So I have this bug up my butt lately about writing and the wages writers are (not) paid and how if readers really spent a moment examining the publishing process and how little writers are paid in relation to how important books and news and, well, information is, then maybe there’d be a wee revolution like there is with food — you know, people advocating that farmers get paid more and then consumers going to places like farmers’ markets where the produce is more expensive but the farmers get more money for their better quality food.

And I love to wield my incredible influence here at Metblogs. Today, the revolution starts in publishing — tomorrow, the world.

So I wrote this article for today’s Oregonian (see, Portland connection) about product placement in books. I interviewed some very interesting people, but about halfway through the process of writing the article, I went from being nauseated by the very idea of product placement in novels, to thinking, well, shit, it seems that advertisers are the only ones who are willing to pay writers fairly for their influence, reach and hard work.

I also write in the article about books being devalued, which is something I’ve been really horrified by since I started at my first indie bookstore and had to explain to customers that no, we didn’t discount our books, and that would be just fine if they headed over to Borders to pick up that bestseller, however, by supporting corporate bookstores, you’re supporting homogenous publishing and the decline of small locally-owned business. People don’t give a shit. They want the discount.

Why is supporting corporate bookstores not in the reader’s best interest? Well, the books for Borders and BN are ordered centrally, which means that there are a few people who select the books for the whole chain of stores. So, in my case, that meant that neither one of my novels in hardcover were represented at my local Borders because the buyers in New York didn’t fancy them. My books are at these stores in paperback. Small, local bookstores each have their own buyer who has varying tastes, which means a broader array of books are represented if a community has several indie bookstores.

Back to product placement. By the end of the article, I still thought it was a disgusting practice, but a realistic one. As I look around, as a professional writer, I think people love the written word. Magazines, newspapers, blogs like this one, all make money off the backs of writers, and yet writers don’t get paid dick. Readers want integrity, but I can’t cash an integrity check. My mortgage company isn’t like, oh, well, you’re a writer? You get the integrity discount. I need to feed my kid, you know?

It seems that in every other profession, no one bats an eye at employees taking a look at their pay check, deciding it’s not enough and then going hunting for the person who will pay them what they’re worth. Why shouldn’t writers do the same?

If you don’t want to read product placement in your books, then what are you willing to do so that writers are paid according to the value you place on the written word?

I’m excited to read the comments, but before you post, please read my O story too. Also, please be civil. Conversations are more interesting than flame wars — can I put that on a t-shirt?

And not like I need to make this leap for this post to be relevant to Portland, but I choose to because it’s leap day and I want everyone to be happy that I’m posting about Portland. Can it be leap day all the time so I can post about things that are interesting to me in the hopes that they’re interesting to about two of you out there, Portland or not? I guess not.

Focusing.

I was reading Bookslut today and there was a great link to this article about the books on your shelf. One guy says the books on the living room shelves ought to be all books you’ve read. (I think he’s being ironic in his column, but there’s no fun in talking about books unless we’re all going to be extremely serious and check our senses of humor at the door.) One guy says, pishaw! Bookshelves are to display the books that we haven’t read in the hopes that the people reading the spines will think we are the type of people to read these tomes.

I was a bookseller for five years. My partner was a bookseller for twelve years. We have a lot of books. Have we read them all? God only knows. All I know about the books on my shelves is that they’re a lot like bunnies — they reproduce whenever I turn my back and they are dirty, dirty, mind-warping things. That’s like bunnies, right?

As for the books on that shelf, I haven’t read four of them. A few I have read, one of them is by a former teacher, three are by favorite authors, one I read in an afternoon, one is by Kelly Link who I wished I loved and I try to love but I just don’t, and two books are by me, while the others are collections in which you’ll find my short stories.

So, what’s on your shelf?

Sherwood Middle School is this sort of an idyllic place. So idyllic in fact, the school’s principal felt that a play about bullying and written by one of the school’s teachers was inappropriate and some of the subject matter was too mature. I said it was about bullying, right? Well the main character might or might not be gay and is bullied for dancing with one of his male friends. Not to worry, the bullying is equal opportunity. Latinas, fat kids, smart kids, everyone gets some of the bullying action. (I know, right, what the hell are we teaching kids? That the world is a tough place and a lot like middle school?!?) The principal, being a true diplomat, took it up with the students. She told them that they either had to revise it, or the play would be canceled. The kids stood their ground and the play was canceled.

Here’s the some of the principal’s reasoning, from The Tigard Times, “‘The issues that are raised are extremely sensitive,” she said. “They’re poignant, they’re hurtful and I’m not convinced students are ready to view the play as it is.’”

All I know is, when I write a play for middle school kids, it’s going to be about the importance screaming and pointing whenever you see someone different than you are. That and the literary value of slam books.

Oregonian story here.

My pal Recovering Straight Girl wrote great post on her blog and I would have never known this was happening if I wasn’t a loyal reader of hers. She also has a list of other media covering this story.

KATU.com has the story about a Portland woman who got a box full of $500 travelers cheques (yes KATU is using the European spelling). Turns out the cheques were forgeries! I know, right? The woman didn’t cash them.

Moral of the story: From now on, always check the boxes of $500 cheques that come in the mail. No more of this lackadaisical cheque cashing for Portland.

Between this and heightened airport security, I’m never going to get anything done.

My favourite line from the storey: “‘Money doesn’t fall out of the sky, or come by DHS, UPS or by mail,’ a police investigator told KATU.”

I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it growing on trees, though. Send me ten bucks and I’ll tell you where.

You see, this fine establishment used to be a vegan pirate restaurant. To my mind, a vegan pirate restaurant in the middle of the industrial area, to which you’d have to drive a car, and have to be vegan and love all things pirate to want to frequent is a no-brainer. To think that something like this went out of business made me bang my head against the dashboard in anguish and frustration. I can’t believe I live in such a cruel, complicated and ultimately mysterious world.

And that it was replaced by strippers? Strippers! In Portland!

Well, good luck to you Casa Diablo. I won’t hold my breath, however. If a vegan pirate restaurant can’t stand the heat, well then I guess this fire is too hot, even for you Diablo.

By the way, here’s the Casa Diablo myspace page. I love how all the friends look like strippers, except one woman holding her toddler. Not saying women with toddlers can’t work an anti-gravity pole with the best of them — you should totally see me in a pair of Lucite pumps with Warrant’s “She’s My Cherry Pie” on the stereo. I also love that the strippers are asking for hours in the comments section.

If you go to Casa Diablo, don’t forget to bring cash! The sign says so.

There was no mention of Seattle’s ranking, but I’m sure it was somewhere between, “We’re so much bigger, better and norther than you are, Portland,” and “Our televisions totally rule.”

Here’s what I want to know, Portland, how long have you known this was going to happen? Enough with your greeness and your bicycling ways, get that TV shit together. Want help doing so? You’ll need a converter. What’s that you say? You’d rather or you need to spend your money on other things? Well, “The government is offering coupons to partially offset the cost of buying a converter, meaning many households can make the switch for about $10.” Here’s the link to the coupon. Thank you so much, government!

But here’s my concern, government: I don’t have a television. I don’t have one because I love television more than I love my own family and if I were to own a TV, you’d have to call social services because my kid would be gnawing on uncooked macaroni and my partner would be wearing the same clothes for months on end because Mommy can’t tear herself away from Project Runway. So if I don’t have a TV, which puts me in the 8.8% of white households who are completely unprepared, I wonder if I can use my coupon for something else. Like a coke and a smile.

Check out that time stamp on this post! Wassup 4 a.m.! Maybe I’ll use my coupon for a hyperbolic chamber where I’ll have one full night of sleep.

I’m actually not a milk chocolate person. I love dark, bitter chocolate. I’m also not a candy person — why bother when there’s chocolate to be eaten? But I will gladly chuck both of these preferences when Cadbury Mini Eggs are in season. I love the crack of the candy shell and the smooth, sweet chocolate inside. I totally ignore the resulting sweaters on my teeth and sugar coma after a few of these pastel puppies. Nummy.

I know we all have our favorite Easter candy — many of you are balking that I wouldn’t even touch a regular Cadbury egg. What is that crap in the middle? Barf. As for Peeps, I’ve never actually consumed one. But I have really fun memories of hanging out at my college best friend’s house and watching her pet rat eat the eyes off those bright purple bunnies. We knew how to live.

Happy Spring!

This horse was near the Kiehl’s store. BTW: Kiehl’s has new lip gloss that is so cute. It’s a little too gloppy but still cute. Oh yeah, the horse. It’s big. Full-size. But it’s painted in this sort of carnival meets NASCAR theme that I’m not loving. It also has a prissy little sign that says it loves to be petted, but not ridden. Yeah, explain that to a two-year-old.

Here’s the pig. I don’t know about these things. I hate the way they’re chained up. Reminds me of when I was the PR person for a major circus and I had to tell the media that the stars branded on the elephants’ hind quarters were totally painless and just, like, there. I also had to arrive at the San Diego Sports Arena at 3:30 am to coordinate the morning media hits. One reporter showed up two hours late and drunk. You tell this to some pissed off trapeze artists. You think I’m joking that I did PR for the circus. I’m not. I was also a bartender and a bookseller and a college professor. Not at the same time. But the pigs. Well, they make me sad. This one seems constipated.

This horse seemed out of place in NW. It was a little downtrodden, and dare I say it, lame. Someone had put it out of its misery, and that yellow line reminds of a chalk outline. But I felt bad for it and wished someone would find a new small plastic horse to take its place. Who’s in charge of these things anyway? I felt like a sicko kneeling there on the wet sidewalk taking this picture. But as people passed, I shouted, “I’m Metroblogging, okay?” And they backed the fuck off. I’m tough like that.

Anyone else have farm animals I need to post about?

According to the LA Times, “7% of women always have orgasms with sex alone.” Let me make myself clear here — sex alone, that means no licking, touching, or toys. Just the old in-n-out. Why’s this? Because women’s clitorises are far away from their vaginas. If they’re closer, then the lady can be pumped away at and that’ll be fine. For the rest of us, guys, you’ll need to take matters into your hands, your tongues, whatever.

The article presumes that unsatisfied women ask, “Am I simply, um, put together differently than other women?” Really? Why do women need to look in the mirror all the time? What guy stands there and thinks, hmmm, perhaps it isn’t the motion of the ocean…

So ladies, measure the distance between your clitoris and your vagina and then get out your construction paper, your safety scissors and your glue and make your Valentine a card. Draw a map, to scale, of course, and let your man know that tonight’s the night for him to learn your coordinates, dig?

Someone get me some caffeine. And a nanny.

Maybe because I am a stupid woman, I continue working my ass off to make it here as a writer. Or maybe because people have told me variations on this jewel since I graduated from high school and I don’t know any different than to prove them wrong. I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know that there are a few people in this town making it as a writer. Ariel Gore, aka Hip Mama, is one. She has an amazing, inspiring interview in Bookslut’s Magazine this month. Here’s the link. Substitute writer for artist, or knitter or software designer and you have a pretty good idea of what it takes to pursue your goals. It’s a scary road, especially when people take such joy in telling you what a fool you are to give it a go. But a road worth traveling. You only live once, right?

Check out Ariel Gore’s new book, How to Become a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead. Check out her interview on Bookslut, and while you’re there, you might take a look-see at the Culinaria Column too. Before you send me hate mail about my cracking on Portland’s hemp-y composting ways, know that like a boy pulling on a girl’s pigtails in school, I only do it because I want to see up your dress.