I'm spending way too much time playing Just Three Words on Facebook. I'm spending way too little time actually writing. The problem with Just Three Words (or "J3W" as it's known to us addicts) is that it gives you the illusion of writing, without giving you any honest-to-God product at the end of it. You waste hours and hours in delightful creative synergy with total strangers, at the end of which you have created exactly nothing.

It's the synergy that is seductive, I think ... we writers being a rather solitary, quirky lot. Writing is probably the loneliest profession there is. But J3W is "writing PLUS!" -- writing in the company of others -- writing as a (gasp!) collaborative experience! No wonder it's irresistible.

Oh, yes indeed, there are cookies on the dark side ...

I mean it.

Hey, how come I just found out today that it's National Novel Writing Month? Too late NOW. Next year I'm gonna do it, I swear.

I'm so thrilled.

http://www.icanhascheezburger.com published my photo of wee Muffin. And among the comments, someone actually WROTE A POEM based on the picture.

Wow, man. This really blew my mind.

Check it out:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My Human starez n2 mai Izes
Lukz 2 me daown an wunderz Yzes
He haz da urj 2 bai Sweet Milk an Fish?

My Human has no reulizes
Dat Kitteh kat can hypnotizes
To make My Human do az Kitteh wish

Milk am delishus an Fish be nice
But mai want frum dis klevr Dvice
Am Cheezburger in mai fud dishus!

Jack Deth
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We accidentally did ourselves a favor by leaving my phone charger in the Paris hotel in Las Vegas. Our attempts to purchase a replacement charger caused gales of jeering laughter to rock the local Circuit City.

Okay, maybe I'm projecting my own feelings onto the Verizon crew.

At any rate, the instant transformation of my ancient, cobwebby cell phone into a paperweight turned out to be A Good Thing. Every person on our account got a new phone. Not just me. Everyone. But the rest of my account-sharing family members seem to have taken it in stride.

Not me, baby.

I have a new phone. A NEW PHONE!! La la la, la la la! My life now has meaning. I am connected to the Universe. I am at one with the Infinite.

I can't put the darn thing down. I'm fascinated by it. I have it on "xylophone mode." That means it tinkles and chirps every time I look at it cross-eyed. When I flip it open, a dancing flame meets my gaze. When I squeeze it, it takes pictures. When I speak my husband's name, it summons him.

I think I'm in love.

I have now rewritten Chapter One so many times, I'm dizzy. It's spread out in so many different files, all named some variant of "chapter1," that I have no idea which pieces are where. They are scattered among three different computers and two flash drives. I'm utterly mixed up and have no CLUE how this will all come together.

It always does, somehow. But the process of writing a novel is more like making sausage than we authors care to admit.

And yes, I am talking about the book that is supposed to hit the stores NEXT YEAR. The one I was under the impression I had FINISHED when I sent the darn thing out.

[insert incoherent spluttering, followed by wailing and gnashing of teeth]

I absolutely roared with laughter when I read this. It's about a cranky old boomer joining Facebook. And it is soooo much like my experience with LJ-!
http://www.slate.com/id/2161456/nav/tap1/

Except that I recently discovered something: I haven't been doing it right. Now I'm peeking around and finding groups of -- gasp! -- like-minded souls. Communities to join. Journals to read.

So look out.

Now if only I could figure out what a "tag" is ...

I'm using the falling leaves userpic to indicate THE AUTUMN OF MY LIFE. Sheesh. Isweartogod, I was seventeen ten minutes ago.

Okay, maybe it isn't autumn yet. Maybe I just feel old because I don't know what a "tag" is. It's probably, oh, late August of my life. Labor Day at the latest. But that's bad enough!!!!

Note to God: Your system bites. Next time, come up with something better.

Diane, World's Oldest Teenager

You know that awesome writers' conference I was too impoverished to attend? The one I've been drooling over for weeks, wishing I could go? The one where my editor will be leading a workshop entitled something like, "What's Next After Harry Potter?" -- a question to which, naturally, he and I both hope we have an answer? Well, guess what!

No, no, it's not that good. I'm not attending the conference. But it's still pretty good. My editor tells me that he doesn't think I'd get that much out of the presentations ... me being such a great writer already, you know.

!!!!!

?????

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Happy Valentine's Day to ME!

I can't wait to meet this guy.

I'm also, like, totally nervous. Maybe I'll ask one of my nieces to stand in for me. Go in, shake his hand, tell him you're me, and take copious notes while he tells you how to make my book the Next Big Thing. Easy, right? Piece of cake. Any volunteers?

Jody? Sonya? Ashley? Lianna? Chels? ANYBODY?

If you want, you can even write the second half of the book. (Since he would like the book to be about twice as long as it is now.) Please? Come on, it'll be fun!!

::sigh::

I can already tell I'm on my own with this.

Inconvenient truths I have recently encountered:

1. Movie stars, when away from places where they are doing their movie star thing, look like normal people. They don't even stand out in a crowd. However, I have discovered that this is an optical illusion. They LOOK like normal people ... but when you have your picture taken standing next to one, voila! The illusion is ripped away. I promise you, you will later stare at that picture in horror and disbelief. Because, when photographed, the movie star STILL looks like a normal person ... it is you, gentle reader, who appears abnormal. In fact, Great Scott, look at you. You're hideous. What were you thinking? That's a movie star, you idiot. When standing next to a movie star, face it, you look like a cross between Freddy Krueger and The Blob. So, new rule: Never have your picture taken with a movie star. It's tempting, of course, because you figure that you will want that picture, to prove that you met said movie star. Do not yield to the temptation. You will never, EVER, show anyone that picture of you standing next to the movie star.

2. My book is a mess and I wish I could totally rewrite it because I have begun it in the wrong place and now I can't tell my readers what they need to know unless I write reams of backstory or flashback which I totally don't want to do because, after all, I have my pride and flashbacks are utterly lame and backstory is even worse so now I am stuck with it the way it is and I don't know how to fix it.

3. Nobody is reading this journal.

Wait a minute. Scratch that last one. That's not an inconvenient truth. It's more like a saving grace.

I read somewhere about Second Life and thought it sounded cool. So I created a second life (Fizz Tizzy) and floated around in a virtual world for a while.

Man o man. Second Life is even a worse waste of time than an online journal.

I sucked at everything except changing my appearance and chatting. Not that I got to actually chat, because nobody would speak to me. And get this: Second Life mocked me when I tried to practice, seeking to become less clumsy (or memorize the steps necessary to manipulate objects). I would laboriously maneuver the beach ball onto the picnic table, only to be told, "Good job, but you've already done this." I would confront that blasted parrot and ask it for a @#$!%!! kiss, only to be told, "I've already kissed you."

I encounter enough hostility in the real world. I don't need it in a virtual world.

Looks like Fizz Tizzy is not destined to become a "regular" on the beaches of Second Life.

I had more fun in "Author! Author!" -- an AOL chat where I was invited to speak. If you call it speaking. Anyway, it's very soothing to the ego when a friendly group of writers gathers to pretend, for an hour, that what you have to tell them is interesting and/or important. Beats floating around as a nonentity and being sneered at by a parrot

Not even a REAL parrot. A virtual parrot. Sheesh.

I'm still recovering from Second Life PTSD.

Speaking of "Author! Author!," it never ceases to astonish me that publication confers so much status on a writer. I mean, hey, I'm not only the same person, I'm the same WRITER. If I'm good, I was just as good before I stepped through the looking glass. And if I wasn't any good, I'm no better now. If my opinions were worthless before, they're still worthless, because they're the same opinions. If my advice used to suck, guess what? It still sucks. Because it's the same advice. So it's really weird, and rather funny (although highly gratifying, of course) that unpublished writers seem to take what I say as gospel. They ask me for advice. They hang on my every (virtual) word. Even though what I have to say is no more valid than what they have to say, really. Still, they invite me into their chat rooms and let me natter on and on. They wait patiently in line for their turn to ask me a question. Amaaaaazing!

And it wasn't so long ago that I did the same thing. I used to think it was the coolest thing about cyberspace in general and AOL in particular, that a perfect nobody, like me, could actually converse with a published author. Wow, a published author.

ROFL!!!!!

OK, now I'm having dreams about the conference I can't attend. Last night I dreamed that I was there. So was President Bush -- who, I'm sad to report, had started drinking again and was so plastered that Dick Cheney had to take up the reins of government until Dubya could sober up. (In my dream, I wrote a note to Laura Bush, expressing my condolences. Seems to me I was quite sincere. For a Democrat.)

The writers conference was oddly packed with politicos. That's what I get for watching the State of the Union speech before going to bed.

Politicians or publishers or whatever they may have been, the conference conferees were thrillingly brilliant. There were a couple of guys tag-teaming each other in a workshop whose mere CONVERSATION was a pleasure to overhear. I couldn't stand it. I actually begged these guys to hire me. I wanted to work with them so badly that I didn't care what capacity they wanted me to fill. Luckily, the only opening they had was a high-level post -- and they offered it to me on the spot. Wasn't that fortunate?

Real life doesn't seem to work that way.

Although I'm sure it would, if I could only attend that blasted conference.

My cats are sacked out. Oreo is pressed against my left leg, Muffin against my right. My husband is also sacked out -- although he is not pressed against any portion of my anatomy, alas, because the cats have muscled him out of the way like furry little Schwarzeneggars. And here I sit, as wired as if I had just left Starbucks. No hope of sleep on the horizon.

My editor (okay, editor-to-be) is going to lead a workshop on YA fiction at the upcoming San Francisco Writers Conference. I happen to be writing YA fiction, so I'd kinda like to be there. And I just read about the conference online and it sounds, well, wicked cool. Too bad it costs SIX HUNDRED BUCKS. And that's without the hotel room, which is extra. And, oh yeah, it's at the Mark Hopkins. (They don't tend to hold these things at the local Motel 6. Which they totally should, because writers are notoriously poor. Even the good ones.)

::sigh::

Nothing like salivating over a conference you can't attend, to keep you up at night.

And the alarm will go off at 6:45 no matter what time I get to sleep. ARRGH.

I'm tiptoeing over to the clock RIGHT NOW to sneak the alarm up to 7:00. So there.

It's times like this that I wonder why I ever went back to a day job.

Oh, yeah ... now I remember. Health insurance, pension, dental, vision, a steady paycheck, and did I mention health insurance and a pension?

Excuse me while I grumble under my breath for a few minutes. Not loud enough to wake the cats, of course. Just loud enough to VENT A LITTLE BIT.

Okay, now the crunch begins. It's 2007 and I have a book coming out next year. (No contract yet, by the way. But I bet that doesn't let me off the hook. The first time I sold to Signet, I got galley proofs before I got my contract. In other words, they rushed into production on a book they had not officially purchased. Looking back, I wish I had held their feet to the fire a little bit. Heh, heh. "Agreement? What agreement?") My editor wants me to expand the book. In fact, he seems to be under the impression that the book could be, and perhaps should be, twice as long as it is.

Gulp.

Something has to give. Will it be my job, my pets, my husband, or my book? I'm telling you right now, it won't be the book. Or my pets.

Poor Bill . . .

Nobody was injured and nothing got broken. (Although it was a very near-run thing, there, for a while.) Now, that's what I call a success.

Hey, I'm too lazy to write all this stuff twice. Click and be enlightened: http://aar.blog-city.com/dianefarr.htm

Thanks for the giggle, Calvin and Hobbes!

Ouch. (pinch) Ouch.

I guess I'm awake.

I still CAN'T BELIEVE IT. It seems like forever that I have been waiting, fearing that every moment of delay was causing my writing career to shrivel like an unwatered plant. Dust, dust in the wind ...!

Well. I guess even Death Valley blooms once it rains again.

Hurrah!!!!!!!

This feels almost as good as the very first call, when Signet bought THE NOBODY. I've been without a contract so long, I feel like a brand new author all over again.

And hey, if I'm going to use a pseudonym, I guess I really AM a brand new author.

I think I'll be using a pseudonym. I don't want to use Diane Farr any more ... I think ... because that might confuse readers who pick up my new books expecting a historical romance. OTOH, of course, the books will have a cover. With cover art. Which will doubtless clue the readers in that my new book is not a historical romance. Hmmm.

My readers aren't stupid. (That goes without saying.) Maybe I can keep my name after all.

Perhaps my NEW EDITOR will have an opinion.

An editor!!! Hurrah!!!!! I have an editor!!!!

I gotta tell ya. It's a good feeling.

I have to savor it now, because I know from bitter experience that reality will soon set in.

My agent called today (on my sister Doreen's birthday ... odd!). There is an offer on the table for WICKED COOL!!!!

I gotta tell ya ... it feels GREAT to be back in the game.

Details are still being ironed out, and there's always the possibility that one of the other publishers who has been dithering around and dithering around for months on end may suddenly say, "Oh? Wait a minute ..." and jump in. (Yeah, right. In my dreams. So far -- until today -- it's been, "We love it! We simply loooove it! We sure wish we could publish it!") ((grrrrrr ... in other words, they don't loooove it ENOUGH))

So I'll give the details later.

Much later.

When there are, in fact, details to give.

And when I will no longer run the risk of JINXING THE WHOLE THING.

I'm still pinching myself!!!!

Thanksgiving is over; Christmas looms ever larger. I can't believe I volunteered to host Christmas dinner this year. WHAT was I thinking?!

I am stressing over it, but the fact that I have already made a seating chart and am making up a list of dishes may turn out to be a good thing. Rank amateurs need all the prep time they can get.

Here's my dilemma: It could be a disaster. Which would be awful. Or it could be a huge success. Which would mean I'd have to do it again.

You can see why I don't know what to hope for.

I love this time of year here. I mean I really, really love it. I lived much of my life on the coast, where you basically have two seasons -- dry and wet. And then I lived ten years in Phoenix. ('Nuff said.) I was actually rather nervous about moving somewhere with real, discernible seasons. I wasn't sure if I'd like all that WEATHER.

Well, I do.

Sacramento in autumn is a delight. I just walked from my downtown office to the nearest Starbucks, through a misty city glowing with color. I kicked my way through fallen leaves, inhaling their woodsy, autumnal perfume and wishing I could think of a good word to describe it. And then I walked back, a gingerbread latte warming my hand, taking sips of hot, spiced froth that practically sent me into sensory overload.

Aaaah. Life is good.

And my agent tells me that a certain publisher is working up an offer on my latest manuscript.