Why I Don't Call Myself a Writer

The Pleasure was all Mine
Thanks to everyone who de-lurked Monday. It was very nice to meet you all. Sometimes I feel like I am typing into the big black void of computer wasteland, so it's good to know there are a few readers out there.

Everyone who commented yesterday is entered in the contest to win a free book of your choosing from Amazon. I may even draw three winners, depending on how Smokey the cat feels about it. (He is in charge of drawing names, of course).

Smokey's nannies are out of town this week, but hopefully I will have the winners by this friday.

Why I Call Myself a Typist, not a Writer
Unpublished writers often debate the best way to explain what it is we do. Do we call ourselves "writers" when we aren't getting paid for it?

To each his own, but for me, I call myself a "Typist". The reason for this is simple. Whenever I answer "What do you do?" with "I'm a writer", the following chains of conversation inevitably take place, and it makes me feel like a big doofus:

You’re a writer?
Yeah.
I could write a book. Quick way to make a buck, right?

You’re a writer?
Yeah.
Like that Potter guy?
Who?
The boy wizard.
No.

You write books?
Yeah. I try.
(In bad Yoda voice): Try not. Do. Or do not. There is no try.
(Awkward pause)
Umm… thanks.

So, when does your book come out?
It’s a long process.
I’ve got a printer out back. Let’s get this thing going. Family discount.

You’re a writer? Have I heard of you?
Well, Aunt Meg, it’s me. Brodi. Joan’s daughter.
(Pause)
I think I’ve heard of you.
Only since, like, birth, and every subsequent Christmas Party.

You’re a writer?
Yeah.
I just read a book.
Which one?
Something about… oh, what was it?
Was it vampires in high school?
Yes. That was it. Did you write that?
No.

Aren’t all writers mad as snakes?
Yes.

You’re a writer?
Yeah.
Do you know Stephenie Meyer?
No.
But, you’re both writers and both Mormons.

You’re a writer?
Yeah.
No wonder your kids are so… unique.

Is your book out yet?
No.
Now is it out?
No.
Now is it out?
No.
Can you get me Stephenie Meyer’s autograph?
Um, sure. I mean, we're both Mormons, and we're both writers.

Finally, after learning my lesson, here’s my new answer:
So, Brodi, what do you do?
I’m a typer. I type. Like on a computer.
Ah. (Nods in approval) Yes. Good for you.

I won't be here Friday, because I'm flying to L.A. for the semi-annual SCBWI conference. (Which stands for: Writing a Bunch of Stuff for Kids and Teens Conference). I am way excited for this adventure. Anyone from L.A. area?

Sam will still post the winners of the de-lurking contest on Friday (if the planets align and Smokey works his magic). And then I'll try to post on Monday with all of the conference shenanigans.

Have a fantabular week, y'all.

De-Lurking, My Favorite Vamps, and Your Chance to Win a Free Book

It's that time of the month again... Time to De-Lurk!

Any lurkers out there? If so, prepare to be outed. Welcome to the lurker Debutante Ball, where you may dress all in white and unleash yourself onto society by answering any, all, or none of the following questions:

1. What's your name?
2. Where are you from?
3. Favorite book or tv show?
4. Twizzlers or Red Vines?
5. Do you love Rafa as much as I do?
6. Thing that must go:
7. Age of first kiss:
8. Have you ever slapped someone in the face? I've always wanted to, in one of those dramatic moments, but I've never had the opportunity.
9. Have you seen Jacob's abs? If so, what do you think? Bree thinks he needs to pull up his pants.
10. Free question- anything you want to share! (PG rated please. I'm talking to you, Cam.)

Also, regular commentators, I expect you to answer some of these too. Because otherwise, when the lurkers chicken out (it's in their nature by very definition... they're lurkers), and nobody comments, I will feel like a loser. More so than usual.

Naming Lurker Names (because discomfort is sorta becoming a blog tradition around here): Suzie S. I know you're out there. And Cousin A, it doesn't count to "phone in" your comment.

Whew. I hate to have to get after y'all.

What's that you say? You need the proper motivation? How about, a free book of your choosing from Amazon. Taaa Daaa. Anyone who comments today gets entered in the drawing. We haven't done one of these in a bazillion years.

TRASHY MAG UPDATES (For those of you who would like to read them, but are too ashamed to admit it)

I don't know if you've heard, but vampires are sorta hot right now, a theme which coincides with today's Trashy Mag installment.

Entertainment Weekly is holding a contest (a bi-weekly event) to vote for the hottest vampire (sure to be Edward) in the history of the world (the past two years, really).

Also gracing the cover, looking definitely deader and fangy-er than Edward, is Bill from True Blood.

Okay, they're both hot. Whatev's. But if I was really going for all-time faves, like from the 1900's and beyond, my personal list would start with...

1. ANGEL
Vampire, cursed with a soul? Conflicted? Doesn't sparkle in the daylight? Ahhhhhh.

Angel: Sparkles are for Sissies... He Buuurrrrnnnnnsss.

2. SPIKE
Original Bad-Arse Vamp. Started out very bad. Ended up semi-bad. Always hot, especially with the accent.

Spike, you are missed.

Spike: So good when you're bad. Even better when your good.

3. ERIC
I in no way endorse the show he's on, because we are a PG rated blog. (Okay, PG-13, but mostly because of you racy commentators...) And I absolutely do not recall watching the show, or if he's even on a show. (How's that for plausible deniability?)

But, Eric. I love to hate him. He puts the "man" in "Norsman". Okay, I don't really know what that means... but I often lose track of logic when I'm staring at his picture:

(Don't worry. It's fruit punch)
Eric: As they say in your homeland, "Eg elskar deg"
Do you love me too?

4. NOSFERATU
Because if you know me, then you know any vampire list has to include good ole Nosferatu. To remind us that vampires were not always considered hot.

Nosferatu: UnDead... and UnHot... and possibly Crippled

So, who would make your supernatural list?

Reading, Writing, and the Mysterious Disappearance of a Penny

Least Subtle Music Lyrics I've heard this week:

"I'm so addicted to all the things you do / When you're rollin' 'round with me in between the sheets"

Why not just whack me over the head with a two-by-four that says "I love you"?

What I'm Reading: The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. The narrator is Death. The location is Nazi Germany. I'm thinking... upper?

What I'm Writing: 23,512 words in WIP.

(I know it doesn't sound like enough of an increase from last time, especially since I went to a writing retreat in the interim, but I realized one of the scenes in my book had been doubled - copied and pasted instead of cut and pasted - and so when I deleted it... nevermind. Excuses are time-consuming to type, and not just a little boring. Sorry. Let's try it again.)

WIP: 23,512 words. I suck.

The Last Thing an Aspiring Benihana Chef Wants to See:


So, we're at Benihana yesterday for my nephew's birthday, and when the fry cook starts chucking shrimp tails, my little 2-year old nephew "A" starts crying.

We're all: "Don't be scared. The shrimp tails are harmless."

But he's still freaking out, pointing to his throat and sort of saying, "Peh... Peh..."

I'm thinking: Sheesh, this kid must hate shrimp as much as I do. So I say, "I know, little A. Pee-yuuuu."

Then my sister says: "Wait, where is that penny he was playing with?"

Nephew A points to his chest: "Peh-nee."

My sister starts freaking out, frantically searching for the penny, and so I offer her another penny, but that doesn't help.

I know what you're all thinking because I was thinking the same thing: "Why did he have to swallow it during the appetizer?"

My dad (a pediatrician) tells us to sit tight. "A" may or may not have to go to the hospital.

So our cook (a non-asian guy named Jeremy) gets a little flustered, because we're all staring at Nephew A, waiting to see if the penny suddenly bursts out of his chest or anything.

Not Jeremy

Jeremy (with a hesitant smile, and a crack in his voice): "Um... you wanna see an onion volcano?"

The poor guy looked like we had just chopped off his hands and demanded he juggle for us.

So we were overly encouraging. "C'mon, Jer, you can do it. Wow. A volcano made of onion rings. Oooooh. Aaaaah. Don't worry- he always swallows pennies. Show us that salt trick again. You know, the one where you salt the vegetables."

The sweat dripped off his forehead as he juggled knives. It was priceless. We took Nephew A to get an x-ray, and I tagged along for the ride, because my toe was hurting.

Here's the x-ray of my foot. Brodi's Foot X-Ray

Don't worry. I did not break my foot in a million parallel lines; that's a banister behind the x-ray. But other than that, anyone see any anomalies? The doctor says no, but I'm pretty sure there's something funky going on there. Something that might explain why my writer's group thinks I'm number one crazy.

Oh, and Nephew A is gonna be just fine. My sister has the pleasure of... determining when and if the little penny is deposited.

Fun weekend for her. Mwah hah hah hah.

Anyone else doing anything this weekend that doesn't involve studying poop?

Have You Ever Wondered if the Ped Egg Really Works? ... and The Danger of Rhetorical Questions

Random Musings of the #1 Crazy...

Infomercial Results vs. Costly Results

I have about an inch of dead skin on my feet, and so I have longed for a solution. Enter: the Ped Egg.



Oh Ped-Egg; you had me at "Pile of dead skin gets trapped inside the egg!"

Survey Says: Success! After about an hour of sitting on my front lawn scraping my feet (despite it's claim that it traps the shavings, um... it doesn't) the soles are really quite stunning.

The neighbors, however, are slightly grossed out.

Teeth Whitening:
Remember my track record with trying to whiten my teeth? Well, yesterday, I decided to go with the "UV, X-Ray Solar Beams of Hades teeth whitening thingee" that uses the lights. It sorta looks like this:

They're guaranteed to be whiter after two sessions. After four 10 minute sessions, the assistant looked at my teeth and said a very reassuring, "Um... How about you come here tomorrow for a free fifth session?"

It's okay, though, because instead of white teeth, I now have a searing pain that feels like my actual teeth have been injected with acid, and are slowly disintegrating from the inside out. Seriously, it's like my teeth have developed an allergy to air or something.

Sam asked me a question last night, and I would have yelled at him for tempting me to expose my teeth to air, but I didn't dare open my mouth. So I used my eyebrows to send him a morse code message: "The next time you desire conversation with me, please feel free to pull all of my teeth out and use them to bite your own arm."

What's the use of whitening teeth if you don't have the strength to smile? And just what is that UV light composed of? A hydrogen bomb? Laser beams from the evil planet Zylork?

I have my fifth session this morning, where I plan on sucking the bleaching gel into the back of my throat, and then hocking a logie in the chick's eye.

On my new favorite show Bones, there was a bomb comprised of incisors. Where does one donate to such a bomb?

I was going to tell you more about the Writer's Retreat, but it looks like I have no time. I'll save it for Friday.

Happy Wednesday, y'all.

Lookin' For a Little Love

Blog friend Jenni Elyse has given me a special award: the Honest Scrap award. Upon hearing I won the award, I ripped off my clothes and ran down the street, pumping my fist in the air a la Tiger Woods. Then I found out the award doesn't come with a Tiara, and I walked back home, dejected and sagging in all the wrong places.

Here are the rules she sent along, should I choose to accept such an award:

1. Thank the person who gave you the award and list his/her blog (with a link).
2. Pass on the award to seven other people whose blogs you find brilliant in content or design.
3. Notify the bloggers you choose for the award and hopefully they’ll join in.
4. List 10 honest things about yourself and post a copy of the Honest Scrap Logo on your blog.

You all know how good I am at completing tasks (I think we are on month 9 of the 25 random things about me tag. I've done 15 or 16 so far.) So I'm sorta looking at the rules as a multiple choice kinda thingee.

Rule 1. Okay. Thank you Jenni. Check.

Rule 2. Blogs I love to read: Bree Despain, Emily Wing Smith, Valynne, Eden Johnson Ellingson, Josh Berk, Debbie, Kim Reid, Cam, Sam, I feel like I'm forgetting people. Have I forgotten anyone? Leave it in the comments if I forgot you.

Rule 3. Umm... Hey Bloggers! Join In! Or Don't! Who am I to judge?

Rule 4. Oh Crap. Another list about me. How about I just list 10 things I learned from my weekend writer's retreat? Kay?

10 Things I Learned at Writer's Retreat:

1. I'm "Number One Crazy".

In my absence one night, my writer's group (when asked by James Dashner, which one of us was the craziest member) voted me "Number One Crazy." To which I replied, "You Cannot be serious!"

It's not as harmless as it appears, because I was voted craziest in a writer's group. That's like being #1 Nut at the Nut House. That's bad.

I demand a recount. I mean this is coming from a group of girls, any one of whom will do crazier things than me, like:

• talk incessantly about nipples
• refer to the middle seat in a truck as the "slut seat"
• make a "To Do" list of how to become "Hot"
  
• order buffalo wings wherever we go
• fulfill a lifelong dream of staying in a yert
• convince others that one of the bedroom walls in the condo is haunted
  
• surmise that the driver in the car next to us isn't really checking his blind spot... He's secretly watching his dog in the back seat give birth to a litter of puppies who may or may not be aliens
• mention her recent life-threatening motorcycle accident as an afterthought. As in, "By the way, I almost died last week. Look at the road burn."
  
• can't park a car without getting a complaint letter left on her windshield
• suffers from a "twitchy" eye
• longs to be a member of the Babysitters' Club. (Okay, that's really all of us).
• has a serious addiction to buying books. (Like 32 in a week).
• threatens to "spring a spoon" on an unsuspecting sleeper in the middle of the night
• is scared of a wooden owl
• says, "See ya, Norma," whenever she leaves, even though no one is actually named Norma
• has the optimism of a fish on a hook, out of water
• organizes a seating chart at dinner according to who's left-handed and who's right-handed
  

So, one or more of the above may have been me, but otherwise that is some crazy stuff, no?

Wow. That was only number one? Okay, let's break this thing up a bit. I'll do more of what I learned at Writer's Retreat Wednesday.

How was everyone's weekend? Anyone do anything fun?

Feel free to leave a little love in the comments, preferably about something I've done that is not crazy.

Hugs and kisses.

I Give you the Pictures, You Fill In the Blanks

I'm here! I'm here!

Update:

Our Blog BFF Emily Wing Smith has been nominated for a very cool award for her book The Way He Lived. Stop on by her blog to read about the announcement, and give her a shout out.

**Disclaimer**
Sam has disavowed all knowledge of the following blog. He would like you all to know the views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect his own personal views. He has already removed several incendiary sentences.

Okay, so it's been one of those weeks. You know, where your soul has been sucked, and you haven't even been to Wal-Mart. I'm having extreme writer's blockage, and no matter how much ruffage I eat, there is no relief.

Apparently the first version of my blog today was a tad on the inappropriate side. I don't know what my problem is..

It's been going on for a few days now, and this morning it has come to a giant whitehead. Even now, I'm sitting at my computer, feeling very itchy. It's probably a good thing I'm leaving on Friday for a writing retreat.

Anyway, I can't quite get the blog together without offending someone. So, since all of you know me better than I know myself by now, I'm just going to show you the pictures I was planning on writing about today, and I would appreciate it if you would come up with your own version of my post.

I'll give you the theme, and the captions and even a couple of fill-in-the-blanks. Feel free to put the fruits of your labor in the comments.

The theme of today's post is:

WHY IT SUCKS THAT I WENT TO HIGH SCHOOL DURING THE GRUNGE ERA...

Niece G's Prom Pictures- 2009
(Faces are blurred to protect the beautiful)

Doesn't she look like a dream? And he has the matching tux...

Contrast that with...

Brodi's Prom Picture- 1990
(Yes, that's a thick, flowered, crocheted sweater tucked into a pleated skirt)

Fill in the Blank #1
"A sweater tucked into a skirt? She might as well have been wearing____________"

Brodi's Prom Outfit- 1993
(Yes, those are pants. Pants. And a gigantic black bow in the back of my hair. You can barely see it. It's underneath all of those bangs.)

Fill in the Blank #2:
"She wore pants to her prom? With brown leather sandals? What kind of statement was she trying for? ________________"

Hopefully my condition will have righted itself by Monday. (I'm taking the 24th off because it's a holiday in Utah, where we celebrate an old bearded man who - in 1847 - looked over our valley and said, "This here's the spot. Let's establish some crazy-arse liquor laws and then write back home and tell everyone this land is fertile.")

I love you all. Because I tend to love everyone when I have a soul-sucking week. Tell your families "Hi" for me, and that I love them too.

So, what are y'all doin' this weekend? Holiday or not? Enjoy your long, Brodi-free weekend.

Love, Snookems.

What I Learned from Jack the Ripper

Wrinkle in Time Status: About a third of the way through. Still just as magical. Still crushin' on Cal.

Meet Your Victorian Era Serial Killers...
I was taking Niece S home the other day, and I talked about when we used to live in London. (I don't know why, but most of my conversations usually end up with me talking about London. I'm available for parties.)

Anyway, I told her we went to church in a neighborhood called Whitechapel.

me: "You know what Whitechapel's famous for, right?"

S: "No."

me (pausing to heighten anticipation): "That's where Jack the Ripper did his terrible deeds."

s: blank face

me: "You know about Jack the Ripper, right?"

S: "Should I?"

I couldn't believe it. I immediately picked up my cell phone and called Niece S's mother to complain about her educational upbringing.

me: "What kind of second-rate institution have you been sending your child to?"

E: "Oh, sorry if I don't share your love for everything dark, and I don't tell my children horror stories at night."

me: "Jack the Ripper is a part of world history. He is the truth. He is not a story."

So, Niece S, here is my contribution to your education:

WHAT I LEARNED FROM JACK THE RIPPER

1. If You're Waiting in an Alley for a Victim, Always use Fog Machines

Here's Jack, waiting for an unsuspecting... um... woman of the night to approach, his knife apparently lit from within, like a lightsaber. Personally, I have to wonder what hooker in her right mind would see this man waiting in an alley, and continue to walk toward him. Of course, perhaps Victorian era Betties weren't in their right minds. Anyway, I'm sure the fog can only help his chances.

2. Impress your Teachers by Using "Evisceration" in a Sentence

"Ripper" refers to his mode of operation. Because this is a PG rated blog, I will describe it thusly: Jack took the innards, and put them on the outards.

When the police found the mutilated remains of Jack's victims, there wasn't a word that could reflect such a heinous crime. So, Lt. Bill Pickles, in an effort to impress his boss, looked at the intestines and said something along the lines of, "That there betty seems to have been... vissicrated."

And that's how we have the word "eviscerated" today. (The preceding may or may not be a complete fabrication)

3. If you want the Police to Waste A Lot Of Time, Leave them A Really Stupid Cryptic Message Written on a Wall.

Police went into a frenzy over a message, written in chalk, supposedly by Jack himself.

"The Juwes are not the men that will not be blamed for nothing."

It prompted investigators to scratch their heads and say, "Oh crap. Was that a triple negative? Does that mean the Juwes are the men that will be blamed for nothing, or for everything, or only non-Juwes will be nothing..." and on it went.

Sort of like a dog, chasing its tail, and then running into a dark alley and being eviscerated.