Monday, April 29, 2013
Smart Mouth novel: the radio interview
Day four of the swine-strep-ear infection fiesta located in the confines of one Holly Lorincz.
Man, I feel like death. But instead of lying in bed eating saltine crackers and watching Perry Mason on KPTV, I got up, showered, passed out, wiped the slobber off my chin, drove to the local radio station and did an interview. The following link involves the gracious Shaena Peterson of KTIL trying to pry an energetic response out of my monosyllabic brain mush.
https://www.dropbox.com/s/p3rl6x2468sv8t7/tt%20-%20Holly%27s%20Novel%2004292013.mp3
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Friday, April 5, 2013
Snake pit vs. Drowning
I spend an inordinate amount of time worrying. Not worrying in a normal, oh-it-might-rain-I-should-bring-an-umbrella kind of way, either. No, every decision or action I make revolves around the following: will I need to deal with a tsunami, snakes, or driving off the road into water today? There's a reason these themes work themselves into my books.
For example, I consider bringing that umbrella to work. Hmmm, if, while driving to the office, Hwy 101 slides out from under me and I end up in the Nehalem River, will the umbrella hamper my escape? Maybe I can use that umbrella to break out a window. Yes, umbrella it is. (If you've seen our county highways, you'll know this isn't as farfetched as it sounds. Right?)
Should I wear boots? I really like my red leather boots. But if there is a tsunami, can I run up the hills of Manzanita in them? I test it out. Yep, I can out-sprint the Pacific in these babies. If Tia What's Her Face had been wearing these boots in that movie Deep Impact she would have survived. Okay, boots it is. (My office is in the tsunami zone, so this isn't too crazy. Right?)
Should I sit in the sun in my back yard? The only sunny spot is under the bamboo. Will baby snakes fall into my lap, prompting me to go into convulsions of terror, unable to move, while those little bastards slither over me? I look up, down, all around. Yep, there's a snake coiled on a warm rock by the waterfall. Inside the house it is. (One hot summer day I was sitting at the table in our back courtyard. I heard a rustling in the trees above me. Looking up, I discovered a snake dangling from the branch directly above me. My husband had a difficult time peeling my screeching, incoherent, grey fleshed self off the ceiling of the bedroom, where I was hiding.)
I am fully aware I need to relax, that I can't live my life always worrying about such things. That's what my husband tells me anyway. I say, @$$#$%$ @$#@#$@#$@. Can you imagine driving along and a tsunami sweeps you off the road, into the bay, and a bunch of snakes climb in the window, trying to escape the rushing debris? I can. I'm prepared.
For example, I consider bringing that umbrella to work. Hmmm, if, while driving to the office, Hwy 101 slides out from under me and I end up in the Nehalem River, will the umbrella hamper my escape? Maybe I can use that umbrella to break out a window. Yes, umbrella it is. (If you've seen our county highways, you'll know this isn't as farfetched as it sounds. Right?)
Should I wear boots? I really like my red leather boots. But if there is a tsunami, can I run up the hills of Manzanita in them? I test it out. Yep, I can out-sprint the Pacific in these babies. If Tia What's Her Face had been wearing these boots in that movie Deep Impact she would have survived. Okay, boots it is. (My office is in the tsunami zone, so this isn't too crazy. Right?)
Should I sit in the sun in my back yard? The only sunny spot is under the bamboo. Will baby snakes fall into my lap, prompting me to go into convulsions of terror, unable to move, while those little bastards slither over me? I look up, down, all around. Yep, there's a snake coiled on a warm rock by the waterfall. Inside the house it is. (One hot summer day I was sitting at the table in our back courtyard. I heard a rustling in the trees above me. Looking up, I discovered a snake dangling from the branch directly above me. My husband had a difficult time peeling my screeching, incoherent, grey fleshed self off the ceiling of the bedroom, where I was hiding.)
I am fully aware I need to relax, that I can't live my life always worrying about such things. That's what my husband tells me anyway. I say, @$$#$%$ @$#@#$@#$@. Can you imagine driving along and a tsunami sweeps you off the road, into the bay, and a bunch of snakes climb in the window, trying to escape the rushing debris? I can. I'm prepared.
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