I’m a grump, a grouch, the kind of lady who says, “Ugh” at romantic comedies with a thumbs down and over-exaggerated eye-rolling. I should have hated this film because it’s just Jennifer Aniston playing Rachel from Friends again for the umpteenth time and Jason Bateman is playing a variation of Michael Bluth from the brilliant Arrested Development. Well, friends, I’m going to confess something to you. I know I’m a noted cynic and hater of all things corny and cheeseball and over-processed, gimmicky bullshit, but I gotta tell you: I love Rachel and Michael Bluth, all right? [side note: I’m starting to think that maybe it’s time I stop kidding myself and stop telling people, “My favorite film? Why, Wong Kar Wai’s seminal film, In the Mood for Love, of course,” and instead say that it’s Mannequin 2: On the Move starring Kristy Swanson and William Ragsdale– gotta love the main theme song, “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” by Starship] I avoided seeing this at the theater because I didn’t want to be seen as one of those women gushing, “Ohhhh, I love The Notebook. Ryan Gosling + Rachel MacAdams should be together forever!” and “OH MY GOD, how accurate was He’s Just Not That Into You? It’s like they read my web diary!” and “SHUT UP, Sex in the City 2 is the best movie of ALL TIME. OF ALL TIME!!!” or “I WILL JUST DIE IF I DON’T SEE THAT NEW KATE HUDSON MOVIE ON OPENING NIGHT!! My girlfriends and I are going to head on over right after Happy Hour at Cosmo’s where I will drink many pink girly drinks with umbrellas in it.” Or “Ohmygaw, I’m so going to crash Target’s website and servers because I just absolutely have to have those ugly rain boots with the print on it by some Italian guy I’ve never heard of.” That’s just not me. Admittedly, I scoff at those women. And why, for God’s sake? I like cats, I write romance novels, I LOVE romance novels, and I like shoes very, very much. Why should I make fun of these ladies when I once watched that movie with Katherine Heigl and Josh Duhamel and found myself rooting for those 2 crazy kids to make it work? On top of that, I am unabashedly excited for that Stephanie Plum movie starring Katherine Heigl when I just know that the critics will hate it. What do I gain for pretending I hate these movies and proclaiming loudly how awful and sexist they are? Why should I deprive myself of happiness from watching goofy, critically lambasted films just because people might think I’m uncool? Hipster cred makes NO ONE happy and satisfied. From now on, I will proudly declare that I LOVE so-called “awful” movies. So there.

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I don’t know if it’s because I now fall under the descriptor “thirtysomething,” but lately I’ve been feeling maudlin and sentimental. Or maybe it’s the post-holidays blues or the I-don’t-have-money-or-a-job-and-my-car-is-dying-and-I’m-fifteen-pounds-overweight-and-I-live-with-my-parents-and-I-should-be-on-the-show-Hoarders blues. While I was unable to sleep some nights ago, I caught “While You Were Sleeping” on TBS or WGN or one of those channels and I felt compelled to watch it from beginning to end. By the time I got to the scene where Sandra Bullock was telling Bill Pullman’s family that all she really wanted was a family of her own and she was grateful to them because they treated her as family, I was a hysterical sobbing mess. And seriously, if I were making my living as a subway ticket booth operator and I am living in a crappy apartment where I am constantly stalked by my perverted landlord and my love interest is Bill Pullman, I would have pushed Peter Gallagher out of the way and got run over by the train myself. But what does that have to do with “Sleepless in Seattle,” you ask, other than they both have sleep in the title? Well, I was suffering from one of those sleepless nights again and trying to get myself sleepy by staring at the ceiling and humming “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning,” which is one of my favorite songs of all time. Somewhere in the middle of it, I got choked up and my eyes started to burn with tears and before I knew it, I was sobbing again. To distract myself from my own maudlin gloominess, I turned on the TV and guess what was on? Yep, “Sleepless in Seattle,” whose soundtrack “In the Wee Small Hours” happens to be a part of (other great songs in this soundtrack: “A Wink and a Smile” by Harry Connick Jr and “Stardust” by Nat King Cole, which never fails to make me cry a little bit).

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Richard Lawson writes the American Idol recaps for Gawker and he does this bit with Ryan Seacrest having an affair with last season’s hot boy Tim (the one with the abs and not a very good singing voice, but was really hot). Such brilliant writing. So poignant… and… I don’t know, oddly enough… heartbreaking.

Ryan’s cowboy boyfriend from preliminary auditions was executed, which made Timmy sigh with relief as he watched the show last night, wrapped in a fur shawl and nothing else, drinking gin and lemon juice. (Ryan worries about his increased drinking, but figures it’s just nerves, just the painful fraughtness of being in love.)

Don’t you? Don’t you feel it?” Ryan says as he strokes Tim’s hair, Tim who is looking away, lost in a fog of booze and tiredness, Tim who hasn’t left the house in days. “Don’t you feel that I love you?” Tim laughs, a sort of froggy throaty chuckle that’s new for him, it seems old and weary in a way that Tim shouldn’t seem old and weary. “I don’t know. The cowboy’s gone, I guess. That helps. Who knows.” He wanders out to the balcony and stares off into the valley. Ryan looks at him, silhouetted in the doorway, and he wonders. He wonders how something can suddenly be going so wrong when everything else is going so right. It’s just the pain and weight of years, he guesses. Just that. Just that he’s starting something new and here Tim is, just frozen in time. Ryan sees the orange flicker and glow of Tim lighting a cigarette, another new habit, one that Ryan actually likes a bit, makes Tim seem a little more… French, but still one that worries him. But oh well. He’s tired. And there’s always tomorrow. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow belongs to them.

He’s just a brilliant writer, that’s all.

I Don’t Want Your Poopie Ice Cream Anyway!

Dionne asked me to talk about being an indie author. I’m pretty much off the indie rah rah train for the most part, except when someone specifically asks me to talk about it, then I can be persuaded.

There was a time when I had the plan to get a “real publisher”. It was the proper and respectable way, and I took my writing very seriously. I’ve been writing since at least junior high and I wanted to be a published author. I wanted to be “validated”.

I wrote a lot of books I’ll never publish and did not submit because I knew they weren’t ready. This wasn’t a fear of rejection. I’d submitted short stories before and gotten rejections. Some of them form letters, some of them nice. I’d never understood the whole “crying over a rejection letter” thing. The most I’d felt was a little bummed/disappointed. I knew it was just part of the process.

As I got closer to having a novel that I thought might be ready for publication, something funky happened with my writing. I stopped doing as much of it. Because now it meant I had to submit stuff to agents. And then after that I had to get a publisher. And then I had to lose control of everything from my title to the way editing was done, to my cover art. Then I would live in this mystery land where I had no idea about my sales for months and months at a time. And I’d have to deliver books on someone else’s deadlines. And if I someday started writing fast, I’d have people trying to “slow me down” due to their publishing schedules.

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Love Sonnet XI

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me,
all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Here’s the original Spanish version:

Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,
no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en el día.

y hambriento vengo y voy olfateando el crepúsculo
buscándote, buscando tu corazón caliente
como un puma en la soledad de Quitratúe.

“I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.” Beautiful. No one can describe obsessive lust quite like Pablo Neruda. I bet he wouldn’t mind sniffing your morning breath in the morning, either. Heck, he’d probably even write an ode to it. Oda al olor fétido que es tu respiración.