This thing you call love, she smiles way too much

[cleolinda]

Help me stay awake, y'all. I've got to update the Digest tonight, to get back into the habit of doing it nightly so that each update is quicker and lighter. I took a catnap, toasted myself a couple of chocolate chip Pop Tarts, and I'm here for the haul.

(Okay, maybe the glass of milk wasn't such a good idea.)

Oh, and Commission Junction has booted me. I tried to get into my account to get advertising graphics, and they're sorry, but my account appears to have been deactivated. For a moment I was livid about what little money they did owe me, and then I realized--they have this system where they dock your commission each month that you don't make a certain amount (or any). Once you go into the red, you're out. That's probably what happened to me. So, fine. I signed up for a Sideshow Toy account--you know, the people who make those awesome Sideshow/Weta LOTR collectibles--and I already have accounts with Amazon, AllPosters, NetFlix, and Entertainment Earth. Most everyone gives 10% commission or more, and no one closes your account if you don't bring in enough. (And I know this because I bring 200-500 hits into AllPosters even when I don't update, and STILL none of their posters ever sell. That says to me that it's something they're doing wrong, doesn't it? I mean, I bring them warm bodies. Maybe they need to lower their prices...)

Speaking of the site, something odd happened today: I got a new Oscar pool ballot. Yes, dated March 3. And almost all of the predictions were wrong, so it's not like it was someone trying to cheat. This baffles me.

Question, while I'm thinking about it: I'm trying to catch up on some books being turned into movies. Is Eragon any good? Artemis Fowl?

Comments

[edda.livejournal.com]

Artemis Fowl I have not read, although I will say that the author's pic on the back makes him look like a weird fusion of Rowan Atkinson and Andy Serkis.

I tried to read Eragon and quite frankly, if it weren't written by an 18-year-old, it wouldn't have gotten squat for publicity. It seemed quite textbook fantasy to me: noble elves, plucky peasants, etc. Maybe it got better later on.

Pardon me for being a big ol' igmo, but what's Commission Junction?

[cleolinda.livejournal.com]

Oh, I doubt anyone who doesn't run some sort of website has any idea what CJ is, so you're not an igmo. (Hee.) Basically, if you want to run advertising on your site, a lot of places--like the official New Line store or the WB store--run their affiliate programs through CJ. It was convenient in that I could sign up for a ton of different places at one site. It was not convenient in that they were very profit-based and would penalize you for underperforming and crap. C'est la vie.

I tried to read Eragon and quite frankly, if it weren't written by an 18-year-old, it wouldn't have gotten squat for publicity.

Seriously, I feel really guilty about this, but everytime someone mentions Eragon or Christopher Paolini, I get this involuntary twitch. It's one of those, "Why are you published and I'm not??" things. I mean, "Eragon" even sounds like "Aragorn." I get ill whenever teenage wunderkinds get all this publicity, probably because I grew up thinking I was going to be world-famous by age sixteen. Hey, at least I admit it.

*steels self for flames from teenage wunderkind LJers*

[edda.livejournal.com]

Thank you; I did not, in fact, know anything about Commission Junction.

And now I'm going to blather about your last paragraph. Yes, I'm being a pain the ass, but I'm helping you stay awake./lame excuses to self

Let me tell you a tale: I was a Gifted Child. *sound of trumpets blowing, symbols crashing, bass drums booming* I was also an only child and the sole product of a hasty and very short, ill-fated marriage. But lo! I was all, you know, creative and shit, too. I grew up simultaneously lonely and feeling like dirt and yet riddled with arrogance and sure I was better than everybody else, especially the kids who picked on me.

Somewhere along the way I became convinced I was a writer, too. Probably because I liked to read so much. I churned out a couple of total crap stories that were like Hallmark cards with weak plots. They won prizes from PTA groups. (They sucked about twelve kinds of ass, but never mind.) I knew, dimly, that they were awful (I was maybe fourteen) but of course, One Day, Someday, I would be Away From All This and my greatness and genius would unfold like a glorious, breathtaking blossom and wise editors and mentors and suchlike would enfold me in their approval and spend all day telling me what a major talent I was and praising my every effort.

In other words, I was a Real-Life Mary Sue. If I could go back in time and kick my own ass, believe me, I would.

Nobody ever said, "Hey, chick, if that blossom doesn't start growing where it's planted, it'll never be transferable to a bigger pot." I just wandered around feeling smug about my misunderstood genius. I did not, however, put in the work. I had elaborate fantasies. I was maligned by my peers, but not likable after the pain this caused: I was just more insufferable.

We'll skip several years of bewildered defeat and the slow penetration of the Unpleasant Truth into my very thick, self-absorbed skull. (My mother, to this day: "Well, if you hate your job so much, why don't you go work for a newspaper? You were a journalism major."Me: "SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPLALALALALALAICAN'THEARYOU!")

Look: some of my LJ/FameTracker (not that I've been on FT in a dog's age) buddies are great, witty, insightful writers, even when they're just riffing about daily life. I mean, people who can make herkin' huge multi-paragraph LJ/FT entries a couple of times a day and still have the energy to do everything else their lives demand are clearly vut out to do SOMEthing.

I make two entries and a few comments a week? I'm tapped out.

My point? I have long-ago realized (if not entirely accepted) that Gifted Child and Brilliant Adult are not two dots that automatically connect. And my Special status is no more. I thought I was hot shit until I saw what hot shit really looks like.

And I've read some of your stuff online. And you?

Are going places. Paolini-doofuses notwithstanding. (See? I don't even know if that's all supposed to be one word or not.) You think you're only doing so well because earthly reward hasn't toppled into your lap. I thought the same thing, but in my case I was right--I was just screwing around and wasting time. You've obviously spent a long time polishing your craft and doing it for the sake of doing it. Yeah, 18-year-old blah blah whatever. He'll spend the rest of his life, if he doesn't fade, as a mediocre genre hack talking always about the Joy of Being Creative (unless he goes all wangsty about the Hard Work and Soul Searching of Writing).

Whereas real writers don't have time to talk about how fun or deep wrting is, because they're too fucking busy writing. That real writer? That's you.

Looking back over this, I'm not entirely sure if I ended up where I was headed. If you go away with a sense of encouragement--not just general feel-good encouragement but personal, just-for-you encouragement, then I got it right.

If you also go away feeling that I'm deranged and you really should put a lock on this thing, I'm thinking that's probably normal, too.

[cleolinda.livejournal.com]

Awwwww! AWWWWW! That is seriously one of the nicest things anyone's ever said about my writing. And it does make me feel better, so I don't think you're deranged at all. Not anymore so than I am, at any rate. :)

[edda.livejournal.com]

I'm pleased to attend the Birth of Genius. ("Who the hell's got the forceps!? Quit screwing around frying chicken with those things and hand them here now!!") Remember me when the first novel gets picked up. And the second and so on.

And I'll be rolling along, as I haven't eaten since 4pm and it's get supper or pass out in a glycemic coma. (Do I mean glycemic? Never mind.)

[la-sonnambula.livejournal.com]

Chocolate chips are my favorite stay awake food. Sometimes I mix them in plain yogurt to feel less guilty.