Subdued Intrinsic

Ten pages in which to fall in love.

2012-01-24T11:29:00.000-08:00

"Courage does not always roar. sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, "I will try again tomorrow." - Mary Anne Radmacher.

You want a great reminder of this sentiment? Read about Eeyore. Yes, he's often portrayed as the storm-cloud cynic of the group, and I suppose when one compares him to a simple bear like Pooh, or a bouncy Tigger, or even a small pig who refuses to give up hope in things, yes, Eeyore certainly seems the pessimist of the group. Except . . . for all his misgivings about the present--lost tail, demolished house, people forgetting his birthday--he never seems to resent his hardships, and furthermore, he doesn't carry his troubles with him into the future. Every day is a new day for Eeyore. His courage stems from waking every morning undefeated, no matted what the day before held (or didn't hold) for him. That's my favorite thing about Eeyore; that and his AWESOME taste in skyscapes.

So, the ten pages? I have to write/edit/adapt them in the next sixty hours or so, and my courage will have to come into play as a person who's pretty sure these pages will fall far short of her hope for them, but is willing to take a stab at it, anyway. Besides, if they're awful to begin with, I can only make them better, right? And added to my quiet courage voice, I've got wingwomen to adventure along with me, as I will with them. How can I fail with WINGWOMEN?

Ten pages, ten pages I'll write in the next sixty hours, that--when read--soften the reader's heart toward a certain boy, because they see how soft his heart has become regarding a certain girl. There will be star-gazing, Shakespeare references, sharing of sanctuaries, and most of all, falling a little further in love.

Personal Note: The weather here in The Deep South has been rather warm and humid of late. Know why? Because all of the cold in IN. MY. BOOOOOOOOOOOOONEEEEEEEES! Seriously, it's seventy degrees, but I've been cold for two days straight.

Wink Wink, Nudge Nudge

2012-01-12T06:46:00.000-08:00

First off, get thee hence to Fake Plastic Souks and read Alexander McNabb's newest post, titled "How to Write a Book", in which he managed to make a very long, complicated process seem rather simple, if one is just willing to devote themselves to observing what I think of as "the in between times".

Also, he gives you lots of terms to Google. Honestly, in some ways it's like a freaking college course syllabus.

Also, also? I have no idea what a is a souk. I'll have to Google it.

Now, onto my own post. Things are occurring 'round here. Helpful, YAY! sorts of things. Some of them are helping in The Lifting of the Spirits, while others are helpful in the Getting Done of Stuff Put Off For Far Too Long. I know, I know, all vague and completely not truly informative, but sometimes that what you get.

One thing I'll mention is this . . . well, actually, come to think, it's more akin to two things, but anyway! Last week, Amazing (husband) and I spent a painful amount of time cleaning out and reorganizing our bedroom and closet. I'm surprised we didn't get adopted by some the Gorgs due to our massively impressive, possibly sentient Trash Heap collected afterward. In the ensuing pushing and pulling of What Was Left, I ended up with a very charming new little writing nook. Wall-o-Books to one side, lamp to the other, cushy stool to sit on, and the bed about two and a half feet behind. Very nook-ish, which is great because I'm not that much a fan of wide open spaces. I like cubbies.

Also included in What Was Left were about three full Early Drafts of The Novel; big, inflated versions no one should ever see, and which I cut to ribbons several times. Guess what? If you go back and scratch out, or find the matching file and strike out or delete all the stuff you've adapted or used elsewhere, it's kind of easy to find those one-liner gems, or that particularly fine turn of phrase you hated to see go, but which you couldn't justify keeping, and sometimes, they're perfect for adding something your current draft lacks. (*pant, pant*--long sentence!)

See, your mom was right. Keeping your room clean is all kinds of helpful.

Personal Note: The Gunstringer hates me.

Having nothing to do with writing and everything to do with being human.

2011-12-29T15:40:00.000-08:00

The noise and rush of holidays is over for our household, and with the boys off visiting grandmothers and aunts and my husband working for the evening, everything is so very quiet. Quiet enough the silence oppresses; not even a favorite playlist can make a dent in it. I understand why people find themselves inexplicably saddened, especially those who are generally more alone than I am. I myself am in a bit of a funk, to be honest.

I guess the important thing to remember is that more often than not, loneliness is a lie. It's a very crafty, very convincing lie, definitely, but a lie all the same, because no matter how alone you feel, you aren't actually alone. Even complete strangers keep you from being without anyone. Loneliness is the little voice whispering to you about being nothing, about having no worth, no place in the rest of the world.

Sometimes it's not just hard to ignore loneliness, it's frightening. Testing the lie, trying to break it, could prove it true, or at least that's what we're afraid will happen.

It's too quiet in my house tonight, and it's a little scary, and a little sad. It's lonely, yes.

But it's not without.

I hear you say, "My love is over,
it's underneath, it's inside, it's in between,
the times you doubt Me, when you can't feel,
the times that you've questioned 'Is this for real?'
the times you've broken, the times that you mend
the times you hate Me, and the times that you bend.

Well my love is over, it's underneath,
it's inside, it's in between,
these times you're healing
and when your heart breaks,
the times that you feel like you've fallen from grace.
The times you're hurting,
the times that you heal,
the times you go hungry, and are tempted to steal.

In times of confusion and chaos and pain,
I'm there in your sorrow under the weight of your shame.
I'm there through your heartache,
I'm there in the storm.
My love, I will keep you by My power alone.
I dont care where you've fallen, where you have been,
I'll never forsake you.

My love never ends.
It never ends

-- "Times", by Tenth Avenue North

Jumping off the bridge . . .

2011-11-23T18:53:00.001-08:00

'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.

In Case I Haven't Bragged Enough . . .

2011-11-21T17:12:00.001-08:00

I am the ladylove of some amazingly handsome men.

Princess Who?

2011-11-12T13:12:00.001-08:00

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:*

THE PRINCESS WHO SMACKDOWN!

A three round competition to determine which animated lady deserves to hang with our favorite Time Lord. Winner takes Ten . . . or Nine, or any Doctor, up to Eleven, really.

Vote in the comments for the four princess you'd most like to see adventuring alongside The Doctor, or at the very least which of each set would take down her rival. I know I have my preferences! As a bonus, I'd love to see why you choose your princesses.

NEXT WEEK: ROUND TWO, SEMI-FINALS

*Please note, I put together that graphic in Paint, so yes, I'm aware it's a little questionable. However, I am not profiting (except maybe in popularity?) from this little exercise of grins and giggles, so don't get weird on me. Just vote, and back up your vote with your reasoning.

Curiouser and Curiouser

2011-11-08T07:29:00.000-08:00

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

Oh, Hey, look! Thanksgiving's my favorite!

2011-10-30T22:56:00.000-07:00

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 . . .

Things That Happen When I'm Awake Too Early

2011-10-26T08:18:00.000-07:00

For one, I inappropriately capitalize titles.

Also, I get drawn into the 'good morning' rush on Twitter. On occasion, this has the weird effect of me Thinking Thoughts. This morning, for instance, I felt a deep surge of love for several fellow authors; I read more about the awesomealito skillz of close aquaintence, Jodi Meadows (seriously, she's like Galadriel--instead of a Dark Author, we'd have a Queen, beautiful and terrible as the Morn! Treacherous as the Seas! Stronger than the foundations of the Earth! All shall love her and despair!), and lastly, I got the urge to write stuff. Dionadir stuff, which makes us all happy, no?

But it got me to thinking; many writers have blogged about what gets them juiced to write, but I'm not sure I've read one of them say, "Just talking to other writers." In my opinion, that'll do it. Humans and writers alike (no, we're not necessarily always the same thing) are social, tribal creatures, which means we encourage and spur on one another, even when we aren't consciously trying to. This morning alone I got "snugs" from Authoress Anonymous, an "awww" of mutual affection from Bria Quinlan, and as I mentioned, a rather alarming jolt of terror via Jodi. All three are writers, writers I know and regard very highly, but to whom I have a certain level of access and familiarity. They also write in the same genres I do, which is very nice, but not a requirement. They're part of my tribe as a writer. There are others, of course; I haven't even mentioned my writing bestie, Michelle Witte, but these are the ones I interacted with this morning. Also, my husband, but he doesn't count because he is pretty much the definition of Not a Writer (can be expressed as "of the race known as Vulcans"). He's a lot of AMAZING things, but not that one.

Anyway, so kind of like an infection spore, just talking to writerly friends rocked my Authorial Tendencies. If you're in a rut, maybe you have a writer friend to call up. You don't have to talk about writing per se, or even the particular problem that's got you stuck, but I'm willing to bet doughnuts to dollars your friend's excitement about their own project, or about nothing related, will give you a little leverage, or at the very least something to snack on.

We're writers; in our tribe, we share the marshmallows.

Personal Note: I don't actually like marshmallows unless they are on the end of a pointy object, blackened to a crisp. Don't judge. Every tribe needs a member like me.

No Geniuses Here, Today.

2011-10-24T07:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Men with white-blond hair look more suave in grey than they do in black. my opinion.

I'm supposed to do some chores today. I have to do some chores today. Gonna be interesting with my eyes falling closed one me every fifteen minutes.

I don't think I like Alexis Stewart any more than I like Martha Stewart. They seem disdainful and robotic.

Wait, what? Did he just say "the final season of CHUCK"? Noooo, I need the same amount of Zachary Levi in my life. This is what happens when you forget to watch television because you've got Netflix.

Did I mention, The Youngest is just getting over this germ. Grr.

My dad yesterday, on working at a Waffle House when he was much younger: "People would come in and say, 'That's not cooked with butter, is it?' and we'd all stop and just stare, then someone would answer, 'Cooked in butter? Listen, you're in Waffle House; you're breathing butter. It's in the air.'" I love that man.

Your Body is an Enterprise (starship)

2011-10-19T19:45:00.000-07:00

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.

Those dot-like bits are actually a liberal dusting of gold sparklies. Yeah, baby.

These Dreams

2011-10-04T05:06:00.000-07:00

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

Dionadir Trilogy Ponies!

2011-09-26T07:18:00.000-07:00

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.

Please note the only slightly tan coat, the hint of lightning-lit storm-cloud blues throughout, dignified posture, bit of mockery in the grin, and elegant wings representing Sebastien's protective nature.

Pony Joss is cuter and better read than you.

Personal Note: I can wiggle my nose in all directions, curl my tongue, arch one eyebrow at a time, and bring my heels flush up against my pelvis, with my knees flat to the ground. Such is the extent of my Stupid Human Trickery.

Cross-Posted From Libri Ago Book Lives

2011-09-22T16:46:00.000-07:00

Free Stuff! Stuff! That's Free!

Including our opinions, but nothing's perfect, right?

Introducing Libri Ago: Book Lives, a website run by two chicks who have just enough in common (and just enough out of it) to be interesting; who are well-read enough to know what they're talking about; well-connected enough to host Grand Opening contests wherein the prizes are AWESOME-SAUCE book-related stuff.

(And some random-esque Flair, but everyone needs more Flair)

We're celebrating our fiftieth review by going public and giving away bookish goodies to owners of watchful eyes!

First up, the awesome-sauce swag all together and chummy.

Plus, the bracelets, which I modeled personally.

(matrimonial jewelry and incredible marriage not included)

Prize A

This Prize includes an ARC of Steampunk! An Anthology of Fantastically Rich and Strange Stories, which features stories by Cassandra Clare, Holly Black, Libba Bray, Garth Nix, Cory Doctorow and several other authors; a preview pamphlet, dual-sided, with samples from Cassandra Clare's upcoming Infernal Devices novel, Clockwork Prince, and Holly Black's third Curse Workers series, Black Heart; various bookmarks, a Mockingjay tat, and two Flair buttons.

This here is most of Prize B. We'll also be including a copy of Cindy Pon's novel, Silver Phoenix.

This prize includes: Two book prints by artist Phoenix Lu, a Fury of the Phoenix bookmark, tattoos from Angel Burn by L.A. Weatherly, and Suzanne Collins's Mockingjay, and a small "Trust me, I'm a ninja' Flair.

Silver Phoenix, the story of Ai Ling, a young Asian woman who discovered supernatural powers within herself when dangers from without threatened life as she knows it, as well as imperiling her future.

Prize C

NOTE: We ask participants competing for Prize C be sixteen years of age or older, as part of the prize includes more mature materials.

Will include Black Magic Sanction by Kim Harrison, an Alcatraz cell key from that novel, The Body Snatcher bracelet, signed post card for Julie Particka's Pretty Souls, Angel Burn and HP7 tats, three Flair buttons, and a bookmark.

Grand Prize!

This prize includes: Signed copy of Lisa Yee's Absolutely Maybe, signed book card from Mary E. Pearson's The Miles Between, You Are What You Read: Pass It On bracelet, Vampire Academy and Mockingjay tats, mini bio Lisa Yee bookmark, Clockwork Prince/Black Heart excerpt pamphlet, The Pull of Gravity by Gae Polisner Flair, and two random Flair.

So, how does one go about winning one of these enviable prizes? I'm glad you ask.

For the next four weeks Michelle and I will put up one of the four prizes, each having its own theme. Contestants will have the week following the post to represent the related theme in any way, any medium (with the normal provisos discouraging offensive content). Go forth and interpret with your personal creative vision, be it plushie, illustration, video clip, original song lyrics, or even cake ddecor; what have you.

So what's the theme for Prize A?

You'll just have to bookmark the site and visit again tomorrow, when we'll announce it.

So, to sum up, contest FOR PRIZE A starts tomorrow at 9:00 A.M and entries will be accepted and considered through 11:59 P.M. of next Friday, September 29th, 2011. Entries will need to be placed or linked-to in the comments of each relevant post and need to include contestant info and contact email.

Good luck, and may the Force be with you!

In the meantime, you can visit Libri Ago: Book Lives where you have the option to "Like" Libri Ago on Facebook, share about us on Twitter, and add Libri Ago posts and reviews to your Blogger or RSS feed. Doing so won't get you any closer to winning the contest, but it'd really put us in a fantastic mood. We're small, and cute, and we look really good wearing good moods.

Thanks in advance!
Mish! and Ames

My Hair Will Say More About My Mood than My Words Ever Will

2011-09-09T13:28:00.000-07:00

. . . 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.

Dear Kara, You're Too Good to Me

2011-09-01T21:18:00.000-07:00

Sebastien and Joss, as envisioned by Kara Joyner Kovalchick, and hence the reason butterflies have been engaged in a cage match in my tummy for the last hour. Also:

PRETTY BOY WITH GORGEOUS HAIR!!!!

That is all for now.

P.S. I hear the first was just the practice sketch and there's more to come. Remember, if I die of joy, I want all my parts donated, and the rest of me cremated. Just in case.

It's the eyes, y'know.

2011-07-29T17:42:00.000-07:00

I really think this kid could pull off playing Sebastien.

Max Thieriot

It Ain't Easy Being Blue OR Creatives Prefer Red

2011-07-26T21:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Meanwhile, my fingers are splattered with blue paint, some sort of nautical-Cape-Cod-esque shade thereof which, in ways I don't understand, looks lighter on my skin than it does on the wall, even thought the original paint is this really annoying pale blue color, which would make a lighter base than (yes, even my) skin.

Meanwhile, I have been of the, "What day is today? . . . No, I don't mean the date, I need the day of the week," level of busy. I made my first-ever baby quilt (I'll show you later), did a crap-ton of shopping chores with The Husband, mostly painted a bedroom (after moving everything, including its inhabitants OUT of it), and read a lot, lot LOT of pages of books I intend to review over on LibriAgo: Book Lives. Oh, and I had an eleventh anniversary, though the celebration for it is still in planning stages. We want to be able to actually relax on our night out.

All of which should explain why only SOME stuff has been coming along with The Book. It's summer. I've got lots of lives to live right now, and the fictional ones are just going to have to tough it out until the real ones get a chance to catch their collective breaths.

Will you wait for me?

Personal Note: I have the oddest relationship with pens. Some I love, some I hate (I'm looking at you, fine ball-points), and some just randomly hit this pressure point/nerve-ending in my thumb the exact right way to send spasms of pain crawling through the bones of that thumb and most of my skin. I can't even bear to sign my name with pens like that. The really weird thing is, usually these pens are the kind with the squishy, ergonomic sleeve to hold on to.

Falling in Love is Hard to Do

2011-06-27T10:05:00.000-07:00

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.

"Don't ramble with so much detail!", it criticized. "You can't do First Person, Present point-of-view!" "You have to pace your book like this, or no one will like it." "Your word count has to fall in this range!" "These are the rules and you're not good enough to break them."

YOU'RE DOING IT ALL WRONG, AMETHYST!

Even with all the amazing encouragement from writer friends, critique partners, betas, and others, the WRONG was always louder, and it kicked my butt. I couldn't kick back. It was totally winning. In fact, it just about had me beaten down enough to just give up. No amount of faith in my abilities (from others) helped.

So, on the verge of giving up (oh, who am I kidding? I had given up, I just hadn't actually told anybody else, yet), I checked out a bunch of books from my library and proceeded to ignore my own book as much as humanly possible.

One of these books was Chime by Franny Billingsley. It blew my mind. I loved it. I loved it even though it broke a lot of rules. Billingsley wrote in in First Person, Present POV. It had a lot of detail. It didn't follow the traditional path. The twists were GREAT. The language was amazing and gorgeous. I wasn't just admiring of this book, I was JEALOUS. This was the kind of style in which I wanted to write. I didn't want a stupid, helpless heroine, or a perfect love interest. I wanted THIS.

But all the experts had said it was wrong. Wrong, my nemesis, and I couldn't risk wrong.

Suddenly, I didn't care. I loved Chime enough to forget it was technically all wrong, and if I could love someone else's "wrong" book that much, I could love my own book--broken rules and all--even more. I didn't have to be afraid of being wrong, because I knew I could love it anyway, because of Chime.

And I do love it. I love it like a Mathlete loves Pi. I love how easy it feels, now. I'm not wrestling with it because I'm not trying to change it into something it isn't.

Good Gracious, if this is wrong, I don't wanna be right.

*Yes, I'm still on my first novel. Another thing I am in spades? Stubborn.

PERSONAL NOTE: My lips go numb for about a half-hour if I take my anti-depression meds with coffee. Not Novocaine-at-the-dentist's numb, but very tingly. I love my meds and my coffee, so my lips are numb most mornings. *wink*

Anything You Can Read, I Can Read Better.

2011-03-09T17:23:00.000-08:00

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.

Epitaph

2011-02-23T07:31:00.000-08:00

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?

The Difference Between What is and What Could Have Been

2011-02-10T19:06:00.000-08:00

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.

The Light at the End of My Tunnel is a Luminescent Moss-covered Brick Wall.

2011-02-09T16:16:00.000-08:00

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.

Stealing from my Inbox.

2011-01-29T20:43:00.000-08:00

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*

Sometimes My Brain is Funnier than I Am . . .

2011-01-21T10:42:00.000-08:00

. . . 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."

My Subdued's a Little Suped up, Lately.

2011-01-14T12:13:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-09T11:44:00.000-08:00

Can I just say, OMDoctor!

Dear Rob Thomas, I Love Your Lyrics OR "Crutch"

2010-11-20T08:55:00.000-08:00

"All you needed was a crutch.
One step away from down.
I could never be your crutch;
I could break you down."

We're going to have a little conversation about adjectives, but first I'm going to tell you why we're going to have a little talk about adjectives, even though the majority of the people subscribe to this blog already know much of the following 'writerly advice' themselves.

There's a website called deviantArt where all manner of artistic expression may be put before the cyber world (which is why, though I love dA, I would not suggest you let your middle-schoolers view it without sitting-in-the-chair-next-to-them-all-filters-on-strict levels of parental guidance). Quite a bit of the literary arts at dA is comprised of fledgling writer hopefuls taking their first stab at the beast with no real zoological reference, known as a "successful novel".

These dear boys and girls may have all the imagination to make a decent go of it, but I find the absolute first earmark of Newbie-ism when I begin to read one of these offerings is the use of adjectives.

No, not *in* the use of adjectives--adjectives are splendiforous, in my opinion, even made-up ones--but rather in how the adjective is used. A very similar post on this blog addresses the same with adverbs (the crossbreed produced when one mixes the DNA from an adjective and a verb, and then lets it grow up as a latchkey part of speech, what with all that disreputable "-ly" business).

Strong, evocative writing rarely occurs if one uses adjectives (or yes, adverbs--slippery little rugrats) as a crutch for active tense.

Did I mention how much I believe in adjectives? I do, I do, but it's still true a strong, colorful, active verb will trump a flurry of adjectives almost every time.

And because I did not learn this on my own, I would very much like my readers, especially those who helped me learn the error of my own ways in this subject (*cough*Haveners*cough*), to take a moment to give one bad example of using adjectives as crutches, then giving a revised example of that same sentence, improved by some fantastic active verbage, in the comments, of course. Extra brownie points if you feel like being twice as generous and doing the same with adverbs, just as a refresher.

Personal Note: Last night I dreamt I'd left the house to go on some errand and when I got back my mother had invited over a band to rehearse, and they'd brought with them a bunch of agents, some of whom were of the literary variety. My mother gave them an old, unpolished copy of my mss, and I freaked. They liked it a lot, which made me feel like I was in trouble somehow, because if they liked THAT DRIVEL they couldn't be legit in the least. Then they made me take the annual Bunny Ocean Caves (something my brain completely made up, as we have no caves, and certainly no bunnies in them, though admittedly we have lots of ocean), and join their softball team. Um, if you don't know this about me, I am absolutely crap at most athletics, and I generally hate saltwater.

But I like bunnies . . . and caves. Even sandstoney ones.

Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing.

2010-11-16T15:07:00.000-08:00

A little while back someone whom I follow on Twitter made a few comments about, or linked to and article about, reader guilt. You know, that feeling you get when you come to the realization the book you're currently reading goes beyond your tolerance for bad writing, and you have to decide to stick it out or quietly close it, shelve it, and hope the mocking giggles coming from it one day subside. I know I'm like that. I think I've given up on a grand total of maybe three books in my life, and I have read some really, really bad ones. I mean books that just by existing should legally constitute a criminal act against literature. I won't mention them here, because I'm not quite that callous.

So, yes, I believe it's okay to give up on a book trying to take you beyond endurance, and indeed, I encourage you to know when it's happening . . .

. . . But, I want to look at bad books* from another angle. Therapy. Sometimes the best thing for a writer in the middle of a bad editing slump is to go to the grocery store, pick up a book whose cover screams "I am cheesy and awkwardly-written!", take it home, and read it cover-to-cover. You know what will happen? Well, yes, your brain will eventually congeal into something resembling post-Thanksgiving gravy, but before that your internal editor will begin doing her job automatically. She'll edit like mad. Syntax, bulky sentence structure, passive tense, repetition; she'll sink her teeth into that mess, and as a small voice (or sometimes a righteous bellow) behind your eyes, she'll worry it until she considers it NOT likely to give you a migraine.

And there is this to say about bad books: very few of them have nothing to teach you, even if it is by exemplifying what not to do. Sometimes a predominately bad book has that one shiny feature that--while it doesn't redeem the book as a whole--gives back something for the effort of reading it.

*Although, I should clarify, I don't mean guilty pleasure books when I say 'bad'. I mean books the tech specs of which make you wonder what drug the acquisitions person took when he or she gave the go ahead to publish said volume.

Personal Notes: For some reason, it always makes me sad when a girl with pretty, long hair cuts it drastically shorter. I actually grieve for the loss of other girls' hair. I think it has to do with how slowly my own hair grows, which saddens me, because I love my hair long.

Secondly, Authoress Anonymous gave me a dozen gold stars for impeccable grammar. Which guarantees no less than three grammatical mistakes in this post, I'm sure.

Gift Shop

2010-11-09T13:48:00.001-08:00

When God put in all my programming, He made me rather detail-oriented. I sweat the small stuff, as they say, but I also love minutia the best. It's a bit tough when trying to organize a big picture with a lot of tiny ones, though. A lot of holes go unfilled, cracks form between similar-but-not-the-same shapes, and then trying to arrange everything so it's airtight gets tough. Sometimes the wall you want to fix is the one keeping you from the solution.

People will advise taking a little time off to gain objectivity, or to regroup, or maybe just to gain insights at a less-frenzied pace. They'll say you just have to buckle down and write crap, as long as it's got you writing. They'll say print off a hard copy, or read aloud, or make a secondary copy and change the font formatting so the doc literally looks different, or to just take the bit you're having trouble with and write it in a completely blank doc so you don't feel the mental 'weight' of all the text before and after.

Those all work, and I won't say differently. They have all worked for me, in their turns. But sometimes they just don't. Sometimes you get into this funk, be it from frustration, from boredom with the whole business, from not seeing the end of the tunnel (forget the light; you can't even make out an exit strategy), and nothing makes you want to pick up where you left off before. Nothing about the prospect of continuing inspires any excitement in you, or at least not to any last, productive effect.

Everyone is different, so I can't say if stopping for any significant length of time is good or bad for you in particular, but I think you at least have to be able to give yourself a break without feeling guilty or worse as if you're failing.

Maybe it's good to have a concrete amount of time established; here if you're in a writing slump, I officially grant you one week of absolute guilt-free non-writing time. If something comes to you, jot down the gist of it, or the line or two you think of, then put it with the rest of your stuff and walk away, so at least you won't feel like you're neglecting your work. When you're that close to something, and thinking about something is that ingrained, it's really hard to STOP thinking about it. It's a a learned behavior, like worrying about your kids, or biting your nails.

It's tough. Be tougher by going easy on yourself.

*****

Personal Note: I love make-up, but I rarely actually wear it. I see the colors, and i want them, but then I tell myself time to use them. I just purchased a new eye-shadow palette and a new eye-liner, but I've not even opened either one.

Beauty and the Buffy

2010-11-05T16:52:00.000-07:00

My sister Jamie and I have the following conversation while watching Buffy:

Angel--"Go ahead, I'm just an animal, right?"
Buffy:--"No, animals I like. You're a monster."

Jamie--"Oh, c'mon, you know you can't kill a face like that."
Me--"Um, yeah she can. It's like Beauty and the Beast up in there."
Jamie--"He's prettier than the Beast."
Me--"Hey, the Beast couldn't take of his face like Angel can."

Starting for Beginners

2010-11-03T17:27:00.001-07:00

I’ve never actually liked the word ‘start’. There’s something both overly-simplistic and too abrupt about it, which is probably why it’s used to get races going. Start; it sounds absolutely made for barking in a frenzied, yappy-dog kind of way. I am also, not a big person for yappy dogs.

And yet, to me, ‘begin’ sounds pretentious. ‘Begin"’ wears diamonds and enormous, plumed hats while the Titanic slowly drifts toward luxury-hating icebergs.

I never liked eating worms, anyway.

2010-11-02T16:31:00.000-07:00

Um, I was supposed to post yesterday.

I kinda got in a yelling contest instead.

And today? Today, The Toddler became three.

So here's me, telling him how beautiful he is, and how much passion he inspires in me.

It's mostly the good kind.

What a Let-down!

2010-10-24T09:02:00.000-07:00

Okay, so my one-hundredth post is more of a Post-It, really, because I'm just reminding you guys I do NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) every year, so you're in for at least one post daily in November.

To catch you up, bullets! I love bullets!

Happy Things:

Fable survived the taking of his ability to procreate, his shots, and his de-claw (yes, I know some of you will be in an uproar over the last, but I assure you, he is entirely an indoor cat, and in order for him to be a permanent member of our family, he had to be a toddler-friendly cat).
I have a new critique partner. We have yet to stop saying things like, "Oh, you enjoy such-n-such? ME TOO!" Which is good. Probably good for you, too, because it's A's job to kick my rear when I slack.
I am finally getting new glasses that won't fall off my face with the slightest provocation. They're in the lab now, and since I have Le Toddler, I decided to go with the indestructible, even-if-your-son-sits-on-them-and-somehow-manages-to-wreck-them-we'll-still-fix-them-for-free guaranteed glasses. These, in fact. They're so stretchy you can't break them. Think of long grasses bowing in the wind, not breaking, but the large Oak snapping in two, because it won't bend.
Speaking of Le Toddler, he's about to be three. We busted out the 3T clothes, yesterday. I realize I'm biased, but the kid is still too gorgeous for my good.
I started spinning wool fiber into stuff that will someday be yarn. I won't bore you with the details, but first, you can blame Jodi, and secondly, considering the colors I like, this ain't your grandmama's yarn. Don't ask me what I'm going to make with it; I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe I'll open my own Etsy shop and sell hand-spun yard. Or maybe I'll learn to knit toe socks. I love toe socks. And those fingerless mitts Jodi's always rhapsodizing about.
Husband has been head-hunted by large, international corporation for much more pay, and great benefits. Everything has downsides, though, so we're considering all angles. Still, very cool and complimentary THEY tracked HIM down.

Not Happy Stuff:

My MISH!'s go at having an indie book store for only children and YA books has come to a close. People in Utah, you are worse off for it. Thankfully, MISH! is a highly resourceful, what's-the-next-plan kind of girl, so she'll be landing on her feet.
People I love have been left on this world while people they love have gone on to the next.
I have throat crud. So does LT. Betcha everyone will before the week's out.

And the bit of Personal Fact: I can read in a moving car without getting sick. I'm not sure if it's because I never knew one was supposed to get queasy if one read in a moving car, or if it's because I'm just that determined to read, or even if it's part of my unwillingness to puke FOR ANY REASON.

Ninety-nine Photos of Stuff on the Blog, Ninety-nine Photos of Stuff...!

2010-09-29T14:40:00.000-07:00

Okay, so really there are only gonna be like three or so, but still. I got the ninety-nine part from this being the ninety-ninth post. Really gonna hafta think of something stellar for the next one, huh? The PRESSURE! It PRESSES!

First off, yeah, totally got my laptop bag. It's a tight squeeze, but the bag is primarily canvas, so I'm waiting for it to break in really well, like a good pair of jeans. Obviously, Precious isn't in it in these photos, but she's a little busy helping me post this blog right now.

So, from top to bottom, the online photo of said bag, so you can see it all nicely and cleanly.

Then a blurry version I just took with my webcam.

And finally, a webcam photo of the inside of the bag with some of my junk in it. Yes, that IS a Burton's Mad Hatter notebook grinning in there.

Another super awesomoso thing in there? These Eco-speakers by Fashionation. They're made out of this sort of tough nylon plastic stuff. When folded, they're thinner than my hand, and even with all the little tabs popped into place, they're smaller than a take-out carton. They come hooked together with a standard-sized headphones cord, which will plug into pretty much any mobile device, and they don't require batteries. Top that off with seventy per cent recycled materials and just ten bucks a pop.

And just to round off the day of picking up Things Which Make Amethyst Smile, have ya everheard of Pocky? I don't want to know what they're made of in case something scares me, or it's just really yummy plastic, but the strawberry ones complete me. Well, there wasn't a lot missing, but yeah. The boxes I get are about a buck fifty, less than a bag of Hershey's whatever candies, and probably less calorie-laden (plastic is very slimming...okay, fine, I'm pretty sure they're just slightly sweet, crunchy breadsticks dipped in a strawberry yogurt cream, and then allowed to dry).

Oh, and did I mention, I finally finished the chapter I'd been stuck on for six months? ;) And I did it with the help of my new critique partner, "M", and Bria Quinlan's Fast Draft writing sprints. If you end up loving what I do, blame them.

Sometimes Facing Your Fears Requires a Mirror

2010-09-28T16:57:00.000-07:00

My dad had the most wonderful blue eyes. With eyes slightly tilted, heavily lashed, set above enviable cheekbones, my father was a 'pretty' man. People getting on to me for saying men can be beautiful or pretty, but I stand firm on this one.

Anyway, people say I get my eyes from him, which is kind of great, even if I didn't inherit the darker hue of his lashes, only the length. But his eyes weren't the only thing I got from him. I also got my suicidal tendencies. His tendencies became reality with the help of a pistol. My tendencies haven't succeeded, but I am incredibly afraid of hand guns. For the usual reasons, sure; my children, and intruder finding it and using it, accidental misfires. It doesn't stay in the house, but in N.'s truck. It's locked, and only he has the keys. It has a built-in trigger safety, so it can't be misfired.

But mostly I'm scared of that gun because of myself. I have help now, with my emotions and imbalances, but every once in a long while . . . I have the scary thoughts. A hand gun would be so easy. It worked for my dad, right?

N. made me hold it, made me name all the parts and what they did. He made me cock it. My hands trembled. I almost cried. I definitely panicked like mad inside, and maybe a little outside. N. understood, but he said it was important. He knew the worst fear I had, though we didn't mention it.

This is a very extreme truth to point out a much simpler one; sometimes, even if you're the thing most in your way, you still gotta do what you gotta do.

Empty, Pretty Boxes

2010-09-17T19:39:00.000-07:00

Short post today, kiddos.

My fellow defender of Stealth Mode and Co-Queen of WAH!, Amanda, is the BESTEST package wrapper I know of. The girl still uses brown wrapping paper, like the stuff you see on parcels in adaptations of A Christmas Carol. And then she puts stickers of things she knows you personally are interested in all over it, super-artfully, writes little inside jokes in glitter gel pen, or poems, or funny sayings, just stuff tailored to you. And that's before you even cut off the tape.

Each little thing inside is wrapped with just as much care, in quirky, silly, fun varieties of papers, some with ribbons, some without. Some with paper-matching stickers, or metallic confetti, or loose glitter. It's not that these gifts are wrapped in 14 karat gold foil, or tied with ropes of pearls; they aren't. But they're special.

For about three minutes, and then they become a memory, albeit a very sweet, touching memory. Because you're not going to keep the paper or the boxes, no matter how much you love Amanda, or how touched you are she went so far to make this package just for you. You won't tuck away anything but maybe the card, or a small tear of the paper if you scrapbook.

What's important is inside the pretty, thoughtful wrapping paper. The heart is underneath.

Your manuscript is the same. You can mistake the wrapping for the substance in at least two ways I can think of off the top of my head.

You can think the presentation of your manuscript (especially if you're snail-mailing a full to an agent), is important. Books will tell you to distinguish your work with something eye-catching. Don't. Distinguish your work by following the frakkin' parameters the requesting agents lists, thereby making the poor harried agent's day that much easier.
You can think your story, the characters, the plot, the narrative, the tension, the things that make it yours, aren't special enough unless you drown them in the literary version of spot-lights and pageant make-up. Don't do that, either.

Your book is yours. Just for you. If you try to gimmick into being for someone else, you'll lose it, and you'll lose readers.*

*This is not to imply you are infallible, just that you don't have to please everyone all the time.

Personal Note: Amanda and our very good, very funny friend, Roger. They were at an Irish pub, so draw your own conclusions about the unrestrained smiling and glassy eyes.

I miss her. Stupid New York.

Where My Lucy's At?

2010-09-16T15:00:00.000-07:00

Lately, I find myself reading the blogs posts of other people and all I can think is, "THAT'S IT!" because what they've said exactly matches my own experience, usually currently.

Like this one about being jealous by my writer pal, Jodi. Or this one she did on that nagging feeling I get when I know what's wrong, but I REALLY, REALLY don't want to face it/have no clue how to fix it.

Or this one from Susan Adrian, about getting discouraged, recharging, and how hard it is to get disciplined again (trust me, I--by far--had an easier time giving birth than I'm having getting back to this book the way I should.

Or finally, this one from my buddy, Authoress Anonymous? It's about not seeing problems your readers have a hard time explaining . . . and wimpy heroes.

These ladies, in their much more gracious, good-humored way, are my Lucys. They say what I mean, and I mean what they're saying, quite often.

And just so you know, yes, when it comes to writing, sometimes I'm afraid of EVERYTHING.

Lucy Targets Charlie Brown's Fears . . .

Today is your day, not theirs.

2010-09-15T10:22:00.000-07:00

This may sound like a weird comparison, but the whole "book industry people can't decide what they want!" complaint sort of reminds me of my language teachers for my tenth, eleventh, and twelfth grade years (ages 15, 16, and 17, for you across continents) in school. I had the same teacher for tenth and twelfth grades (Mrs. A), and a different teacher in between (Mrs. B).

Mrs. A never wanted a real declarative sentence in research papers. She always wanted us to preface any statement with an "I feel the author meant . . ." or some such, followed by a " . . . because he/she . . ." to introduce proof for the assertion. You got a lower grade if you just came out and said, "Um, by that time, Poe had completely lost his mind, which just goes to show a broken heart CAN kill you, indirectly or not." (Okay, that example's a bit sloppy, but you get the gist.) I think maybe she felt we weren't expert enough to make an official judgment on anyone in the literary community, because, well, Mrs. A? Wonderful, encouraging, passionate, but loonier than a beta fish cage fight.

Meanwhile, Mrs. B, that teacher in the middle, she couldn't STAND the wishy-washiness of "I think" or "I feel", or even "It's possible". In her opinion, if you had evidence to back up something, it was worth throwing it out there with your guts attached (this from a classy, articulate, soft-spoken, true Old Southern lady).

So, I had just gotten used to cranking out "just what she expects" A-grade papers for Mrs. A. when I moved on to class with Mrs. B, and had to 180 my technique . . . and then, having pinned THAT, the next year, I had Mrs. A. again.

To complicate matters further, I had Mrs. B. twice a day during my Junior year. Once for formal English/literature, and then in the next class period, for creative writing, so during 2nd class period, she'd preach the necessity of correct grammar, following the rules of our language, the unbending laws of field writing, and so on. In third period, all that went out the window as she encouraged us to be as free as we could, think outside the box, get creative.

So, to sum up:

10th Grade: Think, don't state.
11th Grade: State, don't wobble/obey the rules!/forget the rules!
12th Grade: Didn't I tell you to just think things? Stop those statements!/Creative Writing 2, Be free my little birdies! Fly far, far into the pathos of art!

Book industry people are always saying we should write what WE feel like, or write what WE know, not to try to write specifically to what's selling right then, because too many variables play into whether or not what's hot cools down by the time you get to the table, including agent tastes, book trends, the economy, and blah, blah, blah. This is incredibly good advice.

Me, I just think we need to send all aspiring writers through my last three years of language arts before they're allowed to submit anything.

Trust me, that'll teach 'em.

Things I Had (Unfortunately) Forgotten

2010-09-14T16:11:00.000-07:00

The last six months have been a study in apathetic hell for me. It's true. The hardest part was not knowing where my Great Big Fat Loss of Motivation had come from, and having even less of a clue how to get rid of it.

Somehow in the last month, I've gotten better. It happened piece-by-piece, because of some people, some blogs, and some filled plot-holes. That in and of itself isn't special, I suppose--writers find themselves in inexplicable slumps all the time, it might even be considered a routine part of the process, THE TIME OF GREAT WAILING AND GNASHING OF TEETH. But being reminded of things necessary to my own personal process, and reassured I'm in fantastic and massive company for committing certain literary atrocities, well that was good.

So, to be a little more specific, and to give myself a go-to for when I'll regrettably forget again (because I will), Things I Had (Unfortunately) Forgotten.

1. If you're looking for the Bondo, you've done something wrong. Because sometimes glossing over vital information (plot-wise, char-dev-wise, logically, whatever) is a lot like trying to fix a totaled car with Big Boy Silly Putty, a seriously half-a**ed job. And when some part of your inner writing guru knows this, but you ignore him or her anyway, you get stuck. Maybe in rubber cement, and that's no dignified way to go. So, instead of slapping on the Plaster of Paris, either leave that piece of art be for a while and go work on something else (you never know when one scene will tell you secrets about another), or admit to yourself something there is really messed up (A.A.--Author's Anonymous) and dig your heels in and don't come back up for air until you've wrestled that demon back into the netherworld.

2. If you have younger children, summer is always going to be less productive for you, and that's okay, as long as you don't use it as a crutch.

3. Change is not the death of something, but the birth of something, and there's no reason to be terrified of it, or to think the need for change translates to utter failure. In other words, don't be so stubborn or prideful you can't see the novel for the one-liners. In my case, I was really freaked out by the idea my anti-depressants would kill the writer part of me and I'd have to choose between a healthy mind and a healthy talent. I let that change rob me of my confidence.

4. Fear of failure is failure itself if you let it be. No, I mean it. Think of it like claustrophobia. Instead of small, enclosed spaces, you're afraid of small, closed minds, particularly your own. The cure is to shut up and keep truckin' Like my good friend MISH! often tells me, "It doesn't matter if you're writing crap, as long as you're writing something. You can always go back and fix it." Standing still is giving up, and when was the last time that got you closer to your goals.

5. It's Not ALL About Me: Wait, I mean, it IS, but also, I'm not the only one I should be depending on. I'm talking beta-readers and critique partners, people who give me feedback and provide me with different angles to view and arguments that may just lead me back onto the organic path when I go tramping through the bushes. A lot of my betas are/were my target audience, teens. Teens have super busy lives, and again, summer is a killer there. Also, MISH! up there, my main squeeze when it comes to talking out snafus? She spent the summer starting up a business, a indie bookstore which caters exclusively to young readers, in UTAH (check out Fire Petal Books). Without feedback, I go crazy, seeing the same old things the same old way over and over again. What happens when you can't see a resolution, only rotation? You get too sick to look at it again. I've been feedback-starved. I'm going to have to find more/new betas and crit partners.

So there's that.

Personal Note: While I was out, I celebrated my tenth wedding anniversary with my husband. There were diamonds involved, as well as amazing food, a rather damp outdoor concert (still awesome), hardcore sleeping in, and souvenir coffee mugs, because we still have the two mugs from our honeymoon.

Death Threats and Other Personal Favors

2010-08-17T11:41:00.001-07:00

Um, hi. You may remember me. My name's Amethyst, and I blog sporadically.

So, people tell me I have writer's block, and I have cringed, wondering if they're right. You know back several months ago, when I told you I was doing a massive rewrite and it was going to take a lot of hard work and even more time, because it was so detailed? Yeah, I got 3/4 into it and just stalled out. For months. Nada. and it wasn't even like I just didn't know What Happens Next, because I did know. I knew everything that happened. And as time went by, my brain added even more to the plot, side-stories, backgrounds, and character profiles, but none of it got me to open up a file and start typing. All that amazing info lay comatose on post-it notes, scraps of paper, a miscelaneous file for the trilogy, but never worked into the actual book.

I didn't know why. I'm still confused. But I do know my friend Julie has informed me I will be 'given s**t' if I don't have at least the last 50 or so pages adapted (typos and whatnot not included) within a week, and my friend, Robb (Pops, to me) has volunteered a full read-through to help with a serious case of feedback deprivation. Both will be able to see things I can't, and I trust their suggestions.

So, that's where we stand. Let's hope I'm not a rippling puddle before it's all over. You can never tell with Julie.

*grin*

Personal Note: I am exceptionally proud to have a toddler who is adept in the 'pretend' uses of light sabers, zanpactou, air bending, and sonic screwdrivers.

Snuggle, Snuggle, Coil, and Nuzzle

2010-02-13T14:27:00.000-08:00

(With apologies to Shakespeare's Fates)

Personal Note: Henceforth, personal notes will come at the end of posts, because they sometimes mess with Title/first line flow.

For those of you who haven't had it bludgeoned into you yet, tomorrow is Valentine's Day (if I just saved your bacon by giving you enough time to grab something not utterly crappy, you're welcome; my usual fee will be fine).

A slightly lesser-known fact about tomorrow is it's also my 31st birthday (yes, I know. I wouldn't buy it, either, 'cept I've got this legal document and all), which means A. I hated Valentine's Day growing up (lots of long-distance boyfriends *sigh*), and B. my husband is doubly screwed if he forgets either one. Not that he would, because he's completely Awesome.

Anyway, poor N. is working my birthday this year, so we celebrated with dinner and a movie yesterday, exchanging gifts afterward. Before we left for our date N. hinted my Valentine's Day wasn't chocolate, but he'd put a lot of thought into it. Well, I did tell you he's awesome.

Oh, there was a lot of thought in N.'s gift. You couldn't argue that. The question is, were those thoughts had while he was in his right mind? The boy bought me a Snuggie. the pink frosting-colored one. It's incredibly romantic, right? I mean, yards and yards of puke-pink fleece screams sexy.

In case you're worried, I did not react badly. I laughed my butt off. I didn't stop laughing for fifteen minutes.

Because, technically, the boy's intentions were good. He made some really good points. I'm always cold while I sit on the couch writing, reading, watching TV. The color is because the one he bought supports breast cancer research, and he knows how much I love buying products supporting causes if I can. I love 'feely' material. To the boy these are all really great, logical, loving reasons to buy your wife a Snuggie.

And while I would never in a million years categorize a Snuggie as romantic, I got it. So, I laughed. And came up with several nicknames for myself while wearing it, names like "Bubble Gum Gandalf", and "Druid Barbie".

But I didn't tell you this story ONLY because it was funny. I've let you in on it because it's a decent illustration of a great little plot thing called 'misinformation'. Whether it be malicious gossip sent around the countryside to blacken the name of a rival or just a bad case of information starting out meaning one thing, but losing bits and pieces along the way until it means something else and all hades breaks loose, misinformation can be your vehicle to all sorts of plot hijinkery.

My absolute favorite use of misinformation is the version I think of as 'incomplete information', and if you want a good example of one person thinking he or she knows something, but knowing NOTHING, of sitting there, reading along, practically screaming in your head, "Would someone please just tell them they're both right!", because if no one does they are going to ruin their whole lives, read almost any book by Judith McNaught (hey, I don't want to hear any crap about it being a paperback romance novel; the woman can twist like she learned it from Chubbie Checker). I particularly like Almost Heaven. Badass, cruel-when-wounded geniuses are my weakness.

So, think of that the next time you want to make a reader cringe with anticpatory frustration. It's the kind of torture we'll pay you for.

And because, dear reader, I love you and I know you are only laughing WITH me, I give you this (be kind, I beg of you):

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

2010-02-09T06:46:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I realize I probably don't have the kind of readers with money to burn lying around, but I do have the kind of heart that wants to help her friends. If you have some change in your pocket, or one of those jars, you know, the big ones you keep coins in? Count out a little of it and set it aside for the following.

You see that? A community center to help teach writers! You may not be in Utah, but there are a ton of would-be writers who are, people like the bulk of my readers who are in varying stages of reaching for that dream, and this will be their open door.

What is passion, but fire? Art, but beauty?

P.S. And yes, I donated some money, too.

Today's P.S.

2010-02-05T07:42:00.000-08:00

This is just kind of awesome.

Some of the Best Things Begin with 'PL'

2010-02-05T06:25:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: It's almost inevitable I'll "steal" st least one article of my husband's clothing during the day. He's not thrilled with it, but as long as I stay away from his most beloved sweatshirts or whatever he doesn't complain too loudly*. I usually keep it to a tee shirt or his socks, but I sometimes steal his belt (YAY! for "wiry" men!), and I pretty much steal his old Vaan's EVERY DAY because I don't want to dig out my ballet slipper Skechers to pick up the boys from school.

He hates that most of all. Hee.

Some people call it 'planning'. Evil people and book people (not a mutally exclusive or inclusive couple of species) call it plotting. Either way, it means thinking ahead. Two things have brought these things to the forefront of my thoughts (besides, you know, writing a novel).

First, the amazingly upbeat, gracious, and intuitive Jodi Meadows has written a post about the need for authors to challenge characters. If you're writing a book, or think you might one day want to take a crack at writing one, I HIGHLY advise you get over there and bookmark that post. Jodi tackles the 'lesson' in such a way that both visual and practical thinkers alike will be able to take away something valuable from it. I'd describe the post in more detail, but it's better if you just go over there and see for yourself.

Secondly, this morning I was a little off my game getting boys to school, and my brain was assimilating info in weird orders. For one thing, I have my young nephew A. today, and it's been a while since I've had a four-year-old. He falls into that gap between my own three boys, so I was kind of at a loss about what to do with him for a while. I knew the novelty of A's presence would make the boys scatterbrained, too. So, I was rushing around, trying to think ahead.

Turns out I didn't need to try so hard. After A, Ben, and I got back from taking older boys to school, I grabbed my glasses, a bowl of cereal, and pair of socks, and planned to put them all to good use. I reached to put on my glasses, thinking clearly to myself, "I am putting on my glasses, now", but I didn't put on my glasses. some back part of my brain somewhere informed the voluntary action part of my brain, "Hey, wait a minute. We need control of the girl for just a second for maintenance reasons" and that back part instructed my hand to rub my eyes and my nose, and wipe my face. My brain was already thinking ahead. Instead of putting on my glasses only to have to take them back off again, my brain knew the better order was "Rub, rub, wipe, THEN put on glasses". My brain 'overrode' me.

What does this mean about plotting? Is it a cautionary tale against trying too hard? Do we instinctively know all the who's, what's, what's, when's, and why's of storytelling, but we're so focused on 'getting it perfect' we forget we know them. I think sometimes we need to put all our 'parts' in front of ourselves and just take a deep breath. The big picture might come into better focus.

*Also, I think it helps I explained a big part of this clothing theft involves me feeling closer to him while he's at work . . . except the shoes, of course. That's just pure laziness on my part. *wink*

Dude Looks Like a Lady

2010-02-03T12:00:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: Yeah, it's a weird title, but it suits this PN . . . and I like Aerosmith. Okay, so if you don't know this, I refer to my closest beta readers as "My Ladies", because all of them are female. But! I do have male betas. Some of them are even man enough to be a Lady. Hence . . . well, you get it. So, for my babe-alicious boy betas, come on, rock out your frou-frou coffee and get with us. Some of us are even single. *waggles eyebrows suggestively toward Bri*

Also, special note. Kathleen Ortiz is being extremely gracious and hosting a contest: winner gets a Red Marker Deluxe go-over of his or her query letter, which is nothing to look in the mouth. Have a mosey over to Neverending Page Turner, and when you comment, tell her I sent you.

I feel--and this is an entirely arguable point--there are basically three main sorts of realistic bad guys in the realm of, well, anywhere really, but for the purposes of today, we're going with literature. Yes, generally all villains are tagged by their directly opposing the goals of the hero or heroine, but there's a lot to be said in there, and when writing a villain an author has to decide just what sort of animal she's working with, which species is best to set against her conquering hero. Yes, the antagonist can be any subset or combination of the three main types, but here's how I (disclaimer: usually) break down a a rival in any story I come across:

The Sympathetic Villain Yeah, many a romance novel can tell you, just as a hero can be "anti", a villain can have a little somethin' somethin' going for him to make us see where he's coming from. Either he lost the love of his life back in the day, or he really truly believes the hero is in the wrong (although the reader knows this to be untrue), but for whatever reason some little part of us feels bad for this bad guy. It's possible this madman is charming, beautiful, charismatic, or thrilling. Maybe we even kind of-just a little bit-want him to get his way. We definitely hope there's justice for him, too, in the end. Example: Jareth the Goblin King in Labyrinth.
The Unintentional Villain This dude just had the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's not very smart, or attractive, or anything, really. He's usually at a loss, and if he does manage to cause trouble, it's almsost certainly accidental, something that just worked to his advantage, even if he didn't plan it out. He may have been the main henchman to someone with some real E-VILE potential at one point, but Master got blown out of the water somewhere along the way, leaving Igor flailing in his wake, trying to figure out how to get things done. And totally bombing. Example: Wormtail in the Harry Potter series.
The Irredeemable Villain We hate this guy from the get go, and for good reason. We know there isn't a 'good' bone in his body. He's creative, cruel, and unrelenting. He will crush the heroine like the insignifcant bug she is, body, spirit and mind. He would sell his mother to Satan to attain his goals, but not his own soul because he believes himself far too important to let a little thing like Hell impede his plans. Even when he has assured himself the heroine is no longer a threat, he'll still continue to torture her for ever daring to oppose him. It isn't good enough for him to win, he must win AND ruin life for everyone else. Example: Capricorn in Cornelia Funke's Inkheart series, and since he's so fresh in my mind, President Snow in Collins's Hunger Games series.

And there's that. These opinions are brought to you by adjustments to my own Big Baddie, Horace Huckleby, now that I know what his real damage is. He's still a disgusting little toad, true, but now he's a disgusting little toad of a different color.

Papercut

2010-02-02T10:13:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: I am nagging you again. That poor SocialVibe badge to your left has been stuck at 57 minutes for a long time. Do another acitivy, if you don't mind taking three minutes. I think I'd actually rather you do the activity than read this post.

Today, after this post I’m going to write a post about how I see villains. And tension. But you won’t see this post until tomorrow, because I’m telling Blogger not to release it into the wild until then. Yeah, I know; I’m diabolical and crap*, as my friend Matt might say.

But first! An update about what’s going on here in Amethyst is Learning to be a Writer Land.

Top of the list, I have two extra humans to guide through homework and such in the afternoons, bringing my total to four students (and a toddler). The toddler isn’t slacking on needing my attention, though. He’s learning to use a potty, so he requires my attention every fifteen minutes or so. It almost killed me yesterday. Mondays generally have a lot of homework for all four older children, and this one was true to form.

Next, I’ve been reading. A lot. Because when the aforementioned favorite cousin came to visit, we (oh, unwise, unwise we) went into a bookstore (on a side note, if cash is a little tighter, but you have to see to your book thirst, I suggest heading into the Middle Grade section of your bookstore. Most paperbacks are under ten bucks there, and either those MG authors have stepped it up or the world at large has realized people in their early teens aren’t just elementary kids with things budding and sprouting—in other words, not idiots—and there are some really fantastic MG stand-alones and series to choose from). So far I've loved Lisa McMann’s Fade (have a total crush on her character "Cabel"), am having a little trouble getting into Pride and Predjudice and Zombies, not because I don't like it, or it isn't good, but because I am such a cannon loyalist. The book is different, and interesting, sure, but it's not catching me. I also really like Terry Pratchett's A Hat Full of Sky, sequel to his The Wee Free Men.

But. The cake-takers so far have been Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games, and Catching Fire. These books are the first two in a trilogy, and I've been putting off reading them because I knew even before I bought one, after I'd read them, I'd be hit in the face just how much work I have to do on plot, tension points, and cliffhangers. Collins is a pro when it comes to these things. I can't say how surprised I've been while I read the books, because I knew so much going in, but even knowing what would happen I found myself flipping pages like crazy just to get the answers I needed. On the surface it all seems simple, when you describe it. Post-apocalyptic girl, fighting for her life and the lives of her loved ones. Easy, right? Noooo. Not easy, because Collins has made us all wonder just how girl is going to pull it off. We're all pretty sure we know where we're ending up, but getting there is just so amazing.

Anyway, I am once again convicted of my need to think ahead. I, too, am writing a trilogy. I'm studying writers who have totally nailed cliff-hangers, taking notes when I catch my breath, asking myself what about a certain feature or passage makes my brain go, "No! No, don't stop there, I have to know what happens!". Yes, the project feels enormous again. I knew it would. That's okay. I've got time. It's like I tell all those boys while I'm overseeing their homework: I'd rather take a little time and do it right now, than have to waste all that time having to RE-do it because it wasn't right in the first place.

Get ready to hold your breath. I plan on taking it away.

*Okay, so technically Matt would probably not use the word 'crap', but I'm editing his language in this hypothetical situation.

I'm really cold 'cause I ate some ice cream.

2010-01-25T19:35:00.000-08:00

. . . and other truths.

This week:

My favorite came to visit. He left before I wanted to kill him 'cause he's cool like that.
My least favorite 'aunt' is also visiting. Urgh.
I mentally plotted my next scene.
I cried in church . . . again (there is just something about that place).
I went to a bookstore and bought Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Peter and the Starcatchers, Fade, The Hunger Games, A Hat Full of Sky, Graceling, and I already had Catching Fire, because I'm a ninny and accidentally bought it before the first book.

Right up there with "Butt-faced Miscreant" in my book . . .

2010-01-14T14:59:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: I think it's one of the coolest things in the worlds that I'm Twitter/Aspiring Writer friends with a video game developer/programmer/whatever exactly that I wouldn't understand.

I'll admit it. I'd kind of given up. Burn out was approaching nuclear levels and any time I thought of editing this book again--especially an edit this extensive, where practically the entire novel is reimagined--part of me curled up in a little ball and meweled pitiably. I avoided it. I gave myself plenty of highly plausible excuses why I hadn't made any progress, like taking on the care of two extra boys in the afternoons, bringing my total to five between the ages of two and nine (that's four sets of homework, people. Four different math assignments on any given evening!).

I rustily churned out ten, fifteen pages, not really happy with the end products, but at least being able to call it progress. Just enough to say I was working so that nagging little voice didn't get too loud when it chirped at me.

And then I got the flu. You remember my last post. You remember the drugged energy bursts. Did I mention that one of them forced me into reorganizing the entire scene index/timeline? Yes? No? Well, it did. And that, heroes and heroines, was a game changer.

Ever since, I've been editing like mad. I blew through another four scenes yesterday and today, and retweaked others I'd already been over once this time. It's insane how much everything is opening up, how every character seems to be doing exactly what I need him or her to do, and it all feels natural.

As for the title of this post, well, you may have already read this on Twitter (I was really proud of it), but today my girl, my main character and narrator (first person love, y'all!), called someone a bloated wart-sack, and that, to me, is just about as fabulous as when Rory Gilmore called Logan Huntzberger a butt-faced miscreant, which is my favorite insult in the HISTORY of insults.

Ladies and gentleman, I AM BACK!

Things I Shouldn't Do Because I'm the Size of a Twelve-Year-Old

2010-01-09T16:26:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: I like broccoli better than any other veggie. I know, I know, I'm a radical. Also, people seem to either really love my hair or absolutely hate it, and it's kind of surprising, who's on which side of the fence.

Top of the list, give blood. You have to weigh at least one-hundred-and-ten pounds. I've never weighed that outside of being pregnant.

But just after that? Take grown up medications for anything, especially anything of the cold/allergy/sinus variety. Why? Because they make me super-loopy. If you've been one of those extremely kind of helpful people to read past drafts of the first Dionadir novel you likely know there's a scene in which Joss gets the flu hardcore, and you'll remember her mentioning something about looking for the Meaning of Life chillin' in the fridge, a side-effect of her cold medicine high. That detail is based in fact, my own life around the time I was sixteen, actually*. I'd contracted Mono (as had our entire marching band--we'd all shared the same water fountain at practices and our drum major had spread the love around, so to speak) and was having a lot of trouble sleeping because I felt so awful. The doctor I saw put me on ten milligrams of Benedryl before bed every night. Yeah . . . that was an interesting two weeks. I might as well have been dropping acid every night (something I've not actually done, but I'm guessing here) for all the psychedelic shenanigans my brain ran me through. I even remembered to write down some of my thoughts. I think my letters to my boyfriend-at-the-time, Michael, and my friends were probably hilarious and riddled with hidden meanings only a drugged version of me could interpret now.

But you want to know something even sillier? In between bouts of insanely hard sleeping (I go out like you would not believe, or maybe I just don't believe it because normally I'm the lightest of sleepers) I get this . . . I don't know, giggly burst of productive energy (hence this blog post, you know?) and STUFF GETS DONE, BUCKO!

Earlier today I finally sat myself down--after having index carded every scene in the book last night--and physically put them in a really good, sense-making, tension-holding, heart-tugging order. And now I just have to surgery those suckers into a book worth NOT putting down, because my cold-medicined brain is shooting in fourteen different directions and all of them are made of PURE WIN . . .

At least until I pass out again, dead to the world as far as everything else is concerned.

But first! I must conquer a kitchen!

*Though I still maintain my best friend describing her behavior on Robitussin and/or sleep deprivation is the funniest thing I've ever heard. Patrick Swayze and a space so thin a piece of paper wouldn't fit in it were mentioned.

Stealing Bria’s Ideas

2009-12-28T16:02:00.001-08:00

Today (or yesterday? I’m sick, cut me some slack), Bria Quinlin posted a fun little terminology refresher course on her blog, challenging others to correctly match up literary terms (devices, in this instance) with their definitions. I love a challenge, so I accepted, but mayhaps you also love a challenge. I’ll write my own answers near the bottom of this post with a big “SPOILER BLOCKER” image in between, and you can compare your answers to mine, after you’ve gone over to Bria’s and done the quiz yourself.

!!!SPOILER ALERT!!!

All in all, I scored a seventy-six, mixing up E, G, M, X, and F.

When Silence Costs More Than You Have to Spend

2009-12-27T13:19:00.001-08:00

Personal Note: In Golden I compare kissing Ian to the kind of fire that starts with frost, the kind of cold so deep it burns. If you want an idea of what I mean, buy yourself some True Shimmer Peppermint Rush ChapStick and put it on thick. It’s like IcyHot for your lips.

"Love hurts.

But sometimes it's a good hurt,

And I feel like I'm alive.

Love sings,

When it transcends the bad things.

Have a heart, and try me,

Because without love, I won't survive."

--"Love Hurts", by Incubus

I’m a lot of things I don’t like, but the largest of them is ‘chemically unbalanced’. In other words, sometimes the science project that is my brain goes a little askew and suddenly I’m not in control of myself, not really. This often correlates with my body doing various (not just the main one) things boy bodies don’t do. The last twenty-four hours have been bad. I never even saw it coming. One second I was fine, but the next I was suddenly so angry I picked up a figurine angel and flung it onto the ground to break into a hundred pieces. Then I ripped her thin bronze wings off because it wasn’t right for an angel to be that broken. An hour later I was so paralyzed with fear I couldn’t stop staring at a patch of carpet because that was the only way I knew how to keep myself from crumbling into as many pieces as the angel. I didn’t move a centimeter for thirty minutes. When my husband asked me a question, it took me five minutes and a dozen gaped-mouthed tries to to answer him. I was simply too scared to open my lips and wrap my tongue around the words.

Today wasn’t much better. I cried (I’ve perfected the silent sob, thank you) through several bits of church because I was too sad about nothing in particular. The part where I feel like I have the flu is coming. My throat is already scratchy, and I’m exhausted.

It got me thinking; how many other writers have something similar going on with them? They say creative, artistic, dreamer people are more prone to depression, rage, anxiety, etc. I’m not sure why. I’m not sure why my husband, the Vulcan, thinks of feelings the same way he thinks of Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy; they’re there, but it’s your choice whether or not you let them effect your actions. To me, what I feel is just as real, just as physical as a brick wall too tall and too wide to get beyond. The concept of reacting to your feelings is so alien to me I can’t even explain it. Is that why ‘creative’ types suffer from depression more (as they say), because maybe we believe in feelings more strongly? Is it God’s way of balancing us out? We’re strong in our imaginations, but fragile in our hearts? Or at least the parts of our heart connected to our heads? Do we FEEL harder than our more logical counterparts? Or are we just not as strong as them?

In the Nicolas Cage movie, City of Angels, the angel “Seth” asks his human love interest, a pretty doctor named Maggie, what happens when people cry. She gives him some medical rigamarole, but then he answers her, “Maybe... maybe emotion becomes so intense your body just can't contain it. Your mind and your feelings become too powerful... and your body weeps.”

Maybe emotions are more real for some people, more forceful. It’s not that they’re more important than the emotions of others, but more that some people were made to feel them in bigger quantities, but in the end we’re still only human . . . and so our bodies weep.

Ain’t Too Proud to Beg

2009-12-26T17:09:00.001-08:00

Personal Notes: Two things. First, Office 07 still doesn’t consider ‘aint’ a word, which makes me love it more; secondly, I am apparently still a contender for Coolest Wife Ever, because I rather unwittingly bought a snazzy presale copy of my husband’s new video game (DragonAge: Origins), which means it has a crap-ton of cool XBoxLive downloads and whatnot.

Meanwhile, I will not be boring you with tales of holiday frivolity (unless of course you ask to hear about the ruined potatoes, the Guitar Hero: World Tour marathon, or the tragedy of my relatives not knowing anything about ‘80’s music), but for right now, I’d really like you to scope out the sidebar to your left. Down . . . down . . . there! That' purplish, bluish rectangle that says something about being powered by SocialVibe. You know how much I support To Write Love On Her Arms, and now you can help, and it just takes a few minutes. This time of year is the toughest time for som, but you can lend them your shoulder, your heart in a way.

Take a few minutes spamming your various social networks with these free, usually one-question doohoockies. I mean seriously, how many of you already have those annoying widgety things on Facebook or MySpace with zoos or farms or whatnot? This is just as simple and no more intrusive than those dealies, only for every “quiz” you answer the sponsoring company of said '”quiz” donates money to the organization of choice. So far, I’ve only seen to TWLOHA, but I know I saw a link for Invisible Children, too. Have you SEEN what that’s about? It’s mind-blowing. Seriously, GOOGLE IT.

And on that note I leave you, sitting there in front of your keyboard . . . with your conscience, and your five minutes to kill.

A Fluff Post OR “Ooo, pretty!”

2009-12-20T20:34:00.001-08:00

Personal Notes: One of my lovely little betas sang a solo with the church choir today, and it made me super proud! Awesomoso, B!

So, last night, while my hair was going from faded stop-sign-red to fresh stop-sign-red, I killed time by checking out this Sunday’s secrets at PostSecret. At the bottom of the page there was a YouTube video; The All-American Rejects had remixed their video for “Dirty Little Secret” (a song known to be on Ian’s playlist) to work with a PostSecret theme.

Anyone can tell you, I can love a band and have no clue what any of its members look like. It’s totally common for me. Comes from liking so many different kinds of music, I think. Anyway, the point is, I had never seen a photo of Tyson Ritter, the frontman for AAR before this little video. But the second I looked at that guy, singing that song with that cocky little expression, his dark, wavy hair, and his ice-blue ice, I knew I was looking at IAN. You want to know exactly what Ian looks like? Here:

Going on Thirty

2009-12-19T06:01:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: My husband’s pretty freakin’ awesome. Just sayin’. Also, I finally got around to organizing all my playlists by the character(s) each song applies to. I had all my very favorites kind of grouped together for a little while, and now they’re in different lists. I told N. it was like sending off my babies to different foster homes. He laughed at me and called me weird. Because he knows he’s cute enough to get away with it.

I’ve decided my writing style is a lot like my hair; there’s a lot of it, but it’s very long and thin, and it takes many, many steps to get it anywhere near manageable. Now, with my hair, this means anywhere from two to four hours (are we coloring it, because if we are . . . well, you know). With a book, my experience is that it takes closer to two years. I’m not sure this will always be the case; I dealt with quite a learning curve for the first one. The point is:

Step One: Grow it. Either several inches or several thousand words, this part takes a large chunk of your time. For some people it’s not the step with the longest span, but it can be. I can’t get my hair to grow quickly to save my life, but I can pound out 135K words in two and a half months.

Step Two: Wash it. Get all the yuck out of it. Scrub it for hairspray, over-used phrases, conditioner build-up, adverbs, oils, and typos.

Step Three: Rinse and repeat. Once, for you Michael Kelso fans.

Step Four: if you’re not coloring, Condition. Put a good timed repair creme on there and wait. Put your manuscript in a safe, child-proof, moisture-proof, plagiarism-proof drawer and wait. You’ll gain softness. You’ll gain subtlety.

Step Four B. If you are coloring (*ahem* picture books), do that first, and then move on to Step Four.

Step Five: Cut. Everyone needs at least a little trim to kill split ends, or perhaps split infinitives. Besides, whatever you had before Step Four, probably a good quarter (inch?) of it looks ripe for the shearing. Be bold. You could find just the right look, the right book, for you under there somewhere.

Step Six: Apply heat. Curling iron, flattening wand, crimper, or just a blow-out, you still need to go back and smooth out all those rough edges. Also, this is your chance to really make your style, the verve that’s uniquely you, shine through. Take it to the max!

Step Seven: The Consult. Call up your most honest, most loyal friend (critique group), and have them come over and check out the results. They will tell you if you have lost your ever-loving mind. Listen to them; they love you, and want what’s best for you(r book), just like you do.

Step Eight*: Assuming you’ve gotten the thumbs-up from your pals, add in whatever styling products you need to keep that hot mess in its hot messiness. You want to SAVE, SAVE, SAVE the end result. Sometimes this takes more than one gel, spray, mouse, act of nuclear illegality. For me, it takes a minimum of four (2 Hard drives, one flash drive, and an email record—Or mousse, spray, prayer, and a local de-humidifier).

And that’s why writing a book is like messing with my hair.

*Step Eight should actually be broken up into many fragments over the course of the entire proposition. As in, EVERY FIVE SECONDS.

Fallen From Grace

2009-12-18T07:28:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: Things I have to bar myself or I will cry:

Country music
Holiday commercials featuring family reunions
Anything dramatic or emotional involving fathers*
Or small children/babies being scared or hurt
My church choir, especially during Christmas

Seriously, I just can’t handle those things without bawling my eyes out. I’ve started keeping Kleenex in my purse Just For Choir Performances.

So, for once the title is kind of apropos of nothing, except that it’s a line from a song playing right that moment, and I have been kind of lax in posting. Shall we remedy that for today?

I told Blogger to make sure to publish this post on December the 18th. This year December the 18th is a Friday. It was also a Friday when I was thirteen. Quick, remember being thirteen, or this won’t be quite as potent!

I rocked all kinds of upheavals the year I was thirteen, the biggest perhaps being The Move. Now my family had never been one to really put down roots anywhere; we moved at least once a year, and actually I never went to a single school two years in a row until I attended M. Elem. for fourth, fifth, and most of sixth grade. That was a good year, almost. Finally had a BEST friend, had a cute little puppy love boyfriend (Hi, Jensey and Eric, of you’re reading this!). And then.

My mom remarried. Yup. And we moved. Not just a town away. No. We moved from our very small town in lower Missouri to a very small town in Alabama. Myself, two, erm, larger adults, and an infant, stuffed into the cab of a sixties model Ford pickup truck, with a horse-trailer full of our possessions attached.

When I was thirteen, it felt like losing everything important in the whole world. Thirteen-year-old me is still holding a grudge. Thirteen-year-old me cried for every waking moment of the fifteen hour drive. Darn straight, I did.

But, eventually, I calmed down. A pair of gorgeous blue eyes may have had something to do with it. But that’s only the half of it. The eyes are what made me look at him, but it was the I.Q. that made me fall head-over-heels in first real love with him.

You think I’m kidding, or foolish. Are you remembering being thirteen? Did you forget? Sure, physically, in a more adult way the big pre-husband, teenage love was more cataclysmic, but that first love, it left its mark, too.

At thirteen, I hadn’t yet had my first kiss, hadn’t yet figured out that I should totally want to be kissing someone, because I was still clinging to the idea that shoving your tongue in someone else’s mouth was disgusting (don’t worry; I am very much over that misconception. One day when I was FOURteen, Jimmy K. helped realize my fallacy there). Anyway, the most serious thing Gorgeous Eyes-Q and I ever did was hold hands once or twice. And part of me really regrets that, because I can romanticize the Hades out of most of my previous relationships. Part of me still wishes she knew how GEQ kisses. Which is a kind of a tangent, sorry.

The point is, that was my first real love, and my first real heartbreak, and even though we’re friends now and love each other as such, I still remember December 18th, 1992, the last day of school before Christmas break.

Because that was the first time he told me he loved me and asked me officially to be his girlfriend. I remember how hard my pulse slammed into my veins, the enormous rush of adrenaline and endorphins. Oh, man. I’m not sure anything has ever felt that same kind of amazing before or since. Sure, my first kiss was pretty awesome (thank you, Jimmy; I’ll always be grateful), and a few years later, when I fell into real, grown up love for the first time I was changed, different forever, and of course married love is the inexplicable phenomena and all . . .

But on December 18th I am always thirteen again, and I am horribly in love with you.

Hey, 53 degrees IS cold.

2009-12-10T06:06:00.001-08:00

You have no idea how many blog drafts I have in my folder. I just haven’t published any of them.

Why Jack Nicholson's Wrong About Me

2009-12-07T11:51:00.001-08:00

Personal Note: I have a Tsunami of a headache, and we've completely run out of any sort of Tylenol/Advil/Excedrin/Aspirin for adults. You don't want to know what I ingested to make it go away, but suffice to say the words 'grape flavor' were involved and there was some chewing required.

I took a little blogging break after NaBloPoMo because first, I'm lazy like that, and secondly, it's the holidays; things are all over the place, including my abilities to create a post-worthy, informative blog concept.

Jack, however, is all over this like white on rice.

As you may have guessed, today I'll be writing about truth, and again, on the heels of a fellowess writer also writing on the same subject (maybe there's like a spore in the air and all the blogging writers breathe it in at the same time? I dunno, but if so, I hope they're the cute little fuzzy ones like that thing with the bow on its head in Horton Hears a Who).

Anyway, TEH TROOTH! Ize handelz it!

When you've got your hands deep into gut-rearranging revisions you have a lot of little epiphanies (or at least I hope you do, because otherwise you're basically just rearranging crap . . . pun and disgusting feces reference intended), and sometimes these epiphanies will take a toll on your ego. I don't know if you've noticed, but a writer's ego is a sort of an oxymoron incarnate. On one hand, it is the most delicate, fragile thing, so killing it off should be pretty easy, but on the other it's so vast and enormous you can't ever take it out entirely. It makes me think of those under-ground forests that only look like separate and individual trees, but really is one great big boss fight of a plant. That, my sweet little readers, is a writer's ego.

And that's part of what's on the line when you revise, because sometimes you have to suck it up and admit to yourself a reaction here or a scene there was--le gasp!--wrong. Because admitting you have a problem is the first step in recovery (unless your problem is loss of electronic documents into the ether of extensional limbo, in which case you're just out of luck, because I don't care what Microsoft Word tells you, you're not recovering anything).

The truth I'm handling is that I am sometimes wrong. I sometimes make someone fictional do something, be something, say something they never would in, uh, "real" life. More often than not the imaginary friend manages to get my attention and correct my misconceptions, but sometimes it take a meat-grinder and some scary music to make me see reason. I'm actually having a lot of fun with the mistakes I'm finding this go around, because not only is correcting them making the story ring truer, but it's clarifying some things in later books I was really fuzzy on, because I couldn't make out how to get from Point B to Point C with the path between Points A and B so fuzzy and sort of Plot-blocking me.

So, short moral: Be okay with being wrong. Accept it's going to happen, it isn't as personal as you think, and it means you have the chance to be RIGHT in the future. And seriously, who doesn't absolutely LOVE being right? I mean, dude, come on.
************************************************************************************

Because there are some things you believe with your heart.

2009-12-01T15:01:00.000-08:00

I asked my eight-year-old son, "Do you understand what this video means?"

He said, "Yes."

I said, "Tell me."

"It means girls can do a lot."

Yeah, that's what it means, baby.

http://the girleffect.org

I remember the sound of your November. . .

2009-11-30T15:26:00.000-08:00

It's the last day of NaBloPoMo, guys. Until later, when I have two specific photos to post, this is the placeholder.

"Winter"
by Joshua Radin

I should know
Who I am by now
I walk
The record stands somehow
Thinking of winter
Your name is the splinter inside me
While I wait

And I remember the sound
Of your November downtown
And I remember the truth
A warm December with you
But I don't have to make this mistake
And I don't have to stay this way
If only I would wait

The walk has all been cleared by now
Your voice is all I hear somehow
Calling out Winter
Your voice is the splinter inside me
While I wait

I remember the sound
Of your November downtown
And I remember the truth
A warm December with you
But I don't have to make this mistake
And I don't have to stay this way
If only I would wait

I could have lost myself
In rough blue waters in your eyes
And I miss you still

I remember the sound
Of your November downtown
And I remember the truth
A warm December with you

But I don't have to make this mistake
And I don't have to stay this way
If only I would wait

This is Not an Uplifting Post--Warned

2009-11-29T17:44:00.000-08:00

I'm blessed. I'm insanely, unfairly blessed. I have a strong, supportive husband, three beautiful sons, and a growing writing career. I'm also manic, the survivor of a father who committed suicide 26 years ago, and a survivor of my own attempts.Right now I'm happy. I know how blessed I am, and how much I deserve the love of my family.

Last night my sister called me to ask if I knew why every police officer in our small Alabama town was parked at a local pharmacy (my husband is a local firefighter, hers a local police officer, but both were working). I didn't.

This morning at church, I learned there had been an attempted homicide/successful suicide a block from my house. A man had chased his wife all around town, had fired at her, and when she ran into the drug store for refuge, he had gone to the back of the building and turned the gun on himself.

Not long after having last night's commotion at the pharmacy explained we heard even more saddening news; this morning another local man--for whatever reason, many of which I can imagine--took his life, leaving behind two small daughters.

Two suicides in a tiny Southern community, in little over twelve hours. I can't accurately guess what led to those points in those lives, but I cried for them to have fallen there. I cried for the woman, who must have been both terrified and at a loss, and I cried for the daughters, because I know what that feels like.

But mostly, I cried for the men.

They say suicide rates leap during the holiday season because people feel so much more alone and unloved than at other times of year, that the 'unattainable' taunt of love and hope is too much to bear. I would like to remind readers, both those who suffer from emotional troubles, and those who love them, this is the time to hold your loved ones close, to make sure they know how amazing and important they are to you, and how willing you are to help them with whatever needs they have.

Now, when fictional holiday cheer threatens to overwhelm, is the time to embody real hope.

I might be at my best when I'm bossing someone around.

2009-11-28T11:55:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: I routinely horrify my dryer.

Getting over heartbreak, and in particular first heartbreak, is like having the flu (stick with me, I promise I'm going somewhere with it). So, you're (heart)sick, and you need medicine to help you get better. Your doctor prescribes an antibiotic, and he tells you to make sure you take it all, no matter what. You get home, your mom makes you hot Jasmine tea with honey and lemon (or she SHOULD), and you basically become a cave-dweller under your sheets, fighting off all the fluids at least someone is trying to force down you. You take your antibiotic religiously because you feel like complete dog poo and you're willing to do anything to make that stop.

You continue this on Day Two and Day Three... But then, Day Four. On day four you actually feel a lot better. You're still pretty weak and you can only eat tiny little portions, but hey! You think, "I'm over the touch part, in the home stretch!" so maybe you forget to take your antibiotic at breakfast and lunch. But you're not worried, it's only a little slip-up, and it can't do much damage, right? I mean, it's only ONE TIME! You messed up ONCE, no big.

By Day Five you feel great again. In fact, your are some serious restless and you can't wait to go out with your friends and find out what all you missed. Annnnnd, you totally forget your antibiotic at home, just like you do for the next two days. After that, it's too easy to say, "Hey, I'm healed, no point driving myself nuts having to schedule meds."

But what's happening inside your body is WAR. The virus you have isn't dead. It's just playing dead so you won't notice it running around, learning the tricks to get AROUND your freakin' antibiotic, because YOU gave it a break. You closed your mouth and opened the floodgates, because now that virus is in HYPER DRIVE. Survival of the fittest, baby, and your already-weakened immune system is not up for this crap.

Your antibiotic is called Time. I'm pretty sure your HMO covers it. Take all your medicine. It's a very, very nasty bug, love.

I am totally adoring this trend . . .

2009-11-27T14:18:00.001-08:00

Personal Note: We're going to a family bonfire (er, I mean a bonfire hosted by family, not one where we roast our relatives) and there will be various foods cooking on sticks, old tool style. As you might guess, there will be S'mores. I'm not big on S'mores. For one thing, I'm kind of a DO NOT MIX THE FOODS variety of OCD, and secondly, the concept of a square millimeter of my skin getting *shivers* sticky for a nanosecond freaks me out like you would not believe. Adhesives are a personal Hell, folks. Anyway, as irony would have it, I was tapped to bring along the fixin's for the S'mores. I got all the regular stuff, and then, because I'm a wild and crazy guy (I need a Steve Martin here), I bought a large bar of Hershey's Cookies-n-Creme chocolate, to experiment with. I'll let you know how that turns out.

And now, for the main feature of this blog post. I know I've not been writing a lot of helpful blogs right now, but I'm claiming holiday chaos. I'm not doing a lot of revision or other writing, either, because I know myself; if I try and interruption after interruption were to dog me I would eventually try to kill someone. And I love all the people I live with. I did not give birth to three of them only to take their lives back in a homicidal rage X number of years later.

So, I've been posting rather egoscentric, fluff posts (you're probably getting another one tomorrow, just forewarning, because my betas, friends, and readers have their own opinions of who would make good Dionadir characters, and I am entirely pro-supporting-reader-insight). I do plan on writing more thoughtful posts by the start of next week, promise. But for today, as with yesterday, I give you this kind of awesome bit if 'Yay! For me!" news.

This morning my husband surprised me buy going to Dell.com and sitting me down to pick and choose the features I wanted for my Christmas present, a new Dell Netbook (Don't worry, Bales; I made absolutely sure it came with the newest edition of Microsoft Office, and Windows 7, so I'll still have SpellCheck, which we know is something I desperately depend on). N. even paid a little more so I could have the Product (Red) colored one. You guys know how I feel about supporting charities whenever financially possible, and since that shade of red is my favorite (hello, look at my hair!) it's a Double Bonus, right. Anyway, it'll look like this:

It won't come in for anywhere between one and two weeks, but it finally sort of sank in I'd have a computer all my own, just for my work. That's what N. said. It's a gift to show his faith in my writing and how much he supports my dreams. And now I think I'm gonna cry.

;)

To Steal an Exclamation . . .

2009-11-26T08:41:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: Um, Happy Thanksgiving! May your families forget all the grudges for the day, and you have enough turkey to knock you all out, if they don't.

OHMYAPOSTROPHES!!!

The fabulous, probably-doesn't-think-highly-enough-of-herself Brianne Heavy has written a couple of tunes; the first, "Guardian", is inspired the first Dionadir novel, Silver, and the harder second is an untitled anthem for the trology's very own tortured bad boy, Ian.

GO. LISTEN. TO. THEM.

Photog Blog Part Deux

2009-11-25T11:45:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: I just got Google Wave, have no idea what to do with it, and I need to make some mach-n-cheese, while I blog here. BEAR WITH THE NEOPHYTE!!

In the role of Drew Christian:

Logan Lerman*****Thomas Dekker

In the role of Melusine:

Saffron Burrows****Lena Heady

In the role of Delia Leighton:

******Cassie Steele**********Elisabeth Moss*****Olivia Thirlby****

In the role of Charles:

Andre Braugher

In the role of Cassandra Leighton:

******Ashley Benson*******

In the role of Jack Campbell:

****Anton Yelchin****

In the role of Matthias Locke:

*William Mosley*

In the role of Victor Solis:

****Jonathan Cake****

In the role of the 'mystery rescuer/Ian Smarrito:

****Matt Lanter****

In the role of Horace Huckleby:

***Rick Hoffman***

You'll notice the absence of Jules. She and Sebastien are the only ones I can't find the right actors for. And now, after all that posting and resizing I'm finished for today. Woohoo!

Photog Blog

2009-11-24T06:00:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: At the bottom of the post today, due to its overwhelming cuteness, and the pixel blitz this blog is hosting today. Also, I have to post today, so it looks like things are rocking in two parts.

I'm not quite as computer savvy as I'd like to be. I'm a total internet junkie, one of those people who either keeps her email open in the back tab of her browser, or checks it thirty times a day, and I love the social networking, etc., but the programming aspect? Well, let's just say I wish I were more Geek Chic (my husband is; I married an adorkable). I have friends who would know what they were doing if I asked them to webmaster something for me, they just won't be asking me to lend my expertise, because I would break something (hey, there is power in knowing your limitation, too).

But you know what I can do? I can copy, resize, and post a few dozen pictures of people I think might be good fits for playing characters from the Dionadir trilogy . . . and yes, I know how egotistical that kind of sounds, but trust me, every writer I've ever know has tried to find an actor who embodies their character. It's not just me. All you writers, quit ducking and running. Own your arrogance.

In the role of Jocelyn Oliviero:

Margarita Levieva********Brooke Nevin*********Jessy Schram*******Kara's sketch of Joss

In the role of Sebastien Solis:

Kara's sketch of Sebastien for ref.

In the role of Tristan Solis:

*****Grant Alan***************Travis Van Winkle*********Christopher Egan

In the role of Bronwyn Solis:

****Deborah Ann Woll*************Zoe Boyle*****FeliceFawn, Aleksa*********Molly C. Quinn

I'm Sorry, I'm Stealing My Husband's Man Card Today

2009-11-23T05:59:00.000-08:00

Cheerios are a Peaceful Cereal

2009-11-22T06:05:00.000-08:00

I haven't a had a bowl, yet. I'm kind of starving. But it's okay, because I know where I keep the breakfast food.

The Holidays are a questionable time to start major revisions. "Go ahead and put them aside until all the triptophan and Santa cookies are out of your system," you suggest, and normally I'd agree with you. Hades, it might even be good from a "process" stand-point, give me that edge of a little more objectivity when I tackle it. But the this is, there's a ton of stuff to change, and even though I've written quite a bit of it down, shared with other people, using them as human flash drives, and even organized a rough timeline/changes synopsis. And yet, I'm still worried I'll forget it all. I'll forget the "why?" of a lot of it, as in why someone does what they do, or why something unfolds the way it does. If you didn't gather yet, the "why" of things is second only to well-developed characters to me. So, it's important.

*sigh*

When I buckle in (I do have a family to take care of/hang out with), it seems to be working out, though, so there's goodness in that. And I'm okay knowing it will take at least two, possibly three drafts, like writing a whole new book (my ego smarts at that a little, but the rest of me has sucked it up).

Okay, I need my coffee and other sustenence. We can't all be only Maxwell House's slave.

The Pimp and the Proper

2009-11-21T14:17:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: Outside of books, I am very hard to buy presents for. Not only am I one of those people who A. would rather have many smaller/moderate-sized presents than one big one, and B. would rather get nothing if it's not exactly what I wanted, but it took at least five years of gift therapy to train me not to have a panic attack when opening presents. I was always afraid of letting down the giver. You think I'm bad about it now? You should have seen me from years 16 to 20, when I was dating him.

So, if you look at us, my husband and I are obvious opposites. I'm colorful and chaotic and so obviously full of "look at me!" flair. N. is very laid back and kind of "everything I buy is black, brown, or white". It's been ten years, but I've finally introduced some color into his wardrobe.

Anyway, a random person on the street would probably look at us and sort of boggle. How? And then they would probably guess someone as traditionalist-looking as him would only be with someone as frenetic-looking as me for one reason. Yes, that one.

But I'm here to tell you, it is NOT SO. When it comes to love and privacy, I'm a closed book.

Which makes you consider surface people vs. under-the-surface people. One of the things I have to re-examine during this rewrite is "What are my main characters like on the surface?" vs "What are they like underneath that?" It kinda of comes down to motivation, one of my favorite subjects. But it also comes down to inherent differences like Boy vs. Girl.

Take for instance television shows. I'll admit it, I'm a sucker for just about anything that has a song and dance number in it, and that includes Fox's new hit show, Glee. Frankly, I don't really care about the characters (a first), but it's a show where people sing every week, awesome! N., has a slightly different view of it. He's thinks it's corny, and he openly mocks the shallow stupidity of the plotlines.

For you rare guys out there reading, ask yourself, "How do I react when someone I care about doesn't like/makes fun of/puts down something I like?" The answer is probably something like, I shrug my shoulders and move on two seconds later.

Not a girl. A girl will take your insulting the object personally. You are attacking something she takes pleasure in, therefore, you are attacking her. Whatever you say about it you're saying about her. Maybe this is some sort of weirdo, twisted, object-based maternal instinct to protect the things we care for, but that's how we roll.

It's not Mars and Venus. It's not even Manhattan and New Orleans. It's not The Rules (Gah, remember that?!? ACK!) but it's something to think about the next time you send your characters out on a date and the guy has some wise-crack remark to make . . . then again, if your chick is feisty and has a snark or two rolling from between her lips, that's okay. He'll get over it by the next paragraph. *snort*

In Which I AssUMe a lot and hope I don't bruise anyone's butt.

2009-11-20T18:08:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: A lot of things that wake up other people make me sleepy. Showers. Eating. Not wearing my glasses (my eyes don't want to focus, so they keep telling me I'm tired so I'll close them. Also, Dayquil just makes me want to puke, and doesn't do jack for preventing drowsiness.

In lieu of a real post, I'm telling you about four songs I just discovered and love, to act as a place holder until I get my act together and write a real post.

1. "One in a Million" by Monty Are I. Brianne just told me about this one today and I liked it right away. She's right; it totally suits the new 'entitled, arrogant' thing Sebastien's rocking on the surface.

2. "The Sound of Settling" by Death Cab for Cutie. *shrugs* Just like it.

3. "Rooftops" by LostProphets, a song that may sort of wrap up the entirety of the big theme for book three of the Dionadir trilogy. It's rather . . . revolutionary. I am 85 per cent decided I'll try to use a section of it in the epigraph.

4. "Breaking" by Anberlin. The very first time I heard this song (day before yesterday?) a character butted into my head and would not leave me alone. I've got a query blurb, title, and first line, all amazing. I'm not posting them here because frankly, um, I'm afraid someone random will steal them*. That's how much I love them.

*Not you, of course, loyal readers. I'd never mean you.

*****

The Suck Stops Here OR Inspired by a Teacher

2009-11-19T06:51:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: I was almost a teacher, in the traditional sense. It's true; if I hadn't taken a semester off school to plan my wedding and prepare for transferring colleges (which I was doing before I knew I was getting married, just to make that clear), and then I hadn't found out three weeks after the wedding I was two weeks pregnant with Gabriel, I would have gone on to finish my degree in education. My grandfather was a teacher, so besides having a natural affinity for it, there was that added bonus of making him especially proud, a little nod of respect in his direction.

But . . . I'm not a teacher, as in one who goes to an education institute with a lesson plan book, and tries to carve what's in it into the heads of non-adults. Some may argue that I'm my children's first teacher, or my readers' teacher, but the truth is, "teaching" isn't what novelists are generally paid to to. We're paid to entertain, to illicit emotional responses, not help you memorize your times tables (I only know up to my tens--stupid math *grumble, grumble).

My job as a writer is to imagine the intensities of life, but its heartbreaks are small and insular, and at the end of the day, only my own. When there's grief in my working life, it belongs only to me, or possibly a few fictional people. It doesn't affect others in some negative way. Rejection is personal. Tragedy is empathetic, but easily set aside, because it's of the 'make-believe' variety. Failure doesn't fail anyone else, and if I give into it, it is always, always my fault, not a result of the impossible restrictions put on me by some higher authority. I have all control over the quality of results my efforts produce. If I do the work, I'll reap the reward.

In my personal life, I'm insanely blessed. I married into the most amazing family, and they all live within fifteen minutes of my house. My husband is the perfect compliment to my needy, anxious personality. He's always telling me to "Just breathe". He's no nonsense, and logical to a fault. I've probably referred to him as a Vulcan on more than one occasion. My sons are all amazing kids, beautiful and typical, but also huge-hearted. I get to stay home and be here for them, because my husband makes enough money on his own. Even though I could sometimes scream, that's amazing in this economy.

So why the Hades am I whining about the opportunity to make a mess better? Why am I complaining about being given enviable guidance on the road to my own dreams, especially when all I have to do it TAKE IT? I don't have to sit by and watch other people lose themselves in the crush of reality, knowing there's nothing I can do about it. I have freedom.

My best friend does not.

It looks like an episode of PopUp Video in My Head.

2009-11-18T08:20:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: Last night I read another chapter of New Moon to my husband, but before I closed the book I saw the title to the next chapter. It was "Paris", and since I couldn't remember anyone going to France I wracked my brain trying to remember WHY it was called Paris. "Oh, riiiight," my brain said. "From Romeo and Juliet." And from there my brain went to Baz Luhrman's version, Romeo + Juliet in which Paul Rudd played Paris, and as almost always, when I thought of Paul Rudd I thought of my favorite role of his, as academic snob former-stepbrother, Josh, in Clueless. Clueless is based on Jane Austen's Emma if you didn't know. So, there you have it, the way my mind leaps from thing to thing.

I don't know if you heard (maybe on Twitter, or dA, or Facebook, or MySpace, because I'm pretty sure I told EVERYONE), but I'm changing the book. Again. But I'm not just changing the ending or the beginning, or cutting/adding scenes. The most recent rejection I got shed some really helpful light on weaknesses throughout the book . . . like the fact that it didn't make a whole lot of sense my main character's parents were dead. I know this character, and the rejecting agent was right; she's not a character mired in grief. So, guess what? I have to resurrect some people. Secondly, um, there's not a lot in the way of the heroine and her hero getting together, and frankly now that I've thought about it, the heroine probably wouldn't stand the hero for a good long time, until she got to know him beyond his entitled, know-it-all surface. Sparks of a different variety are to be expected.

But it's more than that. It's asking yourself what the underlying point is in this book, what moral is this story supposed to tell the reader. The old overall theme was shallow and bland. Granted, I do believe love can kick anything's butt, but 'anything' is a very general term. You know what isn't? Bigotry. "Bigot" is defined as 'a person who is intolerant of or takes offense to the opinions, lifestyles or identities differing from his or her own'. In my book (both literally and figuratively) it's also synonymous with "stupid".

I realised all the pieces were there for this part of my belief system to come through, and without preaching or bashing readers over the head with the message. There are outsider characters, forced away by societal norms. Outsider characters who choose a more diverse culture. Characters who feel threatened by these outsiders. Within this sub-culture I've created, bigotry flourishes. Against "normal humans", against "different and outcast", against anyone who doesn't believe there's anything wrong with variety. I mean, yeah, too much of anything, including variety, is dangerous, but wisdom's the watchword, folks.

So, inside my head there are these sort of helium-infused, free-floating tattoos of text on the air, and they drift above me, here and there, waiting (somewhat impatiently) for their turn while I go line-by-painstaking-line through another of their compatriots, making the alterations needed.

I am absolutely terrified, but a very wise woman told me yesterday, and I quote, "And *every* time I've had a major aha moment, it's on the heels of absolute despair that I'll ever think of something." That's the line I keep going back to, because I know great things have happened for this writer (hello, her agent is the Steven Tyler of agents), and I know greater still things will happen for her. So, if she's gone through this rigamarole, survived, and come out of it with a better novel to offer each time, I should believe I can do it.

Smash

2009-11-17T10:48:00.001-08:00

I have to break SILVER again, so this may be all you get out of me today.

Today's P.S.

2009-11-16T12:37:00.000-08:00

If you want a chance at some new reads, head over to Suzie Townsend's blog because she is rocking the contests right now.

Items up for grabs:

Kelly Gay's A Better Part of Darkness
Mindful Musing's Shiver
Debut offerings over at Ash Elizabeth's blog
Some Nancy Holder books
Hush, Hush and Fallen

Go to Suzie's blog for details.

How My Jeans Are a Holy Commitment

2009-11-16T11:14:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: I won't tell my husband I'm wearing his Gamer shirt if you won't. And I promise not to spill coffee on it.

So, Sunday morning my husband and I are getting ready for church, and usually that means some sort of skirt/dress or nice pants for me, but that morning I'm digging through my closet for a pair of jeans and a comfy sweater. The following conversation occurs:

Me: In case you're wondering, yes, I'm wearing these to church.
N.: Okay . . .
Me: I've got children's church today. God and I have an understanding. I'll cram as much of His love into those little heads as I can, as long as I can do it from the comfort of my Levi's.
N.: Well, in the Bible it says something about preparing yourself to be in the presence of the Lord* . . . "
Me: Well, I might have to chase them . . .
N.[laughing]: Ah, hence the jeans.
Me: Exactly.

This got me thinking about how much I love my jeans, and how I will wear them until they are D-E-A-D, dead, because I love them so much. I'm like that with lots of stuff I love. In college I actually put together a 4by6 FOOT poster board type thing and collaged the Hades out of it with things to represent all the things I loved. And then I threw a big party and ambushed all my closest friends at the door, insisting they go through their purses and wallets, and pick something to add to the collage. I wrote to out-of-state friends and had them mail stuff. I kept the thing through three moves and for six years. After that it had disintegrated beyond moving again. And you know what? I MISS IT. I miss that big poster collage of the things and people I love (in fact, maybe I need to make a new one. Be on the lookout for--fairly flat--stuff to send me, if I do, because I love you people, too, and I'd want you in on it).

When writing, I'm just as much of a pack rat. I write way too much in my first drafts. With Silver the first draft was more than TWICE the word count** of the final product. Even last week I shaved another 5K off the manuscript, a large part of it a scene--some of you know it as the 'temptation circus' scene--I have always loved, but it had to go. It was a speed bump, and great as it was it just didn't belong anywhere in that book. I couldn't fit it anywhere, which royally bit, as far as I was concerned.

But I didn't delete it, which is where the moral comes into this whole thing. The scene was like my jeans; perfectly broken in, comfortable, made me smile. I couldn't just trash it, even though there was a huge grin-like rip under the right rear pocket, which invariably showed off my Grumpy Bear Underoos. Even though I'd gotten paint on the thighs, and the hems had kind of shrunk a little. I couldn't get rid of it. I loved it too much. Even after I finally surrendered to the truth of it never fitting in that book, I gently copied-and-pasted it into an 'outtakes' file. You know, just in case.

And lo and behold, what happened when I let go? The scene--albeit, divided into two parts like a pair of cut-offs--settled into the places where it belonged as if it always had, in the second Dionadir novel, Golden.

So here's this. Don't mourn the scenes you love but have to cut. It may just be a case of reincarnation. Make them a nice electronic coffin and wait to see what happens.

In other news, look at the new pretty thing I'm a part of! Especially if the words "young adult" feature prominently anywhere in your life.

*And now no one can figure out what the Hades he was referencing, not even my amazing pastor/dad-in-law. *laughs*

**Because when you're ready to get serious, agents/editors are interested in knowing your word count, not page count. Page counts are relative, depending on formatting, whereas word count in concrete. Just a little FYI for my young ladies.

There was this Dodo. It Went That Way--->

2009-11-15T08:59:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure I could ever be perky as either Lorelai or Rory Gilmore, even though I adore them to bits. I realize this morning (as I was waking up, so possibly fear) I'm more of a Lane Kim. I am totally cool with that.

As a little girl I was truly, madly, deeply in love with sugar. I even remember one occasion when three of my cousins and I stayed up till after all the adults had crashed, then all four of us snuck down to the kitchen and had ourselves a brown sugar extravaganza. I was probably around six or seven. Just imagine it, dozens of miniature Barbie teacups and containers, carefully packed with a very tanned version of sugarcane, and spirited away to be consumed amongst shushed giggles.

I also didn't consider something "dessert" unless it had 80 percent of its calories from something over-refined and under-recommended. People tried to tell me fruit and nuts were sweet, but I was pretty sure those people were herbally influenced, and therefore didn't know what they were talking about.

It's still true as an official grown-up I'm the the junk food junkie/sugar-toothed one between my husband and myself. It's one of the ways I know I'm actually thirty, not 20, like the mirror might have me believe. But, I've learned the subtlety of sweetness. I can put one of the hard-won pecans* from the tree in our back yard and distinguish all the flavors, including sweet, as my tongue runs through them.

I have also learned (though in no way mastered) the sweetness of subtlety. See what I did there, with the word swapping? I'm realizing presentation is at least half of what makes a good story worth hearing. It's not enough just to take all your nifty facts and figures out there, with a neon sign blinking, "This is a PLOT POINT! Revel in the genius/tragedy/sneakiness of it!" It's not enough to know your story, or novel, or whatever. You have to know it well enough to know just how to tell it. Or sell it, as the case may be.

It's a fine line, one I need a lot more practice at. My writing is a lot like my cooking, I think; anybody'll tell you the food I put in front of them is usually pretty nom-worthy (I have a tendency to ignore or eye ball measurements, so sometimes my experiments fail, another way my writing and cooking are alike), but there's been some Devine intervention involved if the food doesn't look like something that came out the waste end of a nuclear reactor. Hey, I'm keeping it real here, people.

So, kiddos, question for today: Where do you consider the line between subtlety and confusion to lie (lay? Hey, Authoress, gimme a hand here)?

*If you need some pecans for a pie or something, come on over. Our tree went insane this year and they're really good.

What do you mean 'contracted'? I didn't sign for a package of germs!

2009-11-14T08:34:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: When I was a little girl we played this imagination game (I dunno, maybe little kids are still playing it?). I really liked it, especially when it worked right. One kid balled up her fist as tight as she possibly could for at least a whole minute while another kid rubbed the clenched fist (now that I'm an adult I understand this has to do with circulation and nerve-endings, but you don't know that when you're a kid . . . probably). After the minute passed, the fist-clencher was advised to AsSlowlyAsPossibleOpenYourFingers! and then the other kid would pinch each of the clencher's fingertips, finally pinching a little skin in the center of the former fist. It was supposed to feel like he or she was drawing a spiderweb--connected to each of your fingers--away from your palm. As a side note, if you're planning on trying it, I suggest cutting your nails first, because, um, ow.

I know me. I know I will passive-aggressively hide from something like there's no tomorrow if I'm afraid of failing at it. I know that's a bigger hurdle to my writing than anything else. It's not the many, many time-consuming needs of my small children, or my slightly taller husband. It's not a lack of knowing what should happen (trust me on this one, my characters are all about blabbing, and giving me WHAT FOR if I fail to write them the way they'd like). Okay, sometimes it's that, a little, but not often. Nope, my biggest creative juice evaporator is fear of failure.

I am a pro at failure, and I specialize in the Half Off variety. As in, I get a project halfway done, and then I'm off it. And I'm flighty like you would not believe. Just a few minutes ago I angrily whispered a four-letter word because I somehow read my eldest kid's basketball form wrong and missed the evaluations (don't worry, he'll still play) this morning. Because I am just that talented. I'm familiar enough with failure to have learned every once in a while you just have to salvage what you can and move on from there.

But what do you do when your failure becomes paralytic? When your fear makes you too scared to move? What combats the fear?

When I was about nine our pastor, a tiny German man named John Lamb who I'm pretty sure endured some rather heinous things, preached a sermon about fear. He asked the congregation, "What do you think the opposite of fear is?" As is my usual answer, I said "love". I'm big on love, if you didn't know. He said good answer, but not the one he was looking for.

The answer was, the opposite of fear is faith. Fear is the power that whispers in our ear of consequences we're not sure we can survive, while faith is the belief we can always get back up again. Faith conquers fear because it takes away fear's power to end us. Or our dreams.

My Sunday school teacher likes to quote John Ortberg when we talk about fear. Here's a Biblical fact, and even if you're more scared of Christians than you are of the bogeyman (or maybe to you we ARE the bogeyman, whichever), it's still kind of cool. There are 366 mentions of fear (and suggestions for combating it) in the Bible, one for every day of the year, and then an extra, for that really bad day . . . like when the very first Full request you ever got comes back as a No.

P.S.

2009-11-13T08:06:00.000-08:00

It's To Write Love on Her Arms Day.

Get out there and give someone some hope.

Bigger than 'Cute', and 'Fashion'.

A Cool Thing Happened Today on the Way to the Forum

2009-11-13T07:18:00.000-08:00

Don't ask me why none of the formatting will work in this blog post. I don't have a clue.

Personal Notes: Mostly this! See that? 10,000 page views at deviantArt. Granted, it's not a lot in comparison to some, but it's all mile-stone-y and whatnot for me, so I think it's nifty. Sorry the screenshot's so blurry. My copy's much sharper. ???

*********************************************************

Most of the authors I know use music while they're writing, and the same can certainly be said for me. In fact, if you take a gander to the left and scroll down a little you'll see both a link to my own (ever-morphing) book playlist, as well as a big orange doohickie telling you a bit about my recent Pandora activities (I keep that there because I'm lazy, and it's a quick reference if I want to look up something I heard a few days ago).

*********************************************************

I'm not sure I do the whole soundtrack thing the same way most people do. I say 'not sure' instead of 'don't' because I'm not stupid enough to assume. The thing is, it's not so much the books, or even the situation IN the books the music applies to. For me, it's the lives of the people to which the soundtracks go. Yeah, multiple people, multiple soundtracks. I base my music on what each person feels about the scene. In a few minutes, when I get down to the skin-crawling business of destroying a few people's happiness, at least two, perhaps three, songs will apply to that scene, because at least three people will be involved (I'm sort of hiding from this scene, actually; I need to do it justice, and that's scary, especially since it's on the heels of a scene that turned out beautifully for setting up tragic consequences).

*********************************************************

In case you're curious, here's an idea of what I mean. It's not terribly up-to-date, but it's not ancient, either. Oh, and the song that applies most completely to the upcoming scene? Framing Hanley's "23 Days"

*********************************************************

"23 Days"

Your kiss was a perfect drug

It gave me the perfect high

And cheaters fall in love

They all deserve to die

***********************

I need to feel you again

I need your lips on my skin

For one night I could be him

Well I could be better

***********************

In your eyes I thought

I saw tomorrow

Now all I see is wasted time

***********************

Can we pretend it’s always been ok

We never lost it all, lost it all

Can we pretend we never left this fate

We never lost it all, lost it all

***********************

This towns not much of a friend

After twenty-three days

My patience has reached it’s end

But I’d take you back anyway

***********************

Hold your breath

You make the perfect sounds

This is what a love is made of

And baby you are missing out

***********************

In your eyes I thought I saw tomorrow

Now all I see is wasted time

Can we pretend it’s always been ok

Never lost it all, lost it all

Can we pretend we never left this fate

We never lost it all, lost it all

***********************

Let’s reintroduce our shadows

And watch them become one

This room is out of oxygen

And I’m not nearly done

***********************

The familiar face of your body

Is how I know this is right

I’m not asking for tomorrow

I’m just asking for tonight

************************

Can we pretend it’s always been ok

Never lost it all, lost it all

Can we pretend we never left this fate

We never lost it all, lost it all

*************************

The familiar face of your body

Is how I know this is right

Why worry about tomorrow?

BEWARE: I have about as much coffee in me this morning as I do sense.

2009-11-12T06:28:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: I involuntarily assign personalities and bried histories to innanimate objects, mostly numbers. I'm pretty familiar with 1-10, but if someone throws a number at me my brain tends to humanize the number within a minute or so. I think it's a little less of a 'condition' and more a 'quirk' in my case (I know there is an actual diagnosis for this, but I don't remember it, so if you do, pipe up).

My husband and I were married in 2000, not terribly long after the epic Titanic made girls everywhere sigh and start trawling art classes for a boyfriend* (the boys, it must be pointed out, where extremely willing to take on *ahem* figure models so as to hone their anatomy skills).

Just like our lives, N.'s CD collection and mine blended together. He brought country music, and I brought divas into the fold. But, still. My husband's a VULCAN, all about the logic and getting things done. His work ethic is so strong I get exhausted just reading his To Do list. He's military, and has gone into a career field that often requires he run into burning buildings. He tells people the ways things are, rarely pulling punches (though, don't think he isn't gracious, he is; just don't let him catch you doing something ridiculously brainless, or he'll laugh at you). Clearly he is not a sissy boy. Sissy boys ran followed him around, panting and saying 'Hey, boss!' in school.

So you'd never in a million years expect him to WEAR OUT my Celine Dion CD, would you? And yet, he did. He looped that thing every day for a month just after our wedding.

Last night, approximately nine years after the CD weirdness, he comes home from the video place with an Ashton Kutcher indie flick. I've never been exactly keen on Ashton Kutcher movies, so you'd think N would know better and gotten the new Gerard Butler number, but nooo. It's Kutcher, and worse, it's pretty much every inch of Kutcher, in his birthday suit. N. got it, thinking it was a romantic comedy. Um, hi, did he read the back cover of that thing? Dude nookie-ing his way through L.A., until enter the actress I first saw as Joss, whom (of course) he falls in love with.

Short moral of this story, kids? Don't assume anything. You want to make sure your work creates a paritcular reaction, get out there and start asking questions.

Sarcasm in B Minor

2009-11-11T14:00:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: In honor of Sesame Street's 40th birthday yesterday, a confession: At somepoint in my early childhood I had a nightmare about Sherlock Hemlock. I've never been able to look at him the same. I absolutely adore the rest of the characters (although Elmo's referring to himself in third person drives me nutes), but Detective Hemlock is persona non grata with me.

I live on the Gulf coast, and as you may have heard, Hurricane/Tropical Storm Ida stopped by my house yesterday. Don't freak; she was just a little storm. compared to Ivan five years ago, who was a Cat 3 hurricane when it decided to use our coastline as a bar stool.

Ivan was trouble, but Ida's just been a nuisance, mostly keeping me from getting finished quite a few things I wanted to have done by Monday. Such as fine-combing the Silver manuscript another time before sending it off to someone who asked to read the whole thing, or keeping up the blogging. If I'd gotten those things finished yesterday, as I'd liked to have, today I could get back into writing Silver's sequel, Golden. More and more about it is coming to me, and I'd love to explore that potential. I've got so much about Ian, and Sebastien, and Joss, plus everyone else, finally bubbling up in my head again.

Should I Scarlet this post and say tomorrow is another day? For this one, I've got a headache.

Covering All My Bases

2009-11-10T17:16:00.000-08:00

It's kind of all personal today. I'm giving you the first chapter of the novel, Silver. No stealing, because I'm not sweet enough not to sue you for it.

“If I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.
And if I have prophecy and know all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.”

1 Corinthians 13:1-2, NIV

“Hey baby, I don't wanna be your Superman.I just wanna be your man and I'll be super, baby.You'll be standin' in the sunshine,I'll be standin' right here in the rain.You save me and I will save the day.”

“Save the Day” by Train.

Chapter One: Dead Boy Stalking

The stench has a real mosh pit quality going for it, as if Body Odor has gotten bored hanging out by himself, called up his buddies, Stale Beer and Cigarettes, and the three of them have leeched onto the skeeze now standing way too close to my best friend and me.

The source of the smell hovers close, his dirty jeans near our faces. “Did it hurt?” he asks, leering at Jules through shanks of muddy brown hair.

Jules looks up at him from her seat on a root of our favorite tree in Garrett Park and stares him down in a way only someone as classically beautiful as she can.

“Don’t bother finishing that tired line,” she warns. “First, no it didn’t hurt when I ‘fell from heaven’, though my mother may have a different answer for you. Secondly, you’ll think the consequences excruciating if you don’t leave before I get my bag open.”

He throws his hands up, warding her off. “Hey-hey, babe, I just wanta talk,” he says, and then aims his yellowed grin at me. “What about this itty-bitty friend of yours? Whadda ya say, cutie? You up for some action?”

I edge closer to Jules, my stomach souring. Jules raises one arm, a small canister dangling from her finger. “What Jocelyn is up for is watching me spray about two ounces of cayenne into your eyes.”

The creep sneers at her like a cartoon vampire threatened with garlic. “Baby, you don’t know what you’re missin’. I could show you a coupla things.”

“All the same, I prefer my world left unrocked, thanks.”

He leanes in, deciding to risk the macing, but a pair of long, black slacks blocks him out before the creep gets within range of the spray.

The new guy has circled around from behind the trunk of our tree, facing away, and the smooth motion hasn’t allowed us to see his face, but he isn’t anyone I recognize from my vantage point.
“If you attempt to show either of them anything--and let’s be clear I mean ever--I will take immeasurable pleasure in breaking several of your bones,” he warns.

My ears perk up at the silky, confident sound of his voice. He has just a touch of some kind of accent.

“You could try, pretty boy, but I bet you couldn’t break an egg,” the creep laughs. The grating sound reminds me of anti-smoking ads.

The boy cocks his head at an inquisitive angle, and for a second the air feels electric, a fission waving through the atmosphere. “Au contraire, my grimy friend, I make an omelet to-die-for, but that’s neither here nor there,” he says, then flicks his gloved hand in a dismissive gesture. “Run along.”

Something about our rescuer must freak McGreasy out, because his eyes bulge, the wheels in his brain visibly spinning as he backpedals. “Yeah, well good luck with these two. They don’t know how to have fun, anyway,” he growls before taking off down the hill at an anxious lope.

Without waiting for us to thank him, the mystery man turns his head slightly, just short of letting us see his face. “Ladies, let’s not make a habit of this, shall we?”

His long strides take him out of earshot in seconds, leaving us staring after him.

“Wow,” I breathe, somewhere between amused and perplexed. “Who was that masked man, anyway?”

“No idea,” Jules answers. “But did you see the color of his hair? Hi-oh, Silver, away! ”

I nod, but don’t mention how the stranger’s only direct remark to us had sounded more condescending than heroic to me.

*****
I make it in just as my mother checks on something delicious-smelling in the oven, the scrape of the door clasheing with the wistful hum coming from the kitchen. I don’t recognize the song, but don’t question it. Mom and Dad like lots of stuff from what they consider “far away, simpler times”. Of course, they’re only in their mid forties, so, really how much different does that make?

I hang my coat on the rack and squat to wrestle with my sneaks. The shuffling tips off Mom to my presence; she calls for me to get ready for dinner, ducking her head around the doorframe. “Would you mind setting the table? I’ll be up to my elbows in greens in a minute, and Gracie is due to wake up.”

I nod, grinning because Mom hasn’t asked me to help with the food. Her few attempts at teaching me to cook failed so miserably no one lets me do anything more culinary that nuke stuff.

My little sister’s giggles erupt from her room as I come back from washing my hands. I tiptoe to her door, turning the knob slowly so I can lumber in, sniffing everywhere in an impression of her favorite kiddie show character.

Gracie’s laughter gets louder the closer I get to her until I ask, “What smells like . . . sunflowers?” and sniff at the edge of her toddler bed. “Why, it’s you!” I exclaim, and swing her up onto my hip, snuffling at her neck.

Back in the kitchen, I belt her into her booster seat so she can watch while I lay out the flatware and Mom trades out a juicy pot roast for a tray of dinner rolls. Mom smiles softly at us over her shoulder and resumes humming.

“Catchy tune,” I say. “What is it?”
Mom’s smile takes on a dreamy note. “An old Gershwin number called ‘Someone to Watch over Me’. Your father played Jimmy Winters in the play, you know.”

The father in question walks into the room as if on cue, slides his briefcase onto the bar, and bends to kiss Mom’s cheek.

I stare at him. “Really? You sang in something?”

“Is your mother telling on me, again? I assume you refer to my singular foray into musical theatre. Don’t look so flabbergasted, Joss. We’re braver about a lot of things when we’re young. Unfortunately, I expect you’ll learn that for yourself as time passes. Take your chances now, while you’re still young enough to believe in them.

*****

The next morning Gracie’s asleep in bed beside me. I slide myself out as quietly as possible, uncurling her tiny fingers from the end of my braid. She’s already up and downstairs before I get back from my shower.

I round the corner at the bottom floor to see her studying the strawberry swirls in her oatmeal. Mom’s standing near Dad, sliding bacon onto his plate while he writes last-minute notes on a legal pad for his teaching assistan. Dad teaches my nemesis subject, math, at the tiny liberal arts college here in Staunton.

Bending to kiss her oatmeal-streaked face, I ask Gracie, “How are you this morning, sweetie?”
Mouth stuffed with breakfast she grins and points to her lips.

I compliment her. “Oh, forgive me. I see Miss Manners has done well with you.”

Dad already has the coffee going, so I make a full-on advance toward my morning I.Q.-booster, taking a travel mug from the cabinet. Mom shoots me a disapproving look, but I shake my head at her. “Mom, I’m sixteen. I don’t think you can blame coffee for stunting my growth at this point. Besides, I’m two inches taller than you,” I tease.

Dad, ever the diplomat, clears his throat. “You’re both beautiful. All my pixie ladies are. Joss honey, you better get going if you don’t want to make Jules wait.”

“Good point,” I say. “Mom, you don’t need any help this afternoon, do you? I thought I’d have Jules drop me at Garrett after school, knock out my homework before break starts.”

“That’s fine, sweetheart, but make sure you stay in the shade. You know how easily you burn,” she cautions.

“And I’d like you back before dark,” Dad adds.

“Dinnertime at the latest,” I promise as I pluck a muffin from the bowl on the table. Blueberry. Yum.

“Duly noted. Call if something changes.”

“Roger that.”

*****

It takes a kind of performance art to navigate the clogged arteries of Lee High’s hallways, dodging limbs and squeezing through spaces not normally reserved for the human body. The kissing couples, sneaking smokers, and furtive freaks I wind my way around don’t have a prayer of seeing a Master of Stealth Mode like me. Finally, I hold my breath, sprint like a kid playing tag for the safety of my homeroom desk, and drop gratefully into my seat, exhaling, “Base!”

I shove my mittens into my bag and something whooshes by my ear, making me jump and look up. Across the room Drew Christian, AKA Drew the Adorable, smiles shyly at me and calls an apology. He nods at the floor by my feet where a rainbow-striped hacky sack rests against my left Sketcher.

I toss the ball back, blushing when his dimples sink deeper into his cheeks as he thanks me. The bell rings, and Drew slides into his own desk, tapping a pencil against his thigh in his own internal rhythm.

I sigh, wishing at least one of us had more guts. It’s been a ‘crush at first sight’ situation for me, and I’m pretty sure it is for Drew too, but I can’t seem to make a move. Any time he tries to talk to me, I practically go mute, like there’s an invisible hand smacking over my mouth.
Kids trickle into the room, getting settled while our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Meyer calls roll. I’m too busy trying to make sense of the messy stack of papers I need for my first class to look up when she says, “Oliviero, Jocelyn,” but I give her a little wave to let her know I’m here. Meyer continues down her list, ticking off names.

The room’s rustling murmur stills when she calls “Solis”. Bodies swivel to stare at a new kid sprawled in the center desk. I’m not sure how we missed him before. He isn’t the kind of person you overlook. Still, one second nobody’s there and the next the guy who’d played savior for Jules and me yesterday sits in the middle of the room. He lifts one black-gloved finger in acknowledgement.

Meyer looks lost for a second, but apparently finds his name on the roster, checks it, and picks up where she left off.

I—along with the rest of the class--study this teenage ninja, able to sneak into high school classrooms undetected. Almost white hair spills back from a beautiful, compelling face, pale features cutting a sharp fineness around eyes blazing a degree too brightly, like storm clouds lit from behind. For a moment they trap mine, and something in my core recoils. He watches me with an awful clarity, like he knows all my dirty little secrets, maybe even ones I don’t know about.

I drop my gaze to his chest and notice how his silvery-grey sweater outlines his wide shoulders and smooth abdomen. Darker corduroy pants wrap around his legs as if made for him. Monochrome doesn’t work on most guys. It does on him.

Lee’s typical “It” girl, Chrissy Anderson, gapes at him, her mouth working open and closed like a goldfish. I silently bet even money she’ll have his phone number before the day’s out.

Mrs. Meyer finishes doing her thing and releases us back into the wilds of higher education. At the end of the day I hurry outside to find sanctuary in a BMW parked in the student lot.

Jules sits behind the wheel, laughing at my rush. “Honestly Jocelyn, you’ve lived in Virginia for all sixteen years of your life; you’d think you’d have adapted by now. Are you purposefully fighting it off?”

“It’s an under-appreciated talent, not giving in to Staunton’s schizo weather. I think I should get a little plaque or something.”

Jules laughs again, this time with me, instead of at me. “I’ll get on that as soon as I’m back from Aspen.”

“What time’s your flight leaving?”

“Six, or I’d invite you over to defrost, but you know how Gram and Gramps feel about punctuality. Better not risk being late to the airport.”

I shrug. “It’s no big. You still have all your cool points for giving me a ride. And speaking of cool, you’ll never guess who showed up in homeroom this morning. The Blonde Avenger himself. I missed his first name because I couldn’t find my stupid history homework, but his last name’s Solis.”

Jules face lights up with mischief. “I can do better than that. I think he must be a twin, because we had a new boy in Trig today, except he’s the first one’s polar opposite. Named Tristan, has gold-blond hair, kind of curly, and enough muscles to win a grudge match against a garbage truck. You talk to yours?”

“Um, no.” I grimace.

She settles into her seat, hand on the gear shift. “Of course not. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She gives me a dirty look. “At least promise me you’ll attempt to have fun—and by ‘fun’ I mean ‘talk to Drew’--during the break, okay? Oh, and don’t forget it’s your turn to drive when we get back. I can’t always have a toasty Beamer ready at your beck and call, no matter how impressive you meteorological denial skills.”

*****

Garrett Park is deserted with the surprising exception of the first-nameless Solis kid. If I could will him away all would be right with the world.

Careful not to let him see, I sneak a look at him. He’s leaned against the far lamp post, his body relaxed and careless, arms crossed loosely in front of him, but his gaze doesn’t match. It bores into me, too intense, too focused.

Stop staring at me. Stop staring at me or I’ll march over there and smack you silly.

He doesn’t budge, and luckily for him, I don’t have it in me to actually hit anyone. A shame; some senseless violence might do the trick. I realize that isn’t exactly a Zen outlook, but then violence is a passionate emotion and passion is considered good by most people.

Oh, come on! I just want to sit under my tree and read my book for a while, listen to some tunes in peace. It’s not too much to ask.

I fumble for my handy-dandy Mp3 player, turning it up until it blares a ‘burst your eardrums’ volume, and tell myself to concentrate on my textbook, but immediately a flash of light draws my attention to the fluffy white splotches freckling the sunny sky. The lack of storm clouds doesn’t surprise me, but the silence following it does. Still, lightning means rain, and rain means time to seek shelter. Even Park Boy appears to know this, as he’s disappeared. I wrap up my headphones and tuck my book safely away in my backpack.

My search for a haven from the storm ends in front of Vinyl, the tiny music shop next to the Bookstack. I suck in a much-needed deep breath and walk in on shaky legs. More than likely Drew’s working inside, therefore my ability to use multi-syllable words is about to bail on me.

Sure enough, he stands, behind the counter waiting on another customer. He throws me a distracted grin that should come with its own warning label: Viewer Beware! Direct Contact May Induce a Trance-like State. I duck behind a rack of CDs for safety’s sake, and pick through them until I find one I want to check out.

By the time I’ve scanned most of the new releases Drew’s finished with the other customer and nods me over. His dimples hit me full-force as he says, “Hey, Joss. How’s things?”

I do my best to disengage my “idiot gear” and answer. “Fine, thanks. You?”

“You know, getting in billable hours. I’m saving toward a new camera. My old Nikon’s shot.”

As if I don’t have everything about you memorized already. I nod and pass my CD over, a twenty resting on top.

He holds up the punk album. “Out of everyone who comes in here you are by far the most unpredictable. Last week you bought country, and this week you pick this?”

“That’s me. I like to keep people guessing.”

Another silent flash brightens the air. Drew’s eyes flicker outside. “Unbelievable storm, huh? All the visual effects you could ask for, but they forgot to crank the bass.”

“Yeah, crazy,” I nervously agree.

Drew’s grin widens, and he punches numbers into the register. A shifting image in the mirrored wall behind him catches my eye as he gets out my change. Park Boy is holding up the bricks across the street, watching me again. Drew says something, but I miss it and have to ask him to repeat himself.

“I said break’ll speed by too fast to settle for ‘fine’. Maybe someone could help you slow it down.”
I almost ask if he feels like volunteering, but two things stop me: One, I still make the Cowardly Lion look like Hercules and two, Park Boy has given me a disgusted look, shoved himself from the wall, and taken off down the sidewalk.

That’s done it. I scoop up my sack, mumble something insensible to Drew about him having fun too, and scramble out the door after Sir-Stares-A-Lot. I might not be able let an adorable boy know I dig him, but Heaven help me if I can’t tell some jerk his one-man investigation isn’t appreciated.

Outside I scan both sides of the street but he’s disappeared. A flare of white flashes onto Frederick so I take off after it at top my speed. I’m so breathless by the time I reach the bend my, “Hey! Hold on! ” comes out barely audible. He doesn’t stop. I’ve lost him.

*****

My mother doesn't know it, but she's trying to kill me. I get home only to find my stalker sitting at my kitchen table, and my mother grinning at him like he’s the son she’s always wished she’d had.

“Jocelyn, I’m so glad you’re home. It’s the most wonderful thing; I’d like you to meet Sebastien Solis. His mother was my best friend in college, before she had to go back to her family in Scotland.”

He must have gotten there just before me, because he’s still wearing his coat and gloves when he rises from his chair and offers me his hand. “Actually, we’ve bumped into one another a couple times already, Mrs. Oliviero, but we’ve not had the opportunity to properly introduce ourselves.”

I can’t refuse with my mom standing there all thrilled and stuff, so I make myself smile at him and shake his hand as if I haven’t understood his inside joke.

“Sebastien tells me he and his siblings have come to the states because Mel wants them to experience a little of what we have to offer before they settle on colleges.”

“It’s a little early for that, isn’t it?” I ask. “I mean, you’re a Junior like me, right?”
“It worked out better for our American relatives for us to come this year.”

My mother beams. “I wish Mel had told me she was sending you, but no matter. You must all stay for dinner. I’m making fried chicken.” Sebastien protests, but my mother won’t listen. “No, I insist. Call your brother and sister, and we can all get to know one another.”

I expect him to refuse again; instead he grins at her and says Tristan and Bronwyn are busy for the evening, but he’d love to stay.

Mom beams some more and tells me to take Sebastien to the living room and keep him company. Thankfully, she doesn’t see the irritated way I jerk my head at him to follow me.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he sits on the sofa, out of earshot of my mother. “Did I do something to offend you?”

“Gee, well you could explain why you’ve been following me, Eddie.”

“I have no idea to what you’re referring.”

“Puh-leeze. You’re everywhere I go today, first the park and now Vinyl. You’re studying me like I’m some kind of science experiment.”

“Begging your pardon, but I haven’t . . .”

“Yes you have,” I huffed. “Explain.”

His eyes harden, and he crosses his ankle over his knee. “Fine, I’m guilty of looking at a pretty girl. Fortunately, finding you interesting isn’t a punishable offense, so you’re out of luck if you want to press charges.”

“What an arrogant thing to say! Look . . .”

“Sebastien.”

I blank. “Huh?”

A conceited grin plays at the corners of his mouth. “My name? It’s Sebastien. If my mother had wanted people to associate me with a vampire, I’m sure she’d have christened me ‘Lestat’, instead.”

I blink at him, surprised he’s caught the vamp reference, and then I frown because of how easily he’s made me feel small and immature. Seriously, something about this guy stirs me up. It isn’t fair. I think. He was rude first.

“You were saying . . .?” He goes on.

“Whatever. You’ve satisfied your curiosity. There’s nothing even remotely interesting about me so you can get on with your own business.”

“Ah,” he murmurs, “I beg to differ. You do all sorts of interesting things. Take for instance how you blush when talking with a boy, or how you read outside this late in the year? Not many people would risk the chill of a fall afternoon in the park, even for a good tale. You want something to create body heat, get the heart rate up.”

He practically purrs the word “heat,” his implication pooling liquid and thick somewhere low in my body. I shift backwards a little.

He leans closer, matching me. “It’s difficult to ignore a lone girl catching up on her library finds, you see. By the way, do you always talk with your hand whirling about like that, or do you only do it when you’re nervous?”

“Do you always interrupt with random commentary?” I counter, and check the urge to shove my hyperactive hand in my pocket. “By all that’s holy, I just love books more than the average bear.”

“Oh, no. Now you’ve done it.”

“Done what?”

“A pretty girl with a brain? Even without considering our mothers’ prior relationship it would be impossible to ignore you after learning of your literary prowess. I’ll have to see how this plays out.”

I grin too sweetly. “Oh, it’s a brilliant beauty you’re looking for? In that case, you should ask my friend Jules to show you around town. She knows all the historically significant spots.”

He laughs again, not the least bit put off. “I think I’d rather have you.”

And Then The Whole World Bought More Windex 1

2009-11-09T15:00:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: My pillow is at least 26 years old. So is my teddy-cat, Charmkin. No, I do not want to hear about the dust mites. Spare me.

Ten at-one-time high-profile writers are sent to a retreat in the backwoods of some mid-western state. To help instill a sense of community within the group of story-tellers the well-meaning, too smiley organizer puts up a huge dry-erase board and encourages the group to write a Next Line story*

The writers draw numbers out of a hat to determine the order in which they'll add to the story. The line-up turns out like this:

1. Kanye West**
2. Stephen King
3. Jude Devereaux
4. Robert Jordan
5. Stephenie Meyer

And the story begins thusly:

"I'ma let you get back your writing but I wan't y'all to recognize my book is better than all y'all's...but only 'cause Beyonce didn't put one out yet. [Kanye leaves the room]

What the hell? Who let that guy have the marker? For God's sake, give me that thing. [Mr. King puts a big X through Kanye's lines]

The story begins (again) thusly:

He hated the birds. Their small, glassy eyes reflected his image back at him, backward and upside down. Somehow the picture looked more like him than the real thing. [Mr. King stops and passes the marker to Ms. Devereaux]

[Ms. Devereaux smiles mischievously at Mr. King and squeezes an 's' before the 'h' in the opening "He". She changes all the pronouns into the feminine form] The story continues thusly:

SHe hated the birds. Their small, glassy eyes reflected her image back at her, backward and upside down. Somehow the picture looked more like her than the real thing. Only fatter, because Jen spent too much time running to be that pudgy. The only things her sleek body ate with enthusiasm were miles, all the better to attract the eyes of the muscle-dripping men who ran alongside her.

[Ms. Devereaux stops writing and offers the marker to Mr. Jordan, who chews on the end of it while he studies the board. Finally he picks up the story, which continues thusly:]

SHe hated the birds. Their small, glassy eyes reflected her image back at her, backward and upside down. Somehow the picture looked more like her than the real thing. Only fatter, because Jen spent too much time running to be that pudgy. The only things her sleek body ate with enthusiasm were miles, all the better to attract the eyes of the muscle-dripping men who ran alongside her. Jeniver Corliss needed the brutes to notice her. The diversion wouldn't work if she didn't capture their attention entirely, letting them snap at her elf-quick heels, just out of reach. She couldn't let their minds ponder when the druid priest, Rolf, had disappeared from her flank.

[Mr. Jordan thinks for a bit, then adds in some more punctuation before wiping the marker down with his shirt and waving it in the direction of Ms. Meyer. Ms. Meyer, however, declines. "I brought my own!", she perks, and pulls out a sparkly blue marker from her purse. The glittery ink looks very bright next to the black of the previous lines.]

SHe hated the Birds, their small glassy eyes reflecting her image back at her, backward and upside down, only fatter, because Jen spent too much time running to be that pudgy. The only things her sleek body ate with enthusiasm were miles, all the better to attract the eyes if the muscle-dripping men running alongside her because Jeniver Corliss needed the brutes to notice her (the diversion wouldn't work if she didn't capture their attention entirely, letting them snap at her elf-quick heels, just out of their reach). She couldn't let their minds ponder when the druid priest, Rolf, had disappeared from her flank. Jen wouldn't let him down, not when his last words to her before he'd snuck down the alternate path had been professions of love.

"Don't be afraid, Jeniver," he'd whispered in her ear, keeping up with her easily. "I won't let anything happen to you, I don't care what others think about us. I'm here for you forever." And then he'd left, into the thick, dewy undergrowth of the wet forest.

[Ms. Meyer sits down on her little log seat, smiling, pleased. Mr. King scowls, looking like he might begin cursing again. Ms. Devereaux offers Mr. Jordan a mint to suck on.]

[There's a disturbance outside, a rackety slap of something against the door. The knob shivers and then tears out of the wood. A large Great Wit*** humps its way to the board. It snorts, a bubbly, snorkly sound, and uses a fin to grip the marker, proceeding to make comments.

"This doesn't give me a reason to care." "Too much description about characters, not enough plot." "Where's the conflict?" "Bless my flippers, ALIENS IN CHAPTER FOURTEEN!"

Finally the shark circles the entire story and notates, "Form Rejection", before taking a bite out of one corner of the board.

1. Disclaimer: I love every one of these writers, and have at least one of each's book in my collection. I wouldn't "pick on" them if I didn't.

*Where each person writes one or two lines, then must let someone else have a go. Usually the previous writer folds down the paper so only his line can be seen, making the next person have base her writing on only a sentence of so.

**Kanye stole his spot from Dan Brown, and since technically Kanye's written a book, they let him stay.

***Cousin of the Great White shark, only snarkier.

I only know one person who can say "antcipation" better than Tim Curry

2009-11-08T08:26:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: When I went to Baldwin there was math professor there who was very cool, in a almost suburban beatnik kind of way. I thought he looked very much like Tim Curry, and didn't hesitate to tell him so. My father's name was also Tim. That's how Joss's uncle Tim got his name and his profession.

Time Warp!

I've been thinking about things like generations and progress. My thinking sort of involved The Breakfast Club, for no other reason than Judd Nelson was so pretty to look at in it.

I think a lot of what makes something from one generation (slang, fashion, pop culture) has less to do with what year the reference comes from so much as how confident you (or your characters) use it. Okay, so 'cool' is probably going to be around until the next Ice Age, when it will become too ironic to endure, but aside from that there are definitely things out there today's teens would look at you blankly for mentioning.

Except, saying something unknown in a way that says, "I assume you are as cool as I am, and therefore know exactly what I mean." Because then you confidence those readers/listeners into agreeing with you that the thing you just said was totally the way it should have been said.

I was still in the single digits when most of John Hughes' flicks came out, not a teenager, not his intended audience. Still, his movie Pretty in Pink remains tied with Henson's Labyrinth as my all-time favorite. Both movies influence my writing. Both make at least cameos in my first, then second, novel, respectively.

If you're unsure if a reference will work, the way to play it is put it out there in such a way that makes the reader want to know what you're talking about. You have to make them willing to Google it.

I like the "Twenty-Five Years" rule, myself. If it was cool forty years ago, it's probably cool again now. You want proof? Visit a high school (stop by the office first, though. They frown on random, unknown elements wandering around). Look around. See anything familiar? If you're 30-35 like me, you're gonna. Side ponytails, gelly slippers, shirt dresses. The styles are screaming, "The Eighties called and they want their stuff back!" I've noticed things tend to re-trend every twenty-five years like that. I forward-thinker will save all her clothes during adolescence because her grandaughter could save a lot of cash that way.

So, really, the point is, nothing really goes out of style, so go out and experiment. Except with blue eye-shadow. I can pull it off, but you can't. I'm sorry, what's that you're saying? Really? Are you sure? Oh, well, okay.

*heads for her Neutragena facial cleanser*

Terminating a romantic relationship is a difficult thing to have done.

2009-11-07T14:23:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: There's a cake in my kitchen, waiting to be iced. I am avoiding it like the plague. Who even knows why.

The above subject translates into, "Breaking up is hard to do...especially after you've done it." The reason for this is simple.

A. A friend of mine is suffering through that wonderful feeling of post-break up, and

B. A character of mine is about to be, and . . .

They're both facing the same kind of pain, because breaking up--present tense--is only half the fall out. In fact, it might even be the easier part. It's momentary, singular. It might hurt more sharply than what comes, but who's to say an insistent, unceasing ache is any less miserable than the stab of a second?

It's a short post. What does one do after a break up? The answers are individual and private, but it's still a really good question.

My Aunt Wanda Always Made Me Clean My Plate

2009-11-06T10:19:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: I am here to witness to you, my friends. You remember how your mothers begged you to eat all manner of green, possibly slimy things when you were younger, even promising you'd love them once you got older? Well, guess what? I'm older. I love Brussels Sprouts . . . after I drown them in butter.

I have a lot of relatives. By 'a lot' I mean my mom was the youngest of ten kids, and every single one of them took the Biblical directive "be fruitful and multiply" to heart hardcore, sometimes as many as five times. And since my mom was the youngest sibling, a good 98 per cent of my first cousins are old enough to be my aunts and uncles. There is too much Crazy to measure.

But first, about my Aunt Wanda. My Aunt Wanda was one of those hard-working, veggie-canning, produce farming kind of ladies, and most of the time she scared the Hades out of me. To understand this, you'd had to have met her, because part of the Fear of Aunt Wanda was the fact she had these unbelievably feline/Morticia Adams eyes. They were incredible, but super intense, and that made her stern, no-nonsense demeanor especially effective.

Aunt Wanda was not a woman who believed in wasting things. It didn't matter if you were ten or twenty, if you filled your own plate your eyes better be on the same page as your stomach because you were practically going to be licking that sucker clean. You were going to finish. I remember getting way too much for my then-40 lb. body to take in, but I sat there at the table, picking my way over my dish for two hours because Aunt Wanda had given me the Evil Eye and told me to. One way or another, I was going to see that meal through, by God! More, I was going to do it right. Aunt Wanda had three dogs, but did I get to shove off any of my unwanted food on them? Noooo. I had to do clear it myself.

Which brings me to how this has anything to do with writing. This IS a writing blog (mostly), after all. I'm writing my second novel. It's a sequel to my first novel, and by now I'm pretty tight with the mental workings of the Dionadir world. Not long ago I sort of polled my amazing, multi-national, intuitive teen beta readers about what they thought would happen next, and what they hoped would happen. Their answers kind of surprised me. They said they wanted it to get messy. People should end up broken and bleeding, emotionally speaking. The more victims, the better. One reader summed up, "I really want it to go there." She said this with an almost disturbing amount of zeal.

Wait, what? You want me to torture the people we all love? I know we all love them, because we've gushed over them together. Well, blog reader, yeah, they want me to take the characters so far out of their comfort zones they'll need a worm hole to get back.

At first I kind of recoiled at the thought. Then I recoiled at my recoil, because I remembered being a bit self-righteous on the same point when Meyer's Breaking Dawn came out and I thought she totally chickened out at the end of it. Nothing bad really happened to anyone. No one was ever in any real kind of danger. All those characters may just as well been wearing marshmallow puff suits for all the trouble they were facing, which seemed to me to be a total cop-out because the whole thing was set up to be epic.

So, okay, I kind of get it, now. Characters being your creations, you love them, and like anything else you 'birth', you don't want anything really, actually bad happening to them. The idea of causing long-lasting damage doesn't sit well. But I also know a little about forward progress and momentum. I know when a kid first learns to Karate chop a board his sensei tells him to aim for the space on the other side, not the board itself. If he concentrates on his end point being the board, he'll just break his hand. I know when a ballerina spins she must go several inches further around than what she feels is a complete turn, because if she comes out of it too early, it throws her balance off. In order to succeed, both must push the limits of what feels comfortable, and natural, and conclusive.

In writing, it feels wrong to stretch people beyond their limits, to risk snapping them. But following through is important. It's the only way to get where you want to end up.

Sometimes wrong is right.

And to think I had so many ideas earlier.

2009-11-05T18:24:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: My husband fell in love with me when we were both thirteen. I used to pace between the aisles of desk every morning in our homeroom. I've always paced/wandered around while talking on the phone, too. We're thirty now. Today, I realized pacing is contagious, because he was totally strolling around our yard on his cell phone.

Husbands: I paces them.

I had at least three subjects to bring up earlier. And they were helpful, great subjects. I got zip, now. Can't remember jack. It's like somewhere between then and now I put my brain back into the jar of ichor on my bedside table. Why is that? How come I only come up with the good stuff when my body is too occupied with the mundane to allow the writerly part of my brain access to a keyboard? I personally think it has something to do with circulation. I bet I'd be in trouble during channel surfing if I were a boy.

I vaguely remember having a new take on the whole, "Why Do I Write YA?" subject, but wouldn't you know it, in a completely unknowing kind of way, the awesome Mrs. Susan Adrian beat me to it. I can picture what I was doing when I thought if it, even, but that's about it. I need a push pin to stick into my cranial site map.

So, until I figure out what it what I wanted to say, this is what you're getting. I promise to be more interesting, just as soon as I figure out how to get all that literary blood out of my toes and back into my finger tips where it belongs.

Also? I think the letter "P" may be involved.

What? Sesame Street was an important part of my childhood.

Perception

2009-11-04T14:54:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: I (apparently) have a tendency to place things haphazardly about, wherever I am at the moment I need to set something down, or take it off, or whatever. This drives my husband nuts. He hates how I don't really have a "spot" for anything in the fridge, or a hard-and-fast place for any of my pens or notebooks, but the thing that really gets him, the thing that will have him gritting his teeth because he has to ask me to fix it for possibly the third time in a single day, is my leaving my shoes everywhere. I leave them under the desk, in the middle of the bedroom floor, sitting in front of the couch, in short, wherever I am when it occurs to me, taking off my Sketchers.

My mom says with my dad it was socks. That rocks my world.

Situation No. 1.

A middle aged man lives alone in an old two-storey house that hasn't been redecorated since his granny put down her lace doilies. As far anyone can see, he has no job, no source of income, though his friends all have careers (one is even a MLB player). He spends every day with a group of small children, probably between the ages of about five and eight (four neighbors, all male), including one young girl who we assume is not his daughter, and probably not a relative, because she refers to him by his first name, without a title. This last little girl lives with him. On occasion, the boys come over for a slumber party.

What conclusions do you draw about this man? How do you feel about his interactions with these young children?

Situation No. 2

Your vacation takes you to a state known for it's poor education standards, racism, sexism, an ultra-moralistic streak, and drawling accents. As it must for at least all vacations, it's raining one day. You decide to go to the video store and rent something at least until the weather lets up. You pick your flick and approach the counter where you find a very petite, bubbly, teenaged salesgirl waiting to help you. She's engaging, knowledgable, helpful . . . and obviously VERY pregnant.

What do you think now? How do you react? How do you feel about her circumstances, and if you find yourself judging her, do you feel guilty for writing her off somehow, even if it's only momentarily? How do you percieve her?

Perception is a powerful thing. We're geared toward certain view points from the moment we're old enough to understand the consequences of anything, even as simple as "crying=food", as infants. When you write, think about your audience, and what factors are going to influence how they see the situations before them.

Situation No. 1 was taken from a popular Disney children's series called Bear in the Big Blue House. In fact, it is my youngest son's favorite. He's particularly fond of the "Potty Time" and "Dance Party" episodes. The main character is a fantabulous, extra-large-n-fluffy bear named, well, Bear. Ocho is his little bear niece or whatever she is, and their friends are a small blue mouse, an electric purple set of twin otters, and a neon green striped Lemur. The whole set up is designed by The Henson Company, so you know it's charming, excellent quality programming. As a life-time lover of all things Henson, I totally approve.

Situtation No. 2 is taken from personal experience. I live in a tiny, backwoods, extremely Southern town, that strangely enough gets a LOT of tourists because we have gorgeous beaches, and yes, sometimes it rains. And yes, for two years I worked at a video store. I worked there right up until two weeks before I gave birth to my now-two-year-old. A lot of people looked at my little stature, my kind of baby face, and my great big, distended belly and gave me really dirty looks, because they, incorrectly, assumed I was a pregnant teenager, probably one who dropped out. I was 28 at the time. Married for 7 years at that time, and Ben was my third son. I graduated from high school in '98, and went on to college.

Perception, people; consider it.

Rabid

2009-11-03T08:57:00.000-08:00

Personal Notes: To explain a little more about the whole "forgets why she went into a room" thing in my sidebar, an example. I got up this morning, as I usually do, grabbing whatever cloth-like things I could snatch first to cover a decent amount of my body before waking small children and preparing them for their learning institution. I did not put on my glasses. I'm--funkily enough--far-sighted in one eye, and near-sighted in the other, so I can see all right without my glasses, but I get a headache after a while. I tweeted to my friend Michelle to remind me to put on my glasses. She reminded. I went to my bedroom to get them. I powdered my nose. Forgot my glasses. Saw tweet reminder again. Went into my bedroom to get them. Put my hair into a ponytail. Forgot my glasses. Saw Michelle's icon, thought of glasses. Got up, detoured to coffee pot for fresh mug. Forgot my glasses. Few minutes later, remembered, FINALLY got glasses onto face.

Someone, anyone, remind me to go through my Pandora bookmarks today. There was a song a couple days ago I really wanted to add to Ian's playlist.

This post is mostly about loving something, but having that little niggling doubt, regardless. There will bits and pieces of other things later, but pretty much, Rabid refers to how I feel about my query letter, or more specifically, the synopsis. I'll put it below, because not everyone's familiar with it.

Sixteen-year-old Jocelyn doesn’t claim to be an expert on the subject of boyfriends, but she’s pretty sure the right one shouldn’t be able to electrocute you with a kiss. Too bad her feelings for uber-smooth, sardonic Sebastien go from best buds to true love before he fesses up to being only ‘more or less’ human. That ‘less’ part’s giving Joss some grief.

First, as a Dionadir, a race of supernaturally gifted beings, Sebastien tends to be kind of bossy. Secondly, he’s got enough voltage running through his body to jumpstart a VW bus, making even holding hands a death sentence. Third, Dionadir only experience familial love, knowing nothing firsthand about the romantic variety.

So how is it, months after they agree to stay just friends, Sebastien realizes those bizarre feelings he’s had about Joss mean he loves her, and definitely not as his kid sister? Even more mind-boggling, how does Joss appear immune to Sebastien’s energy, along with defying a whole crap-ton of other Dionadir expectations?

The hand-holding’s good. The making-out’s a whole other world.

Unfortunately, Horace Huckleby, a Dionadir nut job with a coup to stage, decides their unorthodox relationship makes the perfect soap box from which to preach his traditionalist sermons. The couple is forced to justify their bond to the Dionadir court, the Curiae Septrum, and just in case Huckleby doesn’t like the court’s ruling, he’s hired a dozen mercenary thugs to knock off Joss and Sebastien. Then again, why risk wasting a perfectly good hit contract?

I worked on this baby. I researched like a fiend. I read over a hundred example "bad queries" to avoid making the same mistakes, then I read a few dozen "great queries" and broke down what they had in common so I could emulate them, and then I reworked it and reworked it until I'd made it my own, or maybe I guess Silver's. I sent it out there, confident it would get the responses I wanted. And it rather did, in that I'd gotten partials, which I'd never done before. Eventually, it even got me a full (see Jessica Faust's helpful Publishing Dictionary for a little more on those terms), another first.

Another writerly friend (the super adorable and ambitious ferret-lover, Jodi Meadows) recently tallied up the numbers for me and said I had about a ten per cent request rate (where a queried agent asks to see at least some of the manuscript). So, that's not bad, not at all. But it's not fantasmagoric, either. It could be better (she also reminded me one shouldn't worry until one has q'd at least 100 agents--seriously, the lady is amazing, and you should completely, utterly, devotedly follow her blog, especially if you want to learn some fantastic things about writing and publishing, ferrets, and things one knits with).

"But what's WRONG with my blurb?" I wonder, because I love it. Not just because I worked so hard on it, but because I feel it really captures the essence of the book. Like with anything else I produce (including the babies; you think I'm protective of my characters? Try offering one of my babies candy if we don't know you), I'm fierce about it. With the writing, with criticism, with doubt, my first knee-jerk reaction is anger and offensiveness. Sometimes it takes a couple of days, but I usually get over that. Which is why I'm now looking at my query and asking, "How?" as in, "How could I make it more compelling?", as opposed to "what?"

Incidentally, over on Rachelle Garner's blog (another fab blog for writerly things), there's a post addressing the exact issue I mention in my post yesterday, namely "Foreshadowing V. Telegraphing". Read it. It's totally worth the click.

P.S. Have decided Elisabeth Moss is my ultimate "Delia". I mean, seriously, can't you picture it??

The Time Has Come to Talk of Characters and Flings

2009-11-02T15:57:00.000-08:00

Personal Note: I don't like almost anything by Bush. *gasp!* I know. That's like a person saying (during the sixties) they didn't like The Beatles. Doesn't matter. Still don't like them. In fact, at least one of their songs kind of p*sses me off, the one about shooting up? HATE. I lived around drugs my whole childhood, I don't need a baked Brit to glorify the practice, thanks.

In the past couple of days I've realized two kind of major things about myself, things which impact my writing.

The first is all about ego. Every parent thinks his or her progeny is ultra-adorable. My theory about this has to do with seeing ourselves in our children. We're geared to rate their aesthetic more highly because they remind us of, well, us. Whether it be due to familiarity (what features are we more familiar with than our own?) or simple Narcissism, the fact remains, we think our kids look better than all the other kids out there. I think Ben is cuter than all the other babies. . . and I think my characters are more interesting, more individual, more beloved than all the characters in those OTHER books out there.

So why is that? Does Joss appeal to me so strongly because of the elements of her being that she 'inherits' from me? Like the small build? The wild love of all kinds of music, and a devotion to eighties kids' and teen flicks? Do I love her because I see myself in her? It's something I've got to watch out for. Joss isn't me, nor am I her. I don't want her 'life' to be what I wanted for myself (although, how awesome would it be to date a Dionadir, really??). It's okay if she gets a few things from me, because she's my baby. But she's not my CLONE. As far as I know, that's still illegal, anyway.

Secondly, I had this big light bulb moment about the way I tell stories. I'm going to brag here, and tell you I write really awesome, fully-developed people, then I throw them into cool worlds, and do absolutely criminal things to them for insanely complicated reasons. But my fatal flaw is tension. I SUCK at creating it, and until yesterday or so, I really couldn't have said why. Well, yesterday, I figured it out.

I'm a blurter. I have entire mounds of fascinating backgrounds, and reasonings, and what have-you details, but I want you to see them all at once. "Here! Look at ALL THE PRETTIES IN MY PILE!! I yell." The problem with that is there's no mystery, no tease, no "will she or won't she". Not good. So I'm taking the vehicle apart again, and I'm moving some 'lil sumpin' sumpin's' around so people won't know exactly what happens until, suddenly, AH-HAH!

They do.

There may not be pretty leaves, but at least I can blog.

2009-11-01T11:55:00.000-08:00

Personal; Notes: When I have a tough time remembering something I wiggle my nose like a bunny (think Bewitched), and/or flutter my fingers, like I'm about to point to something. It's my own Blind Amethyst's Bluff, and I'm calling it.

It's November which, for a large portion of the county, means the trees have turned beautiful colors and begun to shed their leaves. Not so much where I live. We're a little too close to a tropical climate to get many broadleaf trees here (the closest-outside of Old Oaks-we come is Pecan trees), so our trees feel lucky if it gets cold enough for them to pull off the 'dead' look. Our poor trees; they want so badly to go Goth, but that freaking Gulf of Mexico air just keeps washing away their black sap knot-liner.

Anyway, since my fall is my favorite season but this backwards state doesn't know what it's doing, November becomes special for another reason: NaBloPoMo, aka National Blog Posting Month. As the little badge indicates, I'll be posting at least SOMETHING every day of November. Two years ago I kicked the month off by bringing another human being into the world. I have yet to trump that one (yes, Ben turns two tomorrow), but who knows?

My second or third year participating in NaBloPoMo (okay, stop laughing at the acronym, you immature gits) I actually won a sort of door prize. "Wait, what? You can win stuff?" you say. Indeed. Just sign up at nablopomo.org, get your blog set into the blogroll, and make sure you post for every single day of November. Even a knock-knock joke counts. Then your name/blog goes into the virtual top hat and lucky participants are paired with prizes, quite fairly. Anyway, about the prize I won; it was a container of bath salts from a little store in Manasses,Virginia. Sound familiar? Because it is. It makes a cameo in the "Dionadir bath" scene in Silver. What scent did I pick? The one that reminded me of the honeysuckle in my grandmother's yard in Missouri. It was called "Melusine". *grin*

If you like the concept of NaBloPoMo but don't want to commit to the posting you can always just rock out with the randomizer. Yep, Eden's designed a little gadgety button that takes you to a new, random NaBloPoMo blog with a simple click. Erm, here--> The Great and Powerful Randomizer (pay no attention to the Eden behind the gearworks).

Anyway, there's that. But there's also this:

Bruised Purple

2009-10-28T15:03:00.000-07:00

Personal Notes: I would rather have a kid who yelled and argued than one who whined any day. My middle son is the one who seems to think nothing is fair if he doesn't get his way exactly how he wants it, on his own time schedule.

He, um, kind of got that from me. Existentially, I'm very bossy.

I got the letter yesterday, the one telling me, despite the agent really liking my work, and thinking I'm a "wonderful writer", she couldn't offer to represent Silver. It gave a whole new meaning to the term 'paper cut'. I don't want any of my awesome betas or ladies getting angry with her, because the agent was really amazing about it. Really, really. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt, if I made you think I've brushed myself off and forgotten it. I haven't. I still want to cry. All the fore-knowledge and scary publishing statistics in the world can't immunize you to the pain of coming so close and missing. The part I found the most perplexing was being told a few parts of the novel sounded too young, or too immature. After everyone kept telling me the opposite.

I need to fall back in love with this book, because I have lost my faith in it a little. The rejection brought doubt with it. Of course it did. That is part of the nature of rejection. "No" is negative, after all. Anyway, I need to have myself a good sit down and remind myself why I want what I want for this book, all the wonderful reasons outside of myself to get it out there. Things like loving the characters, and loving my readers, and loving how the book brings me closer to them, giving me the oppotunity to pass on what I learned during the chaos of my own teendom, and how I intend to donate to so many causes from sales. I need bigger reasons than fame, and material gain to put myself out there again.

But just so you know I'm still human, there is definitely a part of me going, "WHAT THE HADES?!?"

Scotts Taped

2009-10-21T15:31:00.000-07:00

Personal Notes: My youngest, Ben, is terrified of cats. I'm not terrified of much, except cockroaches. If I see a roach (not other bugs, or even spiders, snakes, rodents, etc.--I'm kind of cool like that) and there's someone else around of a grown-up nature who can kill it instead of me, THEY are going to. I'll be over here in my corner, huddles in revulsion until it's all over, thanks. On the other hand, if I'm the sole adult in residence, I can make myself do the deed . . . because I'd much rather know I killed that sucker, risking it touching me, then think it's going to crawl away somewhere and send out a cattle call to 500 of its closest friends.

Also, sometimes our neighbor's cat shows up in our house. That--and I am not a bad mother for saying this--is hilarious because suddenly the house if RIFE with panicked toddler screaming.

So, I think I finally overcame that whole character-block thing a couple days ago. The thing, of course, is I can't really tell you about it, because it's some major spoilerific, and would probably ruin Golden and quite possibly aspects of Bronze for you. I am not a fan of spoilers, and can only think of two times in my who reading career when I stooped to look up "what happens" online or wherever.

But suffice to say, I'm a very character-driven writer. Most of you know that. Before I do anything, I ask myself, 'Who is this person, and if I stick him or her in this situation, what is the natural thing or or she will do in reaction?" before I do anything else. And that has a domino effect for me. That question's cousin is, "Okay, this is the way I want the EVENTS to take place, so, knowing this character so well, what do I have to do to him or her to make her take that particular action?" Yeah, it's kind of like putting mice in a maze and expirimenting to find out what makes them take the long route verses the short one, to the end. On a basic level, it's pretty obvious; most characters will redirect to avoid a 'bad' thing or redirect to come into contact with a 'good' thing. So you have to ask yourself, "What's my character consider good? Bad? And when faced with two bad options, or two good ones, what's the factor that will make one a lesser evil or a greater good?"

I was fighting with myself. I couldn't write the next scene. I didn't know why. I didn't know why I couldn't just sit down and say "character A is going to do and say this to character B", but I didn't understand why not. And then it hit me. I didn't have all the information. It was one of those monster "story math" problems, you know, the ones where you get a little story about Christopher and Pam, and eating apples, only instead of the problem asking me, "So, how many apples did they have left after they ate X amount?" it randomly wanted to know what the temperature was in Nova Scotia. How the Hades was I suppose to devine the weather patterns on another continent from Christopher's and Pam's lunchtime brouhaha???? How was I suppose to know what Character A needed to say and do around Character B right now to produce the outcome I wanted later . . . when I wasn't--um, quite sure, I mean I kind of knew, but not totally--what was happening at that unspecified future date?

Well, I know now. And even better, I know WHY, and what it all means not just for Characters A, B, and maybe even C, but for the whole rest of my insane Dionadir posse.

Someone, I'm am not even kidding, you better be sending me some brownies. With no nuts.

Eenie, Meenie, Minie, Foe

2009-10-17T09:22:00.000-07:00

Personal Notes: First off, seriously, why in the world are all the sounds effects in the old-school computer RPG game MYST so freaky? I've been scared of the elevator 'whoosh!' and the 'half-tuned static' noises since the first installment, and any other game or movie with similar sounds makes me cringe. For the record, I'm not normally scared of elevators or static. Just the MYST ones.

Secondly, I'm the second generation mommy in my line to play the "Fire-bumper" game with my babies. That's where you touch the referenced body parts while sing-songing, "Fire-bumper (forehead), eye-winker, tommy-tinker (left eye, right-eye), nose-smeller, mouth-eater, chin-chomper, BELLYBELLYBELLYBELLY!!!!"

Sometimes I am my worst enemy, whether it comes from writing a scene and having all the important information out of order (I totally reorganized a scene yesterday, realizing how bizarrely I had it after fighting with it and/or ignoring it for a week) or letting statistics get me down (on my bad days I look at the reality of how possible vs. impossible it is to become a published author and want to cry).

Both are kind of stupid.

Of course, at those moments, it doesn't feel stupid. It feels enormous.

For Silver I didn't actually write a formal outline until I was 3/4 into the book. I kind of just forced something out and hoped like Hades one of the many characters in my head would let me know whether or not the info was realistic. And that worked, for a first book, first draft, until I realized, "Crap. I have to think about what consequences things in this book have for the second and third books, and vice versa. Because yes, things from book two definitely have a bearing for how things in book one work. Make a little posty-note about that. You wanna write a multi-book story? Yeah, you want to think of the whole enchilada, even while you write the first part.

Now, I know I've mentioned my main form of plotting and organizing involves scribling nearly-indecipherable, cryptic non-proper sentences on Post-It Notes and small scraps of a paper. But around chapter three of Golden (when I had figured out about two dozen plot points which I'd scattered on dead trees all over my very pretty accordian file folder doohickie), I realized I needed an outline, because I had to decided where everything WENT.

Insane. It was really difficult for two reasons; obviously, because it wasn't a natural way of doing things for me, but even more so because I HATE the feeling of being told how to do something. Which, again, I realize is kind of dumb. I mean, I wrote the freakin' thing, didn't I? I'm the one who said how it would go, yeah? Doesn't seem to matter; it's still too much like 'authority', with which I have issues. Like the Mellancamp song says "I fight authority, authority always wins." And worse, my characters, perhaps because they all have a little me in them, are the same. They do not do well with the restriction of "This is how it's gonna go."

So, it's a little frustrating, because I know all this AMAZING stuff that's going to happen, really fantastic I'm-so-excited-about-it-I-could-puke stuff, but it isn't making it onto the page very well. And the pressure's on. Last chapter turned out beautifully. In at least one beta reader's opinion, the best chapter of the series so far. Talk about pressure. Talk about, "Hey, Ame, this next chapter, it's really gotta score, because if you don't get it JUST RIGHT, you're so going to BOMB, and not in the good way."

So, I've been hiding from the next chapter. Hiding, I tell you. I mean, yeah, I've legitimately had a lot of stuff going on outside of making Joss's life a guilty hell-hole, what with the painting of the disgustingly blue doors to a much better and prettier red, but still, if I'm honest, I'm hiding. I have questions I'm not entirely sure I have answers for.

But, if I remember correctly, I felt the same way about the last chapter too, before I figured it all out. You know . . . the chapter my betas adore.

I have the feeling pizza might make everything better. For me, not Joss. There are some things even mushrooms and mozzerella can't fix for you.

Moral of the story? Don't psych yourself out, and have your local Pizza Hut, Domino's, Papa John's, etc. on speed dial.

Oh, and here.

Love Roller Coaster

2009-09-03T15:19:00.000-07:00

I don't have a cell phone. This isn't some high-minded tech-cist philosphical choice, though. I've just not needed a cell, save for the year 2004 when my husband was in Iraq, and I wanted the minor additional "there-ness" a cell afforded me. Now, however, I'm getting busier and busier, getting closer to a point where one makes sense . . . and I'm the kind of girl who'd rather not have a toy unless she gets just the one she wants. So! I'm saving up for a LG EnV3 in maroon, because, Heaven help me, I think that little clamshell beauty is awesome.

What else do I love? Yep, Bill Nye, the Science Guy.

Things to Remember:

Just because someone tells you "no" does not mean they no longer like/love you.
God knows what He's doing. Shut up and wait for Him to clue you in.
5 out of 20 or so is actually a nice amount, around one-fourth.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers where not thinking of the debut author submission process when they wrote that song, but you don't mind.

Last night I got some pretty encouraging news. Today I got some slightly discouraging news. Considering writing is a labor of love (after all, Walter Wellesley said, "There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein."), the RHCP song title fits. In the last 24 hours I've been both up and down.

Usually, I hate heights, but I was getting kind of attached to last night's. I had multiple 'industry people' saying, "Hey, I like the idea of that," and that, my friends and foes, felt really good. It was like someone whispering in my ear, "This could really happen! You've got an heir and a spare!" I had options. I had a little cushiony space, in case of emergencies. And I like those cushions! One was hilarious and light, and would've made for a really good pillow fight, I bet. The other seemed to be more job-oriented, there to get that cushioning done, or else, and that was good too. That one was the kind of pillow who was going to dive-bomb the floor, getting there before me if I fell off the couch (trust me, I can fall off a couch without assistance).

I lost my squishy cushion today. My possible pillow-fight buddy decided she wasn't quite right for my sofa. I am bummed. I don't hold it against her--not at all. I know how this works. She didn't decline my couch because she suddenly didn't think I was a cool enough girl. It was the couch she wasn't quite sure about. I guess the point is, knowing and feeling that are two totally different things.

My up is a down, even if I have that other cushion. I don't know anything personal about, though. I know my lost cushion was funny (she had the best joke embroidered in one corner). I know she was upbeat. I know I would have really, really enjoyed sharing the couch with her. That's why I'm bummed. This new cushion isn't a sure bet by any means, but I have no idea if I'll connect on a personal level with it, which is something I want to consider, in the event it wants its own little dent in the seat of my sofa.

I need some corners, maybe some applique.

Just Call Me "Kanye".

2009-08-22T10:29:00.000-07:00

Until I was four years old, the most appropriate adjective one might use to describe me wasn't an adjective at all really. It was a possesive noun; "daddy's". His passing was the only reason I know of it stopped being true.

So, as is often the case, we start out by explaining the title of the post. Ever noticed what a pompous blowhard (I wince using that word. It's harsher a label than ones I generally think in, but it fits here, and as they say, if it fits . . .) Kanye West is? I've got several beefs with him, but technically the post is about how Mr. West thinks the world revolves him and he himself is above most of society and how that relates to moi.

I personally am not quite deluded enough to think either of those things, but about this blog one of them is true, after a fashion. It (the blog) is all about me, the parts, opinions, and struggles I choose to share. Here in this tiny corner of the internet I am a fledgeling rap artist. Watch out, I'm about to go on a binge. But first I have to help some buck-toothed rabbits dance disco to the music from Pulp Fiction*.

All right, that's all taken care of.

Why do I consider today's post all about me, even though I'm going to mention a crap-ton of other people and things? Because it's very opinionated. The following is pretty much a laundry list of what I thought about several things in my sphere of existence.

Like for instance, the colorful, tragic, beautiful independant film Phoebe in Wonderland . It's this amazingly gorgeous movie about a little girl whose imaginative version of Wonderdland is the only thing to eclipse her escalating battle with a kind of OCD. The whole movie grabs you by the heart, embracing and strangling by turns. At one point "Phoebe" shows up late for a theatre tryout because she can't force herself to stop obssessively washing her hands. Her knuckles are literally rubbed raw and your breath stops during the moments Ms. Dodger, the drama teacher, decides whether or not to let her audition. Meanwhile, at home things are getting harder and harder for Phoebe to deal with. Her parents are fighting all time; her mother is very clearly unhappy with being 'just a mom', and her father's success in being published only makes her mother resentful of him. To Phoebe, Lewis Carol's Wonderland is--ironically--the only place where she can make sense of anything. In the role of Alice, Phoebe shines. ********************************************************************************

Meanwhile, I've also read two YA novels in the last week. First up, The Possibilities of Sainthood, by Donna Freitas. It took me a couple of chapters to really get into the right headspace to enjoy this book, but basically that's pretty much true of every book these days. It's hard to turn off an editor's brain once you've switched it on. However, after I made that part of my grey matter shut up I was absolutely charmed by the main character, Antonia Lucia Labella. She made me want to spend a week or two living above an Italian pasta shop in Rhode Island, and she made me curious about all the saints (there's a patron saint of breastfeeding? Seriously?) and I'm not even close to being Catholic. Plus, it's been a really long time since obtaining my first kiss was any kind of priority, for which Antonia longs in a hilariously inwardly bold, outwardly silent kind of way. I'm not kidding. Pick this one up, you'll be all gushy inside yourself.

************************************************************************************

Meanwhile, Marlene Perez's Dead Is the New Black didn't win me over, and typically I'd just say this was probably better-suited as a middle grade novel, except apparently there might be FACTORS. I hate factors, but they exist anyway. In this case the factor is this: Marlene Perez writes for 'reluctant readers'. Now, I realize I am not a normal person when it comes to reading. I am a reading freak of nature. I know several others, but the general populace is not made up of readers like me. Some people would rather east a vat of spinach swimming in Tabasco sauce rather than read a book. I'm guessing that's Perez's targeted audience, which is why the book is sort of the paint-by-numbers equivilant of the countless vampire novel knock-offs out there. I didn't hate it, but it was so freakin' easy to predict every outcome I resented it for not surprising me at least a little. So, I guess my verdict is, if you're a 'reader' better to hold off on this one, but maybe if you have a friend or relative who isn't a reader, you can always pick up a copy and see if they bite. Uh, no pun intended.

No Microwaves for Maturity

2009-08-15T13:41:00.000-07:00

Personal Note: This afternoon I danced to a Sting song ("An Englishman in New York", I think) with three very attractive gentlemen who have singularly individual moves. And all of them were under nine years old. There was a lot of spinning inlvolved.

Earlier I was writing a letter to a friend and that's where I got the title of today's post. I thought it was exceedinglu clever, but that's part of my own charming little delusion.

It's true, you can't put someone into a microwave, push a few buttons, and voila! They become a rational, fair-minded adult. Or taller. But that's another set of intructions. The same can be said of a Work in Progress, or a WIP. There's not a magic drawer you stick your manuscript in and it comes out with a six-figure contract, gorgeous cover, and a legion of fans. While that scenario sounds awesome in theory, I'm not entirely sure I'd prefer it. I mean, yes, instant gratification always seems like something one could totally dig, but then, how much would we truly value our accomplisments?

I write this post as a reminder to myself. The stress and strain, the fear and fatigue of traversing the business side to creating a book is worth it. In the midst of the rejection--which I once compared to tearing off bandaids from your most sensitive areas all whilst having a heinous sunburn--there has to be hope, right? I have my little pinpricks of light, my little hopes. Two agents have asked to see pages from the novel, what's called a partial. One passed already, but it's okay. Two means it's not a fluke. Two means I have something here.

I don't need a microwave. I'm all right with the pressure most days, and the days I'm not all right with it, I've got people, whether they be writerly peers (Hiya, guys!), loyal beta readers (hey, girls!), or family right here in my home, stroking my hair while I try to forget why my stomach and chest hurt.

Plus, you know, extremely talented people sending me fan art of Joss and Sebastien helps, too.

Art compliments of Kara-Lija.

Thank Goodness it's Not a Seahorse, or I'd Drown

2009-07-23T14:58:00.000-07:00

Personal Notes: When talking on the phone odds are very, very good I am pacing or walking in circles. I'm not sure why, but I suspect it has something to do with my inability to hold still for much more than sleeping or reading. In fact, one of my husband's earliest memories of me involves my morning pacing session between rows of seats during eighth grade homeroom. Even our homeroom teacher remembers that.

Speaking of the husband, yesterday was our ninth anniversary. *big wicked grin* We won't get to celebrate for another week or two (schedules!), but when the clocked ticked over to Midnight into the 22nd he made sure to tell me getting to make a life every day with his best friend has been the most amazing experience. See, every once in a while he gets the whole 'romantic' thing just right. :D

I have started the first draft of Golden's chapter five, and some of the more detailed reader critiques for Silver have begun trickling in so I'll soon be faced with the question of whether or not I've done as right by the book as I possibly can. Have I? Am I being too picky? Or am I perhaps being just a bit chicken about it all, afraid of the guaranteed rejection that comes with submission like peanut butter and jelly? I want the book to be the best it can be of course, but how much is my fear affecting my judgement?

I'm giving myself one more pass of the manuscript in a couple of weeks. No more quibbling. After that it's sink or swim.

Anyone got some scuba gear I can borrow?

You Sneaky Brat . . .

2009-07-09T09:36:00.000-07:00

Well, I can't deny that truth.

Stay tuned. In a few weeks my lovely compatriot Michelle and I will have something useful to enveil.

--Amethyst

P.S. Progress on Golden coming along, as it will.

The Weekness of Me

2009-07-05T20:38:00.000-07:00

Personal Note: Uh . . . every time I fall in love with a product the makers of said product discontinue it. It's like I have a gremlin hiding in my bed that calls up manufacturers and tells them what variety of things I'm lovin'.

So, in the world of insane schedules I'm a bit of a lone adult again and apparently I am big on the puns and/or other wordplay with chapter titles this go around. So far in Golden we have:

Chapter One: Bad Dream Believer
Chapter Two: Floorplay
Chapter Three: Fake-n-Shake

I'm getting a little goofy, folks. And I think I'm going to keep tripping over myself until I write something more of a traditional outline, because while knowing what's going to happen, and even why it happens, is cool and all, knowing how it happens? Turns out it's at least a little important. And I need some sort of Amethystian brain chart to keep that all in place, because right now the cranium keeps splitting itself up all over the place for fear of losing some fun fact here or there.

FUN FACTS ARE NO FUN IF THEY EXPLODE YOUR BRAIN.

*mutters* Frackin' organization . . .