I’m still pondering that last question.

Let’s face it—it seems pretty obvious that Cashore penned Brigan to be the perfect feminist love interest. He trusts Fire, he’s okay with her risking her life to help the kingdom if that’s her choice, he respects her as an equal.

And then there’s Asher: jealous, possessive, and man-whore of the Dells. Talk about a guy who likes to shoot his arrow. A LOT. I mean, preferring macho Asher to sensitive Brigan? Really? Maybe I should just give up my voting rights and knit my husband some slippers while he goes to a strip club.

Um.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that’s not all there was to it for me. Yes, Archer might have had some issues he needed to work out (some issues I think were caused in part by his and Fire’s emotional imbalance—he was madly in love with her, she did not feel the same) but he was so ALIVE. Fun. Vibrant. And for me, well, Brigan was kind of a sad-sack. *ducks rotten tomatoes from the horde of Brigan fangirls out there*

Really, though—I get that Brigan has HUGE, important issues to contend with, I do. His constant role as defender of his kingdom weighs heavily on him, so it’s not exactly appropriate for him to run around skipping and singing Lady Gaga all the time. But I also don’t find morose men especially attractive. Technology in Brigan’s kingdom just came up with reattaching amputated limbs—surely they could conjure up some anti-depressants, too? Because I think the poor guy could use some.

So for me, a big part of the Archer versus Brigan thing has nothing to do with feminism, and everything to do with personality. Like I said on twitter, I’m afraid for Fire, really afraid that after spending too much time with Brigan, she’s going to lock herself in her bedchamber and listen to the fantasy equivalent of Morrissey until she’s too depressed to do anything but eat chocolate and make the maids act out soap operas.

To be totally fair, some of my blatant Archer favoritism may stem from me being spoiled by romance novels. While I guess it’s more realistic for the love interest not to put the heroine number one before everything in real life, I think for Brigan, Fire ranked about 4th, after leading the army, his brother the King, his daughter, etc. For Archer, she was number one, and realistic or not, that’s worth something to me.

But no matter how much I explain, I can’t shake the feeling that Betty Friedan is rolling in her grave.

But there is progress. There are now two semi-coherent paragraphs that actually sound like I know what I’m talking about. But the rest is kind of…non-existent sketchy.

I mean, I’m reasonably certain my agent Taylor will NOT be impressed if I send her the following:

Trent…
Training exercise goes awry.
Before that can happen, though, the students must do x.
DEMONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Steph?
Foreshadowing scene…..
How many die??
DEMONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, this was cut and pasted from the second half of the actual synopsis. Just further proof that my brain, eet ees scary!

Anyway, in an effort to procrastinate hope it writes itself give my mind a little break, I decided to concentrate on something of vast importance: Sex and the City. Specifically, I’m wondering—which Sex and the City girl are YOU?

It came up on twitter the other day, and it got me thinking—I’m none of them. None. But, I do have favorites, and they might surprise you. Here’s my mini rundown of each character, in descending order of how much I like them.

Charlotte:

Pros: Sweet, proper, perfect wife
Cons: Sweet, proper, perfect wife. Honestly? Charlotte kinda bugs the snot out of me at times. Of all the characters, I honestly think she’s the most underdeveloped, and her pseudo-primness makes me want to wallpaper her car with pages ripped out of Playgirl.? She is a good friend in a crunch, though.

Carrie:

Yep, believe it or not, Carrie is my second least fave character. While she does have an amazing wardrobe, goes to cool parties, and gets to work as a writer (bonus points for that), let’s face it—she’s also kinda whiny and centers her life around men wayyyy too often for my taste.

Samantha:

Okay, so yeah, she’s narcissistic, a bit silly and overdramatic sometimes, but OMG–the woman knows how to have F.U.N! She’s also confident, successful, grabs life by the balls (often literally) and for the most part, doesn’t chase after some guy like he’s the salvation of the universe. She may be over-the-top, but you gotta love her even more for that.

Miranda:

?
I think Miranda is actually the most honest, thoughtfully drawn character on the show. She’s got a career, she’s got a kid, she struggles with body image sometimes, has romances but doesn’t live and die by men, and has a practical streak and a brain. She’s a perfect foil for the more flamboyant Carrie and Samantha.

“This thing is still running?” I eyed the rusty-looking beast that masqueraded as Reilly’s car. It had been a hearse—once. Before Reilly had gotten a hold of it and painted it ocean blue, the board racks on top providing the crowning touch. I winced when Reilly popped the locks and the door squealed open.

“Hey, don’t talk about her like that. She’s been good to me.” He patted the door. It groaned, bouncing on wobbly hinges.

“Uh-huh. And now you can be good to her by letting her retire in the old cars’ home. Or, god, at least investing in a can of WD40.”

He waited until I cleared the pile of food wrappers off the seat—seriously, did he live in this thing?—before closing the door behind me. He leaned in the half-open window with a theatrical sigh. “You never did recognize quality when you saw it.”

He ducked when I tried to peg him with a decaying Subway wrapper, the sound of his laughter filling the car with nostalgia. We’d had some good times together in this deathtrap, taking it down the coast, salty wind whipping through our hair. Summer had practically flown by as fast as the scenery. Which actually wasn’t saying that much. If I remembered correctly, this thing could only hit 60 on a good day.

Reilly cranked the engine once, twice, three times, before it sputtered to a start. “Woo hoo! We’re off! C’mon, let’s hear it—a little excitement. You’ve got to be pumped to be doing something you can’t check off your study schedule for a change. Can I get a woot? Maybe a yeah baby?”

My eye roll answered for me.

“No? How ‘bout a fist pump, then? Aw, c’mon. Relax a little. There’s no serious face allowed in the Reilly-mobile. In fact, I sprayed it with buzzkill repellant just the other day.”

His boyish grin dared me to return it. As we rumbled out of the school parking lot, I laid my head back on the cracked headrest, feeling an answering smile flirt with my lips. Whatever—why the hell not? To shut him up, if nothing else.

“Woot!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. Then I pumped my fist out the window for good measure, laughing at my own stupidity. But when I rolled my head to capture Reilly’s reaction, the laughter fizzled in my throat. He was staring at me with this expression full of wonder. Like he’d just seen his perfect wave.

His gaze shifted back to the road. I noticed the muscles on his forearms straining under his skin like taut ropes. He glanced back, and the look was gone. It was just a typical Reilly smile, the same one he gave everyone.

So, I’m getting ready to go on sub soon (yay!) and my lovely Agent has suggested I work on a synopsis for the sequel to Demon Guard. You know, just in case. Yeah,that’s right—a synopsis for a book that HASN’T BEEN WRITTEN YET.

Gulp.

Now, I know lots of writers who express hatred/fear/paranoia about outbreaks of hives when the word “outline” is mentioned. Believe me when I tell you—no one can match my terror. No one. I mean, seriously, do you have ANY idea how hard this is for me? Me, the person whose brain is so disorganized, my mom’s almost OCD-style neatness genes ran shrieking out of the egg at the mere thought of coming near little embrionic moi? Because, let’s face it. Outlines imply organized thinking. And I repel organization.

Don’t believe me? Here’s a reminder: a sneak peek inside my purse. Oh, it looks innocent enough from the outside:

see how innocent it looks?

But unzip that sucker and here’s what you’ll find:

Though, maybe find is the wrong word. An oxymoron really, when it comes to hunting down items inside this dark abyss of funk:

Oh, look, cashew crumbs! Too bad we haven't bought those in months...

The good news? I’ve got hand sanitizer! ‘Course, I’m the only person who needs it to protect her from the cooties lurking INSIDE her purse, but hey, what can you do?

I wonder if it comes in the gallon size?

And some of you thought my UF was kinda scary–HA! ? I know, maybe I should write a YA horror novel, involving a purse that grows people-eating monsters. All from digesting a mish-mash of stale Cheerios, dried up Play-Doh bits, and Chuck E. Cheese ticket-lint.

Yum.

(No joke–something in there stabbed me in the leg once, through the bottom of my purse. I’m scared.)

No, I have no idea of what all’s in there, and frankly, I don’t want to know. When it starts smelling bad enough, I’ll just rescue my wallet, toss the rest and buy a new one. All hail cheap Target purse-wear.

So, yeah, this pre-synopsis thing is kind of kicking my butt. Send help.

And purses.

“Although, you can’t blame them for being jealous. You really do have amazing hair.” He tugs on a strand, letting it slide between his fingers until it falls back into place.

Your hair is amazing, Taylor. You’re so lucky–I wish mine was long and wavy like yours.

Lainey’s voice, filling my ears. Lainey’s fingers, running through my hair the same way.

I stumble back as anxiety claws its way up into my throat, dimming my surroundings. My hair. I can still feel her fingers tugging it, separating it into sections for a braid. I used to love having people play with my hair. Now, I feel like something heavy is trying to suffocate my head, like the strands brushing my neck are trying to choke me. I can’t take it. I can’t—

“I’ve got to go,” I blurt, before scooping up my backpack and dashing for the door. I don’t wait to see what he says, but sprint for the bathroom. Please be empty, please, please.

I burst in, heart hammering, worrying half the school chose this very moment to take a pee break. Luckily there’s no one inside. The panic is nearly drowning me now. I yank at my hair until tears spring to my eyes. Keep yanking, but it won’t come off. I hate it. People see my hair and think they know me. They don’t. Those stupid blond strands aren’t me, not anymore.

I wish mine was long and wavy like yours.

I stare at my reflection blindly. Then, I dig frantically through my backpack for my knife.

The relief hits the second my fingers touch the cold metal, but it’s short-lived. Get it off, I have to get it off. I yank a strand taut with the other hand and start sawing away.

Nashville GotYA auction

For more info on the prizes, check out the post about it on our group blog:

GotYA

Well, what are you waiting for? Go bid–if not on our package, then someone else’s! Let’s all work togther to support Nashville during this crisis!