Subdued Intrinsic

'Cause everyone else is doing it, Ma!

Just a short little post to wish everyone here in thee U.S. a delicious and enjoyable Thanksgiving meal, and the rest of the globe a very grateful day.

In my family, we'll be stuffing ourselves silly like most, with the Mom's (myself included) contributing something (I've got the potatoes, because I'm good at them on a regular basis, which cannot be said of most things because I'm a bit of a renegade in the kitchen). After ALL THE FIRST COURSE FOODS are consumed we divvy up into teams to play different board and card games, giving our tummies time to make room for ALL THE DESSERTS, of which there will be many noms.

It kind of makes my chest swell with pride. I know that's not very Biblical of me, but considering the life I knew before joining my husband's family, well, I give myself a little leeway when it comes to being proud of how beautiful is this group of people.

Personal Note: My favorite episode of Doctor Who is The Christmas Invasion. Everyone is so amazing in it.

As often happens as I fell asleep one recent night, I presented myself with A Question.


If The Doctor (of British television and science-fiction adoration) were to regenerate as a Disney Princess, or for that matter were to have a Disney Princess become his companion, which lucky royal prospect would get the nod?


So, in the interest of satisfying my own curiosity and having a bit of a laugh I present:*

So, what's up with all the interest in Zoe Boyle lately, guys?

Beth Revis is giving away lots of books! Some of them I've read (Hourglass! The Forest of Hands and Teeth! Paranormalcy!), but out of the ones in the list of eighteen, the one I've most appreciated is Wither. With rhythmic, gentle horror and a sort of aged poetry (think dried flowers no one remembered to display or treasure, anymore), Lauren DeStefano proves there is ample room for quiet provocation and roiling emotions on levels deeper than first love (which is saying something, 'cause, you know first love).

To help spread the word, and to answer Ms. Revis's question for yourself, visit her website and READ THE DIRECTIONS.

To celebrate all Beth has to be thankful for . . . 

For one, I inappropriately capitalize titles.

My first day fully back to business, and I'm sick. I'm also not wearing my glasses, but that's more because my brain isn't processing things as quickly as usual. I seem to be experiencing a series of half-thoughts, like my brain is dictating for my subconscious, but kind of just stops mid-sentence like it's decided it can remember the point from just that much.

I am meant to be taking a break from the internet, so of course I'm online, writing a blog post. Nothing like taking a world wide web vacation to spur on the writing of a blog. The irony is not lost on me.

The other thing I could/should/would do involves writing and editing. I'm avoiding that. I have my reasons . . . my mad, mad, stubborn, insecure, sloth-like reasons.

But the other evening, or early morning, some time I wasn't really awake or asleep yet, it occurred to me my nervous system (which includes the brain, if you're cloudy on your anatomy), is a bit like a sexy, balding British man, a freakishly pale android, a geektastic puppy ensign, a blind engineer, and a very empathetic babe with enviable hair.

An itch is my body's way of going to Yellow Alert. Pain, going to Red Alert.

Other ways in which my body is an Enterprise will surely come to me. Stick around. They'll be entertaining.

Personal Note: I co-run a book review blog with Michelle Witte. It's called LibriAgo: Book Lives. We kind of love it. You might come by, see if it tickles your fancy, too.


Also, this past weekend, I attended a Medieval theme wedding reception, to which I did indeed wear a corset and a dress with double sleeves, but mostly I was pleasantly shocked and amazed I somehow did the following with my hair.

Last night I dreamt:

1. That I had somehow become a shape-shifter, but in my dream shifters were all kept together in an almost militant setting, in a secret base in the middle of and beneath a small lake.  Also, I was a boy for most of it. I'm pretty sure I can attribute this to watching Teen Wolf and seeing some tweets about Supernaturally online.

2. That I had an extremely vivid dream in which my mother and step-father were getting divorced. My real lie in-laws were my step family and my own children were step cousins. Not cool. I texted a friend about it in my dream-within-a-dream only to wake up and find my mother's long time, live-in boyfriend was David Tennant, and he wasn't going anywhere. He adored my mother and me, and my little brother. Try the strange weirdness that is completely crushing on your potential step-dad, even though he clearly loves having "relations" with your mom. Also, when I woke up (not really awake, just from the inner dream), my friend had texted me back with condolences. Sleep texting?

So, dear psyche, please stop doing this to me. I'm an adult woman with a fantastic (hot) husband, great sons, and I can frakking well delight in the quirky, lanky beauty that is David Tennant without your help, thanks.

Love,
Amethyst

Okay, so I'm incredibly cheesy and am practically pogo-sticking my way onto this band wagon, just like Jodi Meadows and Beth Revis, but it's just so much fun, and I too loved My Little Pony as a little girl (strange, since I never got into Barbies . . . I think it had to do with styling manes and tails).

Anyway, I will probably grind this concept unto death, but for now I'm just giggly and girlie about it, and have only made a Sebastien pony. You're not REQUIRED to look, you know.  You just get extra cool points for doing so.

Thanks for the pony-creating "game" (program) goes to deviant General Zoi over at deviantArt. You have made many people squeal with delight, madame.

 . . . this statement goes for both my writing life and my regular life (not that they are mutually exclusive, but there's really not enough Me for both all at once).  Recently, I had some drama in my personal life, and my knee-jerk, passive-aggressive response was to dye my hair a color I liked much less than the color I'd already dyed it. The newer color is okay, but it doesn't make me squee with individualist joy like my fire-engine red color did. The fact that I did not cut off my hair indicates the drama wasn't as bad as it could have been; I tend to take a pair of shears to my beloved-long locks when truly despondent.  Hey, some people redecorate, I do stuff to my head.

Meanwhile, being a great admirer of fantabulous hair, ESPECIALLY on boys, I have just recently noticed a personal trend. When dealing with a Villainous Person, I am wont to ascribe unsightly follicular features, either by way of some sort of personal Karmic payback on the bad guy, or possibly as a literary cue, the same way classic Westerns always put the local madman under a black hat. The madman's hat, and my villains' bad--or worse, completely non-noteworthy--hair, both banners screaming UNTRUSTWORTHY.

That said, secret's out of the bag, huh? I might have to go back and improve the coiffure's of a few characters, just to keep you guys on your toes.

*Personal Note: Ants love me, fire ants in particular, whereas mosquitoes seem to find me a bland choice. Not that I give either of them more than fifteen minutes of daylight every 24 hours in which to find me, because as we all know, I hate the semi-tropical variety of nature where I live.  *sigh*  Where one will live for the sake of nearness to a wonderful family.

I really think this kid could pull off playing Sebastien.

Okay, so technically, the second thing is completely subject to the individual in question, but I personally prefer red, and am all happy, happy, joy, joy about my new strawberry red colored Post-It Notes.

Sometimes the hardest thing in the world to be is wrong. I'd say it's my biggest personal fear if I didn't have so much love for my husband and sons stretching out my heart every day (yes, even those days when pulling out my hair is barely--barely--second to the heart-stretch).

But, yeah, being wrong, it goes against my grain like nobody's business, so much so that one of my great defense mechs is to simply refuse to make a choice when options are presented to me. So, you see, I'd rather be paralyzed and miserable than wrong.

Part of this stems from being an incredibly independent kid/teen. Survival in my younger years kind of required an ability to rely on just myself. Another part of it is my appearance; I'm small (thank you Granny J.), and I don't fit the physical mold for an intelligent female. Most people see me and think I must be an airhead because of my build. If they looked again, they'd see the humongous chip on my shoulder, because I am smart. Not genius-level or anything, but sharp all the same, and I take an unseemly amount of pride in my intelligence.

Anyway, like anyone else, I have my weaknesses, and that brings us back to "wrong" and what that has to do with my last year. You know, that year in which I tried and tried to better my first novel* but rather kept smacking into brick walls? That wall taunted "wrong" from all over, in all kinds of colors and fonts graffitied on it like BAD WOLF in the 2006 series of Doctor Who.

Well, probably not, but it makes for a catchy title regarding at least one subject in this post, specifically, the one about my husband suggesting I blog book reviews full time.

It's difficult for me to explain to him why the idea of book blogging being a responsibility. There's the time thing, but that's not really that important. I could handle the commitment to the clock. It's that whole thing with taking something you love and making it an obligation. Voluntarily. It's bad enough getting my editorial lobe to shut up (now I've learned so much about writing) while reading without throwing in purposely dissecting a book so I can take it apart later, publicly. I hate the thought of that.

But of course, my husband thinks, "Hey, she loves reading, she's great at it, she likes telling people about books, it's the perfect thing for her to do for some side cash," (thinking more of advertising, here). Um, no. His heart is totally in the right place, completely, but still no.

Turns out watching  the whole nineteen episodes of My So-Called Life over about three days will totally help you if you're in a slump regarding introspective characters. Also with remembering the best flammables to fuel teen angst. So, like, thanks, or whatever, Angela and Jordan.

Personal Note: I hold completely useless grudges against people I don't even know. Or maybe it's better to say I lose respect for them, and after that I can't see them the same way ever again.  Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, the way they handled the commencement of their relationship was just crude and callous. And speaking (indirectly) of Claire Danes, she and Billy Cruddup got together while Cruddup's girlfriend of many year was still pregnant with his baby. I used to love Claire Danes, and I'm fond of what little work I've seen of Cruddup's, but just knowing the man didn't keep to his obligations (as I consider them--we won't be getting into the "He can still be a great father," arguments--I know that), and Danes's complicity therein, it's like there's the cloud, this pall over all the professional stuff they do.  These people (yes, I realize I'm a bit particularly tetchy about cheating) have lost honor in my eyes, and that makes a difference to me.

I am not dying. I just feel like I am. 'Cause I have the flu. the yucky kind with body aches. So I'm blogging, because I don't have enough sense not to, in my current loose state of mind.

This morning I got to thinking about the new strides in social media (don't freak; I'm a dork, not a geek, so the technobabble is beyond me, too, but I still squee over new gadgets--I think it's a nice balance) , and how things like Twitter--at an artist's or author's discretion--open a door into the entertainer's life.

That's weird. Not like bad weird or good weird, just plain weird. My best friend would probably get what I mean immediately . . . at least after I'd fed her a dose of Robitussin. We're tight like that. Even cold medicine brings closer our cognitive processes.  Anyway, by weird I mean artists are not precisely known for letting their creative times, in which they write, or compose, or create, all hang out there. As a sub-species, we're hermit-like. You see the work, but usually only after it's only all worked out.

With Twitter, blogging, live chats, we're giving up that reclusive way of life. That makes me curious. Because don't they say it's a bad thing to get to know your heroes or role models too well (presumably, because we're all human, which is, for some inexplicable reason, always a surprise to fans)? With all this technology, yeah, we're closer to our audiences, but what if Real Life us doesn't measure up to our Cover Life selves? Do we let down fans? Or do we make fans feel special, included, hopeful (especially fans aspiring to follow something along in our footsteps)?

Don't mistake me, I'm not trying to sway anyone one way or another. I love tweeting, and I like blogging (although I do it less because I feel to blog fluff somehow a betrayal of my readership and right now I'm a broken record ab out being stuck in a rut). I just have to think about that question.

I've read books I loved but then seen some unlikable behavior by the author and liked the book less for it. Same is true of music, just as is the opposite--thinking something was "meh" only to admire the artist for some good behavior, and seeing his or her work in a more positive light.

How much of a responsibility to remain mysterious to, or to be a revelation to our audiences do we have? If we produce fiction, or an alternate view of looking at or illumination something, is it up to us to shroud ourselves in an accompanying source of mystery? Are we at fault for bursting bubbles if we don't?

This evening I face the likelihood I will puke up the entire contents of my stomach in the next twenty-four hours. This is likely because all three of my podlings have done so in the last couple of weeks, and since I cleaned up after each of them, I've probably gotten their bug.

Do I want to puke up the entire contents of my stomach? No. In fact, I would rather be any other kind of same-level sick in the world. I HATE puking. Unfortunately, my hatred of the action isn't enough to stop me from having to perform it.

Just like my hatred for sometimes having to "power through" a scene in order to create my own progress (rather than waiting for some much less toiling-ish inspiration fix up everything) won't stop me needed to power through, regardless. I don't want to just write whatever crap comes into my head so that I can get over this hump, finish, and come back some time sooner than later to make something good out of the yuck I put down.

Just like the yuck I'll be putting down, gastro-intestinally speaking.

Personal Note: I write better when nails are done in a dark color. I think it's because my nails then blend in with my dark keyboard and don't offend my ADD sensibilities.

Also, so far, I'm pretty much of the opinion all these American remakes of British shows are only half as good as the UK originals. Keep it in mind.

Okay, you've done it. You're in that final stretch of your manuscript, the last big blow-out, and then it's epilogue, sweet epilogue, and Fine. . . Except, you have no idea what you're doing in those last twenty or so pages. You know it's supposed to be big, tying up loose ends you've left (whilst simultaneously cutting free a few strings to leave the reader with more questions, should your book be in a series), and you know it has to feel genuine.

What do you do? Well, you fall back on your classic writer's block cures: repetitive exercises (either actual exercise, or you know, just the same action over and over), mundane chores which allow your mind to wander (I like washing the dishes--even though I actually hate washing the dishes), listen to music that gets you in the literary mood. I have a friend who likes to knit, one who cooks, one who just needs someone to babble to, and one who swears the bathroom in the most creativity-inspiring room in the house.

But I, on the other hand, know how my show goes down, and yet, still I have this magnetic force pulling me from completing this book. I feel like I'm letting down my friends, family, and writer cohorts with my uncertainly, and my sluggish pace. My inner demons taunt me with accusations of being lazy, or incapable, or both. Am I scared to finish because I'm sure my best efforts still won't be enough, or am I truly so busy in my "normal" life to have enough left over to do justice to this hot mess? Am I simply so much a perfectionist I'll never finish because I can't be certain of acclaim or praise? I'd hate it if that were the truth, because I don't want to be that shallow. I want to write for the good and the good times of others. I don't want to lose my faith in this book, my ability to write it, or a reader's likelihood to get something out of it.

A part of me, a very ingrained, much-disliked part of me, wants to put the blame on anyone, anything else. I don't have test readers, so I don't have any feedback to work from. Or, I don't work nearly as well unless I've got a hard-copy in front of me, but I don't want to waste paper, so I have to finish this thing before I print it all out. Or, Oh, look, there are REALLY pretty boys on television right now. I can't write with pretty boys in front of me *minor eye rape*. Even, My husband is actually home today, I don't want to do anything but curl up on the couch with him. Which, you know, is TRUE, but is also procrastinatorial BS (yes, me and the words-making again).

So, you tell me; what do I do?

Personal Notes: It's a little weird, but I know my best friend's favorite word*, but not her favorite color. If I had to hazard a guess I'd say . . . blue?

* "Sussurous", which refers to a quiet, rustling sound, like leaves being blown by a breeze, or many people whispering at once.

Some other writer friends and I recently took on the topic of number of main characters in books, whether multiple main characters were a good idea in general, or if that was the kind of thing someone really had to have a gift for in or to pull it off.  Here's what I wrote about it.


As for viewpoints, I'm with Phi* and this reader person, if for no other reason, as a reader I am extremely loyal to the first character I identify with. If there are two potential (good guy) heroes, I root for the first one, and I invest myself in him wholly, resenting any intrusion on my hopes for him. I'm like this with pretty much all story-related things; books, movies, actors portraying characters.

As for WRITING viewpoints, multiple or otherwise, it's weird, but I look at it like a video game. A good game doesn't just have the game-play itself (the fighting, strategizing, reaching a goal, etc), or just one storyline. A really pleasurable game has one main storyline or plot and several (sometimes optional, sometimes not) "side quests". Now, the idea of a secondary storyline, or side story, isn't new, but done well, with connective tissue with the main storyline, it works brilliantly for the making of a full-bodied, wholly immersive** tale, which is something you want, either as a player or a reader.

I enjoy writing this way. I enjoy large casts whose stories--either as the main impetus or a sideline--carry over through multiple books. Not everyone in the 'cast' will have a huge amount of screen-time, but their every interaction should do one of two things: make something happen, or make more sense of something that has already happened.

Writing in first person, it's very clear who the 'main" character is, who her love interest is, and the tier-style of importance of each supporting character. Joss isn't only the main character of the Dionadir books, but she is also the filter through whom we understand the books' world and populace.


And that's pretty much how I feel about structure regarding emphasis on characters and viewpoint. It's kind of a shading system; You have your darkest lines, your main character, but you need entire gradients to create an accurate perception of someone or something.

* Phillipa Fioretti, author of The Book of Love, out now, and the upcoming  The Fragment of Dreams.

** Apparently, I've made up my own word, here. Please take note and add it to your dictionaries, digital, mental, and paperback Webster's, if you've got one. *grin*

 . . . which can be saddening, 'cause you know, I can't use every giggle-worthy thing I come up with, either because they're a little off-color (hi, I'm a grown-up; nice to meet you), or there just really is no play for the remark/comment/scene.  So, that in mind, a few things rattling around in my brain that may or may not make the cut some day.

"Your fault?  Of course it's your fault. It's always your fault. There's a whole museum of things that are your fault. They're adding a Hall of Fault Fame. It's dedicated to the victims of your stupidity."

"It's okay. Every one knows your testicles are pretty much ornamental, anyway. You might as well bronze them and display them on the mantle for all the good they do you."

"Damn, girl! That was something else."
"Yeah, I know. I've sort of been doing it as a hobby for while, but I'm hoping to go for a full Bad-assary PhD in a couple years."

"I rent an apartment in what could arguably be described as Hell and you what--want to see me safely inside?"

Personal Note: A hard-core (possibly old lady-ish) pet peeve of mine is people breaking before they put on they're turn signal.  Seriously, how hard is it to tell yourself to flick on your signal a couple seconds before you put your foot on the break. I don't care what your DMV pamphlet says; the turn signal isn't so much about which way you're going as it is to tell the people behind you, "Hey, I'm going to slow down a lot here in a second, and I'm letting you know ahead of time because neither of us wants your hood shoved into my trunk."

So, one of the things about living with three young sons, a gamer husband, and a retarded, head-thumping-into-walls-boy-cat is the rarity of silence. You know, the kind in which one can actually hear her keys clacking away while she types. Or the fridge humming along. With all the noise being of the white variety.

Authoress posed a question about seasons impacting an individual's writing productivity, and like a light-bulb, my brain dinged for a second, because I realised, at that moment as I read her post, my house was silent. The eldest boys are at school, and the youngest is well into nap time. Even the Daddy-Man is off running macho-esque errands, and Fable is . . . well, he's um, indulging himself in some personal (but silent!) hygiene.

Along with the quiet, it occurred to me I'm so used to, so programmed for Amethyst-eclipsing sounds 98 per cent of my waking hours, I sort of react to silence as a wind-up clock that has lost its twist. Even while I folded laundry, I watched a television show, because . . . well, aside from it being a good show and wanting to know what happens next, I didn't know, nor did I suspect it was because my subconscious knew I needed the sound--that bit of brain distraction--to tell the rest of me it was still Time to Get Stuff Done.  As soon as my laundry was folded and the show finished, I sat still for a while, kind of at a loss of what to do next. Trust me, there's always something to do next. Did I mention I live with five males? Yeah.

The silence had kind of paralyzed me.  This may shed some light on why my Dionadir trilogy playlist already has about 200 songs in it, and I add more regularly.  So, my thing, my productive thing, it's not so much seasonal, or time-related, but aural.

And oh, look. The Youngest just woke up and has turned on Curious George.  Guess it's time to achieve today's goal of liberating The Youngest's floor from the carpet of toys oppressing it.

Can I just say, OMDoctor!