Saturday, August 20, 2011

You Have to Do the Work

Last I checked, writing was hard work. You do the work, you write the best screenplay you can, or novel, or article, then you go out there and network to get it sold.
Believe me, I've learned, networking is as important as the writing. Because the hard part starts after the writing is finished. Networking and meeting people takes time, effort, and money. I don't care who you are. And if you want to make a living as a writer you pay your dues first.
If you want to be a surgeon, you pay the money to go to medical school, no one just opens a hospital door for you because you requested to be a surgeon, you work at it, you spend the money to learn how to be a surgeon, you go to school, and then you sell yourself like a hooker on Soledad Street to get a job in the best hospital.
The same is true for writing, you work hard to learn your craft/art/whateveryouwanttocallit and you learn the business you want to work in, then you do the solitary work of writing that book, script, article, etc., and polish until it shines. Hahaha, and you thought that part was tough.
No excuses, you have to get out there and meet the right people, attend conferences, find out where the right people hang out and try to meet them.
There is a gentleman who thinks he's being discriminated against in this the movie industry, but is he really? Or does he just need to work harder and get better at both the writing and the networking? Here is a candid interview with him (by Jim Vines), and you can decide.

Friday, August 19, 2011

It's Not the Fall, It's How You Rise to the Occasion

Life is filled with obstacles and tests that sometimes knock us off our feet. When we do lose our balance and fall flat on our faces, it’s important to stand up again rather than to sink into doubt and depression...and dust ourselves off.

Getting up again generates greater spiritual Light in the world than if we had never fallen in the first place. The fact that we fell is not what’s important. True greatness is in the act of rising again. (via Yehuda Berg)

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Friday, August 12, 2011

My Bucket List

I never really had a bucket list. The only thing I ever wanted to do was rodeo, and maybe one day qualify for the National Finals Rodeo. Well, owning a restaurant put an end to that dream, since I'd never be able to be on the road all year. This year, one of my biggies was accomplished, I got a covered arena to ride my horses in the winter. But things I'd like to do? I'm going to start my bucket list today.
1. Visit Italy
2. be continued.

What's one (or more) things on your bucket list?

Monday, August 8, 2011

Meet Lola the Doberman and her Favorite Things

Hi, I’m Lola (Mimi’s Doberman) and these are a few of my favorite things.
ON MY iPOD: What’s an iPod?
CURRENTLY READING: There’s a book on the coffee table with a bowl of soup on it.
CITY: Salinas, I hate traveling
DREAM VACATION: A day in the backyard, no car rides, no people, just sleeping and playing with toys.

ACTIVITY: Sleeping
BOOK:I guess it’s the dog treats book Mimi uses when she actually tries to cook special treats
BOOK ON WRITING: Writing, what’s that?

PLACE TO READ: Place to sleep? My bed.
TV SHOW: That’s easy, COPS
MOVIE: Beverly Hills Chihuahua
SONG: Stronger by Kanye West
SINGER:Snoop Dog
ACTOR: Benji

ACTRESS: That Taco Bell Dog
PET PEEVE: Being woken up, at anytime, anywhere. Sleep is sacred.
MOST LIKE TO MEET: The maker of Kong dog toys, so I can say thanks.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

#Sample Sunday - The Murder Scene

Here is a sample of what poor Mimi goes through in LET US PREY:

  Sitting in the middle of the dining room table was Esme. Not all of Esme, just her head, eyes wide open, staring from the crystal bowl. Her hair had been cut into a short spiky chopped mess, and blood had pooled in the bottom of the bowl. Her body had been positioned in a chair next to an antique cabinet with her hands cupped in her lap, collecting pools of blood that had seeped from her neck. Her legs were twisted in the same twist tie I’d seen in my office that day.
  I looked around the room. Everything looked the same as it had when I’d been there in the afternoon. The table was set with a series of white Nortaki china, crystal goblets, and a table runner across the middle. The runner was under the crystal bowl containing Esme’s head. The last time I’d seen the bowl it had been empty. I avoided looking at the head and tried to concentrate on the details of the room. I’d never been to a crime scene so I didn’t really know what I was looking for, but there didn’t seem to be signs of a struggle. I looked behind Esme’s body and saw a slight darkening of the brown walls where blood from Esme’s neck had sprayed the surface. Other than the blood, the room looked pristine. Pristine if you didn’t consider the trail of blood from the body to the head on the table. It looked like a set up for a horror flick or a bad joke. Only the acrid smell of expelled body fluids made the scene real.
  Lauren wrapped her arms around her middle and bent forward, the remains of her fast food dinner spewing forth onto the floor. Holding her hair back with one hand, she spit vomit onto the hardwood floor. Her mouth hung open and spit dribbled from her lips. It seemed she couldn’t catch her breath as she dropped to her hands and knees. She didn’t seem to notice the chunks of her dinner under her hands.
  “Oh my god, oh my god,” she said. Sucking in a deep breath, she vomited again. This time she didn’t try to pull her hair from her face.
  I stood silent, stunned. I followed cheating spouses, did skip traces, took photographs of people committing insurance fraud, and I stood guard to protect people, but I wasn’t a cop, and I’d never seen anything like this. Between Lauren’s barfing, and Esme’s decapitated head I didn’t know how to keep myself from fainting. Finally, I looked up, which helped me swallow the bile building in the back of my throat, and concentrated on the ceiling for a moment.
  Watching Lauren, and smelling the regurgitated fish filet, was too much. But I couldn’t vomit. I had to get my head together. Call the police. But I couldn’t move. I was the professional here, right? Oh, I so didn’t want to be the professional. I wanted to go back to the car and have a do-over. Lauren started to stand up, and I regained my composure, trying to be the consummate professional.
  “Don’t touch anything. I’ll call the police,” I said.
  She barely got herself into a sitting position on the floor rocking back and forth, whispering. I couldn’t hear what she said. I leaned closer, and choked back my vomit when I smelled hers.
  “What?” I said.
  “Henry. Where is Henry?” She wiped the vomit from her hands onto her skirt.
  I pulled my cell phone from my hip holster and dialed 911. I put the phone to my ear and listened. It seemed like an hour before the dispatcher answered.
  “911, what’s your emergency?”
  “There’s been a murder.”
  “Ma’am, are you okay?”
  “Yes,” I lied. “A woman was murdered, and we just got home and found her.”
  “Ma’am. What’s your name?”
  “Mimi Capurro. I’m here with the owner of the house. She isn’t doing so well.”
“Has she been injured?”
  “No. She found the body. She’s not handling it very well.” I looked back at Lauren who was still rocking and mumbling.
   “What’s your location, ma’am?”