Ladies and gentleman, I most humbly announce that I am a “Judge’s Favorite” of a much acclaimed and prestigious literary contest! No, it’s not the Pulitzer.  Nor the Booker Award. NO, it is the Times(UK) Twitter Microfiction Contest.  And I had not one,  but two of my short story tweets singled out!

I really need to get a life.  I’m embarrassed to admit how many entries I submitted.  Each of these literary masterpieces was 140 characters or less.   Most of mine had to do with dark marriage themes.

My favorite entry wasn’t chosen, however, and if I can find it I’ll post it here.

Remember when I blogged about the New York Times coming to our house to interview us and take our photos? Well, I have just received an email from our very own Tracy, informing me that the piece is up on the Times’ website. You can view it here.

There’s a slideshow on the Times site and I’ve nabbed some photos to post here.  The photographer, Andrew Sullivan, was really great, as was Beth Maker, the reporter.

Now do you see why I love that grey horse almost more than life itself?  Have you ever seen a horse with a sweeter expression. Love.

Here I am trying to be all pose-y.

Well, it’s hard being photographed next to HIM.  He always looks good..

I’m still trying to sort our how to arrange photos in this new format.  Is it weird to have typing in between the photos like this?

Here’s a shot of our home:

Please go on the site if you want to see the slideshow.  There are a few blog mentions, so everybody on their best behavior tonight.  Tea bags are for brewing tea!

A few weeks ago, I received a call from my book publicist. He told me that he had just given my agent’s phone number to somebody at Town and Country magazine.  Town and Country had an idea for me, he said. He actually used the word “collaboration.”  It was something they wanted me to write. They would be in touch by the end of the day

My first thought was that Town and Country wanted me to write an article for them.  But why wouldn’t they just contact me directly?  And why did they use the word “collaboration” and want to speak with my agent?  Suddenly, I knew what they were after.  Town and Country wanted me to write a column for them.  A regular column in which I would cover all my exciting goings on in town…and in the country.  It would be sort of like this blog – but I would get paid.  A lot.

I actually rushed out and bought Town and Country, and after leafing through its glossy pages, I realized why they wanted me.  They needed me.  This is one dull magazine.  Where to Shop, Where to Stay, What to Buy –  do people even care about stuff like that anymore?  No, thought I, they most certainly do not.

I was then stricken with this toxic combination of self-delusion and self-glorification that was escalating by the second and making it hard for me to sit still.  The publishers of Town and Country needed somebody to change the whole tone of the magazine and they knew just the gal to do it.  With a zippy column penned by me, about the really important things in the Town (where you can safely lock your bike, best dog parks, cool movie premieres) and the Country (horses, dogs,attack sheep, cool author interviews) they would have to brace themselves for the swelling circulation, the demands for space from advertisers and the need to start throwing an annual Town and Country Oscar party, hosted by … well, me!

Everywhere I looked I saw an idea for my column.  Everyone I spoke to became interesting future interviewees for my column.  Oh, my column.  My beautiful, beautiful column.

Well, the day ended with no call from my agent (whom I, of course had alerted to be on standby for their call).

The next day, still no call.

About a week later, I received a call from a friend in my town who is also a writer.  She was writing a piece for Town and Country!  Could she possibly have a photographer take photos of me riding my horse in Steep Rock for her piece?

So, they didn’t really want me to write a column.  I found out from a friend that Town and Country was looking for names of writers in the area, to write this piece, and my name was one.  My friend was the other.

I’m not exactly in a shame/self-loathing spiral.  It’s more like a little shame/self-loathing curtsy.

Well, yesterday, I had to leave the country to go to the town. I took a few photos with my iphone so that I could fool around with the photo placement capabilities of the new blog format.  I like how you can place them side-by-side.

I took the photo to the right while driving over my “Bridge of Sighs.”  It’s the bridge I must drive over every time I enter or leave our area.  I always sigh at the beauty of the lake, whenever I cross it, though it does have a rather spooky history.

When I arrived in the city I took a picture of the George Washington Bridge. Entering Manhattan, the way I do, on the Westside Highway has got to be the most beautiful drive into any American city.  The mighty Hudson is on your right, the George Washington Bridge looms ahead, and if you’re stuck in traffic, you can watch the trucks and cars crossing its span, carrying cargo and executives and musicians and waitresses and maybe even a writer or two into and out of the city.  There are massive barges being guided up and down the river by tugboats.  There’s a boat basin where sailboats bob up and down during nicer weather and there’s even a little lighthouse at the base of the George Washington Bridge, though you can’t see it when you’re driving. We have an apartment downtown, and I’m finally used to that hole in the sky where the WTC towers once stood.  Instead I focus on all the beautiful parks that have sprouted up along the river in the last decade or so. I love New York.

Yes, I took this photo while driving. Yes, I know, I know.

First, I must thank my friends at AuthorBytes, Steve Bennett, and especially  the very lovely and funny Nancy MacDonald for their enduring patience and forbearance with me over the many months that I have been churning out this blog. I’m a slow learner.  And all the things I don’t love about the new format are things I chose, so I don’t want anybody to think that I’m blaming them.  I’m not.

But I hate the way the blog looks now.  I hate the color.  Who chose it?  Me. I spoke with Nancy, several weeks ago, and she showed me various colors for the header and for some reason I chose nun-grey.  At the time, I thought it was a lovely dove-grey.  But it’s actually the color worn by nuns, accented by the colors of death.  For some reason I thought this palate would make my blog look all sophisticated and glamorous.  Instead, it looks like a dead nun blog.  And those are so overdone.

And I need a new photo.  Okay, I’ll be honest.  That’s not a recent photo in the header.  That was an author photo taken several months before my first book, An Innocent, A Broad was published, so the photo is from 2003.   I keep using that author photo for all sorts of stuff because, well, I look a little older now. How much older?  You be the judge – this is what I really look like now:

Of course, I’m not wearing any makeup, and I’m due to have my hair colored.

So, I’ll have to put on a bra and have a new photo taken.

And finally, the blog needs a name.  It deserves a name. Most of you know that it used to have a name.  My blog was called Wicked Good Life. But, what many of you don’t know is that once, over a year ago, I read a mean comment about me on the internet.  It said that my blog was  ”braggy” and as evidence, the mean, ugly, (gulp) spiteful, hateful person (sob) cited my “braggy” title (honk), Wicked Good Life.  That hurt my feelings, internet (hiccup).

So I’m open to suggestions.   Thanks to all of you who have commented so far on the new format.  I really appreciate the feedback!  Also, I will be adding exciting new features over the next few days, so there won’t be so much blank white space.

I have begun informing select people (just my friends, my frenemies, my agent, former editors, the New York Times, my shrink, complete strangers, my pets, the internet and basically anybody within earshot) that I’m writing a new book. The new book is a memoir about all the animals I’ve known and loved.

For some reason the first thing people ask me about is the title. Well, actually, because of my frothing, spitting enthusiasm describing the book, the first thing most people ask is, “When is the book coming out – later this month?” Then I have to mumble something about the fact that I don’t have an exact publication date, as I haven’t actually written very much of the book yet. The next thing they ask is, “What’s it going to be called?”

I don’t really know what to call the book, so the other day I wandered into my favorite bookshop to look at some books and was surprised to see that most of the books in the pet/memoir genre share very similar titles. Marley (or Alex or Bloodfang) and Me seems to be a very popular template for a bestselling book about a pet. Also, A (dog/cat/fish) named (Skip/Dewey/ Stinky) has worked quite well for authors in the past.
As I studied the titles, however, instead of becoming inspired, I was actually forced to recall how much I really hate these books about pets that were so naughty and deranged that they nearly drove their owners out of their minds,caused them to divorce, bankrupted them, cost them their jobs, ritualistically befouled their homes with their own waste, crippled their elderly parents and caused them to miscarry their babies. I hate these books because, in the end, the authors always realize that the pet wasn’t sent by the devil to destroy their life, but in fact, was a gift from God. It wasn’t the pet who was flawed, it was the human. In the closing chapter, when the beloved rascal is drawing his last breath through his greying muzzle, we understand that the pet is actually more humble and selfless and loving than we humans can ever strive to be.

And by the time the author has dried his or her tears, he (or she) has a bestseller on his (her) hands.

My book isn’t really like that. My pets do all the stuff above, but without the blessed goodness. A suitable title for my book would not be Sneakers and Me, but rather, Sneakers Bit Me (subtitled: Every Day, For Ten Years, At Mealtime). Or: Mark Kicked Me (subtitled: In The Head, Hard).

How about Lulu Come Home (subtitled: Get In Here, You Effing Moron?

I don’t see much hope for my book if people only want to read about kind and giving animals. Why can’t I have a pet who understands the real meaning of life? A sweet, loving pet who cares more about racing in the rain with me than gobbling kibble and attacking people?

How about Pongo’s Ashes?

Yesterday a nice photographer and journalist from the New York Times were here to interview us for a piece that will run in October. The journalist is very much into my blog. She quotes from it!

So I adore her.

They wanted to photograph us outside with the animals, so we let Mark and Snoopy come down onto the front lawn. When the Times people left, it was still gorgeous out, and I thought I’d check my emails while enjoying the company of the horses. They were very interested in the computer and what I was typing, certain that it was about them.

I showed Snoopy some photos that I had taken of him recently:

He clicked on his favorites. That lip works quite well on the keys:

Then I got a kiss.

Mark was worried about the way he looked. He thinks I should have left his mane alone. It’s impossible for me to look at this horse without smiling:

Later, he had a word with me. He doesn’t like the direction the blog is taking. He feels it’s too “doggy.”

Here’s Dev and Snoopy. Snoopy just adores Devin:

What’s not to love?

Today it’s raining, so I must work indoors, without my assistants.

All photos (except the photos of her) were taken by Devin Leary.

So, as many of you know, I joined Twitter a couple of months ago. I didn’t really want to be a part of Twitter, but went there to defend my husband’s honor. I had received several emails, here on the blog, that somebody was pretending to be Denis Leary on Twitter. He wasn’t just being a fake Denis Leary, he was being a really annoying, unfunny fake Denis Leary who was trying to prove he was real by tweeting about upcoming episodes of Rescue Me. He had a lot of followers and a lot of enemies because he was incredibly obnoxious. I told Denis about these outrageous goings-on . His response? Who gives a f***? Well, I did. So I joined Twitter and announced that @denisleary was a fraud.

Then I took a little look around.

Well, what have we here?

Four hours later, I closed my computer just long enough to take some nourishment, and then I was back on Twitter.

I “followed” some writers I admire. @susanorlean is a very lively twitterer and my friend @michaelmaren got me some followers and showed me the lay of the land a little bit. Then I happened upon some people whose tweets I love, and I don’t know how I originally came upon them. One of these is @TremendousNews.

@TremendousNews had a great laugh at my expense when he saw that I had blogged about how I followed and liked this person on Twitter called @shutupmeg. It turns out @shutupmeg is not a person at all, but some sort of spam bot. Anyway, since then, Mr. Tremendous and I have kept in touch and we decided that I would interview him for his blog. I really wish I had spent more time thinking of clever, funny questions, but he made it funny anyway, because he’s hysterical. To read this groundbreaking interview, go here.

Here’s a sketch of Denis and I and our new friend, young Dee Tremendous (he drew it himself):

The London Times is doing a Twitter fiction contest and I have been sort of compulsively submitting entries. It turns out that I very much like writing in the micro-fiction format. 140 characters or less. Mine tend to all have a theme involving some kind of marital hell.

So come on over to Twitter, those of you who have been holding out. Come follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow me (@annleary).

That come follow, etc is from a song we sang in kindergarten.
But really, come follow. Me. Me and Dee Tremendous.

My house is full of clutter. Monday a contractor comes to do some measuring for some work that needs to be done. Today, I’m supposed to be cleaning/throwing stuff away. Instead, have spent the day on the computer.
I just posted this on Huffington Post.
Now closing the laptop. Bye-bye.

I am able to check the “stats” on this blog – the number of “Hits” and “Sessions” and “Page Views,” and though I can’t see who exactly is reading the blog, I can see which countries they are reading it from, what time of day most people read, how much time people spend on each page, etc. I really can’t be bothered with stuff like that so I only check the stats every single day. The minute I wake up.

In addition to learning how many people are reading my blog, I can also see what “search terms” people use to find their way here. These are the words that people type into Google or some other search engine. Some of these are very funny. “Ann Leary,” Anne Leary,” “Denis Leary,” are, of course, the most common search terms, but I also, almost daily, get “Lady Chatterley’s crisis.” I blogged about Lady Chatterley’s crisis once, but never dreamed that people actually googled this term. I’m not kidding, it’s a daily thing. Do people not understand what the crisis is all about? Are they looking for some kind of literary erotica site? Lady Chatterley’s Crisis would be a great name for such a site. Hmmmm, I have a sort of fun idea brewing in my head right now….

Today I also saw that “a bat just flew past my head and now I’m afraid I have rabies” was one of the “search terms” that led some poor hapless soul to my blog. I know this person’s pain well, having had bats not only whiz past my head but also clinging to my pajamas. I can understand being so deranged with fright that I might start entering fully formed sentences into search bars, expecting to be linked to the Center for Disease Control or, at least, an “All About Bats” site, and I can also imagine the dismay this poor individual (covered with invisible but deadly, rabies-laden bat spittle) must have felt when he or she landed here.

This week, though, my favorite search term is: “christian novels with clamshell railroad washington coast.” Yes, somebody googled that phrase and found their way here. And, if you’re still with us, my Christian bookworm friend, I too love the clamshell railroad/ Washington Coast book genre, but can’t recall ever blogging about it. Nonetheless, welcome!

You know how some of you suggested I send my last blog to HuffPo? Well, I did. And…it’s up! It’s here!
I guess it’s important to get a lot of comments so let’s move the party over there. Please? I’m begging now.