WARNING- Danielle sometimes cursed too much. I’m not sure if cursing too much is a character flaw, but it was something that I (and others) noticed. This is a problem because I don’t put much profanity in my writing. It’s just not my style. But Danielle (at times) used inappropriate language, and it’s tough for a writer who doesn’t use profanity much to write dialogue for a person who does.
I could have toned down her profanity, but that would have changed her character and maybe even the story. So I decided that in this scene (where she over-curses), I’ll go ahead and put in what she said because that’s what she was like. So if you don’t like cursing, then you might not want to read this. Or maybe you can close your eyes a couple times.
*****
It didn’t take me as long to fall asleep as I thought it would. Even though the date with Danielle had gone better than I expected with the promise of a second one (she said she was coming back), I knew to keep my expectations low. I didn’t have her phone number. She worked nights at a topless club. With her hair pulled back and the thick glasses and the drab but appropriate clothes, she had appeared like an ultra-cute version of the type of woman I was used to dating (especially when she carried my paperback copy of Sense and Sensibility with her).
But Danielle was nothing like a typical literary girlfriend. She was also the hot chick who ran around braless in clingy t-shirts. I probably wouldn’t see her for a few days… weeks? She would come see me when it fit her schedule, not mine. I tidied up my apartment. I made plans to update my wardrobe. I even thought about buying some liquor (even though she didn’t drink on the date, I guessed that she did drink). I had to be ready, and once I understood the nature of this new potential relationship(?), my mind was at ease.
The Tom Clancy book was too big to read in bed (I liked to lay on my back holding the book over my face), so I grabbed a Robert E. Howard Conan paperback and read a barbarian short story. Robert E. Howard Conan stories are always good and to the point, and I was sleepy before I had finished it (“Rogues in the House”). It was probably a little before midnight.
Saturday nights in my apartment complex could be loud. The complex sprawled through a city block near the suburbs and was considered to be in a nice part of town, but it was still an apartment complex. Loud parties, domestic fights, car alarms going off, dogs barking, cats hissing at each other, there were a lot of distractions. I was a light sleeper, so anything outside my second story window could wake me up. I had a fan that blocked out a lot of it, but on Saturday nights, sometimes even a fan couldn’t help.
I woke up at around 2:30 AM to somebody pounding on one of my neighbor’s doors. God, I thought, it must have been some domestic dispute because there was a constant racket and a woman yelling. Whoever it was kept yelling “Fuck! Fuck!” over and over and followed this with more door pounding. Then there was one last “Fuck!” and silence.
I laughed because some guy had just pissed off his girlfriend and I could tell that his life was going to become miserable. I started to relax and close my eyes again when I heard just outside my window, “Goddammit, Jimmy!”
That got my attention. Slowly, the dots started to connect. My name was Jimmy. A woman was yelling my name outside my window. There had been pounding on a door. A woman who used profanity had pounded on the door. I knew a woman who used profanity and pounded on doors. No, I thought, this couldn’t be…
I flipped my legs out of bed and opened the window.
“Danielle?”
“What the fuck, Jimmy?”
“Danielle?” I said again.
Once again, I almost didn’t recognize her. The sidewalk was well lit, but I was staring down at her from the second floor, and she had changed her look again. Her hair was over her shoulders. She had a black leather jacket on, tight jeans, and it looked like she had thick black heels. I felt a moment of pride. My literary girlfriend was a badass.
“What are you doing?” she said. She wasn’t yelling anymore, but her voice still carried. “Open the goddamn door!”
My pride took a hit, and I knew I had to connect more dots. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I told you I was coming back!” she said. Her voice was still a little loud.
“When?” I asked. I remembered what she had said to me when she left. “You didn’t tell me when you were going to come back.”
“I meant tonight!”
“You didn’t say tonight,” I said.
“What else would I mean?”
“You should have said tonight,” I said lamely. Maybe this wasn’t the time and place to argue.
“Open the fu… Let me in, Jimmy!”
“I’m going to the front,” I said. “Just… quiet down.” I knew instantly that was the wrong thing to say, and I braced myself.
“DON’T TELL ME TO BE QUIET!!”
I didn’t bother closing the window because I didn’t want her to interpret that as rudeness. I threw some shorts on, grabbed a robe, and rushed to the door. Danielle was already storming up the steps.
“I didn’t know you meant tonight,” I said before she could steamroll me.
“I know. I know,” she said quickly as she brushed past me into my apartment with a black gym bag and her purse.
My hairy neighbor had stepped out onto his balcony and was watching. “Everything alright?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think we’ll be okay,” I said. “It was just a misunderstanding.”
“Is that… that… the same…?” My neighbor couldn’t seem to find the right words.
“It’s her,” I said. I didn’t want my neighbor to think I was cheating on the girlfriend that he thought was cute.
Danielle peeked her head out. “Hi,” she said cheerfully to my neighbor. “I’m sorry about all the noise.” Then she turned to me. “Somebody fell asleep and locked me out.” Then she darted back into the apartment.
“I didn’t know you were…” I turned to my neighbor. “I didn’t know she was coming back tonight.”
“You need to talk to her,” my neighbor said.
I went back inside and shut the door. Danielle stood in the middle of the living room, hands down but balled up, eyes red and unblinking. The shoes added a couple inches, but with her stance she seemed almost Amazonian. The leather jacket was open, and her t-shirt underneath was too small, and I could see a bit of flat belly. I knew this was a bad time to look.
“You shouldn’t wake up the neighborhood like that,” I said as I locked the door. Now that we were inside, I was more comfortable with the idea of a loud conflict.
“No, no, I’m sorry,” she said. She put a hand up to her temple and shook her head. The other hand loosened up too.
“You should have called,” I said cautiously.
“I didn’t have your phone number,” she said. “I didn’t think I’d need it.” She sat down on the same couch that she thought was disgusting. “I can’t believe I’m such a…”
I was surprised again by her change in temperament, and I didn’t know what to do, so I walked to the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink? I have soda or flavored iced tea.”
“You don’t have any…?” She probably wanted a strong drink, but I guess she changed her mind. “Iced tea is good.”
A moment later she was with me in the kitchen. She wore too much perfume, but it was a good choice, and I was back in the frame of mind where I liked her standing close to me. “I’m not like that all the time,” she said.
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t, but what else was I going to say?
“I was sure about you when I went to work,” Danielle said. “But then I started to think maybe I wasn’t right about you. And then I got here, and I expected you to be waiting for me. But all the lights were off, and you didn’t answer the door. I thought you were blowing me off, Jimmy.”
The idea of her thinking I would blow her off made me smile.
“Don’t laugh at me,” she said, but there wasn’t any anger in her voice.
“I thought there was a 50/50 chance I’d never see you again after the library,” I said.
Danielle hesitated and then said, “And you cared about that… about me.”
“Yeah, of course!” I said. “And you cared enough to get mad when you thought I blew you off.”
“We both care,” she said softly and exhaled. “You know what I need?”
I had several answers. A hug? A stiff drink? A spanking? But I kept my mouth shut.
“A bath,” she said. “Do you mind if I take a bath?”
*****
To be continued in… The Literary Girlfriend: Book Report.
And to read “The Literary Girlfriend” from the beginning, start here.
Was the parental role stereotype in The Cat in the Hat egalitarian or ongoing? Please excuse me while I look up the word “egalitarian.”
Sometimes I like to take a boring topic and see if I can make it interesting. I’ve written about book machines, and the Justice Department suing Apple, and a movie based on a poorly-written book by a celebrity author. Those were all dull topics that I chose to write about. But now I think I’ve met my match.
Last night I stumbled upon an abstract from a study called… wait for it…
I mean… uh… are you serious?
Something like this doesn’t give me a lot to work with. The study was conducted by people who are probably a lot smarter than I am, and I don’t like to make fun of people who are smarter than I am, so mockery of a silly study (that I might not understand) is out of the question.
First of all, I was surprised that I’d have to pay in order to read the actual study. Charging money to read a research study is antiquated (if they can use “egalitarian,” I can use “antiquated.”)
Do people really pay money to read studies anymore? I’m not familiar with how research works (because I usually avoid it), but I wouldn’t pay anything to read a study about egalitarian parental roles. In fact, I’d have to get paid a lot to read anything with the word “egalitarian” in it. People don’t have to pay much (if anything) for content anymore. Even a lot of porn is free. If people aren’t willing (or don’t need to) pay for porn, they won’t pay to read a study about egalitarian stereotypes in children’s picture books.
I probably shouldn’t have written a sentence that has both “children’s books” and “porn” in it. I hope the government agencies that monitor internet content take context into consideration.
Also, reading a children’s book to find parental role stereotypes just seems weird. The best children’s books are the ones that are too crazy to have gender roles. The Cat in The Hat had a mom, but she was just a nice pair of legs. Oh the Places You Go had a kid. Where the Wild Things Are had a mom who was in only a couple pages of the story. Harold and the Purple Crayon had a kid with a magic crayon.
If a children’s book has a bunch of human characters, then it probably (with a few exceptions) isn’t a good children’s book. A good children’s book usually has a bunch of animals/creatures walking around naked (but it’s okay because their gender doesn’t really matter). Parental involvement usually doesn’t affect the quality of children’s book (except maybe to make it less interesting).
When I was a kid, I read a lot of children’s books with animals/creatures walking around naked in public, and I have never once walked around naked in public. My older brother once ran around naked in public, but he got arrested for it and he never did it again. The weird thing is, I don’t think my older brother liked reading children’s books when he was a kid. Maybe if he had read more books with naked animals/creatures walking around, he would never have run around naked in public. That would be an interesting study.
The researchers might have been interested in how parental role stereotypes in children’s books influence the kids that read them (or vice-versa?). The summary suggested that even though gender roles changed during the 2000s, parental roles in children’s books stayed the same. To me, that’s good. There is plenty of time to mess with a kid’s gender identity. They don’t need to do it with children’s books.
*****
Writers often don’t have a choice about their topics. Students have to write about whatever their teachers tell them to. Employees have to write about whatever their bosses tell them to. But I chose to write about egalitarian gender stereotypes in children’s books, even though it’s a dull topic that I know nothing about.
Can anybody beat this? What is the most boring topic that you have ever voluntarily written about?
Rage Against the Machine: If they feel “rage” right now, wait until they find out there’s a paper jam in their book machine! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Book stores sometimes sell stuff that isn’t really book related. Book stores sell music. Book stores sell coffee and pastries. Book stores sell toys. I guess all of these items can be related to reading if you try (especially coffee), but now a book store will offer a non-book item that is truly book related… an Espresso Book Machine!
Books-A-Million is going to place a book machine in two of its stores. At first I thought a book machine would be redundant in a book store. It would be like a Redbox outside a video store; what was the point (except to put the video store out of business)? But the book machine isn’t a kiosk that sells books. It’s a machine that prints books.
Customers could print books that the store doesn’t carry. Customers could also print out their own self-published books. That sounds like a great idea (and it might be), but I foresee a couple potential problems (and maybe Books-A-Million foresees this too because they’re trying this in only two stores).
None of the articles I read about this topic (here’s one) made it clear if the book machine maker would provide a full-time employee (or several part-time employees) to run the machines, but they might want to. A self-serve book machine could be disastrous. If it’s anything like a copy machine (I’m guessing a book machine is more complicated), there could be two major problems:
1. Paper will always jam.
2. People can’t follow written instructions.
I have way too much first-hand knowledge about this. Almost everybody where I work has a college degree, but a shockingly high number of these college graduates can’t read instructions to copy front/back, collate, and staple packets. Most of my peers that CAN do this (it took me awhile too, so I’m not mocking them) can’t figure out the instructions that light up during a paper jam. Maybe most of them can follow basic instructions when they’re in a relaxed state of mind, but when there’s a line at the copy machine, and everybody has a deadline, and the copy machine jams, then tempers flare and minds get muddled, and curses are uttered, and nobody can figure out if the jam is in 1A, 1B, 1C, 4E, or 6D, or all of the above.
If college graduates can’t get make a stapled packet out of a copy machine, I’m not sure self-publishing authors will be able to get a book that satisfies them from a book machine. The cover will come out wrong. The line spacing will be messed up. The page breaks will be inconsistent. The dedication and the Table of Contents will end up on the same page. A lot of the mistakes will be the customer’s fault, but we’ll still blame the “f***ing machines.”
When in doubt, always blame the machine.
*****
I respect that Books-A-Million is putting a book machine in only two stores. That’s the way changes should be made, incrementally. They have an idea, and instead of ramming this idea through all their stores, they’ll try it in a couple places and see how it works. If it’s successful, I’m sure they’ll add book machines in other locations. If the book machine is a disaster, then only two stores have been affected.
There have been too many times recently when a sweeping change has been forced on everybody without actually seeing if the change is good first. It happens with government a lot. It happens with my job… a lot (though my current boss seems to be more of an incremental changer rather than a sweeping changer, so things are looking up).
I’d like to see this book machine in action. And if there’s a book machine near me, I may go check it out. Copy machines (and maybe book machines) are a great source of free entertainment, as long as I’m not the one making the copies.
Conventional wisdom says that a guy has less than a minute to make a good first impression with a woman, and if he fails, he has no shot. I’m proof that conventional wisdom is a crock. I rarely make a good first impression. If I ever made a good first impression on a date, it was by accident. My dating game plan (before I got married) was to get through the early awkward moments of the first date without bungling it too badly. I wasn’t a good starter, but I was a pretty good finisher (I don’t mean that as a double entendre).
The first part of my date with Danielle had gone pretty well (for me). I had handled her sports car. I had gotten through dinner without any gaffes or food issues. The uncomfortable silences were rare. Danielle was doing her part (which was encouraging), but I knew I had to finish strong.
*****
We were about to leave the restaurant when Danielle grabbed the checkbook and counted the bills I had put inside. I thought she was going to take some of it (I tend to over-tip), but instead she said, “Throw in another twenty.”
“I already left a good tip,” I whispered, probably too defensively. “”Another twenty is way too much.”
“I told the waiter you were a great tipper,” Danielle said.
“Oh,” I said, understanding. Now her earlier conversation with the waiter made sense. I placed another twenty inside the book and put it on the table. As we left, I said, “You should have told me earlier. I would have gone along with it.”
The waiter and hostess thanked us as we left, and we smiled, and then Danielle talked.
“I wasn’t sure. I thought you might be too cheap to tip.”
“Why would you think I’m cheap?”
“Your furniture. Your car. Some of your clothes.” Danielle lifted a finger for each reason.
“My car’s not cheap,” I replied.
“You could buy a lot nicer car than that,” she said. “And your furniture is disgusting.”
“I’m not cheap,” I said. “I just don’t care about stuff like that. I like to read.”
“You need to care about stuff like that,” Danielle said, “But at least I know you’re not cheap.”
Danielle said she wanted to take a walk, so I drove her to a giant fountain next to one of the city’s skyscrapers. It was just before 9:00, the drunks wouldn’t be out yet, and the teenage fights probably wouldn’t start for another hour or so. The October air was cool, and Danielle walked close to me. She put her arm around my waist, so I put mine over her shoulder, and it felt natural.
“What’s your favorite book?” she asked. I thought it was an odd question for a walk in a city park, but I went with it.
“A Tale of Two Cities,” I said, too quickly.
“That is such bullshit,” she said, but she said it sweetly.
“Okay,” I admitted. “Honestly, that’s a tough question. It all depends on what mood I’m in.”
“If you were stuck on an island with only one book…”
“Ugh! Not that scenario!” I said. I took an exaggerated breath. “The Godfather.”
“That’s a movie,” Danielle said, frustrated. “Quit fu…”
“It was a book before it was a movie,” I said before she could over-curse. “I promise. And it’s pretty good. Whenever I’m bored of reading, that’s what I turn to.”
“And you’ve read it,” she said.
“Several times. What’s your favorite book?” I asked.
“Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen!” she proclaimed.
“But you haven’t even…” Then I stopped. I couldn’t believe that I had walked right into that trap.
“If you can pretend that you’ve read books that you’ve never read, then so can I,” she said proudly. “I think I’m going to do that.”
“Be careful,” I warned. “I’ve gotten busted before, and it can be embarrassing.”
“None of my friends would know… or care,” Danielle said.
Then she stopped walking, faced me, and put her hands on my shoulders.
“But I bet you have friends who could figure it out,” she stated.
“I wouldn’t give you up,” I said.
Danielle’s voice got softer.
“But you’d be lying. And I hate it when guys lie,” she said, and she slid her arms around the back of my neck. The front of her body brushed up against mine. It wasn’t quite a hug, but it was close. Still, this was a first for us, and my brain got muddled.
“I wouldn’t be lying to you,” I stammered. “I… I would be lying for you.”
“You’d lie for me?” she whispered and stood on her toes so that my nose almost touched her forehead, and she looked up.
“Only if you wanted me to,” I said. “Because… you hate it when guys lie.”
“Just when they lie to me. But if you lie for me? That’s…” Her voice trailed off. We were face-to-face. Her eyelids started to close. I could feel her lips on mine even though we hadn’t touched yet.
I leaned forward, but then she swung lightly to the side and released her embrace. I almost lost my balance.
“We need to go,” she said quietly. I could barely hear her. She grinned, and I could have sworn she licked her lip a little bit. “I have to get to work.”
I couldn’t believe I’d stepped into another of her traps so quickly.
As I drove her back to my apartment, I wasn’t sure what to do. She had set me up and then withdrawn, and that confused me. Even more puzzling, she kept chatting afterward as if nothing had happened. We talked about movies and music and television, but we didn’t talk about anything substantive. I kept reminding myself it was just a first date.
When we returned to my apartment, my neighbor was outside sitting on his balcony with two friends. All three guys were kind of overweight and hairy, but they were friendly and we got along for apartment neighbors. Still, I didn’t want them watching me say goodnight to Danielle. Awkward moments are bad enough when they’re in private. I didn’t want semi-strangers watching this. If all I got was a distant handshake or a brush off, it would have been humiliating.
I felt self-conscious for the first time that night. Danielle and I were facing each other, and I wasn’t sure what to do. The handshake? The fake hug? A quick kiss? I already got burned once on the kiss. I felt I could get away with a hug but if she stepped back or rushed it in front of the neighbors, I would feel like a doof, and I would look like a doof, and I knew that I shouldn’t have cared about looking like a doof in front of people I hardly knew, but….
Danielle grabbed my tie, pulled me to her, and kissed me on the lips. It was a quick kiss, but there was a little juice behind it. Then she pushed me back and flipped my tie over my shoulder.
“I’m coming back,” she said as she got into her car. The tie had dropped from my right shoulder, and it was crooked, but I left it there. As she drove off, my heart was still beating quickly, and I thought, there’s no way I’m sleeping tonight.
I walked up the steps to my apartment, my mind in a daze. I’ve never liked uncertainty, and I had no idea when she was coming back. It could be the next day, the next week, it could be when I was at work, and I didn’t have her phone number.
My mind was sorting this out when one of the guys on the neighbor’s balcony said, “Your girlfriend’s cute.”
“She’s not my…” Then I paused and said, “Yeah. Thanks.”
Danielle wasn’t literary, and she wasn’t my girlfriend, but if she could pretend that she was literary, then I could pretend she was my girlfriend. People can rationalize anything. As far as justifying unethical actions goes, saying she was my girlfriend was kind of minor. And at that point, I was feeling optimistic.
*****
To be continued in… The Literary Girlfriend: Over-Cursing.
And to read “The Literary Girlfriend” from the beginning, start here.
In my years of dating women who liked to read books, I’d never gone out with anybody who took a book with her on a first date. Now I was on my first outing with Danielle, a woman who had made it clear that she didn’t read books, and she was bringing my copy of Sense and Sensibility with her. Of course, she had just announced to me that she was quite literary. With her thick black glasses on and her hair pulled back (plus she was finally wearing a socially acceptable outfit), she looked like she might read.
We left my apartment in a hurry because she had to work that night. Danielle did her usual thing, hogging the sidewalk and forcing me to either walk on the grass or cling to the edge and allow our sides to brush. I chose to cling to the sidewalk because I liked brushing up against her.
It was a quiet walk. Danielle usually initiated a lot of conversation, but now she wasn’t saying anything. It felt weird. After all the other conversations we’d had in bizarre situations, this was the first time she didn’t say much. I always had a tough time maintaining conversations anyway, so having a silent Danielle started to stress me out. I’d had my share of awkward, disastrous dates. I really didn’t want this to be one of them.
When we reached the covered parking for apartment residents, Danielle stopped.
“This is yours?” she said, looking at my car like it was a roach on the wall.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. My car wasn’t fancy, but it was reliable and paid for.
“We can do better,” she said. She took my hand and led me halfway across the parking lot. My mind locked in on that she was holding my hand. I didn’t care that we weren’t talking; she was holding my hand. We stopped in front of a black sports car.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“Nice,” I said. I remembered the car she had driven a few weeks ago when I had given her panties back to her. “Didn’t this used to be red?”
“I switched cars,” she said and handed me the keys. “You wanna drive?”
I stood holding the keys while she went to the passenger side. “I kind of feel funny driving somebody else’s car,” I said.
“You’ll like it.” She sounded so confident.
I got in, but it was kind of cramped, and even when I shifted the seat back, I felt scrunched and I had to tilt my head. Then I saw that it was a manual transmission.
“Are you surprised that I can drive a stick?” she asked.
There was no way to answer that without sounding either vulgar or genderist, so I just started the car.
I stalled out a couple times backing out. Danielle didn’t laugh, but I could tell she was amused by my frustration. I finally figured out her clutch on the third try and got us out of the parking lot smoothly after that.
She told me the name of the Italian place she wanted to go to (and I agreed, of course). When I took the side streets, Danielle told me it would be faster to take the freeway, but I knew that on Saturday evenings a couple of the exit ramps we’d need would get backed up, and the side streets wouldn’t take much longer. Danielle said it was her car so she should decide how to get there, but I said that I was driving so the decision was mine. We got stopped at a few red lights, and Danielle huffed every time, but I could tell she didn’t really mean it. We agreed on the radio station, and that was important. And both of us liked driving with the windows down.
When we got to the restaurant, we were told there would be a 15 minute wait.
“Should have taken the freeway,” Danielle said in a sing-song voice.
“It wouldn’t have been much faster,” I said in the same tone, but with more masculinity.
We sat side-by-side on one of the loungers in the front waiting area with other customers, (a couple families and a few couples that looked like they were on their own first dates). A few minutes into the wait, Danielle got up and strolled past the hostess into the dining area. Danielle talked to a waiter, the waiter talked to the hostess, and a minute later, we were getting seated.
A couple people ahead of us looked pissed (I would have been too), but Danielle said, “We’re meeting some friends inside,” and they seemed to accept her explanation.
I almost asked Danielle what she had said to the waiter, but I figured she was Danielle. Whatever she had said wouldn’t have worked for me if I ever tried it.
During dinner I expected lulls in our conversation, but we didn’t have many. We talked about football for a long time. We were fans of the home football team, which was underperforming but still had a shot at the playoffs. I thought the players we had were overrated. She thought our coaches were overrated. Luckily, we both hated Dallas and Buffalo (this was in the early 1990s when both teams were relevant). Nothing helps a potential relationship like a common enemy.
Danielle ate more than any woman I had ever seen. She devoured her pasta, made her salad disappear almost instantly, and took almost all the bread. I really liked that bread. She chewed with her mouth closed, and she didn’t talk when she ate. She only talked when she took a break from eating. Even better, she didn’t ask questions while I was chewing. She asked the waiter for more bread and then let me have most of it. I appreciated that.
“So,” Danielle said, leaning forward after we’d finished the meal. “You’ve never read Sense and Sensibility.” This was the book she had picked up from my apartment. She pulled it out of her purse/bag/big thing she carried with her.
I looked down at my side of the table. “No, I haven’t.”
“But you have it on your book shelf. Are you ever going to read it?”
“Probably not.”
“Then why do you keep it on your book shelf?”
I paused. “So people think that I’ve read it.”
“What do you know about it?”
“The main character is named Emma, I think, and…”
Danielle flipped through the pages. “I don’t see anybody named Emma.”
“That’s because Jane Austen wrote a book called Emma,” I said slowly. “I think Emma is in that one.”
“Do you read at all?” Danielle asked.
I nodded.
“How do I know if you’ve read a book or not?” she asked.
“If it’s on my book shelf in the living room, I probably haven’t read it. If it’s in my second bedroom, I’ve either read it or I’m getting to it.”
“The second bedroom,” she said. “The mystery bedroom. Maybe I’ll see it sometime.”
“You really don’t want to,” I said.
“I could make you show me if I really wanted to.” She smiled and raised her eyebrows a couple times.
I don’t remember what we talked about after that, but it was an easygoing conversation. I kept reminding myself that her job was to make guys feel comfortable around her, so I didn’t want to make too big a deal over this, but it still felt good. Danielle was the kind of woman who could choose any guy she wanted, and for some reason I seemed to be her choice.
But the date wasn’t over yet.
*****
To be continued in… The Literary Girlfriend: First Date, Part 2.
And to read “The Literary Girlfriend” from the beginning, start here.
Before I discuss a controversial or emotionally charged topic, I like to imagine something peaceful. It usually works until somebody starts yelling at me. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A lot of book ideas are really bad. The book with no letter “E” was a bad idea. Anytime a celebrity wants to write a children’s book, it’s a bad idea. And a book about the George Zimmerman trial written by a juror is a really bad idea. It’s so bad, that now it might not even happen. You know a book idea is bad when it gets pulled within a few days after it’s announced.
In one way, I sympathize with a juror who wants to write a book. Being a juror stinks. They don’t get paid (much, if at all). They have to spend a bunch of time away from their families (depending on the family, that might not be so bad) and listen to a bunch of boring details all day. Then no matter what verdict they reach, a bunch of loud people who don’t know what they’re talking about are going to criticize them. If I were a juror in a highly publicized trial, I might want to make some money too.
But one potential problem is numbers. There were six jurors. What if each juror wanted to write a book? That would dilute the potential book sales for each book and then it wouldn’t be worth the time and the criticism. All six jurors could write a book together, but then they’d have to share (ugh… I can’t stand the word “share”) the profits, and dividing profits with five other authors takes the fun out of writing. Maybe I wouldn’t mind splitting money with James Patterson or Tom Clancy, but splitting money with five other jurors would be unacceptable.
From a juror’s point of view, maybe splitting the earnings six ways isn’t so bad. A lot of juries have twelve or more people. Dividing that up would stink even more. Add all the lawyers, witnesses, family members, and reporters that may decide to write books, and it’s probably not even worth the effort.
I’m not sure how insightful a juror’s book would be anyway. The trial was televised. Transcripts are a click away (they’re too long to read, but they’re out there). If anything, the juror probably needs to read more about the case to find out all the stuff that the jury wasn’t allowed to see. Sometimes the juries have the least amount of information of everyone involved.
A juror writing a book about George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin is a bad idea because almost everybody shouts when they talk about it. They shout, and they interrupt, and I don’t like getting shouted at, and I really hate getting interrupted. The people yelling, interrupting, and pounding their fists don’t know any more than I do, but their opinions are more set than mine.
I mean, I have an opinion, but I also recognize that my opinion is worthless because there’s so much about this case that we don’t know. The more books that are written about this case, the more people will shout and interrupt, and I don’t think bad behavior like shouting and interrupting should be encouraged, especially when it’s about an emotional issue. I haven’t learned a thing from all the shouting and interrupting, and I probably wouldn’t learn anything from the books.
There’s a lot that I don’t know about the Zimmerman-Martin incident. I don’t know who started what with whom that day, and we’ll probably never know. There might be a lot of people who pretend that they know (and they pretend very loudly), but they don’t know, and I don’t know either. But I do know that a juror writing a book about the Zimmerman trial is a really bad idea.
Am I really J.K. Rowling, or am I only j/k? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
This would have been a great weekend for Robert Galbraith if he really existed. One day he was an author of an obscure novel (called The Cuckoo’s Calling) that nobody had bought, and the next day J.K. Rowling (author of the Harry Potter books) said that she was Robert Galbraith.
In other words, Robert Galbraith is really J.K. Rowling’s new pseudonym.
Robert Galbraith’s book sales are really going to skyrocket now! Every struggling writer wishes J.K. Rowling would say that she is him (or he) or her (or she). I wish J.K. Rowling would use me as her next pseudonym. That would be a better gig than co-authoring a book with James Patterson or Janet Evanovich.
J.K. Rowling already has taken one male pen name, so she might not want mine, but I’m an American (I’m guessing Robert Galbraith is not American). Having an American pseudonym opens her up to the vast market that is the United States. Except we Americans don’t read that much. And she’s already huge in the United States. Still, it would be a nice gesture to the United States.
It’s not unusual for great authors to have pen names. Mark Twain had Samuel Clemens (or the other way around). Stephen King had Richard Bachman (or the other way around). And now J.K. Rowling has Robert Galbraith (or the other way around). If she takes my name as her next pseudonym, she would have three identities as an author, and that’s almost unprecedented. Readers would never stop talking about her.
J.K. Rowling being me would also help my media presence. Nobody knows what I look like, and there’s a reason for that. I have a face for radio, but unfortunately I didn’t get the voice for radio, so I write instead (but not for radio). Almost everybody knows what J.K. Rowling looks like. Even I know what she looks like, and I only know what three fiction authors look like: Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, and James Patterson, and I only know what James Patterson looks like because of those creepy commercials where he’s pitching his books to reluctant readers. He should have asked J.K. Rowling to do that for him.
J.K. Rowling is attractive and well-spoken and could do my interviews for me while saying she is me (or saying she is I… I guess I’d better figure that out before she takes my name as her next pseudonym). I’d kind of like to do all the interviews, but I’m not photogenic and I get nervous so I might dry heave on camera. Nothing kills a literary career like dry heaving on camera. It might momentarily boost book sales, but in the long term, it’s a literary killer.
I know that there is little chance of J.K. Rowling discovering me, so I’m going to take some liberties and announce that I am J.K. Rowling without her permission. But I think that’s okay because there is a little bit of J.K. Rowling in all of us. J.K. Rowling has made that struggle from unknown to icon. Most of us writers struggle through that process, and almost none of us will succeed. J.K. Rowling represents what we want to become, so I shall proclaim (metaphorically) from the rooftops:
I am J.K. Rowling!
You are J.K. Rowling!
We are all J.K. Rowling!
And most importantly… I hope J.K. Rowling’s lawyers don’t come after me for saying that I’m J.K. Rowling!
Related articles
- J.K. Rowling Revealed as Secret Author of New Book (clixto7.com)
She had never read Jane Austen. I had never finished anything by Dostoyevsky. We were either the perfect fit or a disastrous mismatch.
I wasn’t sure if Danielle was going to show up for our date. I didn’t have her phone number. I didn’t know where she lived. I didn’t even know if Danielle was her real name or not. She said she worked at Nero’s, a high-end topless club, but I didn’t know if she was even telling the truth about that. Everything about this date was up to her. She could decide to not show up, and I would probably never see her again.
The only reason I believed Danielle might show up for our date was because she had initiated everything. She had asked to share dryers in the laundry room. She had left her underwear with my stuff. She had come up to my apartment (without being invited) when I volunteered to give her garments back. And she had pursued me in the library when I wasn’t sure if I was going to talk to her or not. It was strange, but it seemed like Danielle was stalking me (and not the other way around). But I also knew that people can rationalize anything. Maybe I was being delusional.
I couldn’t figure out why Danielle would be interested in me. Danielle and I were a physical mismatch. I was a little over six feet, skinny, reddish brown hair, and very pale. She was almost a foot shorter, long dark hair, light brown skin, and curves. I had no curves. I could have worked out, lifted weights, taken steroids, and all I would have had to show for it would have been zits and a bad attitude.
We wouldn’t look right together. Danielle got stares just by being Danielle. As soon as people saw us together, we’d get perplexed double-takes. I’d be the doof with the hot chick. I knew I was too self-conscious, but I couldn’t help that. I would feel uncomfortable with people staring at us (even if they were only staring at Danielle).
Physically, I had a couple things going for me. I was tall (which helped) and I had wide shoulders for a skinny guy. When I wore long sleeves or sweaters, or jackets, the sleeves would bulk up my arms and make me appear larger than I really was. Maybe that’s why Danielle had told me to wear my professional clothes.
I was always nervous before a first date, but that afternoon my anxiety was even more intense than normal. There was too much uncertainty with Danielle, and I liked order in my life. I couldn’t concentrate on the Tom Clancy book that I had checked out from the library (looking back, I shouldn’t have cared about that). I wasn’t even paying attention to the college football game on TV (unheard of at the time).
At 6:00 Danielle pounded on my apartment door. It wasn’t a tap-tap-tap that I’d expect from a woman (hopefully that doesn’t sound genderist). It was a pound-pound-pound that the edge of a fist makes. It startled me. I almost expected a SWAT team to crash through my apartment. I should have known that Danielle would be a door pounder, but I was so nervous anyway that I jumped.
When I opened the door, I almost didn’t recognize her (again). Danielle’s hair was pulled back. She wore a light colored blouse that was buttoned up to show just a hint of cleavage. Her jeans were up past her hips but loose so guys wouldn’t check her out too much when she walked. But the glasses were the centerpiece. Big, black, thick rimmed glasses. Danielle was no longer the hot chick in a clingy t-shirt. She was the cute chick with glasses. And I dated cute chicks with glasses.
“Wow!” I said (yes, I really said “Wow!” out loud). “You changed your look again.”
“You like it?” she asked. “I don’t really need the glasses.”
After I invited her in, she glanced at my ragged furniture and said, “We’re not going to stay here long. What kind of food do you like?”
“I should be asking you that,” I said. “Mexican?”
“Not for dinner,” she said. “Maybe Italian. I know a nice place that doesn’t take too long.”
“Are you in a hurry?”
“I work tonight.”
“You’re still at…”
“Yeah, I still dance at Nero’s,” she said. “Saturday’s my big night, but most of money comes in after 10:00, so we still have lots of time.”
I had a tough time grasping this. “You’re going out with me, and then you’re going to go to… work.”
“Yeah, are you okay with that?” she asked. “Some guys can’t deal with it. It’s okay if you can’t. Just tell me now.”
“And you won’t go to work?”
“No!” she said. “We won’t go out. I have bills.”
“Okay,” I said, shaking my head. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. “I have no problem with where you work. I just can’t picture myself going on a date and then going straight to work. That’s all.”
“You work 8:00 to 5:00. If you worked evenings and nights, you’d change your mind.”
Danielle stepped toward my book shelf and pulled out Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice. She inspected the covers. “Is Jane Austen a woman?”
“She was,” I said.
“She’s not some European guy with a name that looks like Jane. It’s not John Austen? Or Jo-Hann Austen?”
“No, it’s Jane.”
“Good,” Danielle said. “Then I’ll read one of these. Which one do you think I’ll like?”
“Um…” I hesitated. “I haven’t read either one of them.”
“You said you’d read all these.” She was right. That’s what I’d told her, that I had read all the books on my shelf, when she had come up to get her panties.
“I hate it when guys lie to me,” she said. “Guys lie to me all the time. Guys tell me they’re lawyers or photographers or gynecologists. You’re the first one to lie to me about books.”
“I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” I said. “Now that we’re dating, I wanted to tell you the truth.”
She tapped her foot. “Alright, but I’m watching you.” She paused. “And we’re not dating. We’re going on a date. I haven’t decided if we’re dating yet.”
“Okay.” Geez, I thought, she puts on a pair of glasses and suddenly she’s precise about word choice.
Danielle looked at both Jane Austen books and then put Pride and Prejudice back on the shelf and kept Sense and Sensibility. “I don’t want people to think I’m prejudiced,” she said.
“You’re taking that on the date?”
“It will make me look smarter,” she said. “I like it when people think I’m smart. They treat me different. And if you start telling me about your boring job, I’ll have something to do.”
“You do look smart,” I said, and I meant it.
Then she pushed her glasses down to the tip of her nose and held the book up to her chest. “I’m not just smart. I’m literary,” she said. “I am… quite… literary.”
Right then, I was pretty sure that no matter what happened, I was always going to remember this date.
*****
To be continued in… The Literary Girlfriend: First Date.
And to read “The Literary Girlfriend” from the beginning, start here.
Using a picture of women in bikinis for an article that isn’t about women in bikinis is probably cheating. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
There are a lot of ways for writers to cheat. We can plagiarize. We can write a bunch of fake 5-star reviews for our own books. We can set up multiple user names and have long conversations on our blogs to make our blogs seem busier than they really are. We can purchase copies of our own books to improve sales rank. I’ve thought about using all of those tactics (except for plagiarism… I have my pride).
The good thing about cheating at writing is that nobody knows what most writers look like. John Locke (a kind of prolific ebook author) paid people to write 5-star reviews for his books, but if I saw him on the streets I wouldn’t recognize him. Even if I did recognize him, I wouldn’t do anything to him. I’m a writer. I might write a harshly worded blog post about him, but I wouldn’t physically do anything to him. If John Locke had cheated at poker like he cheated at writing, he would have to fear for his safety. Writers usually aren’t violent (though we can write great fight scenes). Poker players are.
If you have to choose between cheating at poker or cheating at writing, cheat at writing.
I write this because I’ve just done something that might be considered cheating (but hopefully nobody will pick a fight with me over this).
A few months ago I wrote a serial narrative (it was a true story with a couple composite characters and a couple composite scenes and a little exaggeration… but not much) called “Long Story.” It was a story about a story I wrote in high school. Writing a story about a story is probably a bad idea. But I’ve had a lot of bad ideas when it comes to Dysfunctional Literacy. I tried a thing called Dysfunctional Grammar, and it… never mind. The point is, I took my serial “Long Story,” made a few changes (deblogified it), and have released it as an ebook called The Writing Prompt.
I don’t know if it’s considered cheating to write a story on a blog, and then self-publish it under a different name as an ebook. If it’s cheating, I’m trying to be honest about it. Maybe I’m plagiarizing myself. Whether it’s cheating or not, I promise not to review my own books (“They’re f***ing awesome!!!”), and I promise not to buy a bunch of them to improve sales rank.
What I’ve done isn’t unheard of. A lot of syndicated writers republish their work in different formats. Malcolm Gladwell published a book called What the Dog Saw that simply reprinted a bunch of his articles (many of which can be found for free online) from The New Yorker. The paperback book cost me $16.99 (which is expensive for a paperback, but it’s high quality paper.) The Writing Prompt is only 99 cents (but it is a lot shorter and maybe not nearly as insightful, and there’s no paper involved).
Even novels used to be published as serials in newspapers back in the old days (way before my time). The Three Musketeers (one of my all-time favorite books) was originally published as a serial in French newspapers, and I don’t think anybody accused Alexander Dumas of cheating. If anybody did, there was probably a good sword fight duel afterward to settle the matter.
I don’t care if people read “Long Story” on my free blog instead of paying 99 cents for The Writing Prompt. I’d rather people read my stuff for free than not read it at all. All of the jokes in my ebook Best Brand New Jokes Ever! are also on this blog, but they’re scattered all over the place and you have to read a lot of bad jokes (as in poorly written and not funny) to get to the ones that actually work (there are a few where I got it right, and those are the jokes I chose for the ebook).
If this is cheating, then I guess I cheat when I write. But I don’t cheat when I play poker.
CHEATING RECAP
- Plagiarism (really bad)
- Paying people to write 5-star reviews (pretty bad)
- Reviewing your own books under different names-sock puppeting (pretty bad)
- Using pictures of women in bikinis for stories that have nothing to do with women in bikinis (bad)
- Buying your own books to improve sales rank (bad)
- Taking your own blog material and releasing it as ebooks with different names (bad?)
What other ways are there to cheat in writing? I could probably use a few more new ideas.
Does Moby Dick suck, or do we just not “get it”? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The local library on Saturday morning was usually noisy with screaming kids running around and a homeless guy talking to himself, but it had quieted down once Danielle started acting up. Danielle was a walking distraction (even when she wasn’t walking). Her red t-shirt was too tight and showed curves that shirts weren’t supposed to show. Her faded cut-off jeans went up too high. When she fake coughed and sneezed and ate chips too loudly, it contradicted her angelic face. I had avoided talking to her (for a lot of bad reasons), but she had just cornered me in the back of the biography shelves.
“So, are you gonna talk to me or what?” she asked, one hand holding a book, the other hand on a hip.
“Hi, Danielle,” I said, flustered again. “I was going to, but I wasn’t sure if that was you or not.”
“Well, now you know.” She took a step closer.
“Your hair is different today,” I said, and it was true. It looked wet and clumped around her face and neck. “You don’t quite look like you.”
She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I just said ‘fuck it’ this morning.” Then a mom and her daughter walked by. “Sorry,” Danielle muttered to them, but the mom just looked the other way.
“I like the look,” I said. “I just wasn’t sure that was you. I’m kind of surprised to see you here.” Geez, I hoped she didn’t take that the wrong way.
“It’s your fault that I’m here,” Danielle said. “I saw all those books in your apartment, and it reminded me that I used to like to read. Until I started to hate it.”
I was going to ask her what made her hate reading, but instead she said, “Whatcha got?”
I showed her the Tom Clancy book (I forget which one it was… this was back in 1992).
“That’s big,” she said.
“It’s just military stuff,” I said. Then Danielle saw the photo of Tom Clancy on the back cover.
“He looks like a dick,” she said.
“Every author looks like a dick when they pose for book covers,” I said. “Even Anne Rice probably looks like a dick.”
“Who?” she asked. Then I pointed to the novel Danielle was holding.
“A friend of mine said I’d like this.” Danielle showed me her copy of Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice. “But I think it sucks.”
Danielle slid the novel onto the top of the biography section. I wondered how long it would take for the librarians to find Interview with the Vampire in the G shelf of the biographies. I was going to say something, but when she lifted her arm, her shirt shifted up and exposed her navel. When a hot chick in a tight t-shirt exposes her navel, she can put a library book back wherever she wants.
“I’m done,” Danielle said. “Are you ready to check out? I’ll walk with you.”
“Sure,” I said as we left the nonfiction section. I saw her bag of corn chips on the table. “Did you want to get that?”
“Thanks,” she said. I watched her walk from behind, half expecting a bit of her cheeks to hang from the cut-offs, but they didn’t go that high. When Danielle got to the table, she poured the remaining chip pieces into her mouth. Then she flicked the bag back to its original spot. When she saw me staring at her, her eyes widened and she swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry, did you want some?” she asked.
“I thought you might want to throw that away.” I pointed to the bag she’d left on the table.
“That’s what they’re here for,” Danielle said, eyeing the three librarians sitting and talking to each other at the checkout counter.
“They work hard,” I said, and then it registered that three librarians were just sitting there talking to each other. “I’m sure they work hard most of the time.” We stood and stared at the librarians for a few more seconds while they talked. “I’m sure at some point today they’ll work hard. You still shouldn’t litter.”
“Okay, officer,” she said, and jogged back to throw the bag away. I turned and watched her jog. Most of the library watched her jog. When she returned she asked, “Is my record clean, officer?”
“Yes, but I’ll be watching you.” That was true because I liked watching her (hopefully that didn’t sound creepy).
Danielle brushed her arm against mine and set a slow pace as we continued to the checkout desk.
“So, how much of the vampire book did you read?” I asked.
“Enough to know it sucks.”
“When I was in college, a girlfriend broke up with me because of that book,” I said.
“Why? Did you tell her it sucked?”
“I told her it was a woman’s book.”
“That’s why she broke up with you?”
“There were other issues, but that’s what started the argument that escalated to a breakup.” I knew it was a bad idea to talk about a previous girlfriend to a woman I was really attracted to, so I tried to think of a way to change the subject.
“Did you think the book sucked?” Danielle asked, doing my work for me.
“No. I didn’t like it, but it didn’t suck.”
“That’s what ‘sucks’ means; you don’t like it.”
“No, ‘sucks’ means there’s nothing good about it at all. The book can be good, but I don’t appreciate it. That’s different from sucking.”
“No, if it sucks, you don’t like it. It doesn’t matter what other people think.”
“Yes, it does matter. ‘Sucking’ should be universal. If everybody hates it, then it sucks. If it has artistic merit, then it can’t suck.”
“No,” Danielle said. “If I don’t like something, it sucks. If you don’t like something, it sucks.”
“What if you think it sucks, and I don’t think it sucks?”
“Then we argue about whether or not it sucks.”
“Let’s ask the librarians here,” I said, nodding to the three women behind the counter. I gave the closest one my library card.
Another librarian stamped an index card and slipped it into the Tom Clany book. As she handed me the book, she said, “Young man, I’d think you’d do very well for yourself if you just agreed with this young lady, whatever it is you’re arguing about.”
“See?” Danielle said. “Interview with a Vampire sucks.”
“Wait a minute,” the librarian said. “I didn’t know you were talking about Interview with the Vampire. That’s one of my favorite books.”
“See?” I said. “How can Interview with the Vampire suck if it’s a librarian’s favorite book?”
“The librarian said you’re supposed to agree with me,” Danielle stage whispered, barely moving her lips.
I paused. Danielle had just won the argument. “I’m sorry,” I said to the librarian. “Interview with the Vampire sucks.”
“That’s okay, young man. Tom Clancy sucks even more.”
Danielle shrugged her shoulders. “I wouldn’t know.”
As we walked out, Danielle hogged the sidewalk, taking the middle and brushing her arm against mine again. The polite part of me wanted to yield ground to her and walk on the sidewalk, but I also liked the feel of her arm against mine.
“So… What are you doing today?” she asked.
“Reading this,” I said, “and watching football.”
“That sounds… fun.”
After a pause, I asked, “What are you doing?”
“No plans,” she said.
As soon as we reached the parking lot, she stepped in front of me and held out her hand. “It was good to see you again. I’m glad we agree about what sucks now.” Then she gave me a firm quick handshake.
“It was great talking to you,” I said. I tried to think of something else, but my mind was blank. Our earlier silence might have been awkward, but I didn’t want the conversation to end. I was afraid that Danielle would walk to her car, and I would forever be angry at myself for not being smooth.
But Danielle stood her ground, facing me and not moving. She didn’t really look at me though. She instead shifted her eyes from the parking lot to the library building to the trees. If I were going to get to my car, I’d have to walk around her on the grass. Kirk’s voice was in my head screaming, “She’s gift-wrapped herself for you. What more do you want?”
I spoke slowly. “I was wondering… would you… like to do something tonight… maybe dinner?”
“Yes,” Danielle said. “That sounds like fun. I’ll pick you up at 6:00.”
“Don’t you want my phone number?” I asked.
“I know where you live.”
As she turned to her car, she called out, “And wear something like you did that day you gave me my panties back.” A couple people walking by did double-takes at that. “I like a guy who dresses professional.”
“Okay,” I said, watching her walk away. I probably shouldn’t have just stood there watching her, but I couldn’t help it. I was frozen by the moment, processing what had just happened. I was going to have dinner with the hot chick in a clingy t-shirt.
That is, if she decided to show up.
*****
To be continued in… The Literary Girlfriend: Origin Story.
And to read “The Literary Girlfriend” from the beginning, start here.
Dysfunctional Literacy 