Bovary's Blog

My father called her “Little Mother”, which she hated.  Which is why he called her that. Little mother came from her height: five feet, two inches.  But it also had to do with the fact that she took up very little emotional space.  She was undemanding and infuriatingly unselfish.  My mother was a big collector. She collected other people’s recipes, shoes on sale, buttons, something called bric brac, fabric swatches (thus the reason for the patchwork place mats and aprons), pieces of drift wood, all sorts of odds and ends that she was always going to use to “make something”. And you could see her mind working, mentally flipping through the millions of Good Housekeeping Arts & Crafts articles to come up with the one ingenuous project that required 5,000 corks in assorted sizes. That Christmas she created a collection of cork jewelry. Necklaces, dangling earrings, bracelets, all covered in blue and green glitter.

My little mother was a big do-it-yourselfer.  She stained the pine panels in our basement and, as a result, came down with an infection of the gums because of the toxic exposure to the shoe polish she used.  Yes, she went through hundreds of little bottles of Oxblood shoe polish, using the dabber to stain the walls, turning what once was a rumpus room into a real, authentic redwood den.   In the same house in Denver, she built a cinder block wall in the backyard, figuring out how to level the blocks on a slanted ground, mixing her own cement, enduring my father’s funny comments when he came home from the office and stood head cocked, holding his before-dinner scotch.

There was nothing she couldn’t do, except grow taller.  And to try and be taller she had a huge collection of sample size shoes which she got on sale. Sample size (size five and a half) were always cheaper. She wore a size six. So of course the shoes always gave her bunions and she ultimately gave up wearing them.

Feelings were not something worth collecting. She didn’t hold grudges, she didn’t get angry, she didn’t talk about sadness or happiness or resentment or joy.

She had one small request for when she died and that was to cremate her. Her ashes were put in an urn in a little box in a small square hole in a big cemetery in Denver.  My little mother, true to herself, took up the smallest possible space, even in death.

Rushing to meet a deadline for the first 100 pages of my newest novel (Sarah’s Hair. The story of Sarah Bernhardt’s hairdresser–a must-read.)  I suddenly found that my 2011 Microsoft Word was preventing me from making any edits. I called the Microsoft office. Apparently they keep banker’s hours. So I called GuruAid and spoke to Vanay Mishra, a very nice man who was only too happy to help me. First we talked about Indian Food and the weather in India. “It is very hot, “ he said.  “Always very hot.”  Then he told me something that I didn’t want to hear:  “This is a very unusual problem. I never saw this problem before.” He introduced me to his supervisor who helped me fill out the form for assistance. (Only $120.) After some time, the problem was discovered. Track Changes was turned off. Vanay showed me where Track Changes was located and how to turn it on. We made plans to meet in Bombay, share a Makki Paneer Pakora and then we bid each other a fond farewell.  He assured me there would be no more problems. I finished my edit, sent the first 100 pages to my agent to read. Only later did I discover later that Track Changes had deleted the first four chapters. There’s a moral to this story but I can’t share it with you. Microsoft’s Track Changes has deleted it.

I understand that Nora Ephron felt bad about her neck. But personally, I feel that’s nothing compared to how I felt about my first novel when it was rejected last week by a well known ebook publisher because it was “too dated.” What!

The book (Expecting Miracles) was set in 1980.  It’s about a  successful young woman who discovers that she can’t do the one thing all other women seem to be able to do easily: she can’t conceive a child.

This was all before the case of OctoMom and in vitro fertilization, so I guess that makes it too dated.  Just as Moby Dick was too fishy, The Great Gatsby too snotty and Pride and Prejudice too Jane Austen-y.

I immediately wrote the publisher back and thanked her for her time.  “Can you recommend any publishers who specialize in books that are “too dated”?

I’m still waiting to hear.  In the  meantime, after writing this I much feel better about my book.  Look for Expecting Miracles on Amazon.com

I just finished reading The Hunger Games and am once again fueled by incredible envy, greedy ambition and a firm belief that I can do this too!

So in my continuing quest to cash in on literary blockbusters, I take great pride in introducing my cross over book, The Gorge Games. It’s an adult novel designed to appeal to young adults. Or visa versa.

The following is a synopsis of the novel:

The Heroine, Chubby Creamcheese has to fight to the death for her food against 24 other compulsive overeaters. (Pictured above is one of her love interests, Gordon Foiegras. I couldn’t fit her other love interest, Michael “Big Mac” McCoy on the same page.)

Admittedly my novel follows along the same plot lines as The Hunger Games with one exception.  No one really gets killed, but many suffer from serious gastric distress and everyone gets fat. The Gorge Games is part of a trilogy which includes Catching Fat and the The Girl Who Kicked The Scale. I’m putting all three novels for auction. Film rights for The Mangez, Mangez, Mangez Trilogy are also available.

Oh, now I get it. I should have read 50 Shades of Grey before I began my best-selling imitation novel. Well, now having gotten the gist of E.L James blockbuster, I have started work on my soon-to-be released novel 50 Shades of Chain & Leather. Here’s a peek at the steamy first chapter: “Throw me down and tie me up,” pleaded Annabelle, her creamy breasts rising and falling in anticipation. “But chérie, I have nothing to tie you up with,” said Derek, his hugely muscular arms hung limply at his sides. “Oh, use your imagination,” Annabelle snapped. “Try the telephone cord, a bicycle chain. Anything.  I’m begging you.”

Panting to read more?  I bet you are.  Especially if you’re a woman. Because apparently this is what women want.  Forget about equal pay.  Take back the right to vote.  Submission seems to be the flavor du jour. As I said in my last blog, I am all about cashing in on the latest literary trend.  So I’m taking orders now.  Also I welcome your suggestions. What else can my character use to tie up his lady love?  And any ideas about what happens after that would be greatly appreciated.

I’m not above trying to cash in on the latest hot literary trends. So when I read about 50 Shades of Grey and the fact that women are eating it up and that it’s become the New York Times number one ebook, I thought how hard could it be to dash out another book just like it. Of course, I hadn’t read the original but I knew I had a big challenge on my hands:  keeping the reader’s interest in a book that explained how to update your wardrobe using only shades of red.   But I figured E.L. James had done it limiting herself to a grey pallet I could certainly do better than that. And I must say, in a very short time, I came up with a really exciting book.  My agent took a look at it and was not very enthusiastic.  “You better read 50 Shades of Grey for yourself.  I think you may have gone off in the wrong direction here.”  So I read it.  Oh, mon dieu! Well, I’m nothing if not a quick learner.  Watch for my 50 Shades of Chain coming soon.

I am so proud of my 16-month-old nephew, Kieth.  He just published his very first  novel, The Peek-A-Boo Code, a page turning thriller that has readers clamoring for more. His parents discovered his writing abilities early on and began transcribing his prose verbatim.  His mother attributes his talent to the fact they read to him constantly invitro.  “I felt it was important to expose him to all genres,” she said.   “Dickens, Updike, Leonard, Steele.  He really responded to Steig Larsson. I thought I was going to go into early labor.” The Peek A Boo Code was published by Xlibris for $2,700. Apparently, Kieth has more books planned.  Or, at least his parents do.  There is a trilogy in the works.  Followed by a non-fiction work, What to Expect When You’re Expecting to Publish as a Toddler.  His parents are now starting their own imprint, Books by Babies. “It’s an untapped market,” said Kieth’s father.  “The reason  babies heads are so big is because they’re filled with terrific plots, potential blockbuster books.  You just have to know how tap into that.”

Nothing to say, again?  Well, that’s not entirely true.  I’d like to talk about what women talk about when they are talking about love.  Contrary to what most men think (and you know who you are, garçons) when women get together in groups (like the one pictured above) they don’t just talk about shoes and sales and puppy dog tails. Women talk about men. Men, and what makes them tick, what makes them sick and why we women can’t seem to live without them. Yesterday at a shower given for a friend’s daughter I got into a a very deep conversation with a woman I’d never met about how her husband left her for another woman without any warning. (I don’t know what form the warning could have taken: “Honey, I’m seriously thinking of leaving you for another woman but I’ll get back to you when I know for sure.”) I told her that I had a husband who also left me for someone else.  The woman I was talking to was still very much in pain.  It had only been two years.  “You’ll get over it,” I said. “When?” she asked.  I had to think about that.  I wanted to say something positive.  We were at a baby shower, after all. “Well,  not for a long time,” I said finally.  My answer seemed to satisfy her in some strange way. Probably because it was the truth. And that’s the point. When women get together even when they have nothing to say, they say a lot.

This is embarrassing. Here I sit, pen in hand, an impatient man hovering over me in the background ( is this a man or a muse?), a small, smelly dog sleeping at my side, all my loyal followers poised at their computers, everyone anxiously waiting to read what brilliant insights I have to share on this Sunday morning and I…I have nothing to say!  I suppose I could talk about where I got this gorgeous gold robe, but who cares about shopping when there are so many more important things to talk about? Like what? If only I could think of something. Wait!  I have it: Did you know gas stations lie?  When they advertise their lowest price it’s only that price if you pay in cash. And a debit card doesn’t count as cash! You heard it here first. (All right, maybe not first.) But at least I have a plan:  Stop driving your car.  Find another means of transportation. Boycott the gas companies.  Take back the power. Pick up an oar. You don’t live near a body of water? Then move.  And when you do move, hire a cart and oxen to do the job instead of one of those big truck operations.  My friend Sarah just moved to a very fancy waterside town in CT and did just that. One cart, two oxen, total cost: $350.  She used her three small children to carry the smaller pieces of furniture and boxes.  “It’s so good for them to develop these lifting muscles early on, ” she said. “And you can’t believe how much I saved on gas.” This is Sarah pictured here, taking a well-earned breather after her big move.  “I can’t wait to do all my shopping and car-pooling by boat,” she said. Thank you Sarah and Sarah’s children for giving me something to write about after all.

My friend Riki (yes, she is French) upon hearing I fractured my elbow asked me if this was a case of writer’s block or writer’s break. (Ha ha).  I can tell you, there is no difference.  I can’t write (except very slowly, hunting and pecking with one hand) therefore I am totally blocked.  I  can’t think of what my next sentence should be. I am wordless, speechless, I’m one big blank page.  A keyboard without  keys, a text message without text, a tweet without a twitter, a bird without a song, a muse without musings…Oh, wait!  I can write!  I do have words!  The god of blogs has smiled down upon me and restored my gift.  Let us rejoice!  What’s wrong?  I don’t hear any rejoicing.