Rather than post another riveting tale of something that pissed me off that one time, I thought I’d take some time to fill you in on what’s new around these parts.
If you’re short on time, here’s the Cliffs Notes version: I’ve been busy. You may now continue your very important day of hating yourself while simultaneously hitting the “Heart” button on Kardashian Instagram photos.
I’ve spent the last few months writing a book. Dun dun DUNNNNNN.
What’s it about? I’m glad you asked. It’s about the economics of the royal court of Louis XIV and its impact on modern day currency trading in Western Europe.
Wait. Hang on. Let me re-shuffle these index cards that I wrote up ahead of time, you know, pursuant to the way they taught me to write essays in school.
Who the hell decided making teenagers use index cards as a required step in writing was a good idea? I have a feeling someone in the index card business was married to someone on the board of the school district and they were just in cahoots to sell more index cards.
Holding onto index card conspiracy theories, by the way, proves that I am my mother’s child more than any DNA test on Maury ever could.
My book is an 80,000 word collection of funny stories about my life, about growing up poor, being a tiny criminal, dealing with druggies and weirdos and pedos, my failure to become a hair metal video slut, and winning Black History Month as the whitest girl in the world and using the prize money to never become a rock ‘n roll star, among much other silliness/misdemeanors. In short, it’s a collection of the more interesting stories of my life.
Who’s publishing it? Glamour & Shame Publishing!
Who’s that? I’m glad you asked. It’s an imprint of Random House that specializes in stories that touch the heart. Some of their better known titles are “Did I Do That?” by Urkel and “Ranch is Not a Sauce” by that waiter who hates you.
Wait. Hang on. Index cards are all mixed up again.
Glamour & Shame Publishing is mine. Allllll mine. I decided that writing a book wasn’t taxing enough on my sanity, so I went ahead and started a real deal, fancified, tax-paying publishing company, with all the bells and whistles to go along with it.
This means I am now legally a business owner, so feel free to throw tomatoes and yell, “Shaaame! Shaaaaame!” at me as I leapfrog over hobos on my way into the bank wearing a monocle and carrying huge bags of money.
I’m hoping that down the road I will be able to sign my very own little stable of writers, because there are plenty of writers out there who don’t fit neatly into a big publisher’s box. I want to eventually foster a sort of writers’ collective for my *harmless weirdo friends, where we can write and create and support each other and be awesome together. (*Please note that I said “harmless” weirdos.)
Having my own publishing company allows me total creative control over my work, which means the odds of having a book cover with me wearing nothing but an apron with a title like, “Cookin’ Up Attitude!” are pretty slim. I am fiercely, almost frighteningly, protective of my writing, and even the thought of someone who I don’t know coming in and taking creative control makes me want to cut a bitch. I know this about myself. I have limitations.
Why don’t I just hire a literary agent to go get me a big book deal?
Getting a literary agent is not like hiring Tony Micelli as your housekeeper on Who’s The Boss. It’s like trying to hire actual Tony Danza to be your housekeeper, in that Tony Danza neither wants nor needs to be your housekeeper and is like, “Stop calling me. I don’t want to clean your house.” You basically have to audition for literary agents and then in 2 to 26 weeks they send you a form letter that politely says they’re not interested unless you already have 100,000 followers on social media. I totally get that, too. Their job is to sign authors who will make everyone some money. There’s no shame in that game. They’re busy people and they need to focus on stuff they can readily sell to the masses.
What’s even scarier than when they say no is when they say yes, and then subsequently tell you to rewrite ¾ of your book and cut 25,000 words out of it, and that instead of writing nonfiction, you need to start writing the next Hunger Games-type franchise ASAP.
Do you think I would be writing about cleaning doctors’ offices when I was 12 if I had a Hunger Games swimming around in my head? I write what my brain writes. If I could make my brain write stuff that eventually gets turned into a film franchise that nets hundreds of millions of dollars, believe me, I most certainly would – especially given my champagne taste when it comes to lip gloss.
So what’s next? I’m going to spend the next couple months editing and polishing my book, making a totally awesome cover for it, setting it up for paperback and e-book formats, coming up with a good marketing plan that doesn’t involve a sex tape, and squeezing in time to do things like work forty hours a week at my day job, eat, and maybe even sleep on occasion. If I don’t respond to your messages in a timely fashion, it’s not you. It’s me. Unless you’re Becky’s Mom, in which case fuck you.
I’ll still be posting here on Romcom Dojo around once a week or so in the meantime, and the same goes for the cartoon blog over at TMIOMWHDM.com.
I promise, you will be the first ones to know when I hit that “Publish” button, and then you’ll be able to buy your very own piece of me on a little site called “Amazon”.
If you want to find out the very second that happens: First, you need to get yourself a life and, second, please click on the “Follow Blog via Email” button on this site. That way you’ll get emails delivered automatically to your inbox anytime I post something on here.
Unless you’re Becky’s Mom, in which case fuck you.