kate rothwell

heh. That title ought to bring in readers. No one calls or writes any more. . . 1. My mother. She wouldn't let me into her bed, but would come sit on mine. And then sort of lean over. And then collapse and fall asleep. I'd cover her up with my little pink blanket in the hopes that she'd stay the rest of the night. She never did. 2. Boy One. A major kicker. He wrapped the sheets around his legs too. He's been banned for a long time. 3. Boy Two. A moaner. And he complained about my breath in the morning. Jeez. He and boy one haven't been in the bed for years. 4. Boy Three. Still sneaks in occasionally. I wake up and there he is. Not a kicker or moaner so I don't even notice him until I wake up. Actually all three lounge on the bed when there's something good on late-night television. I tend to fall asleep teetering on the very edge of the bed. . .so does that count? 5. Sue B. The night she revealed to me that she was gay, we shared the only bed in my apartment...

Woman, you are losing your touch. Your email: "did you mail the coat?" My answer: "I went to the post office yesterday." I waited and yet I never got the expected follow-up email of: "I didn't ask if you went to the post office. I asked if you mailed the coat." The answer would have been no, I didn't mail it because I forgot the damned thing. . . . I did mail it today. And this slip from you, of all people!

I got my Dutch translations from Hilary. I love this cover. LovVvVe it. I'm not as certain I love the inside because I don't speak the language. If anyone wants a copy, I have an extra, even after I sent copies to my puzzled relatives. You have to promise to read it and tell me what it's about. The story is set in New York City and Minnesota. Heh. Except, okay, maybe somewhere in Minnesota looks like that landscape? I've been there and recall a lot of flat countryside and rolling hills. . . .but it is a big-ish sort of a state. Now the hard-copy I'm longing to own, that I pray I will someday get in the mail, is the Portuguese version of Somebody to Love . I've only seen a small thumbnail photo of it online. That book has a clinch cover! A real one! In a meadow with mountains in the background! The beauty of this is: 1. The entire story is set in lower Manhattan, New York City. 2. From the moment I set to work trying to get published in romance, I wanted a real c...

Someone needs to push me in a single direction because I'm all over the place, working on two books at once, both at the same stage of first draft. Bad planning, baaaaaaaad rabbit brain. One is a fluff-o-la historical (not much sex) and one is a Half-Breed Space Aliens Taking over the world (sex! yes indeedy! uh oh, potential "too much external plot for a romance" alert. And yet no idea what's going to happen). Neither genre is particularly popular just now, the agent hasn't said anything about either book, so there's no sense of urgency. I think I'll flip a coin to decide which I should work on today. Oh, I forgot the semi-paranormal-fluffy Summer novella. She's selling--to the ebook world, at any rate. I can do that instead. Also first draft, but short. hippity hop.

Mom went to Russia right after the war in 1945, the family friend Margaret says. The big celebratory parades were just about over. Mom and Margaret worked in the same office in the embassy. Mom interpreted the statistics of reports about agriculture and industry and Margaret translated newspaper stories from Russian. They discussed art and literature and went dancing. Margaret was in Moscow during the war, though, so maybe I mixed the two women's versions? Dad was there during the war, too, and Margaret got sick of stories about his wonderful new wife--until she met her.

That's what the free on-line Latin translator thingy says is small regrets or tiny sorrow. I wanted something pompous-sounding, proper grammar be damned. Here are some of v.d. or p.l.: 1. That someone taught the youngest boy the real lyrics to the Human League song. He thought it was: Don't chew on me, baybay Don't chew on me, girl It fit our lives when he first heard it--our dog chewed every thing. I say there should be more songs about bad dogs and fewer songs about pathetic people begging for sex. 2. A larger pusillus luctus -- grande pusillus luctus? that we don't live closer to Leslie. And that Eric left his coat here. In the mail any minute, I swear. 3. That my hair isn't shinier after all that trouble. I took a picture with my new camera phone, but I can't seem to send the picture to myself. In it, the dog obviously has shinier, silkier hair than me. 4. That even though I've read the instructions to the new phone, I can't seem to send pictures....

My visitors are either raking the neighbor's leaves** or visiting a step-mother, so I sneaked--snuck?--into my office (also known as the guest room) and wrote about contract hunting season over at Romance Unleashed. I love having these visitors, and I'm not just writing that because Leslie reads my blog. Heh. ________________________________________ **we know how to show our out-of-town guests a good time! I can only hope he doesn't get covered with dog shit for the long ride back to Maryland tomorrow.

Yesterday my kid came home with a sealed envelope. Very important! he said. You have to read this! It was a single piece of paper. On one side, a note from the principal: This morning we were notified by the superintendent's office of a serious situation in our community of which you should be aware. The police department notified the superintendent of a registered sex offender who resides at [address, complete with apartment number]. His name is [full name] and he was born May 22, 1934. The notice is on the back of this letter and you can call Detective Dawn Lascari if you want more info. The person involved is not wanted or subject to any criminal investigation. The rest of the letter is all about talking about " Stranger Danger " and how we do the Three R's: Run, Remember and Report. Finishing with . . Let us know at school if you have a particular concern or need some guidance in speaking with your child. We are all partners in protecting the safety of our childr...

Some writers get on my last nerve with all their promo. I can't think of names right now, honestly, but even if I could, I wouldn't say anything because of Glass House Syndrome. Other writers? They get on my second-to-last-nerve because they don't tell me any thing about their books. Linda Gayle , I'm talking to YOU! This is someone I write to at least once a week. I mean I know all about her cats, her kids, her writing etc. She knows far more than enough about every blessed chapter of every one of my blessed books. I run crying to her all the blessed time. Lucky for me, she's a nice person. If she's tired of it yet, I haven't heard. But that's not all I haven't heard. The biddy . Tonight's exchange: Kate to Linda: I've been on the lookout for your cover . Got one yet? Linda to Kate: The cover was on the cover of the last RT, and there was a spread in the middle - did you see that? On the cover of RT? And she didn't say anything? And a...

Here's the cover for the e-book (Samhain, aimless) coming out next month. It's practically full length and it's a Summer book. I have a contest at the end of the book. I'm thinking I'll give away more than just another book. Cover by Vanessa Hawthorne.

The way I see it, the new OJ book is the absolute opposite of that A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. OJ said it's fiction, but it's probably mostly a memoir. Frey said it's a memoir, but it's definitely mostly fiction. As far as I'm concerned, the new OJ book has plenty in common with that Frey book. I'll be damned before I buy either book. And I base my opinion of the books on the behavior of the authors rather than the writing. If someone forced me to choose between them, I'd buy that Frey book.

I'm going to go give a talk about research in Glastonbury, CT. Want to come? It's at 11 am today. This is what the web page says I'm going to talk about: Topic: Researching information to make your novels factually and historically accurate which isn't really what I'm going to talk about at all . I do research to make the people and scenes better drawn, easier to see. Unique. I'm rotten at scene-setting so I look for anything that'll help. The "factually and historically accurate" is way, way less important to me than making the book feel like there's a there there or that the people aren't just a bunch of valley girls shoved back in time. OR, If I'm writing about valley girls (damn, do they still exist?) that I don't screw them up and make them sound like a bunch of 40-something women. I do research to write a better book not to make it more Accurate. Bah. If I wanted accurate, I'd write articles again, and I don't wanna...

I'm getting an MRI on monday and had to get my wedding ring sawed off yesterday. Fun process to watch. My ring finger remains very oddly shaped--like a Victorian lady who always wears corsets, my finger's shape has been altered by the ring. A skinny waist where the ring was, pudge above. Coolio. The skin is pale and sensitive and delighted to be out in the air again. Hey I've worn that thing for [jeebus!] 21 years. The finger-altering thing happens to skinny types. My husband, who's about the same weight he was when we married, also has the Victorian waist thing happening on his finger. His ring is stuck, too. Neither one of us could get away with lying about the marriage thing even after we get our rings sawed off. Okay, there's always the "newly divorced" schtick. Or a really dark bar. . . * * * * I've lost almost 20 pounds since September--still have plenty more to go. Most of it was intentionally lost. I've been using http://www.calorie.count.c...

The best interview to come out of the election season that just ended. The two voice-over artists who do nasty ads for politics. The nursery rhymes, the world liberal . . . changed. Forever. [now do it ironically. Okay, how about light negative] * * * * another thing for the to-do list: You should also check out a circus story's epilogue at Suisan's.

The British Job Forum lists my blog. If you go down the page you'll find it. I think someone's grab-and-display-whatsit-tool is broken. Not all Rothwell blogs list employment possibilities in Ross-on-Wye. Uh oh. That city name might be a bad thing to actually write out here. Maybe I should start up another nickname contest for female sexual organs to get myself banned? I wouldn't want anyone wandering over here looking for a job. UPDATED: Donald, maybe we'll make something available for you.

I think my hair looks absolutely the same. Maybe slightly less frizzy? Bah.

I blame vanity and the coupon--I only buy funky hair stuff when there's a coupon. I bought some sort of Shiney Hair by Clariol. It's not a dye so I figured it wasn't a big deal with the poisons. Whoops, it must be chock full of toxic chemicals because they insist you wear gloves and do the junior chemistry thing with two bottles (with the warning: don't store the two mixed substances in a closed container or it'll explode, dammit, on the instructions) Even before you mix the stuff, you don gloves. It's that scary. The big cheery sheet warns you not to let the gunk touch ANYTHING. I have long hair, down to my butt. I didn't want my gunk-encased hair touching anything like skin or clothing (or the dog who wanted to help me with this project. She wants to help me with every project) so I got a Stop and Shop plastic bag to cover my head during the ten minutes of waiting for the Shiny effect. Very clever, eh? I planned to use the bag later on to dispose of all ...

Due to wine consumed at a party, I had two very vivid dreams last night. In the first, I met with a group of philosophers (either philosophers or writers or both, maybe) and we discussed something astounding and essentially TRUTHFUL. I know we had amazing revelations--I have no idea what we concluded. In the second dream I brought home a cute leetle kitten, and my husband stomped on it. On purpose. Guess which dream has stuck with me all day?

It's 60 degrees in November. Freaky. The boys have the day off and will ignore the bright sunshine and balmy weather unless I shove them outside. As usual there're various authors behaving badly and authors behaving badly about the first authors behaving badly. Here's one link but it's everywhere and old news anyway. notes to myself [to be filed under "obvious yet important"] : 1. Most train wrecks happen when someone gets mad or hurt. 2. Cultivate polite indifference or humor. Be Wylie or Daisy. 3. Self-righteousness doesn't work. Mmmm, feels so good though. 4. It's v. important to ignore this true fact: train wreck blog/exchanges are more interesting than the usual sort of blog entry. 5. If you do want to wade in, it's important, as ferfe says, to learn to duck. Why yes, Abby did just link to me so, yes, it looks odd that I'm linking to her. But her meta-kerfuffle is so perfect --and it fits the subject. * * * * I spent yesterday making...

Over the 40-something years I've been hauling around my body, I've hated parts of it now and then. Sometimes it's a matter of vanity; usually the hatred arises because of some kind of discomfort. For sheer loathing, nothing beats the stomach. We are rarely friends. Bet you thought a post labeled winner was about the Democrats' return to power in Congress. okay. . . Boo yah! Dems won!

don't forget to wish Lyn Cash a Happy Birthday.

It's election day! Yaaaah! This means something wonderful to me. Something. . .that fills my heart with pure joy: I don't have to make--or receive--another GOTV ** call for TWO YEARS! Kate faints with relief. I blogged about politics at Romance Unleashed. Talk about inappropriate subject matter. I hope I don't get booted out of the RU Club. _______________________________ ** get out the goddamn vote

1. Last History bushwa. Doug and Lovelysalome were right. Blue-eyed, blonde Ma was from the tribe--a long line of Jews. Her parents came from two different shtetls in one of those areas that is sometimes Poland and sometimes Hungary. She apparently looked echte Deutsche and rather Third Reich which caused her some trouble. Right after WWII, she was in Germany (she and Dad spent most of the war in Russia, working for the US of A--which later got them blacklisted, of course). She was constantly and rudely asked for her ID papers by occupying soldiers. She said she startled a fair number of American soldiers by responding in unaccented English. And no, I don't think any of her European relatives survived. 2. You know how people are always kvetching about other writers' behavior? Well, occasionally complaining? How about "an author behaving graciously to another author" story? Last month Sandy Blair gave away one of my books in a contest--to introduce people to my writ...

We're celebrating! We have us an award winning teacher! When Mike picks a celebratory meal, it's always chicken wings. Yippee! Bring on the Clausties and the bar-be-que! It's a rocking house tonight. Actually, the celebration (such as it was) is over. The kids are watching Sponge Bob and I'm wishing I hadn't eaten seven wings. Mike's in his office. No doubt he's watching himself and wondering why he did the butt waggle in the video. He claims he has no idea. If you want to see all the Inspirational Profs at work and in interviews, there's a video of the contenders here. Hmm. Only seems to want to play in Windows media. Strange background music--I noticed because I've watched it a couple of times. Go Michael! woo! woo!

see? dead people, aka mom and dad. Both were first generation American. Guessing game time: One was Irish/English (with a mother named Anna McCann, for pity's sake). The other was Eastern European Jew, generations back, with rabbis infesting the family. Which was which? This is one of those photos you get from a booth . . . photomatic, I think they're called? I love those things. I should post more. I have one I found on the street. It's of a couple kissing--one of the four frame type. I think it had fallen out of someone's trash. I have some great four-photo ones of me and my kids jammed into a booth--usually someone's crying. Here's another picture of the parents for the Guess The Heritage game. I never saw them doing canoodling like this. Never, ever. They were in their mid-40s by the time I came along. I was a "Hey, I thought I was finished with that!" baby. Hmm. No more dead people pix on this computer. Too bad. Somewhere in my life is a picture o...

This entry is NOT morbid, dammit. Stupid blogger's not working right -- I had such nice photos of dead people to upload. I'm talking before, not after pics. Heh. You want gross, check out Doug's slug sex play.... sometimes cutting-edge sex ideas cut edges that were better left untouched. Eeww, I'm gonna have bad images stuck in my brain for way too long. a discussion about that movie... N., a Mother On the Playground: You can't wish the president was dead. Me: No, no. I don't wish he was dead so don't go calling the CIA on me, okay? I wouldn't mourn much if he died but I guess I wouldn't cheer. I don't believe in the death penalty for anyone. N,MOP: But still. Not getting upset when a president is assassinated is wrong. Murder is not the way to change government. Me: Yeah, good point. How about if I said that there are a lot of other people whose deaths would diminish the world more? That okay? N,MOP: Oh, yeah. That I agree with one hundred ...

I took two Bosnians to the hospital to visit a third, S., one of my favorite refugees, who just had her forty-second birthday. She's in the ICU and we have no idea what's wrong with her. We lied to the ICU people, telling them that one of the other ladies was her cousin so we could get in--but the nurse didn't seem completely taken in by the lie. She wouldn't tell us anything other than S had slightly improved this morning. God. She must have been horrible before today then. While we were there, she opened her eyes, but I don't think anyone's home. The ladies spoke to her in Bosnian and she didn't respond. Here's the part that has stuck with me since the visit. For the first time in the five years I've known her, today I noticed two things: 1. Her eyes are gorgeous. Big, blue and, right now, blank as can be. 2. She didn't have a look of pain. And here's the thing: she must have had one for all the time I've known her. I had always thought...