Bernadette Peters Hates Me

“Again? Who ARE you? Are you suddenly the kind of person who blogs regularly again?”

That’s what you were thinking, right? And I can see where you’d start to think that. But really what we have here is a massive case of procrastination. Or maybe it’s prioritization. Or, for the sake of using yet another “p” word, prostitution.

What I really need to do is dig into all the feedback from my Beta readers and get Lymphomania 2.1 ready to shop for an agent. Or a publisher. Or what the heck ever direction to go in I choose. Decisions makes my head hurt. Hence the procrastination.

One way I’m procrastinating? Reading. Sweet, delicious reading. Reading books without flaps, talking trains, or fuzzy monsters helping me learn how to share, even. Man I’ve missed it.

For example, I just read Bernadette Peters Hates Me. I don’t know if I’ve sufficiently gushed about how very much I loved the Erma writing conference, but the author (Keith Stewart) is a fellow devotee. So of course I was curious. And come on…that title? How do you not read that? The cover art alone is reason enough to have the book on your shelf.


Of course the book is adorable. Why yes, I am absolutely biased. But here’s what Keith does that makes it absolutely impossible not to fall in love with him – he takes everything too far. Well “too” is a relative term. One I’ve never subscribed to, frankly. Neither does Keith. You think you know where a particular story is going to end but he just barrels right past the line of normal, pauses briefly at amusing, then stumbles on to cringe-worthy hilarity. Spoiler Alert: he spends quite a bit of time with various pasty body parts exposed. In the second-best way possible.

I am a sucker for self-deprecation. Or, as Keith calls it – self-defecation. You’ll have to read that chapter for yourself.

Personally, I most enjoyed when he wrote about his hometown and Appalachia. It made me homesick. But also his genuine affection for that place and those people elevates his writing with tenderness and sincerity. Clearly he took notes in those Erma sessions.

So thanks for the book, Keith. It was a refreshingly tangy margarita for my brain.

Now I suppose I’ll have to return to editing. Just as soon as I crush more ice for the next pitcher.


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