This Blog Has Been Replaced

Hello, there! I'm back to blogging and I will try to be consistent about it. However, since I never like to stay in one place too long, I have a new blog:

http://bonelesspork.blogspot.com/

Please stop by! We'll have a smashing good time.

Antoinette

YAY! AUDIOBOOK!

Yay! Bedtime Stories for Children You Hate now on sale as an AUDIOBOOK at http://audible.com. Coming soon to Amazon and iTunes!

Origins of “I am a complete potato.”

Drilled into my head are all the traditional “dont's” of writing. Like “Never start your story with the date.” So, I'll begin with:

The date was Friday the 13^th, 2012. The time – shortly before 4:00 a.m. I was about to go to bed because that's how I roll. I go to bed when most of you are approaching an assault by your alarm clock. Why I do this is a long story, but those who know me best, know that all my stories are long. There is never a short version.

Then IT happened. I'm afraid for you to understand IT, you will need some background. (Never a short version. I warned you.)

A month or so ago, I was in the Amazon's author forum looking over everyone's daily complaints, doubts, arguments, stat comparisons, etc. Nothing caught my interest. I tend to lurk rather than participate. On my way out, a new post appeared. Some guy I'd never heard of was asking for “weird fiction.” My gut instinct said he was actually looking for a way to make money from self-published writers. This type of thing happens frequently on the Amazon author forum. Apparently, a great lot of us reach a point of despair which makes us easy targets. I clicked on the link to check out the scam du jour. As far as scams go, this one seemed innocuous. The guy explained he was on some sort of quest for weird e-books. If there is one thing about my e-book on which everyone can agree, “weird” is it.

I submitted “Bedtime Stories for Children You Hate” based on the very sound logic in my head that spoke the magical word “whatever.” It wasn't until many days later I realized what I'd just done. I had submitted my book to Damien Walter to be scrutinized for his column in The Guardian. I wanted my submission back. Seriously. I don't compete. The stress of a contest is too much for me. I'm not proud of my work the way I feel a true author should be. My writing isn't my “baby.” At best, it is a red-headed stepchild.

Concluding that trying to revoke my submission would be moronic, I let it go and tried not to think about it. Then something amazing happened. I started learning about Damien Walter and discovered him to be a fascinating and admirable man. I respect his body of work and his enthusiasm about literacy. I followed him on Twitter and delighted in our occasional 140 character conversations. I liked him even more when I saw he regularly picked fights.

I'll interject here that I know I sound like a smitten schoolgirl. Although I do find Damien Walter adorable, the statements I'm making about him do not come from a place of crushery (if that's not a real word, I call dibs on it for coining). My sentiments stem from the very real regard I have for him as a fellow human being.

During his quest for weird, Damien (yes, I did just elevate us to a first name basis without his consent) issued a tweet calling my book “Fab.” One small word, only three letters long, became the most important word in my vocabulary. And that was that. He liked my book enough to tweet about it with that groovy word and my worries were over. I had accidentally entered a major contest and received the prize of Fab. Now I could relax and look forward to his witty tweets and ultimately, his Weird Things column where I hoped to see some scathing words that would both entertain me and teach me to be a better writer.

Okay. So back to IT.

I was minding my own business (that is a total lie. I never mind my own business) when the column I had been waiting for appeared. I read through Damien's selections and reviews but then wait, what? I saw my title and my name. I assumed I was hallucinating because it was 4:00 a.m. I was not. Here is the link to the article if you have not seen it.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/apr/13/weird-damien-walter-quest-ebooks

Okay. There is a problem: I am freaking out and it's 4:00 a.m. Kid is asleep. Who the hell am I going to tell? So I send Damien a horribly awful tweet saying: “Is it grossly inappropriate to say I fucking love you?” Being the good sport that he is, Damien responded with: “Possibly. But fuck it, complement accepted!”

Here's where we head for the potato. I realized Damien used the wrong form of “compliment” in his tweet, but was I going to call him on it? What do you think? NO. FUCK NO.

Now the only thing left to do is go batshit crazy on Facebook until someone in my family wakes up. It was very frustrating because I hadn't mentioned Damien's quest to my family so I had a lot of explaining to do. Finally, people start waking up. No one will click on the link to the article because they are so sick of my ramblings, they don't understand. This rambling is important. So I amp it up to Level 14 batshit crazy and start SCREAMING IN ALL CAPS for them to CLICK ON THE COCKADOODY LINK! (Thanks goes out to Stephen King for use of the word “Cockadoody”).

During this tantrum, I posted a screen shot of the aforementioned tweets to help them GET IT. Still not getting it, my sister said: “Unless your potato completes his gravy, shouldn't he have said 'compliment'?”

(My sister is my proofreader). By now, I'm furious that no one has clicked on the link so I just keep SHOUTING at them. My dumb brother comments on the tweets because, apparently, he just thinks I've scored with a British guy or something. I am all the way up to Level 29 batshit crazy now, still SHOUTING, then I remember I have a weak heart and I should chill. So I tell my sister calmly to click on the link and it will all make sense. Then I add, “Besides... Maybe my potato does complete his gravy.”

My sister finally reads the article and becomes excited. She said: “That is so cool! I think your potato does, in fact, complete his gravy!” Now, I stress here, please don't take this to mean that I or my sister thought Damien fancied me. We know he doesn't. We know I drank an inch of wine and blathered on about fancying him, so let there be no confusion. We were speaking of literary potatoes and gravy. I promise.

Well, I never went to bed. Kid woke up and I told him we were going to celebrate, which we did in really mundane ways. When we got home that night, the sky was exceptionally clear and full of stars. I could even see The Big Dipper. In Washington State, this is a rare occurrence. In my overtired, yet entirely happy state, I looked up at the stars and said, “I am a complete potato.” And that was that. I now had a phrase that summed up this groovy thing that happened to me and made me realize I have a lot of my life left to live despite some incredibly shitty setbacks.

So it's going on my wrist. Forever.

Someone Just Reminded Me I Have a Blog.

Although I suspect it was a ploy to get my drunk ass off Twitter, @onejakebarton reminded me I have a blog. So I'm here now. And I am drunk. All apologies, as Nirvana might say.  My first glass of wine in over three years. Doctor said, "Oh, go ahead. I only told you no alcohol because your ex-husband said you were an alcoholic and I didn't know who to believe."  Ironically, during my first glass of wine in over three years, my ex-husband phoned with his usual "love me or I'll kill your family" schtick. Now the two things are fused together in my mind and I shall remain a non-drinker. Turns out, I don't miss it. Turns out, it makes me an idiot.  Side note: Police have been called, family will be fine.  This happens about every 6 months since he lost his job.

Lots has happened since I last blogged. Damien Walter gave me a lovely write-up in The Guardian and now I have a mild infatuation with him. I also have a mild infatuation with James Worrad, whom I came to e-know through Damien Walter. Perhaps if I go to England, I may score a shag this decade. I'm not sure my parts still work. I mentioned I'm drunk, right? Don't be surprised if this post vanishes.

Um... I still love writing. I still hate kids, but regardless, I adopted another baby. She's French. Her name is Genevieve and she is grouchy, possibly evil. I'll love her anyway. After all, she could have come from my own loins with that personality. 

Oh, starting today and through the next 5 days-ish, my book The Non-Adventures of Ricky and Amy: Stories Appropriate for Children (I Think) by Olivia Bergin is free on Kindle. The link is above somewhere. I'd find it for you if I were sober. I am Olivia, but it just didn't seem right for a British nanny to be writing stories about strange American children. There are many people in my head. I'm sure you'll meet more later. Emma Parker is dying to get out. She hits me from the inside. Ouch.

Please don't tell anyone about my aforementioned infatuations. They are secret. Thanks.

P.S. - The Ricky and Amy stories ARE NOT appropriate for children. Olivia is a liar.

P.P.S. - If you have an eighties playlist, it will not be complete without Tainted Love, but I suspect you already knew that.

Loves and Kisses,

Antoinette 

#EightiesWisdom

Okay, I totally forgot I have a blog. But I do, and this is it. Shoddy and neglected. But if you are here, it's because I sent you here to learn about my new #EightiesWisdom hashtag on Twitter that may, or may not be irritating you.

Things are a little bit, what's a good word for it... harsh. Yeah. Things are a little bit harsh in my reality right now and what started off with a ten minute walk down Nostalgia Street evolved into a new playlist. I have 152 hand-picked songs that I intend to have plugged into my earholes for as long as I need them to be. Maybe forever, probably not. Some of you may be thinking, the eighties... They're so old and worn out. Or, weren't the eighties just some kind of bad fashion joke? Well, yes, some of that's true, but the section of the eighties where I hung out was nothing short of awesome. So listening to these songs takes me back to a happier time. A simpler time. A time when my body was fabulous (even though I didn't realize it until now), my future was still a mystery, and the most important aspect of my life was having fantastic shoes. It didn't even matter that all the shoes were black. It was completely possible to have 8,000 pairs of black shoes that were each glorious in their own special way.

I was surprised, though, to find out at the *muffled* age I am now, how many of these songs held powerful tidbits of fascinating wisdom. And then there are the silly bits. I like those, too. So via my #EightiesWisdom hashtag, I am sharing these precious gems with you. I also need an outlet to delude myself that others are in the eighties with me. That's where y'all come in.

Eventually, it will pass.  Maybe I'll lose all my followers but I'm going to risk it. These remarkable quotes need to be remembered, savored, loved and honored. Feel free to share your own #EightiesWisdom. There's room enough for all of us in the past. Trust me. It's better there.

Also, I'm currently having an issue where I am certain Norman Bates and/or his mother have suddenly appeared in the big house behind me. They/He/She/It taunts me at night with a shadowy figure behind some thin drapes in an otherwise ALWAYS empty house. Now I have to close the blinds on that side of the apartment at night whereas I never had to before. It doesn't help. Not seeing Mrs. Bates doesn't mean she's not there. It also doesn't explain why she suddenly appeared in an ALWAYS empty house. I figured it was a Summer home and I'd see people there in Summer. It is definitely not Summer here. It's rainy and cold and there's no one there but Mrs. Bates and she stays in that window.

Any advice on how to handle the absolute creepiness of this new situation is welcomed.  See, I also realized that by writing all the time (polishing up my first novel, people) my zombie killing skills have fallen by the wayside. Last night (when I first saw Mrs. Bates) I was in the middle of berating myself for making the otherwise beautiful Leon Kennedy look like a complete sissy-boy as time and time again, his head was sawed off by a zombie wearing some kind of burlap mask. I need those skills back. My reputation, as well as Leon Kennedy's, depends on it. Knowing that Mrs. Bates is on the other side of the window isn't helping my concentration any, as you can imagine.  

Okay. I'm done talking now. Please go back to whatever you were doing. Thanks for stopping by.

FREE! One Day Only!

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007A2RMWA

 Free for one day only (February 21st, Midnight to Midnight, Pacific Standard Time).

TWO BOOKS - ONE FREE PRICE!

Bedtime Stories for Children You Hate AND The Non-Adventures of Ricky and Amy: Stories Appropriate for Children (I Think). 

Second volumes of each of these series are in the works so familiarize yourself with the strange ramblings of Antoinette Bergin and her cousin, Olivia Bergin, FREE!

Afterwards, rejoice or bemoan that more stories are on their way.

 

 

Just a Quick Pop-In!

I was passing through on my way to yoga... okay, really I'm on my way to get yogurt... Alright! Ice cream. I was just passing through on my way to get ice cream, cigarettes, coffee and bourbon and I thought I should let you know that my dear Cousin Liv has written a little e-book. It's called "The Non-Adventures of Ricky and Amy: Stories Appropriate for Children (I Think)" by Olivia Bergin.


I'm awfully proud of Olivia, even if it is a shameless and obvious attempt to gain some attention for her tiny wall-flower self on my coattails. We're sort of in a Kate and Pippa situation. Sort of.

Anyway, get it free between now and January 27th at:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0070I2QKM  

Love and Kisses,
Nettie