Martha's Revenge Standards

I don't have a lot of personal experience with revenge, but I think I'd be awesome at it.

I'm selfish, quick to violence and ruthlessly efficient. In addition to making me a shoo-in to survive the impending zombie apocalypse, those traits would make me some kind of revenge master.

I think when you're naturally talented at something, you should help others exceed. Just call me your personal revenge sensei.

1. Revenge is a solo act. Ocean's 13 was a fun watch, but how are you supposed to hang onto seething self-righteous anger while syncing your Blackberry schedules?

2. Revenge gets served within 24 hours. Revenge is only a dish best served cold for losers who can't get their shit together sooner. Any decent revenge seeker should have the motivation and anger to envision, implement and execute revenge in less than day. Any less than that, and you're just screwing around.

3. Revenge is not proportional. No Hammurabic "eye for an eye" code here. If someone takes your eye, you take their face. Got it?



4. Revenge is permanent. Anything less is a frat-boy prank. Replacing water with pee/switching shampoo with Nair/spitting on a burger = prank. Burning down a house = a prank - people are insured these days. Infecting someone with a raging drug-resistant strain of gonorrhea? That's better. Infecting them via their spouse? Now you're talking.


5. Revenge should not affect the person dishing it out. Give yourself a week post-revenge to revel in the act. Then forget about it. If it bothers you, if you can even be bothered to remember it, it's not revenge.

I really hope this weeds out any pansy revenge seekers and encourages the rest of you to take your revenge seeking to a whole 'nother level. Excellence in everything, my friends!

Martha's First Love Story

Caveat: this post makes me seem like a total douchebag, especially in light of everyone else's lovely posts.

My first love story went like this.

I was eight when my family moved to a duplex in the Tokyo burbs. My neighbor, Paul, was a few years older with shaggy blond hair, blue eyes and amazing cheekbones. I was obsessed with him and timed my commute to school so we had to walk together.

One day, the neighborhood boys invited me to their snowball fight.

I wasn't fast, and I couldn't throw very far. I solved this by packing my snowballs with sand from the local park to give them extra weight - and I nailed Paul right in the face.

(As an adult, I know this is sucky, but I was eight - gimme a break.)

Paul clutched his cheek and ran from the park. A few minutes later, the neighborhood boys scattered as his mom approached. I remember this moment with crystal clarity. She strode over in brown leather equestrian boots and a puffy marooon coat, hands stuffed in pockets.

She proceeded to lecture me.

I had hurt Paul.
I should be more careful.
She knew I "wasn't a bad person, per se," but was obviously misguided.

I listened. I nodded. Five minutes went by. Then ten. It occurred to me this wouldn't end until I apologized. So I did, and lemme tell ya, it was disingenuous as hell.

Because on the inside...

On the inside I was thinking, "Are you kidding me?"

(8 yrs old and future love cynic)

The next time I saw Paul, his hair was not so shiny and his cheekbones were rather dull. He was just such a dweeb (total 80's insult).

How could I have been in love with someone who couldn't take a rigged snowball to the face? I had endured worse (we're talking metal-nunchucks-to-the-head worse) and I was younger and a girl.

Paul and I lived next door to each other for five years. He got taller and better looking. But it didn't matter. Even as he sparked the interest of my friends, he never again sparked mine.

I never found him hot, funny, clever, or cool again.

So maybe his mom had it wrong. Maybe I'm not merely misguided. Maybe I am a bad person. But at least I'm not a weak-ass narc.

Ah, first love. Ain't it grand?

Martha Breaks Down A Basic Shoe Wardrobe

Some of you are shoe experts. Read no further. The rest of you are delicate shoe caterpillars waiting for someone to cocoon you in guidance so you can emerge killer shoe butterflies.

But fashion magazines are confusing and conflicting. Finances are strained. Choices are many. Where to invest? In a moderate climate, here's the order in which you should invest in shoes:

1. A sensible pair of athletic shoes should always be your first priority. Why? Because your health is important and also because there could be a natural disaster, and you'd need to walk your ass somewhere safe. (Note - these are not apocalypse friendly shoes - apocalypse shoes are a whole nutha level best left to another post.)



2. Work friendly shoes for whatever it is you do. For me, that's biz friendly attire which means sensible pumps. I recommend round toe (the days of foot-binding are over, people) and stacked mid-length heels in black and one other neutral color to match with the greatest variety of pant hems, fabrics, and skirts. Details like straps and buckles can add to your personal style if need be.

(The Taryn Rose brand is definitely an investment piece, but the shoes are designed by a foot doctor and I swear you can walk in them for days and not get moody and chew out someone at a board meeting thus keeping you employed and able to buy more shoes.)

3. Boots. I like Frye's cowgirl style in black and wear them with EVERYTHING because this is the shoe that's "me" but if you're the sexy type then this is the place to go for a pointy toe or stiletto heel because the extra support of the boot will make the style more comfortable.

4. Flats. One ballet style with a kitten heel and one regular flat with a decorate feature like rouche detail or a floret. One in black, the other in a different neutral. Again, great for short hemmed jeans or work pants and adorable with skirts and dresses.


5. Stunner shoes. I'm a fan of stacked heel and a t-strap. Classic shoes like heeled pumps and d'orsays seem more biz friendly to me so I save stunner shoes for the shoe that no one else is wearing but that still has something classic about it so it'll last from season to season and could, if need be, act as a backup work shoe.

6. Summer shoes. You're going to beat the crap out of these so feel free to cheap it up. One pair of flat thong sandals and a summer sandal like a wedge. If you keep the wedge neutral then it also might work for biz wear on warm days, but do something cute with the thong sandals because there's no need to be uber neutral when you're sipping pina coladas on a beach.


So there! Go forth! Spend with confidence!

Finally! Martha Finds A Way To Write Off The Satellite TV Bill

Two hours ago, I didn't think I had a muse. I was flying high on my own mojo. My flashy high-concept ideas were all mine.

Then I got an email from Friend J reminding me of our fan fiction days. Yes, you read that correctly. Fan Fiction. Off the X-rated variety. (Hey, it was college - we were all experimenting.) By X - I mean:

The X-Files

Oh yes, I have co-authored Mulder-Scully Fan Fiction. Stop judging me.

This reminder led me to the muse I didn't even know I had - kickass women on television.

When The X-Files came out, Scully was an anomaly. The skeptic physician to the flighty, flirtatious crazy guy. I LURVED HER.

Around the same time, I developed a massive girl crush on Buffy.

Ah, young folk have never known a day without interesting female leads on television. BUT I DO! And man, was I angry about it. (I'm still a little angry, to be honest.)

Now I'm awash in them - everywhere I turn there's another female lead to fall in love with. A couple more favorites:



These women are complex and, best of all, damaged in a way that made them stronger.

Ask people who have read my work (friends, crit partners, agents, editors) and they'll tell you I'm a high-concept plot-oriented gal, not too strong on emotion and character. I think it's because I failed to recognize this part of myself - the part that wants to explore how trauma makes women blossom, grow, and overcome.

So look out world, armed with my newly recognized muse (thanks Friend J, co-author in crime), I'm taking you by storm.

Martha Resolves To Stop Defending Herself

If you know me, you know this: I'm unapologetically ME.

No, I don't want to have kids. So what?
No, I don't like watching sunsets or taking hikes. Nature sucks.
No, I'm not interested in my husband's last name. It's lame.

But for some reason, I constantly defend my decision to be a writer and the time I put into writing, critiquing, and networking.

I had previously blogged about how Friend Z asked me, a few months into my decision to write young adult novels, "How long until you quit? Six months? A year?"

The question is reasonable for a person who doesn't understand the publishing industry. But to those of us in the know, it's absurd, and I bristled from it and said, "I would quit you before I quit writing."

In the year since, I wrote a manuscript, got an agent, got rejected by editors, began another manuscript, joined this blog and two critique groups, attended two writing conferences and countless author events, interned for a local agent as her reader, honed my craft and forged relationships.

Through it all, I dealt with questions from many fronts. "Why do you need critique groups?" "Isn't blogging a waste of time - who will read it?" "Are you doing another writing thing?" "Can't you just write the book right the first time?"

I answered those questions, defensively. I want to be clear: the people who asked me these questions are wonderful, caring people in my life. As writers, we find questions like these insulting, but from their perspective, they're trying to understand me.

This past weekend, to kick off 2010, I had a pie party for my writing friends who brought other Bay Area writers.


In addition to eating ridiculous amounts of yummy pie, I met several new faces, connected with authors I'd only known online, and scored tons of ARCs (woohoo!).

The next day, Friend Z said to me, "I thought you should know. Friend A just sold her book, and she did it without having a pie party."

The implication being that I was wasting my time with all this social networking.

I got defensive. I explained why I did the networking. Not because it leads to sales. I network because people like Friend Z don't get it - and by it, I mean writing life. Therefore, I had to go out and find people who did get it, and therefore, got me.

Explaining this exhausted me. Maybe I was having a bad day. Maybe I was tired from the holidays. I just felt like I'd been answering the same questions from the same people without any tangible benefit. Again, this is not about Friend Z. This is about me. My reaction.

So I resolved something. Which came in handy since this blog post on resolutions was due and I didn't know what I was going to write about.

I resolved to not defend my writing lifestyle anymore.

So you can ask me if you want.

Why am I going to another conference? Why do I have to meet my critique group so often? Why am I going to an author signing? Why do I waste my time on a blog?

Here's my new answer for you:

It doesn't matter why. It's my life. I get to choose what I do with it.

Sidenote: Big congrats to Friend A! She signed with an amazing editor, and I look forward to her book. For those of you out there who are decrying, "Whaaa? She sold a book in complete solitude?" No, of course not. She completed an MFA program during which she wrote her manuscript. She joined a critique group. She found her agent via a personal connection instead of blind query. She hosts a literary performance salon where she gets to rub shoulders with New York Times bestselling authors and get featured in the San Francisco Examiner. I think we all know that's just as much work as a pie party.

Martha Craftily Gets Tom Neely To Blog About The Craft of Songwriting

You know that saying? When at first you don't succeed, try again? I'm a fan of: when at first you don't succeed, throw yourself at the mercy of someone who will.

Who did I find to succeed in a blog on craft? Tom Neely. The husband of our own Adrienne Miller.

Check out this good looking bunch ------>

Since craft is defined as a trade requiring special skill, Tom could be considered a consummate craftsman. This guy writes songs. That's like...writing something...without words. It boggles the mind. At least this one.

Check out Tom getting crafty on his mp3 site where you can listen to his tracks (some are rumored to be inspired by OUR VERY OWN ADRIENNE MILLER!)

Without further ado: TOM NEELY! (A little more ado: Within this blog is the best piece of writing advice I've received in 2009. Just for kicks, I bolded and colored it red. It's just that important.

In keeping with my policy of always saying yes to anyone who asks me to write a song for them, when asked to write something (not a song ) about the craft of songwriting of course I said yes.

I’m reluctant to call myself crafty but am definitely quick to call myself familiar with the craft of songwriting. I’m lucky enough to make a living teaching kids to write their own songs, once I teach them how to play an instrument that is, and have written hundreds myself.

To me songwriting doesn’t have to be about reinventing the wheel. It should be about going backwards, or forwards in your way. Maybe sideways. Maybe that’s a crappy metaphor. I think we all have something to say and the first, and biggest, challenge is to figure out how in the world we want to say it, be it writing or singing or art.

I figured out pretty early on that the medium for me was music. I wrote terrible songs for many years but I was okay with that. I was convinced that you had to dig through all the crap to eventually get to the good stuff, being lead on by some sort of songwriting buried treasure. I’m still digging, as are we all, but I feel much closer. I don’t get asked nearly as often if I was singing out of tune on purpose. (I wish I made that up).

As for the craft itself, I have my students write “one of those” all the time. A blues song, a punk song, a country tune, that sort of thing. I’m sure it’s the same way writers go about writing a vampire novel or a regency set historical romance. Stylistic confinement is a good thing. Considering every note and every chord as an option is just too bloody hard a way to write something. It’s like putting every ingredient you own on the counter and then trying to bake something. It’s impossible. You’d just spend the afternoon marveling at how many different kinds of flour you own.

With regard to my own writing, I’ve never been able to get behind the ‘write what you know’ school of thought. On the contrary I’ve let ‘write what you’d like to know’ be my guiding philosophy. If you want to become an expert on 15th century Scotland, set a novel there and just imagine the expert you’ll be after writing that book. It’s taken a couple of decades but I can comfortably write rock or jazz or country or classical songs because I was okay with spending some serious time being awful at each of those styles.

Regardless of whether you’re a songwriter, a novelist, or an artist of any kind I believe this sort of experimenting and variety is crucial to keep your craft exciting to you. We can’t allow what we do to become dull to us. It’s just too precious. Save dull for nine to five cubicle jobs.

As far as the nuts and bolts of songwriting goes, I’m a chords then melody and finally words kind of guy. If it’s a classical/soundtrack type song then I’m very old school and just write down notes using a notation program. I fear any more detail than that would be sleep inducing.

Martha Says There's No Substitute for Experience

I have no imagination.

Really.

So when a manuscript calls for something to happen that I'm ignorant of, like, oh, let's say, lock-picking, I have four options.

1. Check out the local library
Awesome for deep, detailed research but not appropriate for a non-professional character. Onto:

2. Scour the internet
Wikipedia, Wikihow and Youtube include terminology, methods, and video demonstrations but they lack sensory detail. May as well try to:

3. Find an expert
They can demonstrate technique, answer questions, and provide fun-filled anecdotes! But bottom line is, nothing beats an attempt to:

4. Try it myself
Especially if the materials aren't too hard to come by because the husband is already in possession of a set of wrenches and picks.











I started with a simple padlock by inserting the wrench in the bottom (applying pressure to turn the cylinder once successfully "unlocked") and then inserting the picks along the top and raking the pins.


First thing I learned?

It's hard. My fingers cramped almost immediately. One of the torsion wrenches wasn't just a single L but a double L on both ends. That one allowed me to offset the pressure off my thumb easier, easing the cramp.

Second thing?

Raking the pins all at once did nothing for me. I had to ease in the front-most pin before pushing deeper into the lock for the second pin to make any progress.

Maybe those details won't make it into the manuscript, but I feel hella cool for knowing them. Cool enough to move onto a real door lock.

Last thing I learned? A real lock is harder, takes forever, and requires more patience. Not something a first-time lock picker could realistically master in under twenty minutes. In fact, even the husband who is pretty decent at lock-picking can take up to ten minutes on a new lock. An expert or someone with the fancy materials can go under 60 seconds easy.

This leaves me with choices - let the character sit there ten minutes, make her an expert or have her own/steal/borrow the fancy materials.

Either way, my scene :

1. is grounded in realistic expectations
2. has sensory detail
3. includes specific materials and techniques which I know are effective instead of just me selecting from a list on the website

Having an extra dose of awesome in my resume doesn't hurt, either.

Nanowrimo Wiped The Floor With Martha (But That's Okay)

Lisa and I have the same problem. "No" isn't in our vocabulary.

Swim Alcatraz? Sure.
Pole Dancing? Why not.
Juice Fast? Yum.
Breakdancing? Awesome.
Triathlon? Bring it.
Nano? I'm in.

Fortunately, I'm blessed with a little something known as non-attachment to the outcome.

Alcatraz? I came in dead last.
Pole Dancing? Face planted twice.
Juice Fast? Nervous jittery breakdown.
Breakdancing? Pulled my shoulder.
Triathlon? Fell off my bike three times and cried.
Nano? Hella behind. No way I'll "win."

But that's okay. I've never needed to be the best. I've never even needed to be particularly good. Perfection? What's that?

Nike trademarked the slogan in 1988 but it's been my motto since 1977.

No whining. No excuses. No naysay.

Just Do It.

So even though this month is sucking pretty hard, I'll see you again next year, ready to roll.

Martha Feels Blood Is Thicker Than Most Things

This post may make me wildly unpopular.

As I type this, I'm roasting a chicken and simmering a stock for split pea soup, but one eye is tied to my phone for the call that tells me I'm an auntie for the fourth time.

I already have three ridiculously cute sweet peas that call me Auntie Martha (or Mafa or Matha.)

#1 Cutie Pie - 6 years old, ridonculous vocab, never bends book pages
#2 Adorable Bee -4 years old, never without a tiara, loves tricking you into blowfish
#3 Lucky Ducky - 3 years old, mischievous grin, loves boisterous playtime

I love them all, even the one who isn't quite arrived. (Checking......ok, nope, not here yet.) They have fully formed personalities and amaze the crap out of me with how intelligent, funny, stubborn, and awesome they can be.

But if I'm going to be 100% honest, Adorable Bee gets me in the gut. Her little face incites a visceral reaction, a tightening in my stomach like I want to freaking kill someone if they so much as sneeze on her the wrong way.

It just comes to this. Of all the kids out there, I'm most attached to the ones related to me. Amongst them, it's Adorable Bee that makes me wanna die sometimes I love her so much when I look at her.

Now don't get your panties in a bunch.

I know you don't need to be blood related to love someone - my own family is proof of that. I also love the others and am fiercely Mama Bear (or Auntie Bear) towards all of them (srsly, don't look at 'em funny or I'll take your head off first and there will be no cops to ask questions later, trust me.)

What does it come down to?

Adorable Bee, quite frankly, reeks of me. She looks just like me. She sounds like I did at that age. Whatever material slipped through the blood between us mixed just right. It's like she's mine.

(Adorable Bee tricking me into a blowfish on my collarbone! I'm ticklish!)

I'm so excited to meet #4 (who is yet to be named, although I know the name will not be Logan, as that is the name of X-Men character Wolverine and thus, according to my brother, not to be randomly distributed to just anyone).

And eventually #5 or #6 or however many my siblings decide to hand out. And if another one turned out like Adorable Bee? Well, I just don't think my heart could take it.

** update #4 has arrived!! too new to tell if he's gonna look like me but hey, one can hope. i keed, i keed. **

Martha Thinks Grace is Keeping The (Wo)Man Down

Did your mama ever tell you that if you can't say something nice you shouldn't say anything at all?

My mom didn't. That's not how the women of my family roll, which is probably why I had a problem with this post. I just don't have anything nice to say about the word "grace."

It's not what grace means. It's what I think it means. There, I admit it, the problem lies with me.

I hear "grace," and I think "What? I'm not good enough for you the way I am? You need me to hold my head high and throw my shoulders back and float through a room, too?"

Women already yearn to be so many things: smart, sassy, witty, modest, popular, funny, intelligent. I'm not adding graceful to that list. To top it off, grace seems to be about maximizing the experience of the person watching me, instead of my own.

So I'll leave grace to the other ladies out there. It's not for me.

Martha Bends The Laws of Space-Time

I decided to become a young adult writer on August 17th, 2008.

A friend of mine who works at Scholastic shipped me an ARC of Suzanne Collin's The Hunger Games. I read it in one sitting less than four hours long. It was like an injection of literary crack between my toes, straight into my veins, into my frickin' eyeballs. I couldn't think, sleep, dream anything but young adult novels from that point forward. Of course, my appetite had been whet several months before with Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series but it was The Hunger Games that showed me YA is where it's at.

It has been one year and one month since that date.

One year and one month of:

- completing a manuscript
- signing with an agent
- going on editorial submission
- joining the Brain Trust critique group
- building a website and personal blog
- writing half of manuscript #2
- attending two national writing conferences
- meeting and joining with the Pens Fatales group blog
- forming/joining a YA That's Why critique group
- interning for a literary agent

All on top of daily life vagaries.

Lemme tell ya...I have days. Weeks.

Of ugh.
Of I'll never make it in this town!
Of I'm gonna be that person - who plugs away at an impossible dream until it is neither romantic nor inspirational but strangely pathetic because yes, that point happens - don't patronize me and don't regale me with stories of people who published after 50 years because I took statistics, dammit, and you can't fool me into thinking those data points count.

Maybe I will be that person. But that person is 49 years away, and I think if I could glimpse into the future by folding the fabric of space-time so that point 49 years in the future is bunched right up alongside now, I'd still see a happy me.

Martha Supersucks At This Fan Thing

Exhibit A: In 2001, when I decided to become "a serious writer" I joined the local Romance Writers of America (RWA) chapter and unknowingly walked into their "author appreciation event" and sat down at a table of Big Names. Only I didn't know they were big names. I didn't know their names at all.

Poo on me, right? Well they did. Not literally. But they ignored the crap out of me. They let my one-liners drop on dead air with a look of disdain before continuing their conversation. In short, they were douchebags. And I let it get to me. And a few months later I quit. Which makes me a douchebag, too.

Exhibit B: In 2003 I went to New York for the summer with the husband. We passed the most adorable little puppy so I started freaking out. The husband started freaking out. I said, "Wasn't that the cutest puppy ever?" And the husband said, "What are you talking about? That was Isaac Mizrahi holding some dog." Oops.

Exhibit C: In 2008, I returned to writing and to RWA and found that Fate and Karma had weeded out the douchebags (thank you, ladies).

I stuck around, met the Pens, and together with a few other lovely ladies we rocked a suite at Nationals. I was chilling in our suite in a night shirt when a voice drifted in: "May I see your room?" "Oh sure," said my roommates. I jumped up, walked over pantless and promptly met Kristin Higgins. I Heart Kristin Higgins. I workship at the altar of Kristin Higgins. I only worship at about five altars, for the record.
I shook my hero's hand without my pants on. I waited until she left. And I promptly had a shit fit. What did these lovely ladies of this blog do? THEY INVITED HER OVER FOR A DRINK THE NEXT NIGHT. Kristin is lovely. Hilarious. Gracious. Which is probably why they proceeded to tell her of my pantless hero worship, which she found (god I hope) amusing.

I guess I found it amusing, too. Until the next night when I was in the bar networking. Meeting agents. Meeting authors. Putting on my game face. Rachael put in a teasing note about how I'd managed to wear pants. And Big Name Agent looked at me and said, "Oh, are you that girl Kristin was talking about? Oh, she loved that story. She was quite flattered."

Yes. Me, too. I'm THAT GIRL. Without the pants.

Conclusion: I am no good at being a fan. Not of people I should be in awe of nor people I actually am in awe of. Just lock me in a small room and make sure I don't meet anyone. Ever.

Martha Bids Keanu Reeves Happy Birthday (aka Deleted Scenes...I'll make it work, trust me)

It's September 2nd. That means I need to bid Happy Birthday to my boyfriend, Keanu Reeves, who turns 45 years old today. But it's also the second Wednesday in post rotation which means I need to say something meaningful about Deleted Scenes.

We can do this, people.

1. I fell in love with Keanu Reeves the summer of 1991 at the age of 13 in a rural Georgia theater to repeated viewings of Bill & Ted's Bonus Journey.
2. I knew his costar, Alex Winter, from a prior obsession with The Lost Boys (the teen vampire obsession long before Twilight and True Blood). But Alex was never meant to be a screen heart throb. Not next to Corey Feldman. Oh yes, in the battle of Coreys, I went Feldman.

3. Corey Feldman suffered from a terrible case of child-star-itis which is probably why he was compelled to star in Dickie Roberts Former Child Star with fellow child star Christopher Knight.

4. Dis all you want on Christopher Knight, he's managed a decent non-reality career including this year's Spring Breakdown with female comic talents Amy Poehler, Missy Pyle, Rachel Dratch, and Jane Lynch.

5. Jane Lynch stars in this year's musical genius Glee! Guess what today is? The re-airing of the Glee pilot!! Even if you watched it back when it first aired in May, and even if you've rewatched it, oh, every day since then, you should still catch tonight's show because it comes with DELETED SCENES!!!!!!! Yes, DELETED SCENES! But wait - I'm not done - Glee stars Matthew Morrison as head of Glee Club.

6. And Matthew Morrison stars in this year's Taking Chances with Kevin Bacon.

Thank you, thank you. I'm here all week.

Martha Loves Food

I eat out. A lot. Because I love food. A lot. But why believe me when I can show you proof of my prior month's conquests!

As others have posted, Blogger is feeling temperamental about pictures. If you view this page in Firefox you'll have a decent shot at seeing it formatted, otherwise it's going to be all over the place. But that doesn't mean it looks any less yummy.