Romance...

...not the stuff you write about, or read about, but the way it really is.

A couple of weeks back, when it just kept raining, my husband and I went to our favorite Japanese noodle place for dinner. We were the only people in the place, but we chose the booth way at the back. We sat side-by-side on the brown vinyl bench and watched the rain fall through the big plate-glass window beside our table.

Cars drove by outside. Their headlights illuminated the falling rain and the slick black streets. Couples on their way to dinner and a movie scurried past the window. They walked walked close to the building, slowing when they passed under the awnings, happy to be briefly out of the rain. They wore winter coats and gloves and hats to stave off the chilly high-forties temps. They cuddled together beneath the same umbrella as they walked, awkward as they tried to match their strides to the movement of their partners' bodies.

The owner of the restaurant must have been in a pensive mood that evening, because he'd replaced the usual soundtrack of 1980s American pop with sad love songs in Japanese--the kind of songs you hear over the credits of movies with bittersweet endings. My husband and I, we ate our steaming bowls of nabeyaki udon and curry soba. We didn't talk, but instead watched the steam from our bowls trace curls and swirls into the air in front of us, and condense on the window beside our booth.

When we finished eating, we sat back, warm and full and happy. We didn't say much. We held hands, listened to melancholy songs in a language neither of us really understands, and watched the rain fall.

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Seven Random Facts About Me

Ann Aguirre tagged me to blog 7 random facts about myself on Thursday. I'm just getting around to it now. Better late than never, right?

1. I know the place of purchase and price of every article of clothing I own, no matter how long ago I got it. If I bought it on sale, I can also tell you the original price and how much I saved.
   
   
2. I love fabric. I am, in fact, a fabric whore, known to wander the aisles of fabric stores across Los Angeles admiring the color and weave of wares I rarely purchase. Bonus: every story I've ever written contains at least one fairly detailed description of fabric--the material, the color, the weave, the pattern or the dye-process.
   
   
3. I am just under six feet tall.
   
   
4. The reason I use a lot of exclamation points in my blog posts and comments? I really talk that way. Really!
   
   
5. I love false/created spaces. Las Vegas, Disneyland, miniature golf courses, malls built to look like 19th century European or American towns, odd little houses around LA that look like hobbit houses or castles or pagodas.
   
   
6. I'm fascinated with trains. From 19th Century steam engines, to 20th century trollies, to Angel's Flight (Los Angeles's late, and much missed funicular rail line) to subways to light rail. Trains are cool.
   
   
7. I am almost unbeatable at "Connect 4"

Okay, now I have to tag 7 people. I tag Sarai, Isabelle Santiago, Carolyn Jean, Grammar Geek Laurie, Kate Rothwell, Sherry Thomas and December Quinn

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Going Green Has Made Me a Treekiller!

It's true. I thought I was being all noble taking the bus home from work every day when I've a perfectly decent little gas guzzler sitting in the garage. It's work, taking the bus in LA. Eight miles requires two buses and almost an hour of travel time, not including the walk to and from the stops.

But the transfer point between my two buses is right in front of a bookstore. And the wait time allows me just enough spare time to go in and check out the new book table. And buy a few books. Sure, bus fare is cheaper than gas, but the resultant book buying is killing me. And, I'm a tree killer. :o(

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New Year, New Look

Happy New Year, Everyone!

I'm not so keen on my new hair color, but I love the look of my new webpage.

Jane was brave enough to ask folks what they thought of Dear Author's new look. She made the change so Dear Author would load faster. I just wanted my site to look prettier.

Though I know it's going to be a bit of slow load for folks on dial-up, I'm still going to follow Jane's shining example, and do likewise.

What do you think?

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CONTROL!

Talking with my mother on the issue of coming out of the writing closet/letting people read my stuff, I realized that my whole conflict/shyness thing is totally a control issue. (Sorry to go all therapy-talk on you)

But here's the thing: Writing is the Ultimate Control Trip. I can create a world, and have it be just the way I want. I control every aspect of what I write...right up until the point that someone reads it. Then it becomes theirs.

Unlike my characters, readers can think anything they want. They can love or hate my writing, my story, my characters. They can use my writing as a reason to love or hate me. And I can't control any of it.

How awful is it to go from complete control to no control at all? This must be why some writers hate reviews. Not only does the reviewer take over your work, they then proceed to write about it, and thereby present your writing in a way you might not want it presented.

I never understood why authors behave like fucktards ((c) 2007, Karen Scott), lambasting people who don't like their work and trying to shout down critics, bloggers and/or commenters, but surely, this must be the reason.

Control.

It's so hard to give it up. It's hard to know that your work, and you will be judged. And that you have no control over it. I guess I always expected judgment from some nameless, faceless "readership". That I could deal with--that is something I know I can't control. But what about my near and dear? People who know me, people whose opinions I value in my everyday life?

What if they read my stuff and don't like it? Or, what if they read my stuff and decide I am some crazy perv because my stories contain teh sexin'? Or that I'm secretly psycho because my stories are usually kinda violent? What if? What if? What if?

Screw it. I love to write. I'm not going to stop writing because of "What if?" And I certainly don't want to run around shouting at people who form opinions of my work that I don't like. I'll just have to learn to let go.

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Out of the Closet (a little).

My mother came to visit yesterday on her way down to Oceanside. We did the usual: talk nonstop, clean my house, complain about the government, eat lunch out, buy kitchenware, paint our toenails and stay up way too late talking.

And somewhere in the middle of that packed day, I printed out a copy of Ember, handed it to her and said, "I wrote this. You can read it if you want."

She sat down and read through the pages. She smiled. She laughed. She pointed out erroneous homophones. When she was done, she said she liked it. And that she was touched that I'd dedicated it to her. And that all those other mothers who'd told her, back in the day, that the Disney versions of the fairy tales presented a less violent, less frightening message to little girls could just stick it--they didn't have books dedicated to them.

Aw. Have I mentioned that my mom rocks?

In other news, Jane at Dear Author was kind enough to give Ember a mention.

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Sally Field Moment

I'm not going to go all "You like me, you really like me!" on you, but I am over the moon that folks seem to like Ember, which is running as part of The Serial over on Bam's site. I really wasn't sure. I mean, I like it, but I generally tend to like what I've written for about a month after writing it. With a little distance, I start to notice the flaws--though even then, I'm not sure of my appraisal because I tend to be really hard on myself.

And it's not like I get all that many outside opinions on my stuff. I'm pretty secretive about my writing. To the best of my knowledge, exactly 3 people have read Ember in its entirety--and I've never met any of them face-to-face. You have no idea what a huge step it was for me to accept the opportunity to place a story on a high-traffic website like Bam's. Of course I jumped at it, but I was so nervous. And with the exception of the opening scene, the only people I've ever shown Like a Thief in the Night to are the editors at Samhain Publishing.

Obviously, I have issues. Issues which I really need to get over if I want to keep up with this writing thing.

I don't talk about my writing, I don't pass it around to friends and family asking them to read it. Actually, I don't even show it to friends and family when they ask to read it. The way I figure it, my loved ones will feel compelled to say something nice, even if, say, they usually don't like or read Romance, Fantasy, or Sci-Fi. End result: 100% of the people to whom I've dedicated my stories have not read those stories. Granted, one of those "people" is the supercute solar-powered Maneki Neko on my desk*, but the other 88.5% of those people are: my husband, my mother, my sister, my father and my best friends.

My mother reads all of the genres listed above. But who wants their mother to read stories they've written that have S-E-X in them? Eew. I'll hand my stuff over to my sister any time she asks, but she's a teenager, straining under the required reading of her college courses, and the last thing I want to do is give her another book she feels like she has to read. The toughest one is my husband, who thinks Romance novels are silly, and tends toward non-fiction and sci-fi stories with male protagonists. He's asked to read my stuff a couple of times, and I've put him off a couple of times. If he doesn't like books like mine, why would he like mine?

Like I said, I have issues.

So I'm thinking I need to get out, get together with some other writers, take a class, stop being so damned secretive--something! Because I don't like the phobia thing. It sucks to be so nervous about something I love so much.

*Yes, I really do have a story dedicated to my solar-powered lucky kitty. It's so cute!

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Bettie, the Duchess

Dear Reader(s),

Good news, y'all. The fires are out, the relatives are safely back at home (with some water issues, but, still, doable), and Yours Truly is a Duchess.

I won the title in the Smart Bitches "Guess That Lonely Heart" contest, but I feel like a bit of a scheming hussy, because I was actually the second person with the right answer--the first poster simply neglected to include the name of the book's heroine in her response.

Perhaps this makes me an evil Duchess? Woo hoo! But don't worry. I won't let it go to my head.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, you may kiss my ring. Oh, wait, that's the Pope, isn't it? (Wouldn't it be cool if the Smart Bitches bestowed ecclesiastical titles? Cause I totally want a mitre.) I suppose a simple curtsy will have to do. (See how gracious I am?)

Hugs and kisses,

Her Grace, Bettie Sharpe...

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Shamless Photo Opportunity

The weekend before last, I was working on my tan. Now, I'm staring out at rain. Rain! In September! Usually things are on fire right about now. I can't complain, though. We need the rain. But I can look back on...the way we were.

Actually, I'm just looking for an opportunity to post a few pictures I took this summer.

Here be Dragons
My husband and I were driving through Chinatown a couple of weeks ago and we passed this dragon troupe finishing up their day. The troupe was spread out over a whole block. The second picture is the stragglers at the rear. They looked a little tired, and I can't blame them. It was hot!

Despite the heat, it was a beautiful day to be in downtown. The air was very clear and the sky seemed as high and wide as my imagination would allow.

I like to joke about the smog, but the sad fact is, in the summer it often hangs around and gives everything a dingy brown cast.
I'm sure that smog is doing something awful to my lungs, but the good days remind me why I couldn't live anywhere else.

Every time I look at this picture (left), I'm amazed it was taken in Downtown LA during late summer--and I took it!

Shoutouts
Shoutout to Kate who reminded me that I'd best get blogging. I was unexpectedly out of town this week and busy, busy, busy. But that's no reason to neglect the blog.

I've also been spending my downtime (Travel is great for downtime. Thanks, TSA!) writing a freebie story for my website which the lovely and talented Dionne Galace (a.k.a. Bam, who Swears It's Not Chick Porn) will debut on her site (thanks!).

But here's the problem with doing the author website thing: I have to walk my talk. I love it when an author includes one or two short stories on their web site amongst the usual excerpts and multi-paragraph teasers. Which means, I need to write a complete story for my site.

Write Now
I started up last weekend, and I'm 11,500 words into a 12k to 15k story called "Ember". Problem is, the damned thing's running long. I always start off worried about making my word count, and end up running over it. So I'm editing. I firmly believe you should "Kill Your Darlings" but they're so hard to kill when you only wrote them a day or two ago.

I think I need to find a writing/critique group.

In addition to the writing, I'm reading Wings to the Kingdom by Cherie Priest, who Kate linked to a few days back (see what you did?). I finished the previous book, Four and Twenty Blackbirds before I even got back to town. I was kicking myself for only packing the first one. At the time, I thought I wouldn't even have time to finish Blackbirds, but I forgot that a good book makes you make time for it--usually at the expense of sleep.

This just occurred to me: Rainy weekends are perfect for reading and writing. I think I like the rain, now.

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Go to Your Happy Place

I love being a California kid. Granted, the waters pictured are the pristine currents of Malibu, and not the seedy shores of Venice where, as a child, I whiled away many an afternoon, sun-browned and bored off my gourd asking "Please can we go home now?"

In the summer, when Venice and the former People's Republic of Santa Monica were overrun with tourists, I would stare at those plump, ruddy Midwesterners, and sun-shaded, be-visored Japanese tour groups and wonder why in the world people would want to spend their summer vacations here.

People from other places think that summer is the best time to go to the beach. And, sure, it ain't bad. But every California kid knows that the best, Best, BEST time to go to the beach is a hot day in September. The tourists have all gone home, the sun is hot, the breeze is cool, and the water is ice cold.

On a hot day in September, you can have the beach all to yourself. The view for which rich folks pay millions (over and over again--those houses tend to wash away) can be yours for the price of the gas it takes to get there.

Those ugly toes in the picture are mine. And so, for a few hours, was that lovely stretch of beach.

I wonder what the weather will be like this weekend?

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What Can HD Do for You?

It had to happen sooner or later--my darling hubby, who is both an electronics geek and a frugal buyer, finally found an HDTV that met his exacting tech standards and skinflint budgeting requirements. I was happy for him, but I didn't think having a brand new 52" HDTV would change my life much. Boy, was I wrong.

HDTV is the biggest boost my self-esteem has had since that summer when I was 19 and I got approached by three casting scouts in the same week (a week later, I found that two just wanted to pick up on me, but until then, I was floating.) .

Here's the thing: Everyone looks bad in HD. Everyone.

Well, not bad, per se, but real. Average. Not so different from you or me. Brad Pitt has a rough road map of little lines on his face--not the greater Los Angeles Metropolitan Area, but definitely a small city with a complex transportation infrastructure and a pothole problem. Cate Blanchette has freckles and little lines (that only make me love her more). And the cast of Lost? They really do look like they've been trapped on a desert island with no sunblock. Or, at the very least, they look their ages.

Thanks to HD, I have seen wrinkles, freckles, under-eye bags, stray hairs, secret moles, scars, thick make-up and camouflaged break-outs on people who previously looked flawless. Now, when I look in the mirror, I don't feel so bad about the little lines I notice starting in my forehead and around my eyes, the fading scars from the "teenage" acne I didn't outgrow until after college, or the smattering of stationary moles/freckles across my cheeks. People who are professionally good-looking have all those flaws and more.

Modern technology has well and truly revealed the Hollywood glamor machine for the fragile facade it is. Thanks, HD!

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I DO Has Internets!

Whew! My new and improved web page has arrived. I spent my free time today making graphics and slapping together pages. All in all, I think it ain't bad for a day's work.

I went with a film noir / pulp novel theme, because that's what I'm interested in, lately. I reserve the right to change my mind.

Go check it out!
www.bettiesharpe.com

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I Can Has Internets?

My editor (God, that's so fun to write!) wrote today with a bazillion attachments and groups and such, including instructions on how to write my Samhain Publishing author bio (squee!). No surprises there, but I listed my website, which, currently, is, well, just an address with this picture.

Like it? I drew it myself to commemorate The Cutest Haircut Ever. When my husband saw the cut, he said, "You look like an anime character." Which I, loving anime the way I do, took as a compliment. And inspiration.

Only problem is, the Cutest Haircut Ever was hell to maintain. As much as I like to picture myself as the sort of woman who will straighten/style her hair and apply makeup every day, I just ain't her. So I'm curly again. I ran to the hairdresser waving the goth-flapper spread from American Vogue's 8 lb. September's issue over my head like a battle flag and Oswaldo turned me into a less frizzy, biracial, supertall Clara Bow. My neck looks twelve miles long. I should draw a new picture.

But all that's beside the point. The point is...What was the point? Oh, yeah: I Have To Get My Web Page in Shape!!! Don't know why I haven't already, except, you know, a glaring lack of content. But I has web chops (used to do the design thing during college, back in the dot.com era. But didn't everyone?) and a copy of PhotoShop, and I knows how to use 'em.

The only thing standing between me and a semi-decent web home is...my complete and utter lack of inspiration. I'm still super-keen on my girly-girl blog graphic (the flower, BTW, is Foxglove, so it's not too saccharine) but I feel like my web presence needs to be about something.

So I started asking myself:

1. What's your style as a Romance writer? Um. Villains are people, too?
   
2. What themes do your current stories and WIPs have in common?
   Sex! Violence! Explosions! Sly references to classic Hollywood films. Everything and the kitchen sink!

It wasn't until much later, when I was extolling the virtues of John Woo's Hard Boiled to my HK Cinema-deprived little sis ("...and then, after the villain sets the hospital on fire and his henchmen shoot people in wheelchairs, Hot-Young-Chow-Yun-Fat has to save the babies. And then the baby pees on him!") that I realized where I'd snatched my winking "everything and the kitchen sink" aesthetic from.

Cue the angels singing...Ahhh-ahhh-AHHHH

I want to be the John Woo of Romance Novels!

What the fuck-all this has to do with a web page, I don't know. But I'll figure something out.


Also, have I mentioned? I'm drunk. Tipsy. Glass and a half of white wine with dinner. I'm a cheap date, not an alkie. Really.

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Where There's Smoke

There is something graceful about the silver curl of smoke across a black and white screen. Marlene Deitrich's leisurely exhale wreathed her beautiful face in a haze of smoke and mystery. Bogart and Bacall's side-by-side cigarettes at the end of The Big Sleep hinted at what happened when the screen faded to black.

Hollywood spent years glamorizing cigarettes, and even after they stopped, the images cigarette companies paid to produce live on in some of our most cherished films. Parents ranted and railed about Joe Camel when I was a kid, but it wasn't a poorly animated spokes-dromedary that prompted me to pick up a smoke when I "grew up" and left for college. It was Marlene Dietrich, Myrna Loy, Lauren Bacall and a hundred other golden-age actors (most of whom died of lung cancer).

Yes, classic films made me smoke.

About fifty percent of college students who take up smoking quit, and I was fortunate enough to be one of them. I had a brief relapse a year after graduating when I fell in with chain-smoking Europeans (my French friend's secret to keeping her perfect size 6? "Eat less, smoke more."). But smoking is lethal, expensive, and stinky. And I hated the idea of being an addict.

Smartass and I have been watching Mad Men, AMC's new show about advertising executives in 1960. I'm still not sure whether I like it, but one thing I think is genius is the way the show makes smoking look disgusting by constantly depicting smoking. Instead of the silver-screen glamor of Hollywood, Mad Men shows the way ordinary people smoked. Characters smoke while driving, while eating, while pregnant. Doctors smoke during exams, office workers smoke at their desks. It's positively awful. And, I'm told, completely accurate.

Lately, I've been thinking about smoking, and my experience as a smoker versus the glamorous image I still have in my head. In my writing, I often use smoking to indicate a character's self-destructive tendencies. When I'm writing urban fantasy or paranormals, many of my immortal characters smoke. And they look good doing it.

I have my doubts as to whether or not this is OK. When Buffy and Angel didn't use protection on Buffy the Vampire Slayer angry parents lambasted the creator, Joss Whedon. Whedon's response was, the show is fiction. Angel was undead, for goodness sake! People know the difference between fiction and reality.

But that was sex, and this is smoking. Given the power that glamorous images have in our society, is it ethical for a writer to glamorize smoking, even in impossible, clearly fictitious circumstances?

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Rock Star

Now, I'm not one of those people who will forgive R. Kelly every pervy thing just cause the man can write a good song. Nope. "R" isn't getting another cent of my money. Damn, but the man does turn out some good songs. If you ever see R.Kelly songs on my hard drive, you can report me to the FBI because I will have pirated those tracks.

So anyway, I was listening to "Rockstar" and I caught this line: "The way we f*ck gonna lead to child birthin'." Now, R always veers into TMI when he's trying to be sexy, and I've always found that amusing. But there isn't a damn thing sexy or amusing about that line. If a guy said that to me in the bedroom, I would pull up my pants and run away. Fast.

Is it a symptom of these modern times we live in that the thought of sex for procreative purposes totally turns me off? I guess I see how other people might think it's romantic. The miracle of birth and all that shit. But not me. Maybe it's just the stage of my life I'm in right now? The stage where I like having disposable income and sleeping in on Saturdays?

I have jumped off buildings and cliffs, hurled myself down the side of snowy mountains, rafted rivers, raced on galloping stallions without the proper headgear, and engaged in all sorts of risky behavior for the thrill of it, but sex without birth control? Nah-uh.

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From the Road

My Darling Smartass caught me at my laptop this morning and said, "I wonder which one of us has worked more on this vacation?" This made me laugh, because, excepting those stressful hours when I was trying to get "Burning Bright" sent, I haven't worked at all. He, on the other hand, has to tug the umbilical tether back to the office at least once a day just to make sure the place hasn't exploded.

"What are you doing now?" He asks. "Why are you awake early, on vacation*, to type on your laptop?"

"Oh this?" Says I. "I just figured out the answer to a problem I've been muddling over with my latest story."

"Work," he declares, crossing his arms and looking all pleased. Looking like he's right, or something.

"No," I say. "I don't wake up early for work*. This is fun."

And you know what? It is fun.


* Italics totally not added. We're a tad melodramatic.

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Always Bet on Black...

Eh. Who am I kidding? Cheap, tacky grouch that I am, I much prefer the Elvis slot machines and the Scrabble (tm) $0.05 slots. I am, amazingly enough, blogging from the road. From Fabulous Las Vegas, to be exact.

I had a rough couple days of it trying to finish "Burning Bright," but clocked it in at somewhere north of 27K words in the car on Tuesday. But then...the $12.95 per day/per computer hotel wi-fi fritzed, and gmail had some issues, and the promised "modem features" on our all-thing phone devices did not live up to the hype. I think my heart stopped. I got it sent, though. Badly.

My darling Smartass is smart with more than just verbal quips, and finally got the all-thing phones to live up to their promises. So here I am, blogging from my laptop, hooked through the phone. The hotel wi-fi still doesn't work. I will definitely be disputing that charge at check out.

Books I'm Reading by the Pool

1. Wired, by Liz Maverick
2. Black Powder War, by Naomi Novik
3. D.A. by Connie Willis
4. Sundry Trashy Tabloids
   

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Ultimate Temptation

It's summer. TV's all in reruns, weather outside is broiling--there's nothing to distract me from writing, right? Wrong. My darling SmartAss got a PS3 this weekend. How will I resist the temptation? Even though the game I am desperately looking forward to (John Woo's Stranglehold, starring Chow Yun Fat [squee!]) isn't out yet, our new gizmo upconverts the old PS2 games so prettily. And, who am I kidding, I could stare at the menu for hours. Seventy Days of Sweat just got a whole lot harder.

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I Can Has Books?

Joy and happiness! I won an Amazon Gift Certificate in Bam's July Contest. While I am so very happy that people liked my entry, I am beside myself ecstatic to be able to buy books again! Not that I don't heart the library, but I'm the kind of girl who likes her gratification instant. That hold list just wasn't cutting it.

A while back, I made a list of books I'd love to buy when I got money. There were five on the list. I'd ordered exactly two when I noticed that Kage Baker's final Company novel, Sons of Heaven, will be out on July 10th, 2007. My mom and I are both hooked on this series, and seeing as she gave birth to me and all, I figured it might be a nice thing to get a book I could maybe lend her...after I've read it a couple of times.

Anyhoo, Sons of Heaven kinda screwed with my list, so I had to switch things up.

1. Sons of Heaven by Kage Baker.
   Baker is an incredible writer with a sly, dry wit; an admirable appreciation for pirates; and a delightful appreciation for California history (Even though it's set in the 19th century, Mendoza in Hollywood is on my list of all-time favorite Books Set In Los Angeles). Her Company novels are a vast, conspiracy-riddled tapestry of interconnecting novels and short stories that span, oh, all of human history, and then some. Sons of Heaven is supposed to wrap up this tale of time-travel, immortal cyborgs, corporate iniquity and star-crossed love. Goody. I've been waiting years to see how it all turns out.
   
   
2. God is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens
   My favorite droll, drunken Brit. I don't always agree with the man, but I love the way he shows those Fox News bobbleheads up for the blathering echo-chamber of idiots they are. For that alone, he deserves my money, but the book looks pretty interesting, too.
   
   
3. The Rest Falls Away by Colleen Gleeson
   Vampire slayer tale that rates (favorable) comparisons to Buffy? History-ish setting? Many good reviews? Okay, I'll bite.
   
   
4. The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett
   Hard-boiled/Noir classic. I love me some Hammett. While writing on my WIP, Bright, I was thinking about Hammett's description of Sam Spade ("He looked rather pleasantly like a blond Satan"*) when I realized that even though I'd read The Maltese Falcon several times, I didn't own the book.
   
   The Maltese Falcon is my third favorite Hammett novel. My adoration of Hammett characters goes: Continental Op (there's just something about a morally flexible, nameless hero that gets me every time); Nick Charles (The Thin Man. Actually, I'm more partial to William Powell than the book version, but when I read it, I imagine William Powell); Sam Spade (for some reason, I never imagine Bogart when I read the Maltese Falcon. Funny since I love the movie, and I think the out-the-window fade to black is one of the loveliest around, but there you go.)
   
   I just love the way Hammett writes. Spare, and what a way with descriptions and dialog! Red Harvest is my favorite, and it's my go-to book when I think I'm getting too wordy. Still, third place ain't nothing to sneeze at. And, The Maltese Falcon fit my remaining budget, with free shipping to boot.
   

*FYI, the thing I love about the description is that Hammett describes his character in a way that makes Spade seem attractive, but not handsome. I was writing a description of a character with an attractive/ugly vibe.

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A More Perfect Union

Happy 4th of July!

Having just vowed to write fewer posts about myself, I'd like to take a moment to reflect on the 4th of July, and what America means to me. (Hey, I never claimed to be consistent.)

Friends and relatives are often surprised when, in the course of conversation, I reveal something that marks me as a big ol' America-loving patriot. They think I've got some sort of beef with this great country because I'm liberal, or because I'm black, or because I think the war in Iraq is both a tragedy that will haunt our nation for the next century and a harbinger of our falling international stature.

But what they don't get is that I consider having a beef with my country to be my civic duty as an American citizen. We declared our independence because we wanted the right not just to debate with our government, but also change it. And for two hundred and thirty one years, Americans have been disagreeing with government and doing what they can to change what they don't like.

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

The very first civic goal mentioned in the preamble to the constitution is that of forming a "more perfect Union." Perfection is not an attainable goal. If a thing can always be more perfect, can the quest to improve it ever stop? No.

This is what I love about my country. Our most important document enshrines the goal of continuing improvement (and, given the size of our modern self-help industry, most Americans share that goal--at least when it comes to their personal lives). So, while the founding fathers may have been sexist, racist, slave-owning douches who talked high but lived low (I'm looking at you, Jefferson), the process of continually improving government, of striving for a more perfect union has ensured that this great-great granddaughter of slaves has the same freedoms under the law as every other American (as long as I don't try to marry a woman).

America isn't perfect, but I've always loved the way we keep striving for a better, more equal government. The only thing that has ever or will ever derail our progress is when Americans stop debating and disagreeing. When Americans let themselves get fooled into thinking that disagreeing with the government means disagreeing with America. Nothing could be fur from the truth. Every time we let the government take away our freedoms, every time we shut our mouths when some talking head accuses dissenters of "treason" wether are betraying our country's first and most important goal: to form a more perfect union.

So this July 4th, I'm going to write my senator and tell her to give Dick Cheney hell for keeping secrets from the people who pay his salary. I'm going to write the mayor and tell him how much I hate the potholes on my street. And I'm going to write the president and tell him he's a douche to imply that people who disagree with his administration hate America or hate freedom, because as far as I'm concerned, there is no greater service an American civilian can perform for her country and for freedom than to stand up and disagree.

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