I joined Twitter this week. I didn't do it because I think everyone wants to hear what I have to say. I did it because I can follow literary agents, publishers, and anyone else of interest in the industry. And whether I like it or not, it is a great marketing tool.
I still have little idea on how it works, but I'd like to invite you all to follow along. You can find me, I think, at http://twitter.com/kelceymckinley
If you think my words are worth the eye damage the glow of the computer screen creates, share my blog with others. Tell everyone I'm a twitterer, or a tweeter, or whatever it is called. (I feel like John McCain. Next thing you know, I'm going to buy one of those Google machines.) Share it with everyone you know. I can't build a base without you. If I'm going to make it, I'm going to make it with all of you by my side. Don't think you don't play a part in my success, because you do.
<Turning the lights down low, cueing music, clearing throat, speaking with a deep voice>: Let's make this love of stories story together.
To anyone who is reading this, know you are the Barbara Hershey to my Bette Midler. And I don't mean that in a gay way. Or in a let's buy a house together way. Or in a way that suggests you're going to get an incurable disease, and I'm going to have to sing a song about it. I mean it in the only way possible: "You are the wind beneath my wings."
I promise to never use that line again. I still feel a little cliche' and average having used it once.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Hump-day Haiku: Post Election
Curly-headed man
is Kentucky's Senate choice.
Run, black people, run.
Christine O'Donnell
failed to make the Senate cut.
She should be a witch.
I can't really tell;
she looks a little German.
We'll miss you, Sharron.
is Kentucky's Senate choice.
Run, black people, run.
Christine O'Donnell
failed to make the Senate cut.
She should be a witch.
I can't really tell;
she looks a little German.
We'll miss you, Sharron.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Election Eve
Sharron Angle wants to shoot some folks up if she doesn't win in Nevada. She scares white people by telling them brown skinned people are going to take over their colleges. Then she announced, without humility, to a group of Hispanic students that she thinks some of them look Asian. Really? You're just going to say that out loud? You don't have to say everything you're thinking. Nut-bag crazy! and people still want to vote for her.
Christine O'Donnell doesn't know there is separation of church and state in the Constitution. Oh. Em. Gee. And she thinks being gay can be cured. Is she smarter than a fifth grader? Nut-bag crazy! and people will still vote for her.
Ken Buck thinks he's qualified to be in the Sentate because he doesn't wear high heels. Are you for reals, Ken? What back-woods barn did you crawl out of? Nut-bag crazy! and he's leading Michael Bennet by one point.
And that's just scimming the top. There are others, but I don't have that kind of time.
I can't help to think that these candidates are viable because they think and talk just like the people who want to vote for them do.
When did it come to pass that we want people like us running our country? I don't want a sarcastic, smart-ass lesbian who dropped out of college deciding our foreign policy. I don't want Barbeque Bob in charge of Wall Street reform. I don't care how good his steaks are! And I definately don't want a racist, gun crazed, nut-bag, or someone who doesn't even know what's in the constitution, anywhere near my "freedoms" (I'm still not allowed to marry the person I love, like I'm some fifteen-year-old who doesn't yet have a driver's license. I don't call that freedom.)
The crazier people get, the more I think they're scared. And I get it. I am terrified that this country is going to be taken back fifty years, to a time when a woman's body was the property of the government. A time when a child's education was interrupted for prayer. A time when I had a curfew.
So get out there tomorrow and have your say. Because I will beat down your door if I have to go to bed at 7:30 again and lay next to my "roommate"!
Christine O'Donnell doesn't know there is separation of church and state in the Constitution. Oh. Em. Gee. And she thinks being gay can be cured. Is she smarter than a fifth grader? Nut-bag crazy! and people will still vote for her.
Ken Buck thinks he's qualified to be in the Sentate because he doesn't wear high heels. Are you for reals, Ken? What back-woods barn did you crawl out of? Nut-bag crazy! and he's leading Michael Bennet by one point.
And that's just scimming the top. There are others, but I don't have that kind of time.
I can't help to think that these candidates are viable because they think and talk just like the people who want to vote for them do.
When did it come to pass that we want people like us running our country? I don't want a sarcastic, smart-ass lesbian who dropped out of college deciding our foreign policy. I don't want Barbeque Bob in charge of Wall Street reform. I don't care how good his steaks are! And I definately don't want a racist, gun crazed, nut-bag, or someone who doesn't even know what's in the constitution, anywhere near my "freedoms" (I'm still not allowed to marry the person I love, like I'm some fifteen-year-old who doesn't yet have a driver's license. I don't call that freedom.)
The crazier people get, the more I think they're scared. And I get it. I am terrified that this country is going to be taken back fifty years, to a time when a woman's body was the property of the government. A time when a child's education was interrupted for prayer. A time when I had a curfew.
So get out there tomorrow and have your say. Because I will beat down your door if I have to go to bed at 7:30 again and lay next to my "roommate"!
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Watered Down
I hate being scared. It is a feeling I do not enjoy. My wife, however, loves to be scared. When Halloween rolls around, I know there will be an onslaught of scary movies available for her viewing pleasure.
My wife is kind enough to not subject me to scary movies if I do not care to watch them with her. (I'm sure she wishes I would show her the same consideration when it comes to sports.) There are a few times a year when I feel brave and tell her that I could watch a scary movie. Thankfully, she rarely takes me up on the offer.
Yesterday, in the spirit of Halloween, I let her know that there were three scary movies premiering on television and it was her choice which one we watched. I started mentally preparing myself as soon as I got out of bed.
I have always been a bit of a cry-baby when it comes to horror. I once threw-up in a movie theater's bathroom sink after I heard Darth Vader's heavy breathing filtering through the closed doors of a movie that had yet to let out. I cried hysterically when Sammy Terry (I think that was his name,) a man with white make-up on his face, wearing a Dracula-style cape, came on the local cable channel to introduce that night's scary movie. Then came Rosemary's Baby, The Exorcist, The Brood, The Omen, Psycho, Poltergeist, all movies that scared me to the point of wishing I could take the watching of them back. But I had to watch them: I was saving face in front of my cousins.
My wife picked The Crazies. Okay. Sure. The Crazies. Decent cast. Tainted water supply. I can do this, I kept telling myself as the sun started to set and time drew nearer. I made sure I was finished eating. I snuggled into my wife's chest. The movie started. Oh, god...here we go. We watched. I started to relax. It wasn't scary. In fact, I wish my wife could turn back time and pick something else. She deserved better for her one pick.
What happened to making movies that inspire people like me to turn every light in the house on? To refuse to go outside when it is dark? To question every noise the house makes? Is it because I am older? (I really don't think so because I was well into adulthood when I visited my last haunted house--something I will never do again. The only way out of it was by going through it! My behavior was less than civilized as I yanked and pulled and screamed and let myself be blindly led by my girlfriend at the time.) Is it because the genre has been overdone and the same movies are being made over and over again with different casts and a small tweaking to the stories? Maybe. All I know is Halloween used to mean something. It used to mean climbing the steps to a house, all in the name of sugar, where there was scary music playing through a stereo speaker, a casket by the door, and a moment that needed to be collected while pausing to figure out if the candy was worth it. Was there something in the casket, biding its time to pop out and give fright to a group of kids? Yes, of course there was.
Maybe it's been too long since I've been on the trick-or-treat circuit, but it seems like kids today don't have to work as hard for a handout. And movie makers don't have to try as hard to scare the pants off theater-goers. Maybe I should just shut up and thank god for small favors.
My wife is kind enough to not subject me to scary movies if I do not care to watch them with her. (I'm sure she wishes I would show her the same consideration when it comes to sports.) There are a few times a year when I feel brave and tell her that I could watch a scary movie. Thankfully, she rarely takes me up on the offer.
Yesterday, in the spirit of Halloween, I let her know that there were three scary movies premiering on television and it was her choice which one we watched. I started mentally preparing myself as soon as I got out of bed.
I have always been a bit of a cry-baby when it comes to horror. I once threw-up in a movie theater's bathroom sink after I heard Darth Vader's heavy breathing filtering through the closed doors of a movie that had yet to let out. I cried hysterically when Sammy Terry (I think that was his name,) a man with white make-up on his face, wearing a Dracula-style cape, came on the local cable channel to introduce that night's scary movie. Then came Rosemary's Baby, The Exorcist, The Brood, The Omen, Psycho, Poltergeist, all movies that scared me to the point of wishing I could take the watching of them back. But I had to watch them: I was saving face in front of my cousins.
My wife picked The Crazies. Okay. Sure. The Crazies. Decent cast. Tainted water supply. I can do this, I kept telling myself as the sun started to set and time drew nearer. I made sure I was finished eating. I snuggled into my wife's chest. The movie started. Oh, god...here we go. We watched. I started to relax. It wasn't scary. In fact, I wish my wife could turn back time and pick something else. She deserved better for her one pick.
What happened to making movies that inspire people like me to turn every light in the house on? To refuse to go outside when it is dark? To question every noise the house makes? Is it because I am older? (I really don't think so because I was well into adulthood when I visited my last haunted house--something I will never do again. The only way out of it was by going through it! My behavior was less than civilized as I yanked and pulled and screamed and let myself be blindly led by my girlfriend at the time.) Is it because the genre has been overdone and the same movies are being made over and over again with different casts and a small tweaking to the stories? Maybe. All I know is Halloween used to mean something. It used to mean climbing the steps to a house, all in the name of sugar, where there was scary music playing through a stereo speaker, a casket by the door, and a moment that needed to be collected while pausing to figure out if the candy was worth it. Was there something in the casket, biding its time to pop out and give fright to a group of kids? Yes, of course there was.
Maybe it's been too long since I've been on the trick-or-treat circuit, but it seems like kids today don't have to work as hard for a handout. And movie makers don't have to try as hard to scare the pants off theater-goers. Maybe I should just shut up and thank god for small favors.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Nightmares
This morning, as the sunlight filtered through the bedroom drapes, my wife put her arms around me and held me tighter than usual. She had had a bad dream.
In the dream, she was in the shower, washing the new tattoo she'd just gotten on her stomach. Her doctor told her she would not live long enough to see it heal: she had stomach cancer. And while she washed around it, she felt herself dying. "You know how the doctor told me I wouldn't live long enough to see my tattoo heal?" Yes, I replied. "This is it. I'm dying." And die she did. But it didn't end there. She watched as I emotionally crumbled.
WTF?!?!
Why can't my wife have "normal" nightmares? She is always dreaming about the end of the world, where everyone around her is dying. Or dreams where she has to save our entire family from a catastrophic event, the cat included. And sometimes we're kidnapped. Or people--people with some kind of affliction, like zombies or space-aged monsters--are chasing her. Why can't she have bad dreams about our house being foreclosed on or burning Thanksgiving dinner? Why do they always have to scare the shit out of me too?
The bedroom is still dark in the mornings, so when she tells me about her nightmares, I'm glad she cannot see my face. It is a testament to how fucked up I think her sub-conscience is. Panic and fear reside in my eyes. My mouth is pulled tight. And I can't help thinking that if I had her nightmares, I would never want to go to sleep.
I keep telling her that some of her dreams would make great screenplays. Screenplays that I think could actually sell. At least that way, while her dreams might still scare the shit out of me, they would scare me from the comforts of a million dollar home.
In the dream, she was in the shower, washing the new tattoo she'd just gotten on her stomach. Her doctor told her she would not live long enough to see it heal: she had stomach cancer. And while she washed around it, she felt herself dying. "You know how the doctor told me I wouldn't live long enough to see my tattoo heal?" Yes, I replied. "This is it. I'm dying." And die she did. But it didn't end there. She watched as I emotionally crumbled.
WTF?!?!
Why can't my wife have "normal" nightmares? She is always dreaming about the end of the world, where everyone around her is dying. Or dreams where she has to save our entire family from a catastrophic event, the cat included. And sometimes we're kidnapped. Or people--people with some kind of affliction, like zombies or space-aged monsters--are chasing her. Why can't she have bad dreams about our house being foreclosed on or burning Thanksgiving dinner? Why do they always have to scare the shit out of me too?
The bedroom is still dark in the mornings, so when she tells me about her nightmares, I'm glad she cannot see my face. It is a testament to how fucked up I think her sub-conscience is. Panic and fear reside in my eyes. My mouth is pulled tight. And I can't help thinking that if I had her nightmares, I would never want to go to sleep.
I keep telling her that some of her dreams would make great screenplays. Screenplays that I think could actually sell. At least that way, while her dreams might still scare the shit out of me, they would scare me from the comforts of a million dollar home.
Friday, October 29, 2010
The Wonderful World of Queries
Yesterday, I received a form letter rejection. Today, I received a personalized rejection by an agent who said he/she appreciated my creativity, but it just wasn't right for their agency. It's amazing what a difference a day can make.
The form rejections never make my cry in my pillow. They only remind me that the writing business is tough to break into. But the personalized rejections always fill me with a strange sense of it's going to happen eventually.
The various responses I have received from agents so far remind me that tastes vary. In the same sense that not all books or genres speak to me, I know that my novel is not for everyone. Some agents/agencies generically shut me down while others take the time to let me know that while they're passing, there are many agents and to keep trying. These rejections are my favorite. They make me feel that I am a part of their world, even if they're not inviting me into it.
I didn't send a single query this week. Instead, I focused on working on my second novel. I think next week I'll hit the query trail again, if only to ensure the roller coaster doesn't derail.
The form rejections never make my cry in my pillow. They only remind me that the writing business is tough to break into. But the personalized rejections always fill me with a strange sense of it's going to happen eventually.
The various responses I have received from agents so far remind me that tastes vary. In the same sense that not all books or genres speak to me, I know that my novel is not for everyone. Some agents/agencies generically shut me down while others take the time to let me know that while they're passing, there are many agents and to keep trying. These rejections are my favorite. They make me feel that I am a part of their world, even if they're not inviting me into it.
I didn't send a single query this week. Instead, I focused on working on my second novel. I think next week I'll hit the query trail again, if only to ensure the roller coaster doesn't derail.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
F*cking Wal-Mart
This morning, I saw a commercial for Wal-Mart I had never seen before.
A woman is ecstatic that she has a job at Wal-Mart because she is no longer on welfare. And her son got a job too!
I thought I was going to hulk out of my clothes.
The woman was not white. (White people don't go on welfare!)
The woman will see her son--and other men--get promoted over her, time and time again. (There is a class action law suit against Wal-Mart right now, for this very issue.)
In these "excited" times, the last thing Wal-Mart needs to be doing is telling white people that minorities can get off welfare if they just come on in and fill out an application. Because it's bullshit. Wal-Mart pays their employees like they are thirteen-year-old babysitters.
There has been far too much rhetoric lately about people getting a free ride: health care, welfare, social security, Medicare, Medicaid, are all programs that "good-hearted Christians" and their lunatic fringe spokespersons feel need to be abolished or handed over to the private sector. And with the immigrant issue still a hot button issue, all this commercial does is tell all those people that, yes, minorities are to be feared because they're living off welfare, and you're paying for their free ride. You may think I'm overreacting, but the nonsense that is flying out of people's mouths lately is exactly why I made this connection. And I'll be damned if Wal-Mart will get me to believe they are the answer. But I bet Sharron Angle is on board.
I detest Wal-Mart. It has been close to a decade since I have used my purchasing power to support one. They have bastardized too much to be given a free pass. They treat their female employees like shit. They bully the companies of the products they sell. And now they're taking idiocy to a whole new wtf? level. I would rather pay an extra quarter for a box of cereal than bankrupt my integrity.
A woman is ecstatic that she has a job at Wal-Mart because she is no longer on welfare. And her son got a job too!
I thought I was going to hulk out of my clothes.
The woman was not white. (White people don't go on welfare!)
The woman will see her son--and other men--get promoted over her, time and time again. (There is a class action law suit against Wal-Mart right now, for this very issue.)
In these "excited" times, the last thing Wal-Mart needs to be doing is telling white people that minorities can get off welfare if they just come on in and fill out an application. Because it's bullshit. Wal-Mart pays their employees like they are thirteen-year-old babysitters.
There has been far too much rhetoric lately about people getting a free ride: health care, welfare, social security, Medicare, Medicaid, are all programs that "good-hearted Christians" and their lunatic fringe spokespersons feel need to be abolished or handed over to the private sector. And with the immigrant issue still a hot button issue, all this commercial does is tell all those people that, yes, minorities are to be feared because they're living off welfare, and you're paying for their free ride. You may think I'm overreacting, but the nonsense that is flying out of people's mouths lately is exactly why I made this connection. And I'll be damned if Wal-Mart will get me to believe they are the answer. But I bet Sharron Angle is on board.
I detest Wal-Mart. It has been close to a decade since I have used my purchasing power to support one. They have bastardized too much to be given a free pass. They treat their female employees like shit. They bully the companies of the products they sell. And now they're taking idiocy to a whole new wtf? level. I would rather pay an extra quarter for a box of cereal than bankrupt my integrity.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Hump-day Haiku: Road Rage
Get out of the way!
Big trucks think they own the road.
Small penis drive fast.
Angry minivans
Want to run me off the road.
Wal-Mart is waiting.
Turn signals announce
Way too much information.
You're a mystery.
Big trucks think they own the road.
Small penis drive fast.
Angry minivans
Want to run me off the road.
Wal-Mart is waiting.
Turn signals announce
Way too much information.
You're a mystery.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Irrational Fear
I have an issue with being chased. I don't know where it originated or why it is still here. But if my wife is behind me on the stairs, following me, my insides start get all weirdsy. I feel uneasy. My heartbeat quickens. I feel like I need to move as fast as I can before she gets me.
It's irrational, I know, but it cannot be helped.
My wife was taking a shower. She screamed like there was blood coming out of the showerhead instead of water. When I ran in to inspect, she pointed. There, in the folds of the shower curtain, sat a spider the size of a baby's pinky nail.
Last night, as the family was nestled together on the sofa--two dogs and cat included--terror, once again, struck the heart of my wife.
"I see a spider," she announced.
"I don't see it," I replied, looking around the floor.
"It's right there."
"Oh, I see it." It was crawling across the floor, about four feet away from her. She was not sitting on the floor, but on the sofa, so the threat, to me, seemed really low.
The basset had been on and off the sofa for the past thirty minutes. The mutt had finally stopped obsessing over the cat. Everyone had finally settled. There were quilts and pillows involved. The last thing I wanted to do was vault off the sofa and handle a spider. I brought all these details to my wife's attention. She understood what I was saying and said she would keep an eye on it.
I could see her out of the corner of my eye. Her body sat up straighter. She couldn't stop staring at the floor.
"It's coming towards me."
"You're going to be fine."
"But it's coming to get me!"
The spider was not coming to get her. It was two feet away from her. And she was still on the sofa while the spider was still on the floor. Granted, it was moving in her direction, but I knew that there was no way it was going to jump on her face and eat it. Not like she thought it was going to. Still, I got off the sofa and wrangled the spider onto a piece of paper and threw it outside.
Knowing that I have irrational fears of my own, I cannot blame my wife for having her own. We all have something that make us want to scream. Right now, my something is Christine O'Donnell. Though I don't think my fear of her is all that irrational.
It's irrational, I know, but it cannot be helped.
My wife was taking a shower. She screamed like there was blood coming out of the showerhead instead of water. When I ran in to inspect, she pointed. There, in the folds of the shower curtain, sat a spider the size of a baby's pinky nail.
Last night, as the family was nestled together on the sofa--two dogs and cat included--terror, once again, struck the heart of my wife.
"I see a spider," she announced.
"I don't see it," I replied, looking around the floor.
"It's right there."
"Oh, I see it." It was crawling across the floor, about four feet away from her. She was not sitting on the floor, but on the sofa, so the threat, to me, seemed really low.
The basset had been on and off the sofa for the past thirty minutes. The mutt had finally stopped obsessing over the cat. Everyone had finally settled. There were quilts and pillows involved. The last thing I wanted to do was vault off the sofa and handle a spider. I brought all these details to my wife's attention. She understood what I was saying and said she would keep an eye on it.
I could see her out of the corner of my eye. Her body sat up straighter. She couldn't stop staring at the floor.
"It's coming towards me."
"You're going to be fine."
"But it's coming to get me!"
The spider was not coming to get her. It was two feet away from her. And she was still on the sofa while the spider was still on the floor. Granted, it was moving in her direction, but I knew that there was no way it was going to jump on her face and eat it. Not like she thought it was going to. Still, I got off the sofa and wrangled the spider onto a piece of paper and threw it outside.
Knowing that I have irrational fears of my own, I cannot blame my wife for having her own. We all have something that make us want to scream. Right now, my something is Christine O'Donnell. Though I don't think my fear of her is all that irrational.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Sponsorship
The Chick-fil-A kickoff.
The Chick-fil-A halftime report.
The Chick-fil-A post-game show.
This injury timeout is brought to you by Chick-fil-A.
If I see one more commercial where a cow is begging us to eat more chicken so it can live--animals wanting to live is so fucking hilarious--I'm going to throw my sofa into the TV.
As long as books continue not to be brought to us by the Chick-fil-A prologue, or the Wendy's You-Know-When-It's-Real table of contents, I'll survive without college football.
The Chick-fil-A halftime report.
The Chick-fil-A post-game show.
This injury timeout is brought to you by Chick-fil-A.
If I see one more commercial where a cow is begging us to eat more chicken so it can live--animals wanting to live is so fucking hilarious--I'm going to throw my sofa into the TV.
As long as books continue not to be brought to us by the Chick-fil-A prologue, or the Wendy's You-Know-When-It's-Real table of contents, I'll survive without college football.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)