Print is in!

Print! I’m in Print!

And it was a pain in the butt! Actually, now that I have the hang of the different formatting, it won’t be as bad. And Flynn’s In, the sequel to AKA Lexi Frost, may actually end up in print first or about the same time as I bring it out as an eBook. I’m done with the formatting on it and just have to do the whole proof thing.

Print formatting is different. For one, the Table of Contents doesn’t just do itself. You have to put in page numbers. And (I suspect) people expect them to be right. Margins matter and you can’t fiddle with them.

Suddenly those ellipses that you had in an eBook that may appear on one line or two depending on the font size the reader chose, need to be noticed. They have to be all on one line.

And dashes matter (as a nod to Grammar Nazis). In print, you can tell the difference. There’s a dash, an en-dash, and an em-dash. Who cares? Some editors. Mine didn’t, but I do know the difference whether I choose to observe it or not. I don’t like em-dashes, they’re big and unwieldy. I like en-dashes, but there’s rarely a case where I’m allowed to use them. Regular dashes are just “meh” and I’ll use them where they’re needed. If you don’t care about these things, skip this whole paragraph.

I personally was very distracted by just a few words or one line at the end of a scene being on a different page. For these issues, and the ellipses issue, I had to find each instance, then do minor rewording to jigsaw the words together better. So if you put the print version of one of my books next to an eBook version, they will be slightly different.  If I didn’t tell you, no one but me would notice. Maybe my editor. 

Oh, and the red stripe across the cover, that changed. It’s still there, and still red, but it’s a different shade of red. Thought I would admit it before someone pointed it out to me. As if that was going to happen.

So now my second book published (third written) is the first in print. Yay!

Homecoming: Part Two (The Revenge of the Shoes!)

Sigh. Homecoming (the first) is over. The Girl survived the dance, the social activity, the . . . heels.  The drama can safely be set aside, but only for two weeks. Remember, she didn’t go to Homecoming at her own school.

Let’s get take a step back to those heels. I’ve mentioned she’s petite. She wears a size four shoe. Kids. There aren’t a lot of dress shoe options there. A helpful saleswoman once told us a kids’ size four is the same as a women’s size six. We picked out a pair of wedges, she tried them, walked in them, life is good. Until later when I caught her stuffing tissue in the toe because they were a size too big.

And why was this not mentioned at the shoe store? Teenage girl. Enough said.

With this in mind, we went shoe shopping again on Thursday. I couldn’t reasonably continue putting it off, even though I really dreaded this activity. Black shoes. That’s all I wanted. Black shoes that fit. Looking. Okay, black shoes that fit and look like they belong with a semi-formal dress not on a five-year-old.

We said a lot of things like “OMG, what were they thinking when they put that bow there?” and “Is that a flower? Why in the name of all that’s holy are there dead flowers on that shoe and why do they look like pom-poms?”

In desperation, I eyed the size sixes. They were largely stilettos and The Girl had only graduated as far as a two inch wedge with tissue in the toe to make it fit. Oh dear. There wasn’t even a simple paten leather black flat or kitten heel. Really? How basic is that? They did have some matte black pumps, but she hated them. And they weren’t dressy at all.

I handed her a shiny black spike heeled shoe. It was still two and a half inches, but hey, I was desperate. And a bad mother.

She glared at me.

“Try it.”

Still glaring, she slid one on, and threatened to fall over. Drama Princess.

“Put the other one on, you’ll balance better.”

She put the other one on, and I coaxed her into tottering down the aisle and back. It wasn’t pretty. We returned to looking at the size fours, then the three and a halves.

The Girl saw a pair of fancy stilettos  - in a size six. Strappy with rhinestones. Suddenly she was willing to give it another shot. Three inch heel. She was near tears.

“Honey, it’s just like walking, only your heel is focused on this little point. The ball of your foot is the same as in a sandal.” It’s pretty true. “Women have been doing this for a long time. You can do it if you put your mind to it. It’s kind of like walking on tip-toes, except you have somewhere to put your heel, so it’s really a lot easier.”  She can tip-toe, any three-year-old can do that!

The pep talk worked. She slid them on and gave it another go. We practiced in the store, then at home. Apparently she’s a kids’ size four or a women’s selective size six. Yeah, I toggle between two sizes too.

The Girl she was very excited because all of a sudden, she could look me in the eye! (I’m three inches taller than her.) She was taller, she had pretty ‘big girl’ shoes. Homecoming wasn’t so bad.

Except of course you have to dance in them. For hours.

She survived. Now let’s get back to that ‘this was at another school’ issue. Now she wants to dress up again and ‘drop in’ on a ‘friend’ who has to work during Homecoming at their school. The girl was quick to explain it wasn’t a date. She’s fifteen and can’t date yet. She’s just dropping by so he can say that he did Homecoming and wouldn’t that be fun?

Fun. Hubby, grab your shotgun, we’ve created a monster.

Who needs to feel secure anyway?

I went to a trade show today with Hubby, he works in security. Not a security guard, although he did that for a brief time in college. He likes to play with locks and security systems. When I say ‘play with,’ I mean break. Actually, not break, he bypasses them, but you’d never know it. It’s a game to him. It’s all about defeating your security but not letting you know. Then letting you know and saying here’s how to stop someone better.

Strangely, people get paid to do this.

I used to tell him I wished he’d just be a bad guy and get it out of his system. He just looked at me and asked how I knew he wasn’t a hardened criminal. Because we wouldn’t have all this debt. He’s too good at all this crap. The local police used to use him regularly in their training exercises. It was frightening. Maybe more on that another time. Back to the trade show.

Usually he takes The Girl. She loves it. But she’s in school. He used to just pull her out for the day but she’s got a heavy week at school so it’s just not happening. Plus Homecoming tomorrow. And The Boy is strangely uninterested in getting a new set of lockpicks or whatever. He’s thirteen! Shouldn’t this be right up his alley? He’s pouting because I haven’t caved and bought him Grand Theft Auto Five. I’m making him practice his cello and earn it. Mean mommy! Anyway, so I got to go with Hubby. Yay?

Apparently I’ve learned more about this stuff over the past decade than I realized. In evidence was the nicest little keypad entry system I’ve ever seen. It was discreet and sleek. Small. Really small.

“So have you tested it against magnet attacks?” (You can easily bypass some of these with a simple magnet. See? I learned something.)

The rep paused only briefly before he answered. “Well this is more of a convenience product than a security device.”

Okay . . . then why have it lock at all? If I buy a keypad entry I’d expect it to (let me think) lock!

Nevermind. Move on to harass the next vendor.

Homecoming: Part One

How many times have I asked for someone to just shoot me? And yet I’m still here. Fat lot of good you guys are.

I’ve spent three days explaining to The Girl that she’s a girl. I know this may seem self evident, but allow me to explain.

Homecoming. It’s coming up and she doesn’t see the point. I explained the game, the tradition, the dance, but to no avail. Okay . . .  dancing, girls like dancing. Not this one. Fine. Girls like getting all prettied up and making boys’ brains turn to mush. Not this one. Are you sure you’re my daughter? I got glared at for that one and told “You were there!”

I explained the ‘no dating until you’re sixteen’ rule can be put on hiatus in specific cases. I got a shrug. We have a specific case. We’re on the boundary between three high schools (so close that we chose which one she went to because all of them have a bus stop within two blocks). Two doors down, the eldest daughter of Mr. & Mrs. Patience is going to a different high school and has a friend who needs a date, and eyed The Girl appraisingly. Mrs. Patience is chaperoning that dance. The Girl is going whether she wants to or not. For the record, her opinion is not.

Mrs. Patience is living vicariously through her daughters, which she freely admits. I had a social life in high school and college; I don’t need to live through The Girl. I suspect she might have regrets later if she goes through with her ‘forgo all social activities because boys are stupid’ plan. Yes, boys can be stupid, especially the teen variety. She’s desperately looking forward to college. Unfortunately, she’s going to need practice for dating in college, which you get by dating in high school.

So a group date with a neighbor chaperoning? Hell yes she’s going. Besides, she’s got a list of boys already for when she turns sixteen so this will give her a little confidence boost. And Hubby isn’t even reaching for a shotgun or going out of his mind.

This is a win. I hope. I’ll get back to you.

Two Great Romantic Couples, And You Can Keep Them.

I’ve spent the last week or so re-formatting three books for paperback. Three? But wait! There are only two published! Yeah, I can count too. Flynn’s In is formatted and the cover is done for print, and I’m still trying to get one teensy-weensy little detail cleared up before I can release it as an ebook. Okay, it’s the cover for Chrysanthemum, stop nagging. I have the “Coming Soon” section at the end and I have a blurb for Chrysanthemum, but not a cover to preview. Even close is fine. But I rejected the first concept and haven’t got the second one back. (It takes hiring a model for one lousy picture, which takes time.) Romance! Now if I’d gone with kidlit, I could grab The Girl, hand her some crayons and tell her to draw me a picture of Cat or something for the cover. No. Had to be romance. More sex than in kidlit.

So, yeah, I write romance. Sort of. I write a different kind of romance.  Just wait, you'll see. In my formative years, my favorite romances - the classics - were Gone with the Wind and Jane Eyre. I'll just say it now, I wasn't an Austin person. Pride And Prejudice And Zombies? Yeah, I was there for that, but only because of the zombies. Sorry, lynch me now.

So, Gone with the Wind came first. I didn’t like Ashley, I didn’t like Rhett, and I thought Scarlett was a bitch who needed to be slapped. As an adult, I'll give Rhett the benefit of a second glance and we'll see. I really don't know why I liked the book so much considering the only character I liked was Mammy. (Did anyone like Ashley? Besides Scarlett and his idiot wife I mean?)

So much for romance, but hey, 7th grade, moving on. Jane Eyre, let's get dreary. Yeah, I never saw what she saw in Rochester. At least when they filmed Gone with the Wind it was in color. Even when they film Jane Eyre in color it was still in black and white. The character's life was really that drab. And I liked her that way. (I'm really mean.)

The point of this is two great works of literature, great romantic couples, and I don’t like them. What does that tell you? No idea. I'll have to ask my shrink about that.

The KitKat Bomb

The announcement that the new Android OS will be named KitKat hit our house like a bomb. I know that sounds a little extreme. Remember I have two teenagers, everything about our house is extreme.

There’s a little background to consider here. The Boy wants to work for Microsoft, I think I mentioned that. He does have an aptitude for computers, an unfortunate one. Not in terms of breaking them, that’s The Girl, and she wants to work for Google. Should I warn them? Maybe later. Her ambition is largely to irritate her little brother. It’s right in line with he likes one of the rival collages in the area solely because she wants to go to the other one. When they clash in the annual football game that divides the state by where you went to college, it’s like a war zone over the dinner table.

Anyway, The Boy’s aptitude for computers led me to start him on various smartphones at a young age. (I have a bit of a phone fetish. There it is, do what you will with that.) I made him carry the original Palm OS, Blackberry, WebOS (New Palm that never really caught on), Windows 5, 6, & 7, iOS, and, of course, Android. He’s had several of the Android software versions simply because I have a collection of devices for them to be on. He was working toward a Windows 8 phone, to match his Windows 8 PC, and get everything all in line to sync with his Xbox and . . .

Then the KitKat announcement came and several things happened.

I started craving a KitKat, which I hadn’t thought of in . . . awhile. The Girl was dancing and wanting a physical version of the mascot (she has a small collection of Android mascots and the new one is so cute!), and The Boy’s fingers started twitching as he eyed his phone, wondered if it would upgrade to KitKat, and decided maybe he’d put off Windows 8. Just for a little bit.

Well played, Google. Well played.

 

The Android robot is reproduced or modified from work created and shared by Google and used according to terms described in the Creative Commons 3.0 Attribution License.

A Dinner For Everyone, Or Not

I have this delusion someday my family will eat fresh, healthy food. If I have chips in the house, The Boy will finish them in a day. Two tops. A two-liter bottle is good for a day. Right now we have The Boy rationed to one can of Orange Fanta a day. It’s a small step. Now, for salads. I have exciting salads on the menu. Every now and then I forget how the gentle nudge toward healthy went last time I tried it.

Hubby saw my foolish plan, and didn’t say a word. I got out the beautiful romaine lettuce, sweet cucumbers, and some gorgeous tomatoes. I prepared all of these and the kitchen took on a fresh, crisp, summery smell. He perked up when I pulled out crumbled feta and garbanzo beans. Shot me a disgusted look at the black olives, but forgave me immediately when I brought out the avocados. Hubby loves avocados.

Knowing the finickyness of The Boy, I added croutons to the array of little bowls strewn across my counter. The Girl was already covered, she loves anything Greek so the olives and feta would tickle her. Plus I had Greek dressing.

Feeling prepared, and ignoring Hubby, I called the kids to dinner.

The Girl looked, saw I had everything in individual bowls so it was clearly a do-it-yourself, put-the-control-in-her-hands affair, and she wouldn’t be expected to eat any of that nasty avocado. She accepted the plan and made herself a lovely salad.

The Boy took one look and walked away. I grabbed the lanky teen and pulled him back. He’s still shorter than me, which was the only reason I succeeded. I explained dinner is all under his control (of course meaning he can put whatever he likes on his salad). That was a tip from those raising-teenage-boys books I’ve been reading. Yeah. Great idea. His choice was not a salad. He made himself a PB&J.

Brat. 

The salad was great, by the way. Thanks for asking. I highly recommend it.