So last night, I attended a Kelley Armstrong/Melissa Marr signing at Borderlands Books here in San Francisco. And I'll talk more about that later, I'm sure. But for right now, I have something far more enthralling to talk about (at least, it's more enthralling when I'm not entirely awake):

Evil-looking naked alien suede kitty!

Yes! The store has a resident Sphinx. No, I have no idea why the store has a resident Sphinx, but let's be serious here: I really don't care. They have a NAKED ALIEN SUEDE KITTY. That is, really, justification enough. Her name is 'Ripley,' after the character in Alien ('cause she looks like one) as much as the television show ('cause nobody believes what they're seeing). And she's awesome. She came out and graced the signing with her glorious presence, at which point, the famous people really lost the bulk of my attention, as there was a NAKED ALIEN SUEDE KITTY in my lap. My needs in life are simple but well-defined. They include cuddling with anything that looks like it would like to nest inside my ribcage.

Now, the store is aware that NAKED ALIEN SUEDE KITTY pretty much = awesome, and so they have come up with what may well be the Best Marketing Scheme ever: they've made attractive postcards with Ripley on them. You can buy them. For a dollar. Yes: you can pay a dollar for a picture of their cat. Being me -- have you met me? -- I, of course, bought one. Now I have NAKED ALIEN SUEDE KITTY to look at any time I want to. I'm going to add her to my corkboard. I'm just thinking, why should NAKED ALIEN SUEDE KITTY get all the action? I have a hyper-intelligent tail-free Siamese cat and friends with cameras.

Lilly Kane: camwhore.

Just sayin'.

Welcome to the second of what looks dismayingly like it's going to be a series of fifty essays based on my fifty thoughts on writing. Because, y'know, it's not like I was doing anything else with myself in my copious amounts of spare time. Except for the part where, oh, wait, I DON'T HAVE ANY. Clearly my brain is trying to kill me. Please send help. If you can't send help, please send pumpkin cake, as it is direly needed. If you can't send pumpkin cake, well, enjoy today's topic. Namely:

Thoughts on Writing #2: Your Grammar Is Eating The Neighbors.

...what's sad is that this is actually nicer and less snarky than the first entry in this series. Just in case you'd wondered whether I was actually mellowing. The original thought:

The rules of English grammar were devised by an evil linguist who had a bone to pick with the adherents of the more traditional schools of the written word. They laughed at him in the academy, and we bastards are still paying today. You don't need to have a perfect grasp of the seventeen thousand (occasionally conflicting) rules to be a writer; that's what editors and proofreaders are for. At the same time, you can't just throw a bunch of words at the page and expect to have all your work done for you. Learn the basic rules of punctuation and grammar before you subject other people to your work. They can squabble over the Oxford commas at their leisure.

Ready?

Let's begin.

( My thoughts are not your thoughts; my process is not your process; my ideas are not your ideas; my method is not your method. All these things are totally right for me, and may be just as totally wrong for you. So please don't stress if the things I'm saying don't apply to you -- I promise, there is no One True Way. This way for my thoughts on grammar.Collapse )