colleen cooper

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The Fire-Juggler’s Fiancee

I am the woman on the cover of "women’s fiction.” 

I think I'm a woman. Maybe I'm a girl? You can usually just see my feet. If you can see my hands, they’re clutching an umbrella, or a watering can (so much cuter than a hose!), or a single on-trend flower (a gerbera daisy, maybe? nothing tawdry like a rose). But everything you really need to know about me, you can tell by my shoes. I’m standing a bit pigeon-toed, which makes me look bashful in an endearing sort of way, I think. My shins are bare, because I’m not a pants kind of girl, and also because it’s always summer in my world. If you can see a bit of my dress, it’s yellow, or blue, and likely of the gingham persuasion. Hey, I don't need to wear pink to prove that I’m feminine. If you could see my head, which you can’t, there is probably a daisy chain in my hair, which is definitely long.

I am the Auctioneer's Niece.  I am the Oenologist's Orphan.

I wear a variety of quirky shoes, but never heels. Gosh, no. Heels are for the--dare I say?--“downmarket” girls. The popular girls. You know the type. Whereas I appear mistily real (if sans head), those ladies are animated, bebaubled, and bold. How they smirk in their pink skirt-suits, one slender manicured hand on one slender jutting hip. Their careers are glamorous: Fashion editor. Wedding planner. Bespoke cupcake designer. If they have a dog, it is also glamorous (a Brazilian-blownout Afghan hound...or a teacup Yorkie enpursed in Hermès). Sometimes they carry shopping bags, those women. Enormous bags! Dangling from such dainty fingertips! I never have a shopping bag, though I might have a picnic basket. It depends on whether my story takes place in Nantucket, or a charming little midwest town where everyone knows everyone.

I am the Wigmaker’s Wife.  I am the Ditch-Digger’s Daughter.

But back to my shoes. They are quirky, not edgy.  Maybe a pair of cute green galoshes, so you know I’m an individual. If I'm at the beach, I might be barefoot. Or in espadrilles--if they aren't too ethnic. Are they? Not that there's anything wrong with that. Gosh, no, I have a friend who's ethnic! She's funny, and supportive, and gives such folksy advice.

I am the Accordianist’s Muse.  I am the Sponge-Diver’s Sister.

So many of us women’s fiction girls, we’re summed up by the shorthand of our shoes. Metonymy, I think they call it, that shorthand. Or maybe it's synecdoche? Ask the ladies at the book club. They all majored in English and meant to be novelists; their days would be spent conjuring Serious Fiction from Underwoods, or in scandalous dissipation, or both. Now they go to book clubs to discuss my life--me!--and wine away the suburbanalities of children and husbands. Suburbanality--is that a word? Ask the book club ladies. They'll know.

I am the Theme Park Mascot's Mistress.  I am the Alchemist’s Concubine.

And while we’re at it, a few more questions? Ones you won't find in the good old "Reader's Guide." (Because what says "fun" like a pop quiz, am I right?). The thing is...I can't help wondering--during all those wistful moments of misty-horizon-pondering and umbrella-handle-holding--well, why must I always be somebody's something? Is that all I am to you, the object of some possessor? I mean, how come someone else--some guy, let’s face it--gets to have the compelling vocation, and all I get is…the relationship? (And some whimsical shoes.) Just once, just once, can't I have a face?  

Can't I be in focus?  

Can't I be the somebody? 

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blurbinator

As my publisher has tasked me with the horror of blurb-begging lately (which ranks somewhere above Needing To Borrow Money as a means of scaring off friends), I was amused to stumble across this handy-dandy blurb generator. It’s meant for poetry, but with minor elisions I got this gem:

“...you can sense the presence of the viscera under the blood-coated muscle that is the text. Cooper constructs a swaggering, tender, Carneyesque Fargo of the mind, a place that relentlessly arrests and releases our loved ones. Like a wine crafted by sturdy Franciscan monks in southern France, bottled by a crack team of Swiss psychotherapists, and kept in a temperature-controlled vault in the sub-cellar...THE MYTH OF WILE E is a fine varietal--with hints of cello, playground, and boudoir. Read this book and see for yourself.” 

- by Miss Belinda Blurb

Want your own blurb? (C’mon, you know you do!) Get it here:

Blurbinator, by Dan Waber

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Yes, that was me on Jeopardy!, along with whip-smart Julia Kite (winner of The Chase), and the incomparable Cindy Stowell (RIP).

Thanks internet strangers for all your favorable reviews of my handwriting and your mixed but funny reviews of my outfit. I have been practicing writing my name since kindergarten or so, and I think I’m really starting to get the hang of it! I’m so flattered you noticed! By contrast my daily outfit for approximately the past 20 years has been jeans and a t-shirt (both prohibited by Jeopardy!) so I was kind of in uncharted waters there. I believe I succeeded in the sense of having pants on my actual legs and sleeves on my actual arms instead of vice versa. I award myself bonus points for having the buttons facing forward and the tags in the back.

(I actually wrote reams about the whole experience of trying out for and appearing on Jeopardy!, but it’s in longhand and I’ll have to wait until I have some free time to sort it all out. Look for that in the future.)

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Charlie, who was only six

You didn't have an auspicious start in life--born feral in the alley of our apartment building--but what a great cat you turned out to be.

As a tiny fluffling, you endured bad weather, scary children who chased you, an unsympathetic landlord who wanted you elsewhere, and well-meaning neighbors who tossed hotdogs and kitchen scraps at you. And you endured us, always gawking down at you from above, climbing out our window or over the chain-link fence to check on you, trying to trap and spay your mother, trying to trap you.

It was Peter who finally managed to catch you (and he still has the scars). Your brother Howard gave up quickly, but you were fierce. I can still picture you attacking Peter's arm, writhing and slashing as he struggled to keep hold of your scruff. He knew we were running out of chances to save you from the Big Bad World, and although you fought and fought and drew blood, he didn't let go.

For months I was almost as afraid of you as you were of me. You stared daggers at me from the corner of my bathroom. You were adorable, but a little fluffy whirlwind of claws and teeth. I wondered how we'd ever tame you. What if we couldn't? Would you be our wild indoor cat, skulking in shadows and hiding under the futon?

We wanted someone to adopt you and Howard, as we weren't ready for new kittens. Our apartment was already occupied by our senior cat, Cookie, and we were nursing her through the late stages of cancer. She didn't want any interlopers. Even after we lost her, we knew we weren't ready for new cats. Yet there you were, already thrust into our lives.

Howard tamed first, but you wouldn't give in, and we didn't want to split up the set. If you had tamed quickly, some lucky person would have adopted you both, and our lives would have been poorer for it. You were beautiful and clever. Howard was hilarious even then. Someone would have wanted you. But it was weeks before you would eat baby food off our fingers, many more weeks before you would climb onto my shoe when I sat with outstretched legs (and only if I averted my eyes). It was months before we could touch you. By then, we wouldn't give you up for anything.

Every night we hand-fed you baby food--Peter luring you into his lap, while I lured Howard into mine. Every night you drew in a little closer, enduring a little more contact. Peter was the one who really tamed you.

But once the switch flipped, you couldn't get enough attention. Draped across my shoulder, you'd snarf as you purred. You loved to be next to us--stretched long against us--and you would bodyslam yourself against us for maximum contact and maximum attention. Your purrs were thunderous. You loved to be brushed and fussed over, and were very vain. You loved your brother. You loved to fetch and would spin out across the kitchen floor in pursuit of your favorite toy, the twist-tie. You ate with gusto. You slept with gusto. You did everything with gusto.

You were only six years old, and by appearances in perfect health, when you started turning down your favorite treats. We thought maybe they were stale, and bought a new bag. But then you started getting picky about your food. And Howard was following you around more than usual. You seemed slightly feverish, and maybe drinking more than usual--then again, it *was* July in Los Angeles. Was it just the weather? I started getting an uneasy feeling. Were you looking a little thin? We told ourselves you couldn't be sick; you were too young. But then you stopped eating, and you definitely felt warm.

The vet ran tests and said you had a fever of unknown origin. He brought down the fever, hydrated you, gave you antibiotics, kept you for a night, then two. Still, you wouldn't eat, but you were so scared to be there, he thought you might eat at home. You were so happy to get back to our apartment, you seemed like yourself again. Howard ran to you and wouldn't let you out of his sight. You started to eat again, a little.

For weeks you would only eat certain things, your favorite things. We tried every imaginable broth and gourmet delight. Then you would only eat baby food, and only if we coaxed you, and only off our fingers. You would eat better for Peter than for me. Maybe it reminded you of being a kitten, standing tentatively in his lap, taking your first steps toward domestication. Round the clock we tried to coax you to eat. Getting half a jar into you was a victory, each time. Then a tablespoon. Then just a teaspoon. I think you were doing it for us.

Then you hid in my closet, with Howard peering in at you, his big worried eyes taking everything in. It had only been two months since you first turned down treats. Only weeks since the tests had turned up nothing but a fever. But you weren't getting better. We knew, but didn't want to know. We took you to the vet for more tests. We tried to prepare ourselves for terrible news. Kidney disease? Cancer? We'd nursed elderly cats through both before, and all too recently. But you weren't elderly, you were just a baby. How many months would they tell us you had left? However many, we would spoil you every minute of every day.

The news was so much worse than we could have imagined. The time so much shorter.

That night we had to say goodbye.

Poor Howard never got to. I do think maybe, in his own way, he knew. But sometimes he forgets you're gone, and he looks for you in your favorite places.

I do too.

Farewell, sweet boy.

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Howard vs. the Star Trek Garden Gnomes

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My poppies are full of bees. :)

[kingvoracious]

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From our book The Do-It-Yourself Guide to Fighting the Big Motherfuckin’ Sad

Get a copy here for $7

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Halloween 2014, went as Agent Carter (her original costume from Captain America).  Even found genuine vintage WW2 WAC trousers on eBay!

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Today’s haul

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Two and a half months in.

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Peter decided that the beans needed to be defended by Captain America.

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The plot, about three weeks in. Since I’m getting a late start, I bought a Black Beauty eggplant and a Celebrity tomato from OSH (they’re towards the back). Squash are coming along well, and beans have emerged. By the way, that lush plant that’s overtaken the right fence is not mine. It’s my neighbor’s Korean Ball Squash, and it is unstoppable. 

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Peter can’t get over the “Triffids” (aka artichoke flowers) that overrun many of the plots. 

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After years on the waiting list, I finally got a 12x20 plot at the community garden! I have about an acre’s worth of fruit and veggies I *want* to plant, so this will be interesting. The only rule the head gardener told me more than once was “no marijuana.” Um, okay. I’m not sure what that says about me, or the other gardeners?

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Still with me?

I know my screenwriting posts are perceived by some as discouraging. I have no doubt that this blog would be MUCH more popular if it were the super-positive kind, telling people that we're all special snowflakes, that anybody can be a screenwriter, that talent and hard work are irrelevant and all you need are some "ideas," a positive attitude, a little networking, and a fervent belief in "The Secret." But this blog isn't for those people who think writing is an easy ticket to a quick buck, or that Walter Mitty-esque daydreaming will magically result in impressive accomplishments. This blog is for the people who are serious about writing and want an unvarnished picture of what they're up against, so they can be fully prepared (and, hopefully, triumph against the odds). When I started out, pretty much the only information you could find about the business of screenwriting came from so-called "gurus" who would tell aspiring writers whatever nonsense they wanted to hear, in the hopes that the aspirants would buy some simplistic "how to write and sell your screenplay" book/course/etc. Nobody who wants your money is going to tell you that the only way to write and sell a screenplay is by putting in many years of grueling work...any more than a diet-book guru is going to tell you that the only way to get in shape is by eating healthy food and exercising consistently, or a "get rich" guru is going to tell you that very hard work and careful saving is the only way for a regular Joe to become a millionaire. The one exception to all the screenwriting hype was the excellent Wordplayer.com site, run by A-list screenwriters Ted Elliot and Terry Rossio. My favorite column was a slightly tongue-in-cheek piece by Terry Rossio called "Throw in the Towel." Read it; he's certainly a much better (and funnier) writer than I am. I think I'd be doing the serious aspiring screenwriter a disservice if I didn't paint an accurate picture of the overwhelming difficulty of this endeavor. But please understand that I'm not saying these things to be discouraging! I'm saying them because I want you -- the person who is really serious about doing this -- to succeed. In any difficult pursuit, you need to know how high the bar is set and what obstacles you'll likely face, so you can plan your strategy. Because screenwriting looks so deceptively easy from the outside, a lot of aspirants become frustrated when they try to break in without a clear strategy and solid preparation, and they run smack into a brick wall they didn't even know was there. There's a difference between telling someone their dream will be difficult to achieve, and telling them it's impossible. If you've read all my posts about how long and hard you'll have to work, how much you'll have to sacrifice, how much stupidity and ignorance you'll have to endure, and how (even when you finally succeed) you'll still be underpaid and under-appreciated, and you're still here, saying "fine, bring it on, I'm tough, I can totally handle that," then I have great hopes for you. Because talent can only take you so far; you need to be a fighter, too. And here you are: Unflinching. Determined. Knock 'em dead, fighter.

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Resolution time?

"I love to read...so my resolution is to try hard to make time to read some books this year." I've seen that resolution on lots of blogs this week. Frankly, it puzzles me. It makes no sense to me that people would have to force themselves to do something that they claim to love. I don't know why those people can't just be honest with themselves and admit that they don't actually "love" to read; they love the idea of being well-read. I can speak from personal experience that for people who really love books, reading is such a great joy that you can't stop us from reading. We'll lose sleep to read, steal time for reading at every possible opportunity, and even sneak books into places we shouldn't. But if you don't feel that way about books, so what? Find your own joy. Maybe it's drawing. Maybe it’s cooking. Maybe it's music. Even more puzzling (and saddening) to me is this resolution: "I really love writing...so my resolution is to finally force myself to work on that script/novel I've been meaning to write for years and years." How can someone purport to "love" writing if they never willingly do it? I suspect that there are a lot of Walter Mittys out there who love to dream about being admired and acclaimed for their writing, and confuse that with a love of writing. You know the type: they spend lots of time imagining their Oscar speech, but no time working on their screenplays. Look, writing is hard, and it's quite often a chore, just like any day-to-day career. But for those who are born to do it, there's a certain thrill and satisfaction in the doing of it, too. If writing doesn't bring you that joy, why on earth would you want to torture yourself? I think there are an awful lot of people out there who are making themselves miserable dreaming their lives away. Resolutions are things you hope to do because you know they’re “for your own good,” even if they go against your true nature. In a way, resolutions reveal a lot about who you truly are. SO: who are you, really? I say: the person you are when you're alone, when you're left to your own devices, is who you truly are. Now, some people don't like being alone, perhaps because they're not all that interesting and are bored silly by their own company. Or they can't stand being alone because they have no idea who they really are, and they're afraid to find out. Or they simply need other people to give them a sense of purpose and identity, because they only know how to "belong" to a clique -- they've never really learned to think and act as an individual. But let's say you do spend a fair amount of time alone. What do you do? Do you actually read the "literature" you claim to admire? Or do you read the trashy magazines you claim to disparage? Do you get out and hike in the "beautiful outdoors" you claim to love? Or do you flop on the couch and play video games weekend after weekend? Is there a disconnect between the person you pretend to be, and who you really are? One thing I find very interesting is that most of the frustrated, wannabe* writers I know are also (unhappily) single, and complain about the misery of (not) dating the same way they complain about the misery of (not) writing. I don't think this is a coincidence. When meeting potential romantic partners they tend to have the same disconnect between who they really are, and who they fantasize they are. They'll describe themselves as writers -- even though they never write -- or creative, even though they rarely create anything. They'll describe themselves as energetic and active even though they're usually couch potatoes. They'll claim to be adventurous, active, deep, and literate, and a fan of various "smart" pursuits like foreign films and gourmet food and classical music...yet when left to their own devices they'd rather just glaze over in front of Survivor. With such cognitive dissonance getting in the way, no wonder they can't find a compatible match. My wish for everyone for the new year is that people accept themselves as they are. While we should all strive to improve our lives, I think we should strive to be "me, only better," rather than "me, only completely different." So -- to all you aspiring writers fighting the good fight, my New Year's wish for you is that 2010 is the best year ever for your writing career. And to all the "wannabes" out there, give yourselves permission to let go of false dreams and find your true purpose in life. And to everyone, everywhere: may you have peace, joy, and fulfillment. ---- *not to be confused with "aspiring" writers, who actually do write but just haven't broken in yet.

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There's no such thing as overnight success....

Sorry for the sparse posts of late. "Real writing" (as in, the kind that kinda-sorta pays the bills) has stolen all my time lately, and forced me to temporarily neglect my bloggy blathering. Actually...this reminds me of something I've been meaning to discuss here -- a big bad four-letter word: TIME. Whenever a working writer attends a cocktail party, it's pretty much a guarantee that someone will tell him: "I could be a writer too, if only I had the time!" And in a sense, that person is right. In the same sense that Iprobably could have been an Olympic gymnast, if only I'd "had the time." If only I'd started at the age of five. If only I'd gotten up at four o' clock in the morning every day, to practice. If only I'd practiced after school every day, late into the night. If only I'd kept practicing every day for the next ten or twelve or fourteen years -- forsaking friendships, dates, hobbies, entertainment, and other activities that most people consider normal. Yep...if only I'd been lucky enough to have that kind of "leisure" time on my hands, I might have been an Olympic gymnast too. Of course, on top of all that effort, I'd have to possess the natural talent to be better than all the other thousands of hopefuls who'd also spent their entire lives working towards the same dream. And the cruel part is, I wouldn't really know if I had that kind of talent, until after I'd spent all those years practicing. Guess what -- that's what it means to be a writer, too. You don't do it on the occasional weekend a couple of times a year when you feel "inspired." It isn't something you hope to do eventually, or force yourself to do every once in a while. It's what you ARE. Your whole life is designed around it. You've been doing it practically every day since you were old enough to read. And it's the only thing you could ever imagine doing. Everyone who earned good grades in high school English and can compose a decent paragraph imagines he has some special writing ability, and all he needs is a bit of free time to crank out a bestselling novel or a blockbuster screenplay -- just as every kid who can do a split or a handspring probably thinks he can be a gymnast. But the level of excellence which distinguishes the elite from the mediocre in any highly competitive field does not come cheap. It costs much more than most hopefuls are willing to spend. Because the price is time.