Turn on the Bug Light

I am a big, shining bug light. For real. I'm the type of person who has random strangers walk up and tell me things I just don't need to know. Things I don't really want to know.

For example, once a very nice older man sat down at the table in the café where I was writing and proceeded to tell me about his big sister who died a year before he was born and how he believed part of her soul was reborn inside him. Which, in his opinion, explained why he had the compulsion to wear women's underwear.

I kid you not.

Today I was having trouble with a spot in my book, so I emailed Nate. A lot. Finally he told me I should take a break and go for a walk in Golden Gate Park. Or check out the museum. (I love museums. And I did both, in case you're wondering.)

On my way back home, I was striding along when I saw young guy heading for me.

"Excuse me, do you know what time it is?" he asked when he reached me. He twitched his nose, which made him resemble a mouse.

"I think it's around three." I frowned. "But that's only a close approximation."

He blinked. Did I use too big a word? He shook his head like he was trying to clear it and started to walk alongside me. "Do you ever get headaches?"

My turn to blink. "Yeah. Sometimes."

His little rodent face lit up. "Did you know that there's a spot on the foot that if you press it takes your headache away?"

Well, actually, yes. Part of studying Kung Fu is knowing all the pressure points and how to use them to heal or inflict damage. But I didn't want to burst his bubble, so I just said, "Really?"

"Yeah." He nodded enthusiastically. "It's called reflexology."

I nodded too. "Cool."

We walked together in silence for a few seconds before he said, "I can show you where the spot is."

I tripped. "Excuse me?"

"On your foot." He looked down at my flip-flopped feet with a little too much longing for my comfort. "I could show you for the next time you have a headache. I've been waiting all day to show someone."

And I was the lucky one. "Um. No thank you."

"Please?" His nose twitched again.

It reminded me of the rat my friend Curtis had in high school, which he'd put it on my desk in pre-calculus to gross me out. "Um. No thanks."

My new little friend stopped abruptly and wilted before my eyes.

I smiled, partly to soften the rejection and partly because I was amused. I couldn't help it—it was that or run shrieking. "Thank you for the offer though. It was very nice. Good luck with the reflexology."

I waved at him over my shoulder and walked home, wondering if he'd find someone who would let him fondle her feet. Thank God my toes were naked. Imagine if they were nicely pedicured—he would have followed me home.

Call me Kate, freak magnet extraordinaire.

Black is the Color of My True Love's Blog

Holy cow, people! Here's your freaking color post. Jeez... You can stop calling me now. (Yes, people have been calling me.)

Before I get even more comments... I know it's not Tuesday. Deal with it. If you have problems, please allow me to refer you to The Rules, particularly #5.

Now back to our regularly scheduled program.

I had a love affair with black when I was a teenager and in my twenties. Now I'm over it. Why? Because black on its own is practical, and I hate being practical. Practical is synonymous with boring.

But black's become a habit. I've got this co-dependent thing going on with it that I can't seem to break. I keep going back to it even though I find other colors more alluring.

My issues become most obvious with shoes. I keep buying black shoes because it's easy. They go with most of what I own, ergo I don't have to think about matching. And the less I have to think about my wardrobe, the happier I am.

Only I want shoes that aren't black. I veer toward more exciting colors, but then the little voice in my head says maybe I should be practical. I want olive colored boots, but would I be able to wear them with my red tee shirts?

Did I mention I hate being practical?

This shouldn't be a problem. It's not like black is even a color—it's the absence of color.

Sigh.

George Michael, Guru-in-Training

I write organically.

As impressive as that sounds, it's basically a fancy way of saying I have absolutely no clue what I'm going to write day to day. Yes, I have a vague outline—vague is the keyword here. My outlines are like this:

You're scratching your head, wondering how I write chapter after chapter with absolutely no clue what I'm doing. I'd like to shrug modestly and say "I've got skills" but really I just give up my attachment to how things go. And I pay attention to what's going on around me, because you never know when inspiration is going to strike.

Let me give you an example (as if you can stop me).

Before we moved into our apartment, Nate and I stayed with our dear friends Afra and Diego. One night, their downstairs bathroom flooded—and I'm talking ark-quality flooding. Because I'm a slacker an author and work from home, I got to call to plumber the next day, to which I only have one thing to say: hubba hubba he was cute. (But you're much hotter than he was, Nate.)

Several days later, I was sitting in a café, trying to figure out what to write. I was at the 200 page mark, a turning point in my book. Something needed to happen only I didn't know what. So, like whenever I'm not sure what to do, I began to daydream.

I was dreaming about plumbers (innocuously, Nate) when it hit me: Daphne (my heroine) needed to hook up with a really cute plumber, the man who would be exactly what she thought she wanted and totally unlike the hero.

But how were they going to get together? Negotiating having them meet: piece of cake. But I needed Daphne to ask him out and that wasn't going to be possible the first time they met. So she was going to have to arrange another meeting: she needed to flood the toilet to get him to come over to her house.

Suddenly I went from not having my turning point to having a great scene. I'd introduced my heroine to the perfect specimen of what she wanted so she could figure out she really didn't want that and I added a wrench into my hero's plans to win the heroine. All in all, a very productive day. I don't think I could have planned that scene when I started writing the story—it would never have occurred to me.

The thing about writing organically is that you gotta have faith. Faith that your heroine will do the perfect thing. Faith that if she doesn't you'll be able to fix it. Faith that, in the end, you'll have a story someone, somewhere will love.

Who knew George Michael was going to turn out to be so wise when he ran around on stage in those short shorts and flourescent socks?

The Power of Orange Blogs

I'm kicking off a series of posts on colors. I think. At the moment (butt early on the morning after Nate and I moved into our new home) it seems like a great idea, but tomorrow I may wonder what the heck I was thinking and scratch the whole idea.

How it's going to work:

I write about a color, and then you comment. For those of you who need more guidance (yeah, I'm talking to you), here's a list of things you can comment on:

Today, it's orange. And in honor of orange, I give you a poem I wrote, which should reveal why I'm a novelist and not a poet.

Dream

I float
orange-tinged clouds line my path.
At the end
a childhood friend awaits
jumping in jig-dancing excitement.
Ernie, is that you? Did you leave Burt behind?
He entices me with a fruit drink
fizzy
cool
sticky sweet
and begs me to follow.
Trust me, he implores
as he leads me to the wild fields
where poppies grow rampant.

I did my part—time to do yours. Get to it.

By the way... If you're wondering about the title, it's an homage to Tori Amos and her song The Power of Orange Knickers—an awesome duet with Damien Rice off The Beekeeper.

I ♥ San Francisco: Ten Reasons Kate Loves the City

The restaurants stay open past eight o'clock. And you don't have to take out a second mortgage to eat out.

You can buy lamb at the grocery store without having to special order it and then waiting a week.

You can look into people's houses as you ride by on Muni. It's like looking into dollhouses. Occasionally, you even see something totally unexpected—like a huge pipe organ.

The plumbers are more attractive. You know—if your friends' bathroom floods at 11pm and you have to phone someone for a house call.

The contractors are more attractive. You know—if you get locked out of your friends' house wearing a only bathrobe and have to ask their contractor to let you back in.

Where else can you watch Best in Show on an inflatable screen in a neighborhood park and laughing along to it with a couple hundred other San Franciscans?

Zoolander lives here. For real. I've seen him twice. He drives a white Camry station wagon. The next time I see him, I'm totally asking him to hit me with Magnum.

Dim sum!

$16 spa pedicures with paraffin!

The top reason I love the City: all the great friends I have here. Nothing beats hanging out on a warm Sunday afternoon eating and drinking and having good conversation. Except maybe hanging out and watching football. It's a toss up.

A Pep Talk, Kate Style

The disclaimer: we're taking off the kid gloves today. Hold on to your britches—I'm going to slap you around a little.

A lot of people come to me and whine tell me about their rejections. Which is cool. I'm a supportive kind of girl.

Only I think they expect sympathy. That I don't get. Why should I feel bad? Getting a rejection is a good thing. It means you're out there, walking the walk. Every rejection puts you closer to getting published. It's a numbers game. The more rejections you get, the closer you are to attaining your goal. It's as simple as that.

We put this negative spin on rejection that we need to get rid of. Rejection is not bad. Rejection means progress. Rejection means that you're brave. Rejection means you're working to achieve your dreams. We struggle against it when really it's a natural part of life, much like death.

And it never stops. There's this misconception that the more successful we get, the less we'll have to deal with rejection. So not true. In fact, the more successful you are, the more rejections you have to deal with. Trust me on this one. And they come faster. But if you believe in yourself, rejection is more like a pesky fly than a swooping pterodactyl.

In the end, it all comes down to how strongly you want your goal. If what you want is necessary—you want it so badly you can feel it in your gut—then rejections don't matter.

I got over seventy rejections before I found my first agent. Yeah, sometimes I felt sorry for myself. I whined to Nate (poor guy). There were days when it all seemed impossible. But what was the alternative? To quit? Kate doesn't quit.

You shouldn't either.