Of course, of course

I have never heard of The Horse Latitudes as a metaphor, a reality, an obscenely popular title for books and poetry. Now I fear I shall think on nothing else.

Katharine Coldiron reviewed MEM for Locus*, and then was kind/awesome enough to come meet me at my Los Angeles launch event! (This is where I would put a picture, if I’d had the presence of mind to take one, like COME ON. So here’s a really unflattering one where I had to take my glasses off to read because according to the specialist I finally say, I may have a thyroid issue but I definitely have a focusing mechanism failure and I’m too young for bifocals but have to have them.)


Imagine looking this good at your launch event, eyes awonk and manspreading for the gods while Amelia Gray looks far more composed and presentable, thank the Lord.

*Understand that just typing that phrase and remembering that’s a reality made my brain melt in WHAT IS LIFE. Also, that’s a link, get thee to heaven, Beatrice.

But back to Katharine (not pictured), and reviewing MEM, and then Horse Latitudes. O_O She shared a new review/collection of mini-reviews today, and I DIED. And went on this little Book Soup reminiscing tangent to explain the connection and why I am writing this blog (if you can call it that).
screenshot 2019-01-28 14.58.21
Tell me that picture doesn’t sell it. And then, if you’re like me and had no idea what the concept was, it just gets weirder.


Wow, I thought, how many books are called that? And can I write a group review of them?

A lot, I learned after some investigation, and yes, you’re reading it right now.

The books are then ranked and rated according to enjoyment, title relevance, and a quote is given. All of which culminates in an offer to send one lucky reader all twelve of the Horse Latitudes.

Yes! I bought them all and now I want to give them away. Desperately.

In summary, Katharine Coldiron is a delight, and if you’re dying to read a little or a lot about horses tossed overboard or eaten…you know where to go.

We Need To Talk About Jurassic Park

“Now we all know the thirteen stripes are for good luck, but why does the American flag have exactly 48 stars?”*

Hi, and welcome back to I will be your immediate bff if you use random, well-placed, hopefully obscure Simpsons quotes.

For instance, last time I was at a not-my-book-event and someone said, “Don’t you hate pants?!” and I almost kissed them on the mouth.

But on to super important things.

I recently(ish) saw the latest Jurassic Park movie – which my son exasperatedly keeps reminding me is Jurassic World, but like, shuttup, kid, you’ve been on earth for like a minute and stuff existed before you – and since it was only slightly better than the beleaguered third Jurassic Park film (you know the one where Tea Leoni won’t stop yelling and running despite no fewer than four people immediately being brutally destroyed by dinosaurs and an expert telling her to not do that)…. it feels like we need to finally talk about Jurassic Park.

But first: a walkabout. (This is me, friends.)

#5’s first and most egregious offense was using Jeff in the trailer when…it literally showcased the entirety of his involvement. Sucks to your asmar, jerks.

Secondly, it … wasn’t super smart. Again, it’s no worse than Jurassic Park 3: The One With Tea Leoni, but since that was the previous Definite Worst One, that’s not saying much. Like, what the franchise has going for it is that each movie has some additional trajectory or revelation, usually to do with raptors. A big issue with #3 (and something that happened in #5) is that, while that “something necessary” is still present, it largely became a horror/monster movie. I mean, the big, ridiculous mouth in the plane scene? Who. Why. How come.

Also this:


I mean.

::deep breath::

Okay, but we were supposed to be talking about #5. Wait no, we’re supposed to be talking about the whole franchise.

Things Jurassic Park Does Well:

(1) Characters: First of all, shout out to B.D. Wong for holding it down as the scientist/innovator who is really not tryna worry about the consequences, yo. He is singlehandedly handing the planet over to ever-wilder dinos, and I love it.

The fact that there are always kids, and they’re always smart. Unrealistic? Sure. But since these kids are always in the proximity of the scientific community involved in bringing dinos back to life – and since they never cease to be kids – I’ll allow it.

Full disclosure: they didn’t really do great with Dallas Texas Ranger’s character tbh. She has a complete lack of backstory, actually, which. Huh. And I literally cannot remember if Dallas is her first or second name, help me out. I can’t be arsed to google.

(2) Have a bleak enough view of humanity to sell that yep, we’d still be doing this, even after what the world saw in the first movie. Going into #4, I was like, HOW. WHY. And then, as soon as it started, I was like, naw this tracks.

Reasons Jurassic Park Is Ludicrous:

And it’s not because Michael Crichton never really explained how we got from point dna in amber to point dino egg.

My issue with JP is the completely self-aggrandizing, narcissistic assumption of dinosaurs’ preoccupation with humans. 

Like. We are just REFUSING to live in a world where a dinosaur might pass us by because we are simply not sustenance enough to warrant the effort. We will not ABIDE the concept that if LARGEST POSSIBLE DINOSAUR had scores of its natural food source available and had NEVER SEEN A HUMAN, it might not recognize us or be interested in investigating our existence, much the way we don’t stop every bug and destroy it in creatively grotesque ways knowing we would need to eat them nonstop for hours to be sated.


It’s the same issue with like every skynet movie. Artificial intelligence would SURELY immediately turn homicidal and try to kill us because WE ARE THE MOST INTERESTING MAN ALIVE.

I dunno.

I’m over it.

In conclusion:

(1) Jurassic Park

(2) Jurassic World

(3) Lost World

(4) Fallen Kingdom ties with Jurassic Park 3.

I will likely switch second and third place for the rest of my movie-watching life.

*The opening line of this post had literally nothing to do with the title or the topic, and I can’t honestly defend its inclusion. Stream of consciousness, kids.

Whatever Rhoda Wants

Rhoda gets…

Then Homer starts his voice-over and we see flashes of the ugliest car that ever put Powell out of business. ‘Member?

But no, so today I learned that when Rhoda decides to talk to you, by George talking shall be done! Who’s Rhoda, you’re probably asking. Just a lovely South African woman who moved to Montreal from Saskatchewan after going to the 1967 expo and who about four years ago went to California for about a week in order to attend a convention but she can’t remember what city. How long have you known Rhoda, you say? For about three minutes on the bus today.

Delightful older women make my day.

Today I also learned that the school board from which Ez is getting a transfer agreement (and in which he’s never gone to school but long story and it’s mostly just more “Oh brother, Montreal”) is just not as well oiled as the one to which he’s moving. Which is itself a blessing. I showed up to do some paperwork and they asked me to sit and they said they weren’t gonna call the person I was there to see because that person was gonna call them when that person got back from lunch. And then 45 minutes later, another receptionist came to relieve the first and promptly picked up the phone only to find said person had been back for like 30 minutes but also wasn’t the person I was supposed to see and why hadn’t the 1st receptionist gotten me the paperwork which was available the whole time. And for some reason, I just kept smiling at everyone. Guess I really had nothing pressing because I was just relaxing without a care in the world in that lobby. I don’t even know.

And finally – but absolutely not for the last time – my last name has been Morrow for 12 years, Montreal. I shan’t be changing that for you. Kindly stop asking, thank you.

Who finished a new short story? I finished a new short story!

If you wanna know more about (some of) my writing projects, check out my Writing page, friends.

Rockin’ Robin (Tweet)

This is not called, In Defense of Twitter, because really. Shouldn’t have to. (My two sisters will get that and that’s enough for me.)

But in this age of social media and what with our human penchant for hierarchical thinking, one oft hears about the “pointlessness” of whichever one the speaker doesn’t value/use. So, on Christmas Day, this conversation came up – and I was apparently the only person present using Twitter.

Here’s the thing: I’m not saying it’s deep and existential. I’m saying, what is. Seriously. Is every phone call meaningful? If you said yes, I need to transcribe any of my phone calls with my sisters. They are glorious. But they aren’t “necessary”. Not only do we not even share obscure details of our daily lives with each other (which is unnecessary because we’re all on twitter and facebook so we already know – HAH), we don’t even usually talk about things going on in our actual lives! We talk about ridiculousness. Or make up things. Or talk in movie or tv show code.

The thing is, there’s an entire industry on twitter, it seems. Publishing sort of lives there (and yes, on blogs…oh and in real life). I have arbitrary snatches of conversation with people in whom I’m actually interested and/or admire and hopefully vice versa. Or just strangers who got retweeted who I find hilarious. And when I say random, mundane, arbitrary things and people respond in kind or in relating? It’s good times. It’s fun. It feels connecting.

But I also can’t help but agree with people. I tell you pointless things. I tell you what I’ve eaten and am doing or have thought or am thinking or heard or wanted to hear. It’s ridiculous. It’s ridiculous. And I love it. I giggle while I’m doing it and I laugh out loud when you respond. It’s how I know my cousin, Sunshine, even though we’ve never met. It’s how come I feel like my sisters are constantly with me even though we live in different countries.

So I’m gonna lament the lack of sriracha sauce and tell you how I can’t stop thinking of Dreamgirls and also tell you how I’m now melodramatically enjoying Roy Orbison because I’m just all over the place today. Don’t judge me. I promise, I still write physical Christmas cards (sometimes) and I still talk on the phone (slightly more frequently than a recluse) and I go outside (when the mood strikes). And when I do, you’ll know. Because I shall tweet it.

Lower Your Expections. Nope, Lower Still.



No, I’ve been here the whole time. You’re the one who’s late. Yup.

Welp. Agree to disagree.

Why don’t we just say we’re both wrong and that’ll be that.

I know you are, but what am I?

Oh, real mature.

Look, I’m gonna be the bigger person and just forgive you. You’re forgiven.



So and then anyway. Hi, friend!!! I’ve just been being busy off of my blog. (I know, right? What’s that about?!) I’m in the Thinking About Writing phase for the WiP, in other stages for the other stuff (Dr. Vague is vague) and generally still the same person so this is boring you.

But um. What’s up witchu?


Help me, Helvetica

I’m confused again.

So, the thing is that I’m not boring. As in, when I speak, I make it worth your while. Try to give you that bang for your buck. (No one pays me to speak. Yet.) Storytelling is kind of a thing of mine, to be honest. Here’s something that is markedly easier to do on paper than in polite conversation: past tense. As in, if I’m expressing an outrage or emotional intensity that I experiencED? I’ll express it with vigor. Because flat-lining my tonal presentation is boring and I’m trying to take you on a journey.

Here’s why the confusion: I’m getting the impression that 99% of people mistake this for being REALLYUPSET.

Haiiiii. It’s a retelling, y’all. Calm down with the calming me down. Are emotions really that simplistic that the way you’d know I was harboring deep seeded rage and the like is if I just flat out told you? You don’t think you’d – Idunno – see some sort of social and mental decline or untethering become increasingly visible in my life as I spiraled out of control?! Nope. I’d just tell a story about the past in an intentionally animated and – IF I SAY SO MYSELF – entertaining fashion and bam, you’re my psychiatrist who truly knows my inner workings now.

Yeesh. (See, like how I actually still totally love you.)

And no, this isn’t about something else – like the fact that for one brief, shining moment I had a hooded hounds tooth cape that I wore once and then a mouse came down from the upstairs flat through the used-to-be-a-stairwell-now-is-supposedly-a-closet and touched NONE of the ramshackle older jackets but decided to filet the back of my cape to make its unholy nest of which in a few hours it will have no need because exterminator, breezy, that’s how we do.

It is not about that.

P.S. That new favorite gif of mine? I literally just saw it on another blog and white-knuckled it. And now it is mine. ::kisses the internets::

And We Are Very Good Friends

Life is so confusing. How can one simultaneously think (a) I am so beyond the point of having another baby and (b) what’s the point of life if I don’t have another baby? O_O Srsly. Who thinks these things – both. together.

I blame 30. 30 is almost definitely maybe beating me at this point. She brought her A game and I am routinely caught unawares. For instance: this is the age where I am perpetually confused as to whether everyone’s older than me or everyone’s younger than me. Like I’m in the middle of this transition. That’s it. That’s the end of the sentence. I’m in the middle of the transition. Like, it started last year and I dunno, next year it’ll finish? I have no idea. I just know things make less sense right now. I am serious, this is coming from a sappily married woman who is trying to explain the strangeness of 30: people can be too young for me to innocently say out loud that they’re handsome without feeling like a criminal.  That concept, I assume, becomes normal between now and 40. This year? It’s WEIRD.

Then there’s that whole having to ask friends whether they know what I’m talking about. Things that are rapidly becoming off limits with about half of my friends. Oh, I dunno. Toad the Wet Sprocket. Yeah. They are now background music of a party thrown by grown ups with tweens for kids. Meaning when I start singing along and pass the fake mic, my gal pal has no idea why I expect her to know the lyrics. O_o Music references are now in the strange middle ground where they’ll know stuff before my time and present day but not what I listened to in middle school. Sigh. Silverchair. O_O Silverchair, people. Arrested Development? Anyone?!

Now I realize there’s the recent throwback music that is represented on television and then the recent throwback music they throw in for authenticity – like Toad the Wet Sprocket. Because, seriously, the Rembrandts were so not a thing and who EVER heard the theme song for Friends on the radio?! Who?

Why did no one tell me 30 was awkward?! Because they either told me it was “old” (half my friends) or barely adult (the other half). Thanks for nothin.

That’s not my girlfriend behind me. That’s 30. Freaking me out.

Geez. Someone who’s 40 tell me I’ll be okay.

Oh, life.

(is bigger….it’s bigger than you and you are not me SEE THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT! Why doesn’t everyone know what I’m singing when I do that?)

This Is How We Do It

I love reading other writers’ blogs. I just don’t quite love writing about what I’m actually up to at any given moment as much as I love rambling. Which I feel has worked well for us. The rambling. BTW, I’m sooper disappointed in myself for this whole not-remembering-more-than-flashes-of-last-night’s-dreams business. Grr. I always remember trace emotions, so I have a *sense* of what happened, at least “internally”, but I can’t grab more than that.

::spit bubbles::

So, okay. I’m just gonna make a list to myself here and hope it helps direct me and is mildly entertaining – which I think is the best we can hope for.

It’s not so much that I can’t *not* be writing something – as I just finished this draft of Cait After Exile – but apparently, right, I can’t *not* be writing. I’m trying to fill that space with other things and nothing really does it. Really, what could. The emotional and mental … looking for a word less ___ and possibly trite than “garden”?…. anyway, it’s impossible to satisfy that many things with any other singular occupation.

I could continue writing the sequel to The Last Life of Avrilis, which is a couple chapters deep and promises to be happyfungood times. Plus, you know, I know them. I think however I’d like to see the query process resolved with the first book first? Basically, I want to know exactly how Avrilis will read in final form before I commit to precisely how the sequel’s plot will unfold.

[I just watched Beowulf and couldn’t stop thinking of a few measures of what turned out to be the Lilo & Stitch score. Oh hiiii, Alan Silvestri. But that usually happens when the themes are more obviously similar. This one didn’t “sound” related, it just called a seemingly foreign piece to mind. It’s like my brain dropping clues. Weird.]

And MAGICALLY, it is tomorrow. Which, now, is today. ::glitter cannon:: Other things to write. The White Whale, also known as “What Once Was Anagnorises”. The syphilis-dementia-sisters-voluntary confinement one about Alabaster. The spiritual thriller I started in something like vignettes…

Ohmygah, the sun has stolen my brain…juice….*dribbling ensues* Plus I had some delicious tacos and now I think zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.



Don’t Kill The Messenger

So I guess I should lighten it up after that dream documentation last time. What can I say, my brain likes to write even during sleepytime – and what’s better than a dark story with a dark ending? I’ll answer for you: nothing.

But I am not in a dark mood! (Or so I tell my brain who’s always in the mood for dark.) I am staring at the calendar, waiting for my children to arrive. Oh and their parents. It is REALLY hard to be patient when small nephews are on their way, let me tell you. It’s also hard to write an interesting post. ::sigh::

Well that was a false start.

Yeah. We all (read: a lot of us) love it. (Or like it a lot.) So this is gonna be really hard easy for me to say.

I have this feeling Glee is gonna end up like Britney Spears – with the exception of the fact that I ever liked Glee. Hear me out. Glee has some pretty obvious flaws, you knows. The first of which being it’s entirely unsustainable, as it stands. Why would I dare say that? (First of all, get your finger out of my face, psycho fans.) Has everyone noticed that there is a serious lack of conflict.

WHAT?, you exclaim. Sue’s always messing with them and the whole school hates them and they’re perennial outcasts! Right. Like, every episode. That routine conflict quickly equates to a lack of conflict. Even the secret gay guy who drove Kurt to another school (to join a different Glee club who’s basic storyline is – hey watch us throw a random “practice” in the show with absolutely nothing to tether it but the vague mention of “regionals” and WOW are regionals and nationals constantly upcoming) isn’t captivating. It fizzles.

Right, so here’s how it’s like B.S. (::snort::), if you haven’t figured this out already. For a few years – maybe even several – you guys are gonna go crazy ape bananas for it, happily overlooking the glaring flaws until one day, seemingly out of the blue, not only will Glee not be popular, it will be made a laughing stock, being taunted to the point that those of us who already admitted to its flaws will think hypocritical the people who make fun of it.

Don’t get me wrong. I like Glee. A lot. But not because it’s actually or entirely a good show. I like it because it’s about a Glee club and there are fun numbers – which seem to not take into account the budget or lackthereof of a high school Glee club – and there are fun characters, even if they’re relatively one-dimensional. And sometimes it’s fun to pretend that if I break into song while lamenting over my boyfriend, someone will come along and edit it into a really sweet music video-esque montage.

So – when you guys decide that Glee has jumped the shark for the last time – I beg you. Be gentle. You used to love it.

See. I’m not always depressing.