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Forget if chick lit is dead or cyclical or whatever … Wonder Woman has a stamp! Wonder Woman has a stamp!

Actually she has two.

We can buy them on Friday and in order to obtain the sacred relics, we have to get a sheet with those other dillweeds like Superman and Plasticman. But I don’t care because Wonder Woman is here fightin’ for our rights in her satin tights!

Best,

Mary C. who wins hands down as the biggest nerd of all time

Did you see the Good Morning America story about the 11-year old kid who runs his lemonade stand while wearing a business suit? Ethan Esparza of Minneapolis, MN was making $5 a day selling lemonade in a t-shirt and shorts. But when his mama told him to switch up to a suit, he started making $30-40 a day.

Well, it got me thinking about the upcoming RWA National Conference in Atlanta and how there are always those poor souls who show up to their pitch appointments in either (a) the historical/western costume, (b) the dress their chick lit character would wear to Pure in Vegas, or (C) the velvet hooded cloak over black jeans and an “I believe in magick” t-shirt. I’m really sorry if this is offensive, but I’m saying this with the hope that you will not be uh, hindered by your fashion choices.

So here it goes. Ahem. Me me me.

When you walk up to the table where your first-choice agent or editor is waiting, do so in an outfit that makes you feel confident, strong and professional. If a business suit does the trick, go for it. But a healthy compromise are jeans, a dressy top and light sweater (hotels are always freezing). As an author, you’re a professional artist/writer/whatever. But you’re not a celebrity or a character. If you don’t believe me, I am promising you that I once talked to an editor about this same phenomena. She said that when someone pitches to her while dressed in pajama bottoms, bunny slippers and her headlights on high beam, it’s very difficult to take that writer seriously.

Bottomline: if you mean business, look the part.

For those of you who are not attending RWA Atlanta, I wrote “The Anti-Conference” for OCC RWA’s Slice of Orange. By the way, I won’t be in Atlanta this year. I’m revising Switchcraft (working title of my July 2007 release) and vacationing with the hub and the Little Dude.

Vaya con Dios,
Mary

I saw Superman this afternoon and it was cool. For once Lois Lane actually saves Superman and there’s a Really Big Secret that I won’t even hint at. But throughout the movie, even during the most tense moments, I kept thinking: so does Wonder Woman show up?

I’ll give you an example … or three. When the plane carrying the space shuttle plummets to earth, Superman tries to steer the plane by holding a wing. Wonder Woman would’ve figured out that the uneven distribution of weight would’ve ripped it off and lost precious time. When Kitty – Lex Luther’s sidekick – acts as a diversion to Superman, Wonder Woman would’ve seen through the cheap feminine wiles and used the lasso of truth on her.

But what really felt like a missed opportunity for me was the ending when Superman passes out and lands in Central Park. That would’ve been awesome if Wonder Woman swooped down and caught him.

Okay, are you shaking your head at me? Now come on, all the boy superheroes have gotten their movies. Spiderman has a trilogy. Batman has had his movies. (What was the last one … the fourth in the last ten years?) X-Men, Ghost Rider and- No, Catwoman doesn’t count because it was unwatchable.

When do us women get a superhero we can cheer for? When does the female protagonist of a superhero movie get to be the one who saves instead of being saved? I really want to see how Princess Diana defies her mother to become the Wonder Woman of the Amazons.

If this post ever finds its way to Joss Whedon, please Mr. Whedon, please give us the Wonder Woman we deserve.

This week I went back to my mariachi story with the critiques from my agent. I had been avoiding it to be honest with you. Reading my work gives me the willies but I force myself to do it and eventually I’m pulled back into the story. But it’s worse when you have someone’s constructive, albiet critical opinion replaying in your head. (I wonder if that’s what it is like if you’re a porn star featured on somewhere like The Cam Site (more here) and have to watch your work?)

Anyway, my writing process is not the most efficient. No matter how much character work I do or outlining, it takes a draft or three to figure out what is holding me back from the core of the story. In the case of the mariachi story, I had this boyfriend character who appeared in the first three chapters and was then never heard from again. I should’ve known because he always bugged me. Was he too much like Ruben Lopez from Hot Tamara? If he was going to work, I had to figure out a way to bring him back into later chapters but then that would slow the story down and-

Finally, I did away with him. And that one simple act led me down the secret staircase into the marrow of my characters. I love and hate it when this happens. I love it because it makes my job easier; hate it because I have a tendency to walk around the house like a ghost not hearing my husband ask me what I want for dinner.

I’m beginning to think that I take the long way around into my stories because I fear losing myself to the characters and the story. I know that sounds very arty-farty. But with every single project I always start one way – for example with In Between Men, I had Isa’s ex suing her for custody and that draft was a real downer! But somewhere in the journey, I find the secret door in the floor that takes me somewhere entirely different.

So I’m about to go back in and see where I end up. This blog is my of delaying the inevitable. Sigh. Don’t you hate being honest with yourself? Well, I’ll try my best not to post this and then go to the Food Network to look up recipes.

Mary

So the other day a friend of mine emailed me, stricken with worry that she was becoming a bitch. I thought about that old nursery rhyme, “Sugar and spice and everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of!”

When I was in the fourth grade, there was a sixth grader named Angela who was bold, brassy and mean. On a Wednesday lunch period, she called me out for calling her a bitch. (Amy Cole sold me out to her cousin who was a minion of Angela … bitch!) Anyway, even as Angela threatened to kick my ass after school, I secretly envied her for all of her bitchy glory. I wondered what was in her that I lacked. What gave her the balls to just ask for what she wanted and then expect to receive it? (She once ripped off my friend’s black lace glove – it was Madonna’s Lucky Star period – in the middle of recess and never gave it back.)

Well, it took me 30 years to stop trying to be full of sugar and everything nice. I learned to let my spice – the inner bitch – speak up when my nice-girl self wanted to make everything, well, nice.

I didn’t go completely to the dark side. But I went just far enough to – wait for it! – stand up for myself. If I don’t want to talk to a “friend” who only calls when she wants something, I don’t call her back, much less do her another favor. If someone makes me wait an hour for her to show up for an appointment (without a reaonable excuse), I go home. And when some unfortunate soul calls me out, I walk out and let him or her ‘splain themselves.

Would I have done any of those things when I was in my 20’s? Hell, no. However, the phone doesn’t ring as much anymore. My email isn’t as robust as it used to be. If I were going to throw a Fourth of July party, I wouldn’t have as long a list as I might have just a few years ago. And that’s fine with me. When my phone rings, it’s almost always someone I love chatting with, or when I have email messages, I smile as I read them rather than wonder how I can tactfully get out of having to (a) reply or (b) do the favor they want. Last night when I got together with some girlfriends, I kept thinking that I was the luckiest bitch in the world to have friends like them.

But don’t worry. I’m still polite as my mama taught me to be and I’m considerate to the elderly, children and animals. But poop on me or my family and my inner bitch will come roaring out of the bottle to shove it down your throat.

I hope you get better acquainted with your inner bitch. The required reading is That’s Queen Bitch to You, followed by You Say I’m a Bitch Like It’s a Bad Thing!

Cheers,
Mary

P.S. Angela never did make good on her ass-kicking threat. But the last time I saw her, she was five times her size pushing a baby stroller … bitch!

When I was in the seventh grade I entered National City’s annual fourth of July talent contest. Tap dancing to “Swing Swing Swing”, I made it through the first round but then lost out to some guy who somersaulted around the stage in a full body, red sequined unitard to Prince’s “I Would Die 4 U.” The shame melted my guts. I was embarassed in front of my friends, my entire family … hell, the whole damn city!

But my dad made me sit down in the bleachers to watch the fireworks show when I really wanted to go home and cry. He knew that I prided myself on never letting anyone see me cry. I cried in school only once when a kid named Jesus ran over my fingers in kindergarten.

My dad and I had that kind of dynamic from the very start. When I was six months old and refused to sit up, he spent an entire morning propping me up again and again while I screamed at him. Mom said it was the clash of the titans in her kitchen. Whenever I veered down the path of least resistance, Dad was there to turn me in the other direction.

But when I look back on that night, I also remember thinking that there was no better refuge than my dad’s arms. And with the eyes of a 32-year old woman who has had her share of failures on the road of life, I now see what dad had been trying to teach me and this quote from Million Dollar Baby (courtesy of the International Movie Database), sums it better than I could:

“If there’s magic in boxing, it’s the magic of fighting battles beyond endurance, beyond cracked ribs, ruptured kidneys and detached retinas. It’s the magic of risking everything for a dream that nobody sees but you.”

Thanks dad.

Hey everyone I wanted to let you know that I wrote a short short story, Mother of the Bride for OCC RWA’s Going to the Chapel blog series. This is about Tamara’s wedding but don’t think this will be the last you’ll hear from the Contreras family. Stay tuned!

Enjoy,
Mary

Spent the weekend with the fam down at the old homestead. As usual, when mom and I get together, much eating and shopping is done. But this time we went to an awesome, AWESUMMMM cafe called the New Orleans Creole Cafe. It is across the green from the haunted Whaley House. (Believe me, it’s really haunted, or enchanted as I was old.)

After lunch, the Little Dude conked out in the stroller and we stopped at the New Orleans Creole Cafe for breadpudding and coffee. I had a latte and mom had a mocha. Magnifique! But no ghost sighting. Bummer.

Saturday afternoon we dragged my dad and the pugs to the patio and feasted on red beans and rice (me), roast beef po’ boy (mom) and chicken jambalaya (dad), all washed down with sweet tea. The sun burned off the murky clouds and the wind was cool with the scent of lavender, bee balm and the pepper trees. But we didn’t stop at lunch. We savored rich, moist red velvet cake with whipped cream cheese frosting that melted on the tongue. Mom had the pecan pie that was sweet and buttery in a crisp crust. There are no words.

New Orleans native and co-owner, Mark Bihm told me, “We look real pretty when we’re young but we love to eat and get real big when we’re old.” Friends, that meal and future meals will be worth the price of the liposuction I’ll need after my second baby.

But back to what I said about the Whaley House … yes, it is haunted. Why do I know this? One rainy June day, many years ago, Mom and I were upstairs looking into the childrens’ bedroom. The rooms are sealed off by plexiglass and the windows are shut. But I happened to notice that a miniature rocking chair with a blue-eyed doll sitting on it began rocking (swear to God!). I tapped mom’s shoulder and pointed. Her mouth formed a perfect “o.” We never felt threatened. We felt as if we happened to look over our shoulders, we’d see a woman in Victorian dress standing behind us. So without a word, we went downstairs and I don’t think mom has been back since then. If the Little Dude hadn’t fallen asleep, we might have ventured back upstairs. But breadpudding in whiskey sauce suited us just fine.

I’m supporting fellow author, Jenna Peterson as she walks 60 miles in the Breast Cancer 3-Day walk. She is also raising $3500 for breast cancer research through an online auction of critiques, advance release copies and signed books starting Monday, June 5 and ending June 12. Every penny will go to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation and the National Philanthropic Trust to fund breast cancer research, education, screening, and treatment.

If you’re an aspiring author, consider bidding for a critique of the first 50 pages of your manuscript by me. (I promise to be gentle.)

If you’re a reader, bid for a signed copy of In Between Men. (If you’ve already read it, think about bidding on it as a gift to someone you know and love.)

Check out all of the auction items at http://www.passionatepen.com/auction.htm

Go Jenna!