Megan Wants A Murderer!

Watching reality TV dating shows should be a punishment in hell. The 25th circle reserved for cannibals or baby-shakers. The contestants are vain, shallow, superficial, greedy and stupid. They also lie.

And that's why I love them. I enjoy watching humanity at its absolute worst. I would call it a guilty pleasure, but Chuck Klosterman convinced me there is no such thing. Klosterman claims that calling something a guilty pleasure implies you would be engaged in a more valuable activity if you weren't watching Wipeout or reading People. Like, say, reading Kant or stopping global warming. I realized he was right and decided to own my interests. Now my only guilty pleasure is listening to Chuck Klosterman.

But recently a reality show contestant committed murder! One of the tools on Megan Wants A Millionaire, Ryan Jenkins, murdered his wife, pulling off her fingers and teeth, and stuffed her in a suitcase, which he then threw in a Dumpster. The woman had to be identified by the serial numbers on her implants. That's all she had that revealed who she was.

I've seen Megan Wants a Millionaire. Megan, a blonde fond of bikinis, aspires to be a trophy wife. And tan. Megan is singularly boring; her delivery is a deadpan monotone sprinkled with Valley Girl giggles and, while she's pretty, she's not sexy. To paraphrase Barney Frank, Megan has all the brains of a table. In fact, her vapidity made the show difficult to watch, but I muddled through somehow. I considered it my duty.

Now the show is canceled. And the killer killed himself. I can't help but view the incident as a warning to all of us.

Friends, the Apocalypse is coming. Lock your doors and windows. Turn off VH1 and spend your evenings working on string theory. Or knit someone a nice sweater.

Zombie Bar

When the Zombie Apocalypse hits, I'm going to order a mojito from these guys at this bar.

Please join me there!

The kindness of agents

Everyone says agents are cutthroat, ruthless meanies who would sell their children's souls for a big deal, because they don't really care about authors at all, just money.

I say, no way.

I started shopping my novel, Brains: A Zomoir, over a year ago, and all my friends--including those with agents and book deals--told me to beware of the snaky agent. I was cautious, like an oft-jilted lover, but every one I communicated with was friendly and helpful--even as they were rejecting me. One even called me "my dear" in her rejection letter! I wound up signing with the best agent on the planet and if you don't read her blog, you're missing out.

But here's the thing: When my book sold a few weeks ago, agents who rejected me sent me congratulatory emails. Yes, that's right! Six months ago, they told me thanks, but no thanks, but somehow remembered me and were thoughtful enough to give me a shout-out when they read about the deal.

That ain't ruthless; that's sweet. Let's hear it for the agents!