Tag Archives: books

The Real Ericka Clay

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The Real Ericka Clay | creativeliar.comToday I want you to know who I really am.  Here’s the thing: almost nobody knows.  My husband knows, my parents, a few friends.  Okay, just one knows, really.  Sometimes I don’t even know because I’m too busy living inside my head.  It’s warm here.  There are so many books, they curl upward, canvas the ceiling.  There are words, beautifully gritty words that almost hurt to touch.

It’s wonderful.

So here’s a glimpse of me.  Of what it’s like inside my head:

  • When I look at men I see little boys.  I don’t mean that in a derogatory way.  I mean I see their faces before life dug into them, etched away the excess.  When they smile, laugh, I can see them when they were simple and pure.  It’s nice knowing what the “before” was like.
  • I sense things sometimes.  Evil.  I’ve seen a demon before, heard my dead dog barking.  I’ve passed out because of the spectral tension in a haunted hotel.  It was the same hotel where my husband proposed to me.  And I can’t wait to go back.
  • I jumped into the pool at my wedding reception.  It was my main goal for the day.  Besides getting hitched and what not.  I was not arrested and in fact the entire wedding party decided to join me.  They all passed my test.
  • I have an extreme fear of the dark, a phobia actually.  I can’t explain it but if a room goes pitch black I feel utterly devoid of life like I’m slowly being suffocated.  I have to see light, even it’s just a little to revive me.
  • I have depression.  It’s a part of me and on the days it scuttles out the door, I miss it a little.  I feel it feeds me, gives me the root of every word that leaves my fingertips.  I generally stay a little sad for this reason.  Not that I don’t know how lucky I am.  But the superstitious side of me thinks this is why I’m so lucky in the first place.  I don’t take anything for granted.
  • I used to suffer from exercise bulimia (and yes, that’s apparently a thing).  I used to be obsessed with my body.  My past had a way of focusing on the outside and refuting the in.  But I made a decision before I got pregnant that I wouldn’t be this way anymore and with a will stronger than I was used to harboring, I started to eat for health, for life, for her.  I never want her to know the bad side of me, my weaknesses.
  • Everything overwhelms me: writing, wifedom, motherhood, work, life.  But it does so in such a delicious way that I could never deny these things.  They make me peaceful even when there’s chaos right outside my eyelids.
  • I’ve kissed more girls than boys.  College.
  • I don’t tend to trust people who deal in extremes.  There’s always a middle.  That’s usually where you find love.
  • I know my husband on an all encompassing level.  He is the greatest thing I’ve ever accidentally won.  And I won a goldfish at a carnival once that lived four years.
  • My greatest role model is Mother Teresa.
  • I’m Catholic, I guess, but sometimes I don’t really know.
  • I can tell people have a hard time pinning me down.  I wish I could make it easier for them.
  • I am not insane.  I mean not the insanity you generally tend to find on my blog.  Just the insanity that is this post.

All right.  Your turn.

How to Be a Writer

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We already know how to write a book and how not to write a query letter, at least the twelve people who read this blog do (hi Dave Coulier’s grandma! By the way, Dave said your pot roast tastes like “stinky poo poo” even after I told him to “cut it out,” and I even made the hand gestures so I really don’t know what to do next other than stage an intervention and send him off to a bare bones rehab center for at least a year. Get back to me), so I thought it would be fitting if I taught you how to be a writer because it’s either this or backing out of my neighbor’s driveway so she can “get to the post office on time” instead of letting me park here so I can jam to Hanson and see how long I can stand staring into the sun.

I swear. Adults suck.

How To Be a Writer

  1. The first thing you’re going to want to to do is realize that you are better than all people. I know, I know that sounds like you have to become a pain in the ass narcissistic type but really…no that’s it. Just become a pain in the ass.
  2. Great! Welcome to becoming a pain in the ass! To practice your ass pain skills (hahahahaha…hahaha!), find someone who can tolerate you greatly and make them regret that decision. For example, I like to practice on my husband. I’ve worked very hard to turn this: Picture of a guy in a tux standing in front of some palm trees.(some relatively good looking dude who gets off dressing in a tux and extravagantly flaunting himself in front of a series of palm trees)

into this:

Picture of a married couple dressed the same way. (some relatively good looking dude forced to wear the exact same outfit as his wife under the threat of death/losing toilet privileges. And ignore his wife in this picture because apparently she’s too good for hair cuts. And her eyes are squinty. And her hand looks like a baby’s claw. Does nobody look at me before I go out in public??? Seriously, this why I’m better than all of you!!! Ahem.)

3. Tell people you’re a writer especially when they don’t ask because they should be punished for not asking. Further their punishment by asking them what they do for a living and then follow it with a “That’s as stupid as your face.” Then growl at their dog.

4. The best way to really be a writer is to dress like one (you thought I was going to say “write.” Ha. Amateur). I like to dress like a schmuck and a douche got into a fight, accidentally had sex and then had a baby who slightly resembles Megan Fox if you don’t look her in the face. Or at all. Wardrobe staples: skinny black jeans, Toms, shirts with holes in them (preferably in the booby region), and a chunky sweater to ward off negative thoughts/yard gnomes.

5. Big words. I cannot stress this enough. Nothing excites writers more than proving their pain in the assage and you can easily do this by incorporating words nobody wants to hear in your every day conversations. EXAMPLE: I, for one, am rather concupiscent toward the idea of locking my husband in the bathroom. Sans toilet paper. What does concupiscent mean? Nobody knows. Not even the Internet.

All right, I think we have a few rather solid tips here on getting your whole writing career up and going. If you’re ready for the final exam, go find the nearest human being and keep talking until they wish they could suffocate themselves with your chunky sweater.

Yay, you passed!

Oh my God, lady the post office probably isn’t even open yet!!!!!!

Really. Adults suck.

How Not to Write a Query Letter

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When I’m not being awesome at marriage and then posting about it on my husband’s Facebook page so his ex-girlfriends can be jealous about the way I look pretty much exactly like Kate Beckinsale if you squint your eyes and look slightly to the left, I like to spend my time writing, reading, eating, imbibing and making sure my daughter doesn’t cut out circles where my boobies should go in all my shirts.  I do pretty well when it comes to all my hobbies except for that one shirt she got a hold of without my realizing it (was that a crazy parent/teacher conference!  And Miss Simons, my eyes are up here…).  But lets focus on my one true love: writing.  Whenever you write a novel and it’s nicely edited and revised and only twenty-seven people who have read it have called the police, then its time to query it.  All over the Internet you’ll find articles on how to write a query letter as well as cute pictures of kittens wishing they “haz cheeseburgerz” so I thought I’d post a picture of a cat who actually “haz pizzazzz” and tell you how NOT to write a query letter.

A picture of a cat that, and I quote, "haz pizzazz."

So query letters. Let’s dance.

HOW NOT TO WRITE A QUERY LETTER

You’ll find a ton of helpful information on the interwebs about how to do things the right way, which I find unfair to everything that’s done the wrong way, so I’ve decided to break down the wrong way to write a query letter. You can trust me. I’ve had tons of practice.

Dear Sir, Madam or Harold (I don’t know…you look like a Harold),

When Abby Abberson decides to go shopping one day, she ends up accidentally buying two pairs of shoes and when she gets home there’s a half-naked man in her bed.

Words: 12 Genre: Paper napkin.

Sex Shoes is an autobiographical account of my weekend in the Berkshires visiting my Aunt Beryl, except I bought a tube of Aspercreme instead of the shoes. And instead of a half-naked man in my bed it was a leftover Cheeto from the night before. Don’t judge.

I think you should publish my novel because Abby Abberson represents the majority of American women who believe they should be able to enjoy a peaceful night at home with a pair of shoes (or two!), a half-naked man named Chester (get it), a few delightfully neon colored snacks, and a joint cream without their toothless aunts nosing into their business (to be fair it’s only the one tooth but it’s in the middle of her mouth and she’s named the vacant hole “Harriet.” Who the frack names a hole, Harold? Who??).

Anyhoozle, let me give you my stats so you can now see how legit I am at this whole writing business. I worked at the Dairy Queen from the ages of fourteen to seventeen and then that one year when I was thirty-seven, and I donated all my money to my boyfriend’s “I don’t wanna get off this couch” fund. Not tax-deductible as I later learned. *Shrug* I’ve entered numerous writing contests under the pen name “Hugh Pecker” and I currently own a wildly unpopular see through t-shirt business called “Teezers.”

As you can see I know lots of stuff about men, questionable clothing and dairy products, hence I think we can both agree Sex Shoes would be a perfect candidate for Oprah’s Book Club. She’s still doing that right? If not, just ignore this query.

Sincerely,

Ericka Clay

P.S. – When you’re done with the napkin please mail it back. Beryl thinks buying napkins is the devil’s work.

There you go.  So when you’re finished with that glorious piece of hastily written dreck for NaNoWriMo, you’ll know exactly how not to send it out to agents who steal your napkins via certified mail.  Good luck to you all and to all a goodnight.  Wait, it’s only 8:35 a.m. on a workday?  Fuck.

I won’t be posting my fiction on Friday for Red Writing Hood because we’re going on a ten hour trip to spend Thanksgiving in a dry county.  I’m sorry, I have to go.  My keyboard is short circuiting from all the tears. 

Reading Under the Influence

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A book on a girl's lap wearing cowboy boots.

You thought I’d be wearing Skechers Shape Ups didn’t you? I have many layers, apparently.

I started this blog a month and five days ago and already some pretty terrific things have happened like getting Freshly Pressed for my “My Resume if I Weren’t a Mother” post two weeks into writing all this nonsense, meeting Le Clown who will be featuring me on his blog this week (Go say “hi” to him and tell him how clown-like he is.  He likes that.), and I’ll be featured on Project: Underblog November 7th where I’ll probably turn off their audience and incite some sort of riot.  Or they’ll love me.  You can never be too sure whenever I’m involved.  But something I’m super duper excited about is my new book club, Tipsy Lit on Goodreads.  It’s a virtual book club for crazy women who like to read and get trashed in the privacy of their own homes.  Of course you don’t have to get wasted (I hear decaf tea is pretty awesome.  No it isn’t but whatevs…), but if you feel the need to relive your college days while chatting to a group of Internet strangers as your husband asks you for the seventh time to please stop sitting on his favorite hat, then we’re the book club for you.  We’ll be meeting up on Goodreads every first Friday of the month at 8:00 p.m. EST (I had to look up what EST means. Stupid letters.), where we’ll discuss how awesome Tanqueray is.  I mean talking about refined literature.  If you’re allergic to teenage vampires, shades of the color gray and shopping in all its forms, we’re most certainly empathetic to your needs considering we read REAL books.  And I should know what real books are since I self published one once.  Snort.

So finally, a big “thank you” to Dawn from wordswithnannaprawn who inspired me to go ahead and pull the trigger on an idea that has been percolating for a little while and of course to ravenai, fatliesandfairytales, morasmum (no link), sparksmcgee, Maggie O’C, and southernfriedinvegas and anyone else I’m forgetting (please put your link in a comment if I forgot to mention your name – my apologies!).  And of course to all of the awesome folks who requested to be my penis buddy on that post.  I penis you guys so hard!  Ew.

So there you go.  Some wonderful inspirational things happening in my life because there are people that exist on the Internet who don’t suck.  And if you were one of the ones following my “Only the Lonely” post, a little update: I hung out with the moms in my neighborhood the other day (debilitating social anxiety be damned!) and it turns out they were extremely welcoming and funny and laughed at all my jokes so we’re all best friends now whether they know it or not.  Just ordered their BFF Penis Buddies Forever necklaces for Christmas!  Exciting!

So some good things going on in Erickaville.  So let me know: What great things have been happening to you lately?  And if it’s some snazzy online stuff, link it!