I Could Use a Man About Now

What the heck is this, and can I throw it away?

There comes a time in every single girl’s self-sufficient existence when a man would be the best accoutrement in the world…

I’m sitting here in my office surrounded by cords and other technological gew-gaws whose purposes elude me. I wish I had a man around to tell me what to do with this junk. I sent a friend a picture of a couple of cords that are apparently cat5 cords, that I might need in my new place, so I’d better keep them, and he’ll help me network myself, and…huh?

He lost me at “cat5.”

Don’t men always want to save all the cords? Frankly, I don’t know what to think about these cat5s, but I’ll keep them for now.

The funniest thing about my life is that I earn most of my money as a technical writer and editor, but I’m clueless when it comes to technology. I’ve still got my ancient laptop because it’s the one from which I can print, and that’s because my printer is so old (but so good still!) that my newer laptop doesn’t have an in slot — or whatever you call it — for the printer cord.

My newer laptop is decrepit too. I need a new laptop…I need a wireless printer…I need a man for my technology like I need a man to sometimes help me with car stuff. Men always know what to do with duct tape, too. That’s cool. My duct tape sits around coated with dust.

Oh, wait, I used the duct tape on my door back in August. The door knob broke — how that’s possible, don’t ask me — and I found myself stranded in my apartment with a door knob I couldn’t turn. In true damsel in distress fashion, I started yelling off my balcony for someone to open the door from the outside. The duct tape came in handy to force the latch bolt inside the door until the repair guy arrived. (Don’t be impressed that I know the term “latch bolt”; I just Googled “door knob mechanism.”)

I’d like to see a rent-a-man service. Not for a specialist like the repair guy, but for an all-around handy guy, like in that “Sex and the City” episode in which Charlotte upgrades and fixes everything in her apartment. She fell in love with her handy guy, and maybe I would too…You never know. 

Actually, when I need man-type favors, I pay for meals and beer. That works. Men are so easy. I love that about them!

To the right of my feet sit a couple of Sony speakers that my sister gave me for Christmas a few years back. Ideally, I’d be listening to tunes from my laptop as I write this post, but I never figured out how to get the speakers to function. So, do I pack them for the move? Or donate them? Or ask for yet another man favor?

Manuscript Hoarder

In a way, I gave birth to these, didn't I?

At long last, I’m moving house next month. I have wasted too much emotional and mental energy pissed off, anxious, nonfunctional, miserable, distracted, and stressed out because of my downstairs neighbors. Life around here is like a bad movie.

I’m talking yelling, screaming, hostility. I’m talking a rotating gang of adults and children and dogs and cats and loud trucks. There’s no solution. Except to leave. Start fresh. Find myself a home that will feel like a home. I need a home so I can write.

So I’m moving, and I’m purging my belongings, which feels fabulous. Last night, however, I started in on my office and hit the hoarder wall with my precious hard-copy manuscripts. I can give up mementos from past boyfriends easily enough, but not these pages! My fiction feels like the most real part of me. The manuscripts ARE me.

Is that weird?

Maybe on a far grander scale, this is what hoarders feel about their belongings. Like they won’t exist anymore without their stuff…

Hmm…

I’d better watch out.

I carried the manuscripts out to the living room and turned on the boob-tube. I thought it might be easier to decide in favor of recycling if I was distracted. I turned on CSI. The episode? About a hoarder! I thought, this is a sign. I SHALL recycle these manuscripts. I SHALL NOT end up rotting under a truckload of paper.

Lisa, she lived and died for her fiction. That’s not what I want on my gravestone…On the other hand, wouldn’t it be cool to be cremated with our stories?

Hmm…

My future death aside, at some point today I gazed at those grocery bags full of my words, and my scribbles, and my labor, and my life, and I decided to keep the manuscripts around for awhile longer, after all.

BOUCHERCON 2010 | Books and Booze by the Bay

Free books. Paradise!

If you haven’t heard of Bouchercon, it’s the annual trade show for mystery writers and their fans. This year it was held in San Francisco, the land of noir.

How could I not love riding the elevator with Laurie R. King and receiving a kind word in response to my desperate attempt at chit-chat? As I recall, I mentioned that I knew her long-time editor way back when.

Or Hank Phillippi Ryan. For a long while I’d only known of her through the Jungle Red group blog. In real life, she was gorgeous, and she was gracious with everyone, famous or not. I almost followed her around in true stalker fashion. I’m not kidding.

Or Heather Graham. Not quite knowing who she was, I babbled something inane (much alcohol consumed, very little sleep…you get it). She was perfectly nice in response. But why oh why was I going on about that old Prince song “Let’s Go Crazy”?

Or sitting with Bryan Gruley in the bar and thinking, This dude is such a cool dude. Anyone could comfortably put back a beer with him without realizing he’s a fabulous writer. (And he’s good-looking too.)

Or running into Gayle Lynds in the bathroom while she was primping. I asked her if I should know who she was — faux pas anyone? She responded with a twinkly little squint so I pretended to recognize her name when she said it. Here’s the thing: Now that I know Lynd’s name, I’ll look for her books.

Or chatting with nice-as-pie Harley Jane Kozak about her agent, whom I also used to know back in the day. Or introducing myself to Dana Stabenow because we were in that Elizabeth George anthology together…

Here’s the only “however”: I participated as an agent-less novelist, with no published novels under my belt. I noticed that a few attendees ceased to be interested in me when they discovered my lowly publishing status. Sad to see the networking gleam fade from their eyes.

BUT, here’s the “however” to the “however”: Librarians and other fans are the best! I don’t know how many nonwriters I met who were enthused to hear about my novel, who wanted to see me in print, who asked for my business card.

As an exercise in extroversion and schmooze-practice, I give myself a 3.2 out of 5.0, and most of that is for effort rather than execution. It’s all good, and I made a bunch of new friends, discovered dozens of new authors, and lookee here: I’m so enthused, have I started blogging again?