothing else around, and then the yeast and sugar demons will inhabit my intestines' soul and start crying for more, more, always more. And the downward spiral will do its thing, and I'll gain 25 pounds, and be sad for a year or two until I decide to quit sugar again.
Was that twelve steps? I lost count...
Whining Averted
So anyhow. I was gonna tell y'all that I had writer's block real bad, but now I seem to be over it, so I'm really happy and you've been spared the whining.
... for now, that is. Ha, ha, ha.
HA, HA, HA, HA!
Ahem. Okay. Goodbye.
Labels: fantasies, health, psychobabble
8:15 AM # (8) commentsFriday, April 07, 2006
Star Struck DumbLet's say you're exiting a cafe with your friend at the end of your lunch hour, crossing a parking lot to get to your vehicle and head back to work. Let's say, then, that you turn and see one of your town's local news reporters sitting on the patio of the cafe you just left. It may take you a second to process that you are looking at the same face you see on TV each day, and then a second longer for that person's name to appear in your mind. Once that happens, what would be the most appropriate course of action for you to take?
A. None. It's a local news guy. Who cares?
B. Quietly point out the local celebrity to your friend.
C. Politely approach the news reporter and tell him, very briefly and respectfully, that you enjoy his work.
D. Point at the news reporter with your full arm, as if he is a flying saucer or an approaching tornado, and yell across the parking lot, in your most grating tone of voice, "THERE'S REGGIE AQUI!!!"
I did Letter D. I have no defense. Normally I'm cucumber-cool when I meet celebrities or politicians or the Queen of England. (Okay, I only saw her for a few moments, while I was a clerk at the Texas State Capitol in 1990. But still.)
Because celebrities are just normal people who happen to be on TV or the radio or in positions of great power, right? Nothing to freak out about. But, for some reason, seeing Reggie Aqui sent a jolt through me that could only be dispelled in embarrassingly squawky rudeness. I guess I could tell you that it's because he's very, very handsome. But that would be the lamest admission of all, so I won't make it.
Mr. Aqui reacted as graciously as could be expected. "Yes, here I am," he said with a polite celebrity smile.
"I watch you every morning," I called back, trying to save the moment. I wondered if I should say, "You're doing a really good job there on Channel..." I couldn't remember what channel he was on. And I don't even know if he does a good job, actually. I never listen to the words he says, because they send him out to the most depressing crime scenes. I only look at his face for a few moments, then change to The Style Network or Bravo or Anthony Bourdain. So I told Reggie I watched him every morning, and then I mumbled, "And it's awesome," and then I whispered, "because you're hot!" as we got into the car, leaving the man to his cell phone conversation, already in progress. And my friend laughed and said, "Who's that? He's very handsome."
Yes. Yes, he is. He's Reggie Aqui.
So, Anyhow
Nothing much else to say. All I've been doing is working, playing, loving, something, day or night, Jordache has the look that's ri-ight... The Jordache look... [music]... The Jordache loo-ook...
I know I'm getting old and a lot of y'all don't know that Jordache jeans commercial jingle. Maybe some of y'all don't even know what Jordache jeans are. And if you don't, that's good. You should keep it that way because, in your case, ignorance is bliss. Don't hate - congratulate.
Me and some friends are going to a poetry reading tonight. People like to say that they only go to those ironically, because they're uniformly horrible, but they aren't always. Once in a while there'll be someone really good. And, if not, it's good to hear the horrible stuff, too. It's bracing. Cleansing. It's like high colonics for your mind.
I'm thinking about removing the Comments doohickey from this blog because I don't want to see how many comments I get, and then be unable to refrain from wondering if I should be getting more comments. I don't want to type stuff while wondering, in the back of my mind, if that particular stuff make people comment in a certain way. Such as, "Gwen, that is so weird, what you just said. Why did you just say that? Are you crazy? Are you evil?"
Not that anyone's ever said that. But I refrain from typing the things that might make them say that, you understand. I don't care what people think about me, but I do care what they say about what they're thinking, there in the Comments. Apparently. So it seems.
I thought about removing the comment function from this particular entry, as soon as I'm done typing it. But then, people would email me and say, "I'm only emailing you because your comments are broken."
Don't say that. Instead, say, "I'm only emailing you because I must."
Say, "I'm only emailing you because love compels me. I don't love you, because I barely know you. But when I read what you've written, I feel love. Probably for myself. In fact, it's all me, this feeling. I see that now. I don't need you at all. Goodbye."
Say, "I'm only emailing you because the demons that possess me guide my hands."
Say, "I'm only emailing you because I'm here at work, and out of everything in the world that I could choose to do to distract me from that fact, with your entry today, you have merited me choosing your Inbox to be the recipient of my ennui."
Say, "I'm only emailing you. Okay, that's all. Goodbye."
I'm not going to remove the Comments link, but no one comment, okay? Don't look at me! I am beautiful, no matter what they say... Words can't bring me-e-e down! O-oh, no-o...
You knew that song, didn't you? At least, everyone who didn't know the Jordache song did.
That's all now. I love y'all. I love you, Reggie Aqui. Even though I don't know you. And I'm only not emailing you because I don't want to scare you with the demons in my soul. And I'm only not commenting because you don't have a blog. But if you did, your Comments numbers would be high, I'm sure. High as a flying saucer. Full of Jordache jeans. And love. Goodbye. 8:54 AM # (19) comments
Monday, April 03, 2006
Free Writing AdviceRecently a coworker and fledgling writer emailed me an introductory paragraph from the memoir she's been working on. She wanted to know if it had enough of a hook to snag an editor or agent. Unfortunately, it didn't. In fact, I could tell that she wasn't exactly clear on what a hook was. So I sent her some advice and examples. She thanked me, promising that all the help I've given her so far would one day pay off. For her, she meant. Not for me.
I thought, "Why help this woman for free, when I could help her AND a bunch of strangers at the same time, through the magic of the Internets?" Why, indeed? So I saved the advice I'd sent her, and now, here it is, for you.
How to Write a Hook
by Gwendolyn Zepeda
A "hook" is either the book's main conflict, or else, in the case of a memoir, a reason that this person's life is different from the average reader's. Here are examples:
I.
Jody had the perfect life: loving parents, a beautiful home, all the popularity a high school senior could ask for. Or so it seemed. Why was it that, one Saint Patrick's day, everything spiraled out of control, ripping the veneer off her perfect life and revealing it for the sick, Leprechaun-infested hell it really was? Find out in Top of the Mourning to You.
II.
What does it take to get ahead in insurance? Former model Laura Chalmers thought she knew... until she showed up for a job interview with Houston's leading brokerage, and its CEO asked her to take off her dress! How did modeling and her rocky divorce set the stage for Laura to take the high-stakes insurance world by storm... and win love along the way? Find out in her inspiring true story, Renewals of Coverage, Renewals of Hope.
III.
How could a mother of sextuplets live without the left half of her face? In Six Times the Love, Erica Forrester explains how she battled leprosy, heartbreak, and multiple lawsuits to win civil rights for herself and other disabled mothers of multiples. This inspiring true story is aimed at all Midwestern Mormons, and anyone else who loves to read about underdogs having the last laugh.
Don't just write a paragraph about your life. Your hook should tell the publisher/agent why people would want to read about your life. It should sound like the back of a paperback novel - the part that people read when they're trying to decide whether they'd be interested in it or not.
Look for those three titles soon, by the way. I'm writing them as we speak, and Lifetime will undoubtedly option the film rights to at least one. See, after I sent my coworker that email, I realized that I had some pure fiction and non-fiction gold on my hands. And that's why I'm a writer, and that's why people pay me big bucks for my writing advice.
Well, I mean, they don't... But, still. You know what I'm saying. And now, thanks to me, you also know how to write a hook. You're welcome.
Labels: writing
9:15 AM # (7) comments
