I've always been a night owl. I despise mornings. Don't see the point since I'm not in my body till around noon anyway.
But since I'm married to a teacher (also a night owl) we're forced to get up early. While I could stay in bed if I'm not on a network assignment, the guilt would kill me. Teachers, as you can imagine, have incredibly hard jobs, so I get up with her, make the coffee, cook breakfast, and pack a lunch. (Before those of the female persuasion go running off to show this to their husbands, bear in mind that I'm Italian, and born with the cooking chromosome, so it's no big deal.)
Of course there were times when I was working in local TV when I had to get up earlier. Much earlier. Whenever I had to fill in on a morning show, I could have auditioned as an extra on The Walking Dead. I'd stumble all over the place while on the air since my brain was not functioning at the ungodly hour of five in the morning. Those of you who think morning anchors have glamour jobs should try
shaving at two in the morning with one eye open, chasing raccoons away
from your car while scraping the windshield in the dark, and going to
work with different colored socks. I'd forget what day it was, the name of my co-anchor, you name it.
The reason was that my critical voice was still asleep. And you don't need a muse to read the teleprompter, so she slept in as well.
But when I applied this to writing, I discovered something. After the wife headed off to the classroom, I'd start writing. The words flowed like never before. The writing was a lot better than the stuff I'd been cranking out late at night. It dawned on me that my critical voice was still asleep, much like it had been at the anchor desk, but my muse was wide awake. With no teleprompter or those pesky things called facts to deal with, the muse took over with a vengeance. All of a sudden it would be ten o'clock, I'd have knocked out two thousand words and was just beginning to wake up. (I would also find the half cup of coffee I'd misplaced two hours earlier.) I'd read the new words later in the day and see that they were much better than the words I'd been writing at night. Probably because the critical voice that worries about things like perfect grammar and stuff that sucks the voice out of your writing was nowhere to be found.
I'm not sure if this will work for anyone else, but you might try it sometime. Fire up the laptop when you're either half asleep or dead tired. You might be surprised what you find when you're wide awake.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Monday, May 13, 2013
Lack of character voice can cost you. Even when you're a twelve year old writer.
A few years ago I ventured out to the Oregon coast for a week long writing workshop called "Character Voice" that was taught by Dean Wesley Smith and his wife Kristine Kathryn Rusch. These two veteran authors have taught me more about writing than anyone, and during this incredibly eye-opening workshop we were all focused on character development; specifically, giving each character a "voice" to distinguish that person from the other people in your story. One of the things we learned is that voice not only comes from spoken word, or a regional accent; but from other factors. What your character wears can convey an attitude, which is part of that character's voice. For instance, if your teenage female character wears jeans that look like they lost a battle with a weed whacker and has so many body piercings you'd think the phone rang and she answered the staple gun, the reader would pick up a certain attitude and the notion that the girl is not headed to a convent anytime soon. Without her saying a single word. If she dresses up in hot pants, a halter top and go-go boots, we can assume she's a cheap bimbo or a party girl from the sixties.
Which brings me back to that decade and my very first writing contest.
I lost because I didn't develop my characters. Said characters being me and my Dad.
The first contest took place at Shea Stadium in New York. When the Mets began playing in 1962, fans started writing messages on bed sheets and hanging them around the stadium. They were known as banners. Many had simple messages, others were funny and clever. So the team instituted a contest called "Banner Day" in which fans would be allowed to carry their signs around the ballpark between games of a doubleheader.
To a kid who loved baseball and liked to write, this was a dream come true. I mean, in one day I would get to see two games, maybe get my banner on television, and walk on the hallowed ground of the Shea Stadium warning track. If no was was looking, I'd scoop up a little of the dirt and take it home.
Oh yeah, the grand prize was a color TV! When you've got a black-and-white Philco with rabbit ears, tin foil and a coat hanger, the thought of watching stuff in color was nothing short of a dream. Nothing irritated me more than that network announcer who would come on before a show and say, "The F.B.I... starring Efram Zimbalist Junior.... IN COLOR!" (Yeah, rub it in, buddy.) It seemed like every one of my favorite shows had made the transition and was broadcasting in primary colors.
But I needed a clever banner before I could see Captain Kirk in living color. (I mean, what good was knowing a guy with a red shirt would be the first to die on an episode of Star Trek when you don't have a color set?)
Anyway, back then cigarette ads still aired on television, and one of my favorites was Tareyton. (I never smoked by the way, in case you're wondering. I just liked the ad.) Anyway, the slogan was, "Us Tareyton smokers would rather fight than switch," and featured actors with black eyes. And that gave me an idea for my banner.
"Us Met fans would rather fight than switch."
Color TV, here we come.
So my Mom the art teacher helped me make my banner. Dad was on board for our usual Sunday trip to Shea. I dreamed of walking on the actual field, of no longer watching Disney's Wonderful World of Color in grayscale. I wondered what eleven colors made up the feathers of NBC's peacock. (Before the poor bird was downsized to six.)
The big day arrives. Perfect weather. We pack up the banner, take the 30 minute ride to Shea and watch the first game. Around the eighth inning the public address announcer tells anyone with a banner to assemble behind the left field bullpen. So we head out, waiting for game one to end before I can actually step on the field. Naturally game one goes into extra innings and tortures me a little. Finally, the parade of banners begins. Dad holds one side, I hold the other and we march onto the field, around the warning track. When we're going past the dugout I look inside and see the actual bats and helmets used by the players! Then I glance up into the stands and get their point of view... this is what it must look like to have 55,000 people watching you. Finally we move past a bunch of judges. One smiles at me and I think we've got a shot. (I later found out my banner made it on television, and the announcer commented that it was clever.) We're then sent back to our seats. The winner will be announced during game two.
When the public address announcer started with, "Your attention please... the winners of the banner day contest are...." my heart slammed against my chest.
And then his words stabbed me in the back.
"Us Met fans would rather shrink than switch."
The winners were ushered onto the field. They were booed. The slogan was dumb and made no sense. How in the hell had I been one word away from my precious color television?
The answer was that the winners were in character, dressed in oversized clothes. They had shrunk like the guy in that cheesy movie The Incredible Shrinking Man.
If only we'd burned some cork and given ourselves black eyes, we probably would have won.
The knife got twisted the following year when the winners' photo ended up in the Mets yearbook. The experience left my young muse with a creative black eye.... ironically I'd needed a real one to win the contest.
It all goes back to character development. My banner had been clever, but it had just been a bunch of words. It had no character development. Had my father and I been dressed in tattered clothes covered with dirt along with a pair of black eyes the outcome might have been different. Of course I thought it would be judged solely on the words, so it never occurred to me to do anything else. Now, of course, I realize how all those little things can make a difference.
Like the difference between black and white... and color.
So I try to color my characters as much as I can, give each one a unique voice that goes beyond words or accents or attitude. Sometimes it's a real battle to do that. I could, of course, go back to my old way of doing things, with very little character voice beyond dialogue. But I'd rather fight than switch.
Which brings me back to that decade and my very first writing contest.
I lost because I didn't develop my characters. Said characters being me and my Dad.
The first contest took place at Shea Stadium in New York. When the Mets began playing in 1962, fans started writing messages on bed sheets and hanging them around the stadium. They were known as banners. Many had simple messages, others were funny and clever. So the team instituted a contest called "Banner Day" in which fans would be allowed to carry their signs around the ballpark between games of a doubleheader.
To a kid who loved baseball and liked to write, this was a dream come true. I mean, in one day I would get to see two games, maybe get my banner on television, and walk on the hallowed ground of the Shea Stadium warning track. If no was was looking, I'd scoop up a little of the dirt and take it home.
Oh yeah, the grand prize was a color TV! When you've got a black-and-white Philco with rabbit ears, tin foil and a coat hanger, the thought of watching stuff in color was nothing short of a dream. Nothing irritated me more than that network announcer who would come on before a show and say, "The F.B.I... starring Efram Zimbalist Junior.... IN COLOR!" (Yeah, rub it in, buddy.) It seemed like every one of my favorite shows had made the transition and was broadcasting in primary colors.
But I needed a clever banner before I could see Captain Kirk in living color. (I mean, what good was knowing a guy with a red shirt would be the first to die on an episode of Star Trek when you don't have a color set?)
Anyway, back then cigarette ads still aired on television, and one of my favorites was Tareyton. (I never smoked by the way, in case you're wondering. I just liked the ad.) Anyway, the slogan was, "Us Tareyton smokers would rather fight than switch," and featured actors with black eyes. And that gave me an idea for my banner.
"Us Met fans would rather fight than switch."
Color TV, here we come.
So my Mom the art teacher helped me make my banner. Dad was on board for our usual Sunday trip to Shea. I dreamed of walking on the actual field, of no longer watching Disney's Wonderful World of Color in grayscale. I wondered what eleven colors made up the feathers of NBC's peacock. (Before the poor bird was downsized to six.)
The big day arrives. Perfect weather. We pack up the banner, take the 30 minute ride to Shea and watch the first game. Around the eighth inning the public address announcer tells anyone with a banner to assemble behind the left field bullpen. So we head out, waiting for game one to end before I can actually step on the field. Naturally game one goes into extra innings and tortures me a little. Finally, the parade of banners begins. Dad holds one side, I hold the other and we march onto the field, around the warning track. When we're going past the dugout I look inside and see the actual bats and helmets used by the players! Then I glance up into the stands and get their point of view... this is what it must look like to have 55,000 people watching you. Finally we move past a bunch of judges. One smiles at me and I think we've got a shot. (I later found out my banner made it on television, and the announcer commented that it was clever.) We're then sent back to our seats. The winner will be announced during game two.
When the public address announcer started with, "Your attention please... the winners of the banner day contest are...." my heart slammed against my chest.
And then his words stabbed me in the back.
"Us Met fans would rather shrink than switch."
The winners were ushered onto the field. They were booed. The slogan was dumb and made no sense. How in the hell had I been one word away from my precious color television?
The answer was that the winners were in character, dressed in oversized clothes. They had shrunk like the guy in that cheesy movie The Incredible Shrinking Man.
If only we'd burned some cork and given ourselves black eyes, we probably would have won.
The knife got twisted the following year when the winners' photo ended up in the Mets yearbook. The experience left my young muse with a creative black eye.... ironically I'd needed a real one to win the contest.
It all goes back to character development. My banner had been clever, but it had just been a bunch of words. It had no character development. Had my father and I been dressed in tattered clothes covered with dirt along with a pair of black eyes the outcome might have been different. Of course I thought it would be judged solely on the words, so it never occurred to me to do anything else. Now, of course, I realize how all those little things can make a difference.
Like the difference between black and white... and color.
So I try to color my characters as much as I can, give each one a unique voice that goes beyond words or accents or attitude. Sometimes it's a real battle to do that. I could, of course, go back to my old way of doing things, with very little character voice beyond dialogue. But I'd rather fight than switch.
Monday, May 6, 2013
When an editor says he knows if a book is great on page one, I get it. Because there's a television news version of a query letter.
It doesn't seem fair, does it? That your writing should be judged by page one when the story "really gets going" in chapter four. It doesn't seem fair that you're not a marketing specialist or salesperson but you have to write a query letter that takes a whole different literary skill set.
I'd agree, except television news is actually worse.
Anchors and reporters have used video resumes for years. Even though they're now online or on DVDs, they're still called resume tapes. And everyone in the business knows you have about fifteen seconds to grab a manager's interest.
If that sounds a lot like a query letter or page one of your novel, it is. Except the superficiality of appearance and demographics are thrown into the mix. But instead of a query letter, on-camera people create what is known as a "montage" which showcases them in their best light and doing a variety things. For example, you might see a reporter with six clips in his montage; a couple of live shots, a couple of story intros from the set, and a couple of "standups" in the field. Then you need a range of stories, from serious to feature.
And you've got about fifteen seconds to impress a manager. In other words, if your very first clip of your montage doesn't grab the person doing the hiring, you are eeeeee-jected!
Now here's the reason I understand editors and agents.
When I made the transition from reporter to manager, I made a promise to myself that I'd watch every tape and send a personal note to every applicant. I hated those form rejections when I was looking for a reporting job.
That promise died a grisly death when we ran an ad for a sports anchor and three hundred tapes showed up.
Do the math... open each piece of mail, insert the tape, hit play, watch for at least fifteen seconds, eject 95 percent of them, shove a form letter in an envelope, tie up a secretary addressing the envelopes... and your week is shot to hell. Personal rejections? Fuhgeddaboudit.
So I don't get mad when I get a form rejection from an agent or editor. I'm actually being judged only on my talent, rather than on my appearance, age, background, accent, demographic, and other numerous factors. A television person has to worry if he or she has any of the the following problems: too tall, too short, too fat, too thin, too blonde, not blonde enough, too bald, too top heavy, too flat chested, missing a chin, needing a nose job, too wrinkled for high-def, too old, too young, sounds like Fran Drescher. Journalistic skills optional.
A writer has to worry about this: Is the writing good enough? I'm sure an editor wouldn't care if an author looked like Quasimodo with a bad blonde dye job and enough wrinkles to tie up a dry cleaner for a day if he or she wrote the Great American Novel.
And that page one / fifteen seconds thing? Well, consider a young reporter I was mentoring who had three stories on her tape coming out of college. The first was just okay. The second was very good. The third was terrific. She'd sent out fifty tapes and not gotten a single nibble. I told her to reverse the order of the stories. She did, and she got a job in a week. Same person, same talent. Different first impression.
Page one is the same as that first clip on a resume tape.
So the next time you think the whole query letter / first page system isn't fair, take a shot at television news.
I love the level playing field of writing. And I sure as hell don't miss wearing makeup.
I'd agree, except television news is actually worse.
Anchors and reporters have used video resumes for years. Even though they're now online or on DVDs, they're still called resume tapes. And everyone in the business knows you have about fifteen seconds to grab a manager's interest.
If that sounds a lot like a query letter or page one of your novel, it is. Except the superficiality of appearance and demographics are thrown into the mix. But instead of a query letter, on-camera people create what is known as a "montage" which showcases them in their best light and doing a variety things. For example, you might see a reporter with six clips in his montage; a couple of live shots, a couple of story intros from the set, and a couple of "standups" in the field. Then you need a range of stories, from serious to feature.
And you've got about fifteen seconds to impress a manager. In other words, if your very first clip of your montage doesn't grab the person doing the hiring, you are eeeeee-jected!
Now here's the reason I understand editors and agents.
When I made the transition from reporter to manager, I made a promise to myself that I'd watch every tape and send a personal note to every applicant. I hated those form rejections when I was looking for a reporting job.
That promise died a grisly death when we ran an ad for a sports anchor and three hundred tapes showed up.
Do the math... open each piece of mail, insert the tape, hit play, watch for at least fifteen seconds, eject 95 percent of them, shove a form letter in an envelope, tie up a secretary addressing the envelopes... and your week is shot to hell. Personal rejections? Fuhgeddaboudit.
So I don't get mad when I get a form rejection from an agent or editor. I'm actually being judged only on my talent, rather than on my appearance, age, background, accent, demographic, and other numerous factors. A television person has to worry if he or she has any of the the following problems: too tall, too short, too fat, too thin, too blonde, not blonde enough, too bald, too top heavy, too flat chested, missing a chin, needing a nose job, too wrinkled for high-def, too old, too young, sounds like Fran Drescher. Journalistic skills optional.
A writer has to worry about this: Is the writing good enough? I'm sure an editor wouldn't care if an author looked like Quasimodo with a bad blonde dye job and enough wrinkles to tie up a dry cleaner for a day if he or she wrote the Great American Novel.
And that page one / fifteen seconds thing? Well, consider a young reporter I was mentoring who had three stories on her tape coming out of college. The first was just okay. The second was very good. The third was terrific. She'd sent out fifty tapes and not gotten a single nibble. I told her to reverse the order of the stories. She did, and she got a job in a week. Same person, same talent. Different first impression.
Page one is the same as that first clip on a resume tape.
So the next time you think the whole query letter / first page system isn't fair, take a shot at television news.
I love the level playing field of writing. And I sure as hell don't miss wearing makeup.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Stranger than fiction...
Every once in awhile I get an assignment that is truly bizarre. In
this case, I've been working for Inside Edition on a story about that
Pennsylvania woman who disappeared eleven years ago and was presumed
dead until she turned up in Florida.
Turns out going off the grid is as easy as writing a novel.
In this case, Brenda Heist (and you gotta love the irony of the last name) simply re-invented herself as a cleaning woman in Pensacola, Florida. Yesterday we spent a lot of time with one of her clients, a kind-hearted woman named Sondra who took her in when she said she needed to get out of an abusive relationship. She said her name was Lovie Smith (yeah, same name as the Chicago Bears coach, but Sondra didn't follow football.) She paid everything in cash, bought cars with cash, covered her tracks, developed trust with clients in the community. Even though she left a husband and children behind she told Sondra she was a widow and had no kids. Sondra became close friends with her and had no inkling she was being conned.
This is a wild story and if you get a chance check it out on Thursday's episode of Inside Edition. I'll post the link here after it airs.
Turns out going off the grid is as easy as writing a novel.
In this case, Brenda Heist (and you gotta love the irony of the last name) simply re-invented herself as a cleaning woman in Pensacola, Florida. Yesterday we spent a lot of time with one of her clients, a kind-hearted woman named Sondra who took her in when she said she needed to get out of an abusive relationship. She said her name was Lovie Smith (yeah, same name as the Chicago Bears coach, but Sondra didn't follow football.) She paid everything in cash, bought cars with cash, covered her tracks, developed trust with clients in the community. Even though she left a husband and children behind she told Sondra she was a widow and had no kids. Sondra became close friends with her and had no inkling she was being conned.
This is a wild story and if you get a chance check it out on Thursday's episode of Inside Edition. I'll post the link here after it airs.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
FRUSTRATED WRITER BINGO!
Hey, even my muse has been frustrated lately, so she came up with this.
How many squares do you have?
How many squares do you have?
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Cheap thrills starting at 35 cents
An author I consider to be my mentor told me years ago not to read reviews. Of course, when you're starting out, you can't resist, so it's the one rule I break. A few years ago he added another rule: don't check your sales constantly. Once a month is fine.
That's like sticking a Christmas present under the tree on December 26th and torturing you by not letting you open it until the following Christmas.
I'm sure I'm like most writers who have dipped toes into the pool of indie publishing. Every sale is exciting, a validation of your work.
And it's a great way to start your day.
So each morning, I have a routine.
-Start the coffee machine. (I now load this the night before since I'm so bleary-eyed in the morning I've been known to load it with things other than coffee. Or fill it with water without loading it with coffee which makes for a wonderful cup of hot, murky water.)
-Let the cat out, reminding her that I would appreciate her not depositing some decapitated creature on the welcome mat.
-Check my sales.
And even if my sales only include one 99 cent story with a commission of 35 cents, it absolutely makes my day. It reminds me of the old slogan, "A day without orange juice is a day without sunshine." Even one sale brightens your day.
It's not about the money. Someday it might be, but right now it isn't.
It's about validation of your work. It's about someone out there who thought enough of your work to plunk down some cash, telling you what you've written has value.
And nothing gets me "back in the chair" pounding out more words than a sale. It inspires me like nothing else.
It's more than a cheap thrill.
It's the light at the end of the tunnel, which, for a long time, seemed to be closed. After years of sending out novels and short stories, and coming oh so close to a sale, it's nice to know the rays of light actually exist.
Years ago 35 cents could get you a ride on the subway.
Now it buys hope.
That's like sticking a Christmas present under the tree on December 26th and torturing you by not letting you open it until the following Christmas.
I'm sure I'm like most writers who have dipped toes into the pool of indie publishing. Every sale is exciting, a validation of your work.
And it's a great way to start your day.
So each morning, I have a routine.
-Start the coffee machine. (I now load this the night before since I'm so bleary-eyed in the morning I've been known to load it with things other than coffee. Or fill it with water without loading it with coffee which makes for a wonderful cup of hot, murky water.)
-Let the cat out, reminding her that I would appreciate her not depositing some decapitated creature on the welcome mat.
-Check my sales.
And even if my sales only include one 99 cent story with a commission of 35 cents, it absolutely makes my day. It reminds me of the old slogan, "A day without orange juice is a day without sunshine." Even one sale brightens your day.
It's not about the money. Someday it might be, but right now it isn't.
It's about validation of your work. It's about someone out there who thought enough of your work to plunk down some cash, telling you what you've written has value.
And nothing gets me "back in the chair" pounding out more words than a sale. It inspires me like nothing else.
It's more than a cheap thrill.
It's the light at the end of the tunnel, which, for a long time, seemed to be closed. After years of sending out novels and short stories, and coming oh so close to a sale, it's nice to know the rays of light actually exist.
Years ago 35 cents could get you a ride on the subway.
Now it buys hope.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
The worst seller list
All authors aspire to see their names on those best-selling book lists. No one writes a book only to see it ranked four kazillion on Amazon sandwiched between "Keeping Armadillos out of Your Garden" and "Anthony Weiner's Guide to Twitter." And somewhere between your book and the best-sellers, are books that will no doubt appeal to mouth-breathing Wal-Mart shoppers.
Hence, the inaugural "Worst Seller" list. These aren't the ten books on the bottom of Amazon's rank, but rather books that either a: we know the "author" didn't write; or b: make authors who haven't sold anything to a major publisher so frustrated they apply to be a contestant on a reality show in hopes of gaining name recognition.
They're the worst things about publishing. Hence, the first installment of the "Worst Seller List."
1. "Hillbilly Heart" by Billy Ray Cyrus. Yes, the man who brought society "Achy Breaky Heart" now tells his long awaited life story. Long awaited by who, I have no idea. Sources tell the Worst Seller List that Cyrus is working on a sequel about parenting called, "Skunk or Skank? Raising a daughter in the aftermath of a peroxide experiment gone awry."
2. "Confessions of a Guidette" by Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi. The definitive guide for any young woman whose main goal in life is to set the image of Italians back 100 years. Fuhgeddaboudit.
3. "Celine Dion: The Authorized Biography." (Which implies that someone was actually going to write an unauthorized bio.) A useful coffee table edition for any young woman who wants to break up with a guy. Leave this book out in plain view and he'll run so fast he'll leave skid marks.
4. "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Chemistry." I'm sure there's probably valuable information in this one, but the title makes me wonder if a publisher woke up one morning and said, "You know, a whole lot of people are blowing themselves up trying to deep fry a turkey. We need a book on that."
5. "Harmonica for Dummies." Required reading for anyone aspiring to a career driving cattle currently in possession of a time machine. Head 'em up, move 'em out.
6. "A Mother's Gift" by Britney and Lynne Spears. The pop tart and her sister supposedly collaborate on a young adult novel marketed for ages ten and up, which is sorta like asking Madonna to babysit your kids.
7. "Mr. Peabody's Apples" by Madonna. The material girl supposedly wrote this book for kids from kindergarten through the second grade, which is sorta like asking Britney Spears to babysit your kids. (If you think the title is suggestive, you're not alone.)
8. "How to Lose your Ass and Regain your Life: Confessions of a Big-Butted Star" by Kirstie Alley. Not exactly on the goodreads list of Dr. Oz.
9. "Dollhouse" by the Kardashian sisters. Surprisingly, there is an e-book version of this, which assumes anyone interested in reading this novel would actually know how to download something.
10. "Deer in the Headlights" by Levi Johnston. The kid who knocked up Sarah Palin's daughter figured out a way to pay his child support.
Hence, the inaugural "Worst Seller" list. These aren't the ten books on the bottom of Amazon's rank, but rather books that either a: we know the "author" didn't write; or b: make authors who haven't sold anything to a major publisher so frustrated they apply to be a contestant on a reality show in hopes of gaining name recognition.
They're the worst things about publishing. Hence, the first installment of the "Worst Seller List."
1. "Hillbilly Heart" by Billy Ray Cyrus. Yes, the man who brought society "Achy Breaky Heart" now tells his long awaited life story. Long awaited by who, I have no idea. Sources tell the Worst Seller List that Cyrus is working on a sequel about parenting called, "Skunk or Skank? Raising a daughter in the aftermath of a peroxide experiment gone awry."
2. "Confessions of a Guidette" by Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi. The definitive guide for any young woman whose main goal in life is to set the image of Italians back 100 years. Fuhgeddaboudit.
3. "Celine Dion: The Authorized Biography." (Which implies that someone was actually going to write an unauthorized bio.) A useful coffee table edition for any young woman who wants to break up with a guy. Leave this book out in plain view and he'll run so fast he'll leave skid marks.
4. "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Chemistry." I'm sure there's probably valuable information in this one, but the title makes me wonder if a publisher woke up one morning and said, "You know, a whole lot of people are blowing themselves up trying to deep fry a turkey. We need a book on that."
5. "Harmonica for Dummies." Required reading for anyone aspiring to a career driving cattle currently in possession of a time machine. Head 'em up, move 'em out.
6. "A Mother's Gift" by Britney and Lynne Spears. The pop tart and her sister supposedly collaborate on a young adult novel marketed for ages ten and up, which is sorta like asking Madonna to babysit your kids.
7. "Mr. Peabody's Apples" by Madonna. The material girl supposedly wrote this book for kids from kindergarten through the second grade, which is sorta like asking Britney Spears to babysit your kids. (If you think the title is suggestive, you're not alone.)
8. "How to Lose your Ass and Regain your Life: Confessions of a Big-Butted Star" by Kirstie Alley. Not exactly on the goodreads list of Dr. Oz.
9. "Dollhouse" by the Kardashian sisters. Surprisingly, there is an e-book version of this, which assumes anyone interested in reading this novel would actually know how to download something.
10. "Deer in the Headlights" by Levi Johnston. The kid who knocked up Sarah Palin's daughter figured out a way to pay his child support.
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