Flash Fiction: Monkey’s Money

November 20, 2013 / Diane Henders / 18 Comments

I was in the mood for something different this week, so I went to my favourite place for flash fiction prompts: Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. I chose a random letter and clicked on a random page, and here’s what I got:

“Monkey’s Money: I will pay you in monkey’s money (“en monnaie de singe”) – in goods, in personal work, in mumbling and grimace. The French had a law that when a monkey passed the Petit Pont, of Paris, if it was for sale it was to pay four deniers (two-thirds of a penny) for toll; but if it belonged to a showman and was not for sale, it should suffice if the monkey went through his tricks.”

* * *

Monkey’s Money

George blew out a long sigh. Here we go again.

He shuffled into the crowded holding area, trying to ignore the jostling bodies around him. Hunkering into the relative privacy of a corner, he eyed the antics of the others. A few familiar faces, but mostly new talent. Or lack thereof.

From the opposite corner, Bruno gave him a pointed glance and curled his lip to expose gleaming bone-white incisors.

George ignored the challenge. Yeah, asshole, whatever. So your teeth are better than mine, so what? You’re still in the monkey pen with the rest of us. He eyed the steady stream of passersby outside with undisguised envy. What he’d give to be one of the privileged few who were granted the dignity of actual money!

How many times had he made this demeaning passage, performing over and over for indifferent audiences?

It had seemed so exciting in the beginning. He had thrown his heart and soul into it; had thrilled to the slightest sign of approval; waited with pounding pulse to see if he would be one of the chosen ones; dreamed of the day he would strut past the pen and into the coveted status of ‘moneymaker’.

But now his clever tricks seemed so mundane. In each performance he struggled to imbue them with new life; to wring fresh nuance from the same stale material.

He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. God, this place reeks. Too many desperate bodies clambering over each other for attention.

The shrieking and chattering intensified and his eyes popped open. Lula again. Christ, look at her shoving her ass in everybody’s face. She’ll screw anything that moves.

And now every other female in the place was taking exception…

Oh, God, not again! George shrank into his corner, trying to make himself a smaller target. Always, dammit. Every damn time some idiot starts flinging poop. And then everybody joins in.

Ignoring the commotion, the bored man with the list caught George’s eye and jerked a thumb toward the stage.

My turn at last! George straightened, willing energy into his body. Summoning every ounce of talent, he threw himself into his performance.

Maybe this time they’ll realize how good I am. Maybe this time, somewhere in that small audience, jaws will drop in awe and delight and someone will rush forward offering precious money.

Maybe this time…

It’s over. Already.

Damn, if they’d only allowed me a few more minutes. A few more seconds, even. I was just getting into it.

But there’s still hope. The knock-‘em-dead scenario was really only a fantasy. It usually takes a while before they make the final selection…

Exhausted, George shambled out. His cell phone rang, and he picked up the call as he slid behind the wheel of his car. “Hi, honey. Yeah, it was the usual circus backstage, but my audition went okay. Now I just have to wait for their decision.”

* * *

What My Library Says

October 16, 2013 / Diane Henders / 29 Comments

A little while ago, I ran across a link to the website of artist Nina Katchadourian, and I was instantly captivated by her Sorted Books project.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so I decided to play, too.

But first, a disclaimer: Obviously, she’s an artist and I’m not. Her books are beautifully arranged and photographed, the subjects are carefully chosen, and the whole thing is a meaningful artistic expression.

I’m just a copycat, and a poor one at that. My photography sucks, my arrangements look like they were stacked by an inebriated orangutan, and my subjects are distinctly low-brow.

But I’m a rabid book lover, and I’m endlessly fascinated by the variety of titles we all have stockpiled on our shelves. And besides, this was fun!

Here’s what I came up with from my personal shelves:
In the “Philosophical” category…

Some days…

I usually feel this way about half-way through writing a novel.

In the “Contradictory Advice” category…

So… what am I supposed to do?

In the “Okay, That Makes Sense” category…

Sounds like a standard action-movie plot…

Can anybody else relate? P.S. “In A Fix” is by my blogging buddy Linda Grimes – check it out!

Seems like a natural progression to me.

In the “I’ve Got A Dirty Mind” category…

‘Nuff said. But check out “Trousering Your Weasel” by another blogging buddy, Murr Brewster!

When you find a title like “In The Wet”, it’s hard to avoid saying something inappropriate…

In the “What Was IN Those Brownies?” category…

Aaaawww… man… now I’ve got the munchies…

And in the “Lines Forms Here” category…

…and if you really believe you’ll find such a thing… please take a number.

The line forms to the left – please, no pushing!

What is your library saying?

Semi-Defective

October 9, 2013 / Diane Henders / 23 Comments

Lately my brain has been semi-defective. It works most of the time, but every now and then it shorts out, leaving me standing there wondering what the hell I’d intended to do moments ago. Or I go to do one thing and end up doing something else entirely.

I hope it’s because I’m in the final intense writing phase of Book 7 and all my spare brain power is used up. I really hope it’s not permanent. And I really, really hope aliens didn’t sneak into my bedroom while I was asleep and swap out my brain for a substandard model. ‘Cause everybody knows there’s a big market for good used brains around Halloween, so it would make sense to manufacture some cheaper semi-defective ones.

I mean, really, there are lots of things that are apparently manufactured to be intentionally inferior.

Take cotton swabs, for example – one of my pet peeves. Any time I buy a generic brand, one end of the swab has a nice soft cotton tip and the other end is a hard plastic stick with a few shreds of cotton adhering to it, just enough to blunt the edges so it doesn’t actually slice the inside of my ear to pieces.

(Don’t bother reprimanding me for sticking cotton swabs in my ears. I know I’m not supposed to, but I’m a rebel. Sometimes I go out doors marked ‘In Only’. Sometimes I drink milk that’s a day past its ‘Best Before’ date. So sticking cotton swabs in my ears? I laugh in the face of danger! Ha-ha!)

Anyway…

If Q-Tips® can make cotton swabs with nice soft cotton tips on both ends, why are all generic cotton swabs semi-defective? Do aliens open up every single package and remove the cotton from one end of each swab?

Or is there a special cut-rate supplier for semi-defective manufacturing equipment?

I imagine the following sales pitch from SemDef Corporation: “Yeah, you could buy a machine that actually works, but for half the price, you can have a machine that only works half the time. Is that a deal or what?”

Which actually explains a lot about the generic food market, too. You know what I mean. If you buy Cheerios®, you get yummy Cheerios®. If you buy generic oatie-o cereal, you get something that tastes like the cardboard box it’s packed in.

It has the same ingredient list. There’s no sawdust or wallpaper paste in there. Not even the leftover cotton from the semi-defective swabs. So that means either they’ve somehow managed to screw up a simple recipe past the point of recognition, OR…

…SemDef also sells substandard food products: “Why spend extra money for top quality oats? For half the price, you can get oats that have been left out in the rain for a few days. All you have to do is scrape off the mouldy bits and ignore the grasshopper corpses, and you’re all set. Really, you’re going to process them past the point of recognition anyway. Who’ll know?”

Okay, I just grossed myself out.

And I’ve created a rambling blog post that connects cotton swabs, aliens, breakfast cereal, and grasshoppers. Yet another sabotage by my semi-defective brain.

Damn those aliens anyway.

Compatibility Is Overrated

August 14, 2013 / Diane Henders / 56 Comments

Over the past decade or so, it has become apparent that my husband and I are completely incompatible:

He’s a pack rat. I’m a cleaner-outer.
He dwells happily in his cluttered man cave. I need a tidy house and a clean desk.
He’s a procrastinator. I do things as soon as they come up (which is really only because I’ll forget about them otherwise, but still).
He likes to have music or TV always on in the background. I prefer silence unless I’m actually concentrating on listening to music.
I love all kinds of music. He’s rock & roll to the core.
I’m a jock. He’s a couch potato (sorry, dear, but you know it’s true).
I’m an adventurous eater. He’s a meat-and-potatoes kinda guy.
He winds down by watching TV. After half an hour in front of the TV, I’m ready to chew off my own arm if that’s what it takes to escape.

But it doesn’t end there. We can’t even agree on the things we agree on. We have two kinds of everything in our house. I drink skim milk and he drinks full-fat homogenized. I eat crackers with unsalted tops; he eats salted. He drinks black tea; I drink green and herbal. He likes white bread; I like whole-grain. We don’t even use the same brand of toothpaste.

A while ago, I ran into an old friend in the grocery store and we were standing there catching up when he suddenly blurted out, “I can’t believe you’re still married.” When I laughed and asked him why, he couldn’t (or didn’t) come up with any concrete reason, but I suspect it was the compatibility thing. Looking at the list above, you’d think we’d have throttled each other before the first year was out.

But we’ve figured out ways to compromise (or agree to disagree), and there are lots of activities we both enjoy. It also helps that Hubby is the most tolerant guy I’ve ever met, and he encourages me in absolutely everything I try (even if I suck at it).

Yesterday was our fourteenth wedding anniversary, and I can’t believe how quickly the years have flown by. It’s been the best fourteen years of my adult life.

I think what I love most about him is the way he does little, special things for me. The surprise trip to a new restaurant; cleaning out the dishwasher because he knows I hate doing it; the fancy bows on the chairs we bought together as a mutual anniversary gift; the flowers for no reason; the way he magically appears with a dishtowel in his hand when he hears me washing dishes. No grand fanfare, no ‘look what I did for you, praise me now’; just his quiet smile.

And I love the way his mind is constantly active. Conversations at our dinner table range from quantum physics to car maintenance; astronomy to science-fiction laser guns; building computers to growing tomatoes to finding a way to filter out the awful taste of his last batch of rotgut homemade wine. (We never did figure that one out. If anybody wants a few gallons of dark-brown fluid that smells like rotten eggs and burns with a clear blue flame, let me know.)

Our basement is full of obscure mechanical and electronic oddments, and Hubby’s always working on some theoretical problem or invention. It’s unfailingly interesting, and occasionally alarming. I’ve narrowly missed being struck in the back of the head by an exploding capacitor (it shot past my left ear). Sometimes there are billows of dense smoke or worrisome chemical odours.

But I think I’ve finally trained him not to use my kitchen sink for toxic substances or my food processor for non-food items. At least, not while I’m looking.

And after all, where’s the fun in predictability?

So happy anniversary to my dear Hubby – I’m looking forward to many more! (Anniversaries, I mean. Just thought I should clarify that…)

I’m Amused

July 24, 2013July 24, 2013 / Diane Henders / 32 Comments

In the vagaries of the English language, I’m “amused”. I’m also amused by the vagaries of the English language, but that’s not actually what I mean.

No; if “amoral” means “lacking morals”, and “atonal” means “toneless”, and “achromatic” means “without colour”, then I’m “amused”. As in “lacking muse”.

Which is a fancy way to say I don’t know what to write about today.

So I shall resort to poking fun at the English language. If the prefix “a-” indicates absence or lack, then why doesn’t “acute” mean “ugly”? Why doesn’t “along” mean “short” and “alike” mean “hate”? And if I amend an item, am I actually ripping it apart?

After coming up with a few other examples, I just couldn’t resist messing around with some flash fiction:

Flash Fiction: Afoul Play (On Words)

Setting my torch alight, I stood blinking, blinded by the sudden blackness. When the vague outlines of the hallway emerged from the dark, I crept forward. The groan of a loose floorboard underfoot made me flinch, my heart drumming against my ribs.

Glad to be alone, I turned to Jim. “Man, why did we let Rick talk us into this? And why are we still doing it when he didn’t even bother to show up?”

Jim replied with his usual unintelligible mumble before pressing his lips tightly agape, but I didn’t let it bother me. He always spoke aloud.

Behind me, Lucy whispered, “Light the torch. This is too creepy. Maybe we heard Rick aright. After all, it was two weeks ago. Maybe he meant twelve noon, not midnight.”

“No, I’m sure he meant midnight,” I argued. “He said we had to sneak in when it was dark, and he teased me that I’d probably arouse at eleven and sleep through the whole thing.”

A few minutes of stealthy tiptoeing later, Lucy hissed, “Oh, gross! Do you smell that? There’s something alive here. It smells like it’s been rotting for weeks!”

“Probably just a dead mouse or something,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

“It can’t be. It’s too strong. It smells like something…” Her voice trembled. “Something big.” Her nails dug into my shoulder. “What’s that aloft? On the floor under that big table?”

I swallowed hard and peered through the dimness.

“Light it! Light the torch!”

Jim’s shout startled me so much I nearly dropped the torch. It bobbled dangerously and Lucy’s shaking hands clamped over mine, pulling the torch atilt to prevent the oil from spilling out.

My lighter clicked. Flames flared high, revealing the reason why Rick hadn’t joined us tonight.

“Rick! Ohmigod, Rick!”

Lucy’s screams echoed in my ears as my stomach lurched. My knees gave way and I arose to the ground, the impact jarring me asleep…

Which means awake… but “awake” actually means asleep.

Which would mean I was awake to start with…

Which means I was sleeping…

So did this really happen, or was it a dream?

Well dang, it looks as though I’ve written a blog post after all. Maybe I wasn’t as “amused” as I thought. But I still think English is a very funny language!

* * *

Addendum: It seems WordPress has been having difficulties lately, and sometimes when you try to leave a comment you get a page that says “This comment could not be posted” or some other error message. If that happens to you here, I’m sorry, and thanks for trying. If you want to try again, here’s what has worked for me on other blogs:

Type your comment as usual, but before clicking Post Comment, highlight the comment and press Ctrl-C on your keyboard to copy it.
Then click the Post Comment button.
If a page comes up saying “This comment could not be posted”, click the Back button to return to the page
Then press the F5 button on your keyboard to refresh the page.
Paste your comment back into the comment box by pressing Ctrl-V.
Click Post Comment again.

Usually the second time’s the trick, but sometimes it wants a couple of tries. It’s a huge pain in the butt and I hope they have it resolved soon, but in the mean time, thank you for trying.

I’ll Tell You What’s Normal…

June 19, 2013 / Diane Henders / 32 Comments

I spend my days skating on the edge of normalcy. So far I’ve been able to avoid unwelcome attention, but that’s due more to good luck than good management. I can get away with my quirks as long as I live in a nice neighbourhood and shower frequently, but put me on a park bench after a hard workout, and somebody’s gonna call the loony-catchers.

This was brought home to me the other day when Hubby was driving and I was sitting in the passenger seat writing dialogue in my head as usual. He glanced over and said, “Writing again, aren’t you?”

I shook myself back to reality and asked, “How did you know?”

“Easy. You had that thousand-yard stare.”

I have what I prefer to call an “expressive” face. What this really means is that there’s a near-one-hundred-percent probability that if someone snaps a picture, I’ll look moronic. Sometimes when I’m absorbed in planning or writing a particularly intense scene, I can feel my face twisting into expressions of fear, anger, or whatever.

Add that to the fact that I almost never know the date and often take two tries to correctly identify the day of the week, and I’m concerned that if I ever get hospitalized and asked orientation questions, they’ll lock me up permanently.

So in the interests of retaining my freedom, I decided it might be smart to write a short primer on what constitutes normal behaviour for me. At least it’ll provide a basis for the authorities to shrug and say, “Yeah, she’s always been like that. We probably don’t need to lock her up yet.”

So here goes:

It is normal for me not to know the day/date. If I’m travelling, I may not always get the city/province right on the first try, either.
It is normal for me to lapse into an apparently catatonic state during which my eye movements mimic REM sleep and my face assumes various inappropriate expressions. It’s also normal for me to be irritated when summarily roused from this state.
It is normal for me to suddenly and inexplicably groan, slap my forehead, and rush to my office to type madly for minutes or hours. This may happen at any time of the day or night, and includes bolting upright out of an apparently sound sleep and scurrying away to type in the wee hours.

With hallmarks like these, it may be difficult to determine what is abnormal behaviour for me, so here’s a handy list of danger signs.

I need professional help if:

I turn down the opportunity to go to a nice restaurant or a blues jam or a drag race.
I fail to fondle fabric when walking through a fabric store.
There’s a garden available and I don’t plant something.
I take my car in for an oil change instead of doing it myself.
I don’t bake when it’s cloudy/raining/snowing… unless I’m reading or writing (those activities trump baking).
I pass up an opportunity to shoot a handgun, rifle, shotgun, bow, slingshot, or any other projectile weapon.
I walk past an unassembled jigsaw puzzle.
I don’t dissolve into a revolting pile of sappy mush at the sight of kittens.
I spill beer. That’s a danger sign in itself, but if I don’t show extreme remorse afterward, it’s already too late – I’m beyond help.

What are your danger signs?

This Poop Requires Cultured Decoding

May 29, 2013 / Diane Henders / 25 Comments

Yes, it’s that time again! I’ve mined the rich vein of entertainment that is my blog spam.

Earlier I noted that my spam seemed to be getting more hostile, but fortunately that trend has flatlined. Maybe they read my blog post and took my jibes to heart?

Nah, I know. Spammers never actually read anything, as this one admits: “I like to party, not look artilecs up online. You made it happen.” – Glad I could be of service, though it’s unclear whether I influenced his/her propensity for partying or looking up artilecs. But at least I’m good for something.

This spammer agrees: “Thank you for the auspicious writeup. It in fact was a amusement account it. Look advanced to far added agreeable from you! However, how could we communicate?” – All I can say is ‘How indeed?’

But it’s nice that they want to keep in touch. This spammer did, too: “Would you be fascinated by exchanging hyperlinks?” – Well, “fascinated” wouldn’t be my exact word…

But they’re encouraging: “If you keep up the great work I’ll visit your weblog again.” – Am I the only one who spots the logic problem here? How will they know if I’m keeping up the great work unless they visit again? What if they visit and I’m just spewing useless crap? (Well, more useless crap than usual.) Have they found a way to retroactively un-visit my blog? If they have, I hope they share, ‘cause there are a few experiences and visuals I’d love to be able to un-visit.

Like this one: “When you change the timing belt, dressed in pink with a pink Hermes leather on the playground…” – Wait, you guys have been spying on me, haven’t you? I knew I should have worn my black leather the last time I changed my timing belt. Pink shows the grease so badly.

And here’s more proof that I’m under surveillance: “You look absolutely stunning with your natural hair!” – Remind me to save my unnatural hair for Halloween and full moons.

Sometimes my spammers wax informative: “Not we are all born with a backbone but you can turn just one in”. – Good news for the spineless wimps of the world.

And speaking of good news, “The good news is, bonobos”. – Well, thank heaven! Without that knowledge, I just don’t know if I could have gone on.

But there’s more good news: “I have read so many articles or reviews on the topic of the blogger lovers…” – Wait, blogger lovers?!? We get groupies? Why haven’t I heard about this before? And where are mine? Please don’t tell me I’ve been missing out on major groupie action. I mean, seriously, we all know bloggers are the rock stars of the internet… um, the sex symbols of cyberspace… um… eh, never mind.

Some spammers look up to me as a valuable source of advice: “What Happens To A Boy If She Takes Viagra?” – Erm… I think we may have to start with the basics here. You see, there’s this thing called “gender”. Boys are “he”…

Which leads nicely into a discussion of the birds and the bees: “Your individual stuffs nice. All the time deal with it up!” – At least I think they’re referring to the birds and the bees. It certainly sounds suggestive.

But it’s hard to be sure. After all, as my latest visitor sagely observed, “This poop requires cultured decoding.”

And ain’t that the truth?

Sometimes Words Fail Me…

May 22, 2013August 5, 2013 / Diane Henders / 21 Comments

…and then I draw stick people.

This post is a prime example of the Little Guy With Pitchfork in action. The exchange went something like this:

Me: Time to write a blog post!

LGWP: You should draw a comic strip instead.

Me: I’m a writer, not a cartoonist.

LGWP: You can draw stick people. C’mon, it’ll be fun!

Me: Well… yeah… I can draw stick people… kinda… *yells* Little Guy With Wings! Where are you? I need you!

*distant sound of the theme song from Jeopardy*

LGWP: Ha! Don’t be such a wuss. I bet you’re too chicken to even try. (Note: The LGWP is a tricky little bastard, and he knows how to push my buttons – see Doin’ It On A Dare.)

Me: Why you little… I’ll show you! *grabs felt pen*

The trouble is, the LGWP is not only tricky, he’s frequently right. I do want cookies and popcorn. The house and the laundry do need attention. And there are only so many omelets you can eat because they’re easy to make at the last minute. (Though I did have a particularly yummy one last night, with bacon, zucchini, onions, peppers, salsa, and feta cheese…)

Anyway, it was fun drawing this strip, but it also took me about ten times as long as writing a regular blog post.

So where was my LGWW all this time? Drinking beer and watching Jeopardy, apparently. I never saw so much as a feather.

It’s so hard to get good help these days.

Does anybody else have an LGWP? Or a better LGWW than mine?

Just Like A Normal Person

March 20, 2013 / Diane Henders / 28 Comments

This has been a seriously weird week for me. For the first time in three years, I don’t have anything to write.

That’s not to say I don’t have work in progress; I do. I’ve begun planning Book 7 of my series, and Book 6, “A Spy For A Spy” is with my editors. My next blog compilation, “Definitely Inappropriate” is scheduled for mid-May.

But this week, there wasn’t any actual writing to be done for any of those projects.

I don’t know what to do with myself. Seven days a week I’m up between six and six-thirty and at my desk by eight, cup of tea in hand. I usually stay submerged until ten o’clock at night, with occasional breaks for meals and meetings and family/social responsibilities and workouts at the gym.

But this week, I’ve been dealing with my business email and bookkeeping, reading the news and a few blog posts, and then wandering aimlessly away from the computer by nine or ten AM because there’s nothing left to do.

I’ve read eight books in three days. I’ve baked bread and cookies and made granola and three kinds of soup in addition to our usual meals. I’ve listened to music and done some sewing and gone to the gym and gone for walks. I’ve done jigsaw puzzles online and surfed YouTube for hours, digging out obscure Dr. Hook videos from the 70s.

I’ve planned a trip and organized the tools I’ll need to install a hardwood floor at my step-mom’s house in April. I’ve worked on marketing campaigns for my books. I’ve cut Hubby’s hair (yes, he asked me to – I’m not quite desperate enough to force him into something like that). I’ve even *gasp* watched a couple of movies.

And I’ve left the house and actually interacted with other human beings, too. I went to a car show and a blues jam and to the pub with friends.

Even after all that, I’m still wandering around like a lost soul. I keep trailing back to the computer in case some important task has materialized while I was gone.

I guess this is what it’s like to be “normal”. I’m doing my best to relax into it, but I have a sense of impending doom. I feel as though I’ve forgotten to do something really, really important and soon disaster will strike because of my negligence.

It reminds me of one of my trips to the doctor many years ago. After a battery of lung-function tests, the specialist smiled at me and said, “You act just like a normal person.”

I said, “Can I get that in writing?”

But on later reflection, I realized he hadn’t actually said I was normal. He only said I fake it convincingly.

So I’m faking it for all I’m worth this week, but normalcy clearly doesn’t suit me. I can hardly wait to go back to communing with the voices in my head for hours a day.

If I was a normal person, I might be worried about that…

Is anybody else living a “normal” life? Tell me, what’s it like?

* * *

Woohoo! The cover for Book 6 is ready! Check it out on my Books page.

I Don’t Get No Respect

March 13, 2013 / Diane Henders / 45 Comments

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I’ve been feeling under-respected lately. And the more I think about it, the more I realize it’s not just a recent thing.

In school, I was known as the smart kid in the class. Anybody who’s ever been a kid knows that “smart” is not a highly-regarded quality in the schoolyard. Fortunately I was also a jock so I didn’t suffer too badly, but it was a relief to go on to university where “smart” would get some respect.

Little did I know.

I actually wanted to go into engineering, but my parents convinced me that a) I shouldn’t neglect my artistic side; b) my brother was already in engineering and I shouldn’t compete; and c) interior design would be a better career for me because when I got married and had a family, I could make the house look nice for my husband.

As wince-worthy as that advice is now, it was well-meant at the time and like the dutiful daughter I was, I followed it.

Interior design was not a good fit. *cue uproarious laughter at the understatement of the century*

I was really good at the technical side. I totally sucked at the design part.

Whenever somebody asked me what I did for a living, I cringed. When I told them, their instant reaction was to pat me on the head and tell me how nice and girly it was for me to make houses pretty.

I spent far too much time explaining that no; interior decorators only pick pretty colours. Interior designers take a brutal four-year university bachelor’s degree, draft plans and construction details for walls, casework, and millwork, know the ins and outs of building codes and fire codes, supervise construction sites, and administer complex project tenders and contracts. And they pick pretty colours.

Unless they’re me. Then they get one of the other designers to pick pretty colours for them.

After twelve excruciating years, I switched to IT, which suited me much better. You’d think that would garner some respect, but it turns out that announcing you’re a computer geek stops conversations dead. People’s eyes dart sideways, they mumble, “I don’t know anything about computers”, and then they flee.

You’d think I was trying to engage them in a rousing discussion about PPPoE protocol or something.

Okay, fine. So now I’m an author.

When I tell people that, they recoil as if I’d just stuck my hand down my pants and started smiling and humming. Usually they mutter something to the effect of “Oh, God, another author” and flee.

Or they pat me on the head and tell me how nice and girly it is for me to write pretty little romances.

Uh.

Have you seen my books?

So I give up. From now on when people ask me what I do, I’m going to tell them I’m a cannibalistic serial killer. And that they’re looking particularly tasty today.

They’ll still flee, but at least I’ll get a laugh out of it.

Anybody else getting respect for their career? Please… tell me what it’s like…

* * *

Many thanks to Shree over at Heartsongs for nominating me for the Liebster and One Lovely Blog awards! To (kinda) fulfill the requirements of the awards, here’s a link to a couple of posts with obscure facts about me, and please pop over to visit my favourite bloggers – they’re in the blogroll at the right. Thanks!