Dark Romance

Tomorrow being February 1st, I've started thinking about Valentine's Day and songs to put on my writing playlist for the month. At the risk of showing my age, this is the stuff I'll be listening to get a dark romantic vibe . . . . .

Closer by Nine Inch Nails: The mama and papa of all fuck records, bar none. The video is twisted, but it's the lyrics that make my toes curl up.

Friday I'm In Love by the Cure: This one is only dark because it's the Cure; it's actually a pretty peppy song. But it still gets me in my pervy spot with lyrics like "It's such a gorgeous sight/To see you eat in the middle of the night." Weird but vivid - you know exactly what he means.

Personal Jesus by Depeche Mode: Depeche Mode is almost too horny; this song is the aural equivalent of a sweetheart's joking-but-still-sexy striptease, complete with pout. (Honorable Mention: Strangelove)

Run for Your Life by the Beatles: You don't think of the early Fab Four as being dark, but this one surely is - the ultimate psycho boyfriend song. John Lennon wasn't ever really cute on the inside of his brain. (Honorable Mention: I Want You/She's So Heavy)

I Burn for You by Sting and/or the Police: This was originally recorded by the Police for the soundtrack to the movie Brimstone & Treacle, but my favorite version is the live one Sting did with his Dream of the Blue Turtles band in the documentary Bring on the Night. (Honorable Mention: Mad About You)

Love Me Two Times by the Doors: Jim Morrison usually sounds more hot for Jim Morrison than anything or anybody else, but for me, this one is the exception - he sounds enthralled and stoned and totally out of his mind. The opening bass line alone gives me a shiver.

Sweet Child O'Mine by Guns'n'Roses: So classic it's a cliche, but it still sounds like the ultimate wife-beating trailer trash dude's ultimate declaration of undying love. She's his victim and his salvation, an ethereal dream and a piece of ass.

Mama by Genesis: You don't usually think of Phil Collins as a threatening dude, but he's quite the little beastie here. "No I won't hurt you mama/But it's getting so hard"

Because the Night by the Patti Smith Group: I might lose my early-80s coolster card for this, but most Patti Smith is just too out there for me. But this cover of an early Bruce Springsteen may be the most perfect record ever made. Girls want it, too, and she's not afraid to sing it.

Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones: Truly scary and truly hot. Makes all the emo boys just sound pissy. (Honorable Mentions: Gimme Shelter and Midnight Rambler)

Bad by U2: U2 isn't usually dark, but this one has always played that way for me - it's got the same sex appeal as the more popular With or Without You, but it's much more raw. (Honorable Mention: So Cruel)

Uninvited by Alanis Morrisette: This song is actually way better before you know what she's singing - the lyrics are actually a little lame. But the way she twists and stutters the pronunciations, the stuff that really is hot leaps out from an unintelligible babble in a way that works, and the musical arrangement is downright sweaty with desire.

Fire by the Jimi Hendrix Experience: Child molestation shouldn't sound like this much fun. Or maybe he's just speaking metaphorically to a girl who's all grown up. Either way, one of the most aggressive seductions ever with a guitar line that licks like flames.

Hurt by Johnny Cash: More love than sex on this one, just heartbreaking. Cash as broken beast.

Magic Man by Heart: Before they went all adult contemporary, Heart had a healthy appetite for sex that didn't play smarmy at all. If you only know this one as background noise from a "classic rock" station, give the lyrics another listen. Particularly if you've got a wizard fetish. lol

Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley: The saddest, most romantic version of a sad, romantic song.

I Should Have Been True by the Mavericks: The best rockabilly lament David Lynch hasn't used in a movie yet. Most of their hits are light-hearted Tex-Mex, but this one is a heartbreaker in the Roy Orbison vein.

Black Magic Woman by Santana: This one has voodoo all over it.

She's Not There by the Zombies: Another twisted little gem from the British Invasion era. (Honorable Mention: Time of the Season)

So what am I missing?

That picture at the top of the blog

Those are the Cliffs of Moher, one of the most gorgeous things I saw on the most amazing trip of my life - I actually took that picture. My best friend, Petey, her mom, our friend, Johnny, his Aunt Bernice, and I went to Ireland last year, and it was beyond fabulous. To tell everything I loved there would take forever and try the patience of the Blarney Stone, but here are some highlights:

Favorite town: Kinsale. We saw cities all over Ireland and Northern Ireland, and all of them were beautiful. But Kinsale stole my heart - if I could live anywhere on the planet, this is where I would pick. It was once the last stop in Europe on a voyage west to America; now it's mostly a vacation spot, although there seemed to be a fair amount of commercial shipping going on, too. It's a pirate town, and there was a pub there, The Pirate's Cove, that I know I'll never forget.

Favorite medieval structure: The Rock of Cashel. Technically, it isn't a castle but a church. But the ruins are in the process of being preserved, and access is amazing - you can walk through the cathedral, through the older, smaller chapel, get a real sense of what it must have been like when it was all new. I could have stayed there about twice as long as we did, just touching the stones.

Favorite castle: Bunratty, because it was my first. For years, I've been writing about life inside a medieval castle, but I had never actually been inside one before. Bunratty was the first stop on our two-week tour, and not even jet lag could blunt its impact on me - I actually sat down on a window seat in the solar and cried, as stupid as that sounds. It really was like walking into one of my books. We saw many other sights in Ireland that were more objectively moving - the natural wonder of the Giant's Causeway and the Cliffs of Moher, the human drama of the murals in Belfast, the serenity of the ruined cathedral at the Rock of Cashel. But Bunratty was the place that shattered me.

Favorite local cuisine: the Pavlova. Speaking of spiritual experiences . . . I realize that the Pavlova is not a strictly Irish dish - it's named for a Russian ballerina, isn't it? But I had never had one before. I had my first at dinner about three nights in and fell for it head over heels. I ended up eating them from one end of Ireland to the other - at a fancy hotel restaurant in Galway, at a tiny pub in a village so tiny I don't even remember the name of it, in the tea rooms of three different museums I can think of right off the top of my head. Every single one was absolutely delicious.

As trite as it sounds, though, the most beautiful thing about Ireland is the people. Never in my life have I encountered such kindness and humor and warmth. I never met a native who was anything but friendly - seriously, no Irish person spoke a single cross word to me the whole two weeks I was there, whether they were being paid to help me or just running into me on the street. I had been warned that there was a fair amount of anti-US feeling in some of the pubs because of the war in Iraq, but I never saw or heard it - maybe my southern accent saved me, I don't know. All I do know is that my friends and I went to enjoy Ireland to its absolute fullest, and the people we met there were, all of them, happy to help.

Mexican Candy

In the summer of 2006, I finished my final draft of the final installment of a trilogy of medieval vampire romances called Bound in Darkness for Pocket Books. For the past six years, I had gone straight from one romance novel into another for Pocket, and I had no reason to imagine this time would be any different, even though my current contract was up once the book I'd just finished came out in December. My editor and I had casually discussed continuing the vampire series, and I had started thinking about how that might work, where I might go.

In a lot of ways, I was disenchanted with romance as a genre. While I had always been fairly well-reviewed and had a lovely core audience who seemed to enjoy reading what I was doing as much as I enjoyed writing it, after six books, I still hadn't found widespread success. That I had a hard time finding romance books by other people in the bookstore that I wanted to read seemed like a bad sign, too. The romance audience seemed to want something lighter, more Sex in the City, less bloody epic, even from vampire novels, and I knew that would never be me. My editor was feeling the pressure, too, I could tell - my notes were always to get out of the characters' heads, make it lighter, make it hotter, skip the historical detail, skip the angst. When I had started, I hadn't felt the restrictions of the romance genre as restrictions at all - hitting the marks while concocting an original tale was fun, a challenge. But more and more, the noose was tightening. Still, I had been asked for a new proposal, and I loved the series as a concept, so I wasn't really worried. I made a few notes for a new installment, then set the work aside to go on my family's annual pilgrimage to the beach.

While I was there, I found a stack of tabloids some other vacationer had left behind, and stuck inside with a sunburn at mid-week, I started flipping through them. They dated from the great Brad/Jennifer/Angelina triangle, and mostly they made me sad. But the more I read, the more I thought about what these people could really be like, what their real emotions and motivations could be, and, more importantly, how dramatically different those emotions and motivations probably were from the way they were being publicly portrayed. A character popped up inside my head - there's no other way to describe it; one minute she wasn't there, the next she was - a woman who has lived her whole life in the spotlight, whose every tragedy and joy has been part of this great soap opera for strangers. I knew where she started; I knew where she would go; I knew she had only the most sketchy sense of her true self, and I knew she needed to define it. I heard her voice inside my head so clearly, I actually bought a spiral-bound notebook at the grocery store that night and started writing it down, not as an outline or notes but a full-fledged narrative in first-person, something I hadn't done since high school. Half a page in, I knew her name was Scarlett, that she was completely different from any heroine I had ever written before, that I didn't have a clue how to "sell" her for publication, and that I was going to have to write her story anyway, just for myself. I decided she would be my "fun" project, the thing I picked up to play with whenever I got stuck on the serious business of writing for money.

When I got home, I got back to that serious business; I wrote what I considered to be a truly kick-ass proposal for another trilogy of Bound in Darkness books - I was thrilled with the hook I had conjured, excited at the prospect of diving back into that world with a point of view that felt fresh and new. I sent it off to my editor at Pocket and actually started writing, confident that she would love it, too. And she did, bless her heart. She just couldn't buy it. She said my sales on the last book and the pre-sales on the book set to come out in a few months didn't justify doing more, that they were heading in a new direction, that they weren't even sure they wanted to keep doing historical romance at all. Whatever . . . . . the big point was, I was out.

Needless to say, I was devastated. I just kept thinking, "What am I going to do? What the f*ck am I going to do now?" And the very fact that I was having that thought scared me - when had I gotten so locked into doing this one kind of book that I couldn't even imagine how to do anything else? I had started writing historical paranormal romances for fun and profit, not as a life's pursuit. Smart, well-meaning friends within the romance community suggested I take my ideas elsewhere, that surely I could find another romance publisher, but the very idea made me cringe. As scared as I was, I realized I was ready to move on. As hurt and angry as I felt, the romance market had done me a favor. I didn't belong there any more, at least not in its present incarnation, and I had been too caught up in the habit of a steady contract to notice.

Which still left me with the problem of what next? That's when I went back to Scarlett, not as a lark or a mind-cleanser, but as the voice of a real novel. I knew I had gotten into the habit of scribbling in her notebook rather often; I was shocked to discover I had more than 50 pages written and literally decades of her life sitting around fully-formed inside my head. I even knew what her story should be called - Mexican Candy. I typed up what I had and showed it to my agent, half-apologetic, half-hopeful - is this anything? Oh yeah, he told me. This is.

So I've been working on it ever since, pretty much to the exclusion of everything else. When I had a hundred pages - standard proposal length for the genre fiction I was used to - my agent and I tried sending it out to a few publishers. The general consensus seemed to be "it reads well, but . . . . what the heck is it?" Again, the sensible thing would probably have been to abandon the project and focus on something that had a better chance of selling, at least temporarily - losing my book contract was a big blow to my finances and continues to be. But I can't. When I told my agent I couldn't, he agreed - we talked about it and decided it would be easier to sell as a complete document, that we needed the whole story to know what it really was.

So I'm eating a lot of soup and pasta, not taking a lot of vacations, and writing what I hope is the best book of my life so far.

The not-so-Golden Globes

Like everyone else who cares at all, I thought last Sunday's Golden Globes press conference/pseudo-news presentation/whatever sucked donkey wieners. Lynette Rice's cover story in the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly helped me finally understand why the WGA has little choice but to let the awards shows go to hell - basically, the advertising revenue shows like the Globes and the Oscars generate for the big conglomorates that own Hollywood is the only monetary big stick the writers have with which to fight back against the producers' "screw y'all, we got the money, we'll wait it out" mentality. But that didn't make watching Billy Bush and Entertainment TV Barbie (I have no idea who that woman was; I only remember Bush from hating him at red carpet specials in the past) prattle their way through the winners' list any easier to swallow. Watching the Golden Globes is one of the big events of my media year - my nearest and dearest and I would ordinarily get together by 5 pm to watch the red carpet and eat too much junk food; we make our own little ballots; we become emotionally overwrought over who wins and loses; it's even better than the Oscars because there are TV people, fewer techies, and freeflowing liquor in the audience. But this year, I watched this travesty of a whatever by myself while doing a crossword puzzle, occasionally shouting out the name of a winner to my roommate as she put clothes in the wash. Sad, sad, sad . . . .

The only thing that helps at all is the fact that I haven't seen much of anything that was nominated, as will be painfully apparent in the following:

Best Motion Picture Drama: Atonement: I very much want to see this, but it's not playing at my local multiplex yet. Has anyone outside NYC & LA or even just outside the entertainment industry actually seen all of the movies nominated already?

Best Motion Picture Musical or Comedy: Sweeney Todd: I couldn't be more thrilled that this won, but I think it's horrible that there was no ceremony to present the award and no chance for the people who made it to publicly accept it. They probably couldn't care less, but I do. And I doubt the Oscars will make it up to me, even if by some miracle it goes on full throttle without a picket line. I adore this movie; I've already seen it three times. But I'm sadly afraid that either the more conventional high-tone beauty of Atonement or the cool-kids-only grit and gore of There Will Be Blood will knock it out of a Best Picture win. Which will stink.

Best Actor in a Motion Picture Drama: Daniel Day-Lewis: I have a terrible confession to make. I think Daniel Day-Lewis is brilliant. But ever since the night I barely survived Gangs of New York, I have learned that the surest way to know which arty movies to avoid is to see his name on the poster. Sue me; I don't mind pain, but I hate hopelessness portrayed as reality. So I haven't seen this yet and probably will not.

Best Actress in a Motion Picture Drama: Julie Christie, Away from Her: Again, I haven't seen this, so I shouldn't comment. But this is my blog, so what the heck. To me, this looks like a beautiful person using their beauty to make an ugly disease watchable. A noble accomplishment, I suppose, but I'm not sure it constitutes "best" acting. I have a real soul defect when it comes to disease-centered movies; they give me a twitch. And yes, I know, they can mean everything and soothe the hearts of people who have lost loved ones, etc., etc., and well done to them; I'm glad. But while I've lost loved ones, too (and even drawn comfort from a couple of movies about the same diseases, actually, now that I think about it), the genre in general doesn't move, inspire or entertain me.

Best Actor in a Motion Picture Musical or Comedy: Johnny Depp, Sweeney Todd: Mere words cannot express how thrilled I am about this one. I suspect I'm way more excited about it than he is. Now, as with the win for the movie as a whole above, I just wish he'd win the damned Oscar!

Best Actress in a Motion Picture Musical or Comedy: Marion Cotillard, La Vie En Rose: I really want to see this movie. I'm sad neither Helena Bonham-Carter nor Nikki Blonsky got the award they both deserve, but I can't say mean things about anything that concerns Edith Piaf.

Best Supporting Actor in a Motion Picture: Javier Bardem, No Country for Old Men: Yet another buzz-y flick I haven't seen and probably won't see. I'm a wuss, I freely admit it. I love the Coen brothers when they're funny, but I can't watch their violent dramas - I almost fainted watching the woodchipper scene in Fargo. The very thing that makes these movies great is the thing that makes them unwatchable for me - they do mindful cruelty, not mindless. It's more real than real - I react to the world these movies present the same way Marge reacts to the killer in the backseat of her patrol car. I know it's real, and I really, really don't want to know it. So I don't know if Bardem is as fab in this as everyone says he is. I hate the haircut, but I think I'm supposed to. And I loved his acceptance speech at the Critics Choice Awards. So hey, yay for him.

Best Supporting Actress in a Motion Picture: Cate Blanchett, I'm Not There: Not a huge fan of Cate Blanchett. I thought her Katherine Hepburn was a laughable impression; I thought her Galadriel was a videogame princess on Quaaludes; I thought her fake Garbo was half the utter ruination of The Good German (the other half being the weirdness that was Tobey Maguire). But I loved her in the first Elizabeth, and I will see pretty much anything Todd Haynes puts on film, so if this ever makes it to my neighborhood, I'll be able to form a more solid opinion. And by the way, another reason why I hope the Oscar ceremony goes forward - it will give me a chance to see, once and for all, that Cate Blanchett and Tilda Swinton are two entirely different women.

Best Director: Julian Schnabel, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly: Another triumph of the human spirit picture. If I agree to just feel uplifted on my own, may I skip it? Seriously, I'm sure it's just as poetic and visually stunning as everyone says; I'm just too much of a philistine to care.

Best Animated Feature: Ratatouille: I have a two year old niece. I have seen this many, many, MANY times. I haven't liked it yet. Rats creep me out - the scene where they all come pouring out of the shotgun-toting old lady's ceiling makes me physically ill. And please don't point out to me that they wash their little hands before they cook - what about their slimy, furry, sewage-encrusted little bodies? Yes, it's clever; yes, it's artful, but ye gods, what's next? Pixar presents The Little Flesh-Eating Virus That Could?

Best Screenplay: Ethan and Joel Coen, No Country for Old Men: I actually prefer the Oscar system of having two awards for this, one for original and one for adapted. I don't doubt the Coen brothers' genius, but how much of what's great about this came from Cormac McCarthy's book? Then again, sometimes the way material is adapted is the real dazzler.

Best Foreign Language Film: The Diving Bell and the Butterfly: See comments on Julian Schnabel above; they fit better here anyway.

Best Score: Atonement: Does this sound that much different from every other lush period movie set in the UK made in the past 20 years? I haven't heard it, so I couldn't say, but I've heard some of the stuff Eddie Vedder did for Into the Wild and pieces of the score for The Assassination of Jesse James . . . , and both are really interesting and different.

Original Song: Guaranteed, Into the Wild: Great song. Eddie Vedder was an inspired choice for this material.

Okay, I would blog further about the TV awards, but here's the thing. The only TV show that won anything that I've seen is 30 Rock. Tina Fey totally deserved to win; heck, I'd elect her president based solely on her American Express questionnaire ad. Mad Men I have tried to watch, and it's engrossing, no question. But it makes me sad that critics keep talking about how sexy it is - how is sexual harassment, adultery, and the general discounting of women as humans by the (admittedly anti-heroic) protagonists sexy, exactly? The underlying theme seems to be "oh yeah, weren't they rotters? don't we wish we could be, too?" If those are the sexy old days, I'm kinda glad I missed them.

Off to pray for the Oscars . . . . .

Voice mail, damnit! A day job rant

One of the many gruesome tasks included in the daily grind of a Family Court paralegal is checking the dag-nab voice mail. I know people hate talking to voice mail; I hate it, too. So why, why, WHY does everyone insist on leaving a ten-minute message that rambles endlessly around whatever problem they need to address and ends with a garbled, speed-talking-through-a-wad-of-taffy recitation of the one piece of information actually required, their phone number? I feel your pain, I swear to heaven! I want, nay, I NEED to call you back. But if I can't understand your number, I can't. And I won't worry about it. If you think you're testing me or making me work for it, you're crazy, kid - I can delete you with one touch of a button and never look back.

Don't let this happen to you. The next time you call and our receptionist punches you through to voice mail before the final syllable of my boss' name escapes your lips, use this handy script:

"Hi, this is Mary Geneva Muckenfuss. My phone number is 555-1234. Sources tell me my soon-to-be-ex-husband is murdering small children and pets at the apartment complex where he currently lives with the sorry piece of tattooed tail he left me for and wearing their bodies as hats. I believe this entitles me to a greater percentage of his 401K. Please call me at 555-12345."

I promise, we will call you back.