I Explain Why Writing Isn't Sexy

There's nothing sexy about being a working writer. It's a job that doesn't demand much from me; I don't have to worry about intermittent grooming, hideous eating habits, or acting like a sane, responsible human being. It's a job, in other words, for an immature adult with impulse control issues, deeply held grudges, and a penchant for foul language. It is...the perfect job for me.

That said, occasionally there IS something sexy about the gig. Last week my publisher flew me to New York City, pretended they were happy to have me within miles of their homes, showed me the Big Boss's office (more on Pie Building in a mo'), wined me (technically they ice tea'd me which turned disastrous when I confused the salt bowl for the sugar bowl), put me up in a nice hotel, and essentially did all those cool publisher/author things that most people (who aren't working writers) think happens all the time.

The Pie Building! My publisher's office is in this awesome building that's ancient...and it's shaped like a slice of French Silk Pie. It's not square! It's not round! The big boss's office, where the whipped cream would be, is gorgeous, with what is almost a 360 degree view. And the windows look so cute and funny, and the office itself is shaped so coolly weird (I was standing where the cherry on the whipped cream would be) that I was alternately impressed and giggly.

NYC was awesome, not least because I got to stand on what would be the whipped cream on a nine story slice of pie. No, the weather was gorgeous and I, a land-locked Minnesotan, thought the island of Manhatten (or was it the island of the Bronx?) was swell. I was so dazzled by the spring weather and the cool stores/buildings/taxis/construction workers/hot dog stands/drug-addled pan handlers that I forgot to do any shopping. (Argh! I cannot live with the shame.)

The restaurant...it was soooo New York. It had a clear plastic box you had to pass through to get to the bar (picture a four-season porch with no screens...with plastic walls and a plastic door). The neon bar lights were disguised as coils of rope. All the women were wearing black, and needed a milkshake I.V. And they had a cheese bar. A cheese bar! I was enchanted. Cheese bar! Such a dazzling array of cheese...it was good there was a bar. A bar for the yummy yummy cheese.

Anyway, my point is, sometimes (all right, MOST times) being a working writer kicks ass. No sooner did I return from NY than I had to turn around and head to Boston for the NEC romance writers conference. I'm typing this from my room at the Sheraton, there's a Law & Order: Criminal Intent marathon on, I'm heading downstairs in half an hour to be ice tea'd and dined, and since I don't have kids to worry about (I cruelly abandoned them in MN), I can sleep late.

Cheese bar! Sleep late!

I withdraw everything. Being a working writer is utterly, utterly sexy.

I Devour The Big Apple

Devour probably isn't the right word. Contemplate, maybe. Investigate? Demean? Contaminate?

Whatever the word, I'm off to New York City next week. One of my publishers wants to introduce me to their sales reps and marketing team. This seemed like a terrible idea to me (I have fooled my very nice, very trusting editor, Monique, who thinks I am sane and unmedicated and responsible and moral and clean and thrifty and kind to small children and animals), but then I remembered: IT'S A FREE TRIP TO NEW YORK CITY. So up, up, and away I go.

Among other things, I will be asked to explain how I got the idea for the ME, MYSELF AND WHY series (like *I* know?). So I've got a couple of days to come up with a fantastic lie.

"I was making my daily donation to every local church and shelter and Cinnabon in the area, when I thought, you know what the FBI needs? Crazy people!"

"I was showing the Chief of Surgery my layman's technique for gouging out an appendix with an ice cream scoop, when I realized the next trend in romance will feature heroines who are clinically insane. Move over, Twilight, here comes Cadence Jones!"

"I was rescuing several puppies from drowning in the Mississippi River when I thought, instead of rescuing these yapping mongrels, I could be writing a series about a leggy insane Midwestern blonde."

I'll keep working on it.