book review of "Camera Obscura"

My review of Camera Obscura, by Rosanne Dingli:

http://www.amazon.com/review/R2KEVBY9BEM1QV

“Rich storytelling, but someone slap the protagonist.”

dmyates Believe in Yourself: Log Line Tag Line or Blurb

dmyates Believe in Yourself: Log Line Tag Line or Blurb: For those of us trying to be self-employed, we quickly learn there's more to running a business than just producing the products. ...

Speak of the Devil: An Olympic Day In The Life Of A Dog

Speak of the Devil: An Olympic Day In The Life Of A Dog: Before we get ourselves started today, some links for you to check out. Yesterday Norma marked the 250th anniversary of  the founding of he...

A Valentine Message -- Or Else

I’m going to tell you a secret: A secret that will seem stunning, coming from a man who writes romance novels:

I’m not romantic. At all.

This comes as no surprise to my wife, I’m sad to say. I do the dishes, don’t mind going shopping, listen when she talks, and don’t watch sports, but in this one area I’m sadly far too much like the typical male.

It’s worse during winter, a time during which I’m not very good at anything, and tend to get sick and tired all
the time. Unfortunately for me, some moron chose to place Valentine’s Day in February, right in the middle of a time when my idea of romance is cuddling on my side instead of my back, so I’m less likely to bother her by snoring.

But I do love her. She knows that, but even though Emily isn’t a typical woman in some ways, she would like me to show it more often. Who can blame her?





I could say that of course I love her, because—after all—I married her. I mean, she knows I tend to be a hermit, and the single life is great, right?

But I have a good memory in some areas. Married men tend to convince themselves that single life is great, but in reality they black out the bad parts … the loneliness being the biggest of the bad parts. They’d never admit to anyone, even themselves, that being single is only fun in retrospect.





I was especially lucky, because my wife is a nerd, like me. (Or is it geek? I can never keep them straight.) I’m not so much into gaming or horror as she is, but we both like science fiction, reading, writing, and humor, among other things.





I may not have the charm of Captain Picard, the hot bad boy-ness of Dean Winchester, or the dark presence of Professor Snape, but mostly we get each other. She’s even learned to tell when I’m not feeling well, even when I try to hide it.




She doesn’t even mind my puns. Much. Usually.





Still, speaking of puns, you have to wonder why she’s willing to put up with me. I have a hard time being serious; I have absolutely no idea how to relax; thanks to my writing career I’m working two full time jobs; and I’m twice her age, meaning my health is starting to fall apart just as she’s looking for someone to go, say, cliff diving or shooting the rapids. (Note to my wife: NO cliff diving.)


And her? She’s perfect.





Yes, I’m aware no one is actually perfect, although some think they are. But I can’t imagine any woman being closer to a perfect match for me. I shall, little by little and mostly in better weather, try to correct the things I know she doesn’t like about me, not the least of which being my less than romantic disposition. Maybe writing more romantic comedies will help. In return, all I ask of Emily: Is that she puts up with me.
 
And edit my stories.

Deconstructing The Sochi Olympics‏

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

            I kept hearing about some disaster that was going to happen in a place called Sochi this winter. Something about gay terrorists with torches attacking bad hotels during a heat wave, or some such thing.

            Turns out they’re having the Olympics.

            The Soviet Union broke up, but it seems the Russians putting on the 2014 Winter Olympics still adhere to the communist style of efficiency and quality (and personal freedoms). Sochi, by the way, is Russian for “whatever”.

Efficiency? Less than a week before the Olympics, this small town has unfinished hotels, unworking Wi-Fi, and TV’s that don’t tele any vision. Gorki Plaza, intended to be a hub of transportation and accommodations, was indeed buzzing with people—all of them construction workers.

Meanwhile the Russians, once masters of propaganda, recently passed a law outlawing “gay propaganda”. No word on whether straight propaganda has been outlawed, but apparently they’re trying to protect minors (Miners are on their own).

If the idea is to keep underage people from being exposed to nasty sex stuff, wouldn’t they already have general nasty sex stuff laws to cover everyone? It would be like a law being passed in America that covers everyone else, but not members of Congress. Oh, wait …

Russia’s no worse than having the Olympics in China, which is still communist, and run by a government that hasn’t discriminated in who it massacres. That’s the thing about the Olympics: They let anybody run it. You know what the really crazy thing about the Sochi Olympics is? It’s that it’s being held in Sochi, which is a Black Sea resort.

A summer resort.

 Maybe the Russians will get most infrastructure problems cleared up, especially with Putin cracking the proverbial (and maybe literal) whip. Still, you have to suspect any hotel where the water looks like apple juice, but is deadlier than a masked killer in a woods full of sex-starved teens.

Also, I’d be a bit hesitant to stay in a place where the toilets come with a sign instructing guests not to flush toilet paper down those self-same toilets. You’re supposed to put it in a provided bin—hey, at least they provided a bin—but one wonders what that bathroom’s going to smell like after a few days.

It’ll smell bad anyway, because apparently if you shower the water will melt your skin off. In one hotel, the staff instructed people not to wash their faces with the water because “it contains something very dangerous”. Huh? What does that mean? Parasites? Zombie virus? Siberian potato vodka?

So, no one can take a shower? We’re talking about hundreds of athletes and reporters, two of the smelliest types of people around.

I looked through photos of the “almost” finished living quarters, and was stunned. They looked as if they’d been constructed by … well … me.

At the end of one hallway there were two windows: One set at ground level, the other along the ceiling. I could understand that in the summer Olympics, when you might need one for the basketball players and one for the gymnasts, but still.

Newly installed light fixtures appeared to be falling to the floor in pieces. Have you ever stepped on the remains of a light fixture? Well, for the full experience come to Sochi, or my house.

A CNN reporter tweeted a photo of his hotel room, which looked like the aftermath of a football victory celebration in Seattle.

Ball-shaped toppers on a banister outside a McDonalds just … fell off. I don’t think they’d be good for curling, but maybe they can be saved for the summer shot putt.

One guy had a nice door to his hotel room, but no door handle. Another found orange peels in his closet. Not the orange, just the peels. The hotel lobby … wasn’t there.

You couldn’t always tell if the wireless internet worked, because the power kept going out. But one guy must have had a good signal, because the internet routers were hanging from a hole in his hotel wall.

Around the village, some of the manholes had no covers, which might be the start of still another arcane Olympic event.

Here’s my favorite: In addition to construction workers, the entire area around the Olympics seems to have been overrun by … dogs.

Forget about terrorists: There was no place nearby for them to stay, and the busses they were taking lost their luggage and ran out of gas. I’d say the athletes should worry about going out onto the ice—and sinking.

A Newbie's Guide to Publishing: Me, Hugh Howey, and Legacy John on AuthorEarnings....

A Newbie's Guide to Publishing: Me, Hugh Howey, and Legacy John on AuthorEarnings....: Joe sez: Go and join the fun over at www.authorearnings.com if you want to see Hugh Howey blow the lid off of Amazon author earnings. To s...

Forget Pot: Ban Potholes

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

            Did you hear about the pothole that swallowed Cleveland?

           It spit the city back out. Thought it didn’t have good taste.

           Actually, a few years ago I wrote a story inspired by a news report I read, in which a hole opened up and really did swallow an entire intersection in Cleveland. Cleveland residents will tell you nobody beats them for potholes, by any measure: depth, width, hang-time while falling into it …

            But everyone else in every other community across the country, large and small, will make the same claim. Potholes are a nationwide problem, like politicians, Obamacare, and bobbleheads. (I can’t help it, they freak me out. Bobbleheads, too.)

            Potholes happen due to fatigue. No, not the driver: the road surface develops a crack, and the cracks form a pattern called crocodile cracking. At that point crocodile skin is stronger than the pavement, so the cracks spread until the pressure of passing vehicles pops whole areas loose. They’re usually made worse by large temperature changes, so around here they’re a winter and spring thing. But like politicians, potholes can pop up anywhere, anytime, and cause great damage.

            I know it seems like I’m poking a lot of fun at politicians, but in this case there are many similarities between them and potholes: They both cost money, and both have seasons in which they appear more often. Both cause people to curse and demand something be done about them, but most people never actually do anything to fix things themselves.

            In some parts of the country potholes are called kettles or chuckholes, and there are other things they’re called that I can’t repeat here. (See above about people cursing.) I don’t know who chuck is, but he must be extremely unpopular.

            In the end the only people who like potholes are those who collect hubcaps.

            At some point potholes become sinkholes; I suppose that’s when they get through all the road stuff and reach the things that used to be there before the road. There have been cases where people have driven into sinkholes, only to find old Indian burial grounds. I don’t need to tell you that’s not good karma.

            But let’s stick to potholes. They’re bad enough by themselves: A pothole on a county road near Huntertown could be seen from space. A pothole on an Albion side street was used for location shooting in an Indiana Jones movie. A pothole on US 33 in Churubusco once swallowed an entire marching band.

            (The brave band kept playing, and the echo effect so impressed the parade judges that the band was awarded first place in the three feet down or lower category.)

            The good news is that there are ways to repair potholes. The bad news is that the material most often used in repairing potholes consists of toothpaste and ground up material made of former Lady Gaga outfits. (Ironically, her outfits often do make me say “Gah!”)

            Experts say Colgate holds up longer, but Sensodyne doesn’t hurt as much when you hit it.

            Actually, the main problem with patching potholes isn’t the material, it’s the time. The throw-and-go method takes the least amount of time, and lasts the least amount of time. I think the name would tend to suggest that.

            There’s also the throw and roll, which my brother and I used to do until my mom got tired of buying bandages and made us stop. It takes about two minutes more per pothole, which doesn’t seem bad until you get a big outbreak (think teenage acne) and crews are filling them as fast as compact cars can disappear.

            The other time is the time of year: No matter how they’re patched, repairs don’t hold up as well in the winter as they do in the summer. That being the case, road repair crews often don’t even try to make permanent repairs during bad weather – they just want it to hold up until some other poor sap has to deal with it when the weather gets better Unfortunately, unless they’re job-hoppers, the first poor sap often has to deal with the same hole more than once.

            So what can we fill potholes with that will do the job but be more permanent? We can’t use politicians – their spines aren’t stiff enough.

            After a great deal of thought, I’ve solved the problem. I came up with something that never deteriorates, something harder than asphalt, and something that is in plentiful supply in winter, right when it’s needed most:

            Fruitcake.

            You’re welcome.

Stupid groundhog.

If you don't absolutely have to, don't go out. The roads are horrid -- again -- and snow plow crews aren't going to be able to keep up with the wind-blown drifts. I barely made it home; was almost hit head-on by one moron, and almost rear-ended by a tailgater, and had to shovel my way into my garage. If your job requires you to be at work like mine does, I can only say be very careful ... if you're an employer and you can do so, tell your workers to stay home.

My Funny Valentine for a buck

I’m a little late getting to this (okay, a lot late), but for about another day you can buy the humor anthology My Funny Valentine as an e-book for just 99 cents. A great seasonal read and a fun gift:

http://www.amazon.com/My-Funny-Valentine-MyFunnyBooks-Writers-ebook/dp/B006JROL8K

Speak of the Devil: Just Blame It On The Groundhog

The Only Good thing about Groundhog Day is the movie:



Speak of the Devil: Just Blame It On The Groundhog: Some links to see to first of all. At our joint blog, we have a  Without A Word  post for your consideration. At AngryParsnip's blog,  ...