Jennifer Crusie's Blog: Argh Ink

Someone on the Forums was asking about the Agnes collage, and I came here to find the post with it–I KNOW there’s a post with a picture–and could not find it. So here’s the Agnes collage for the person who asked for it. The rest of you can look, too.

So Bob and I are brainstorming, uh, wargaming a possible next book–not sure, just talking about it, nothing to see here, don’t get invested–which would be set in a very small, very old amusement park in the middle of nowhere. And we’re both brain-fried and we can’t think of anything to call the park and I remembered the genius that is Argh Ink readers. So we’re having a CONTEST!!!! Yeah, okay, we’ve done this before, but this one is for a signed copy of Agnes and . . . uh, something else. I found a lot of stuff when I cleaned, so maybe a nice blank journal or an unopened set of retractable colored Sharpies, or I could go to the grocery and get some Hostess cupcakes. Because I’m hungry for Hostess Cupcakes, that’s why.

Anyway, the contest. We need a name for the theme park, basically, but anything else your fertile minds come up with is good, too. Here’s the premise:

There’s a very small, hundred-year-old (maybe 150) amusement park in the middle of nowhere somewhere in the US. Probably called Wonder Land or something like that; we’re open on the old name. It’s bleeding money and the current owner is hanging on by his fingernails when a guy comes in and tries to buy it. No deal, it’s a family business. So he says, “Okay, I’ll buy half and we’ll use the money to refurbish the park.” The owner goes for it but there’s a catch: the new guy wants to change it to a paranormal theme and give it a new name. For some reason, the owner agrees, and the Tunnel of Love becomes the Bermuda Triangle or something like that.

For the free signed copy of Agnes, name that paranormal theme park.

And then if you want to go ahead and name rides and funnel cakes and that kind of thing just for the hell of it, feel free. The contest is for a great theme park name. And it closes, uh, next weekend. Because Bob is going to be gone all next week and won’t be able to make any decisions. So contest closes Sept. 28.

I have great faith in you all.

UPDATE:
Bob has just informed me that he’s leaving the first of this next week and he’ll be out for two weeks, so forget the 28th; we’ll close this on Monday the 24th so he can vote, too. Besides you’re getting tired.

So I took my birthday and the next day off except I did work on the bookcases in the hall. I didn’t get them finished of course, but I worked on them. I couldn’t help myself, the momentum got me. But yes, there should be before and after pictures.

So here’s where we started:

And this is now:

And here’s the other view:

And this is now:
.

Okay, I accidentally focused on Wolfie who popped his head into the frame because he was sitting in the desk chair. Here’s the other end of the office in focus:

You’ll notice that while there are still books stacked in the hall beyond, they’re stacked more neatly. I feel this is crucial. And I will get them off the floor. So I can walk through the hall and clean up the living room. Damn, I have a lot of cr– stuff. But while I was cleaning up the hall, I found all the Mesopotamia books, so that’s good. Really, cleaning is a good thing.

Although that kind of shoots the “never have too much of a good thing” right in the instep, doesn’t it?

Well, that was . . . interesting.

Some of you have probably heard me talk about how I began writing fiction for the first time when I worked on my romance dissertation in 1991. Turns out that was a lie. That last box went deep into my past and along with several shocks came half a dozen folders full of typewritten mystery fiction–typewritten means the early eighties or even seventies–that i had completely forgotten about. After I read a couple of pages at random, I knew why: I was blocking the memory. Geez, it was bad. But still, there are folders of this stuff.

There were other inexplicable things. Like why I put my Literary Theory notes in a Garfield spiral notebook. I don’t even like Garfield. And some things weren’t inexplicable which was worse. Lotta memories in Das Box. Whoever said to give that box a Viking funeral without looking into it, that might have been good.

But still, there is now a place for everything and everything is in that place. And along the way, I cleaned out my closet, did my mending, and almost finished the baby blanket for my editor. I also put autumn leaves on the mailbox, did all the laundry, and cleaned out the car. I think there’s something wrong with me. Or maybe it’s just one of those turning points in life. Time to get rid of the old to open up the future. Anyway, I’ve still got an incredible mess in the studio–although it’s all art mess and fairly new so there won’t be any more historical time bombs–and boxes of books in the hall, and the kitchen needs cleaned and so does the bathroom. Too much stuff. But I’m on it.

But I’ll tell you, after Das Box, I had a drink. And i don’t drink. Do not look in old boxes, people. The dead walk again.

I worked my butt off today–well, it seemed like 99 boxes–and now I’m down to one. One box to rule the world, or at least ruin my day. The Box I’ve been carting with me through three moves and five years. The Ur Box. As in “Ur, I don’t wanna.” One box and then I can go sort through all the books sitting on the floor in the hall.

One box:

Das Box.