I Do …

Thoughts

I’ve read plenty of commentary on the dread middle, that no man’s land section of a novel that sits down in the center of the map and refuses to be anything of value. I’ve tread there. It’s rocky terrain. It’s also not what’s irritating me right now.

The map is drawn. The plot hath been plotted. I’m seeing the finish line. In fact, I’ve already planned the victory party (If you’re fond of cigars, then you are automatically on the guest list). I’ve written the next to last scene for Nightshade and plotted out the last few chapters for Icarus. Both works are absurdly close to being finished (first draft). So why can’t I finish them? Because…well…same reason the psychic runner that knows how the race will end, has trouble getting motivated to run. Absurd analogy, but I’m going stir crazy in my non-writerlyness…how’s that for a new word? Blog posts this week are no problem whatsoever. Prose? Utter disaster. And it’s all because I didn’t take my bi-annual week of solitude in December.

See what I get for skipping my routine? Madness ensues. I’ve brainstormed a lot these last few days and while it’s been fun, it isn’t what my heart wants. I want, no—I need to finish the other two works and I really need to get through the last few chapters of the second draft of book two in the Fable trilogy. Which means I need to get away from everything for a few days and force myself through the sludge. And believe me when I tell you, writing on anything right now feels like mucking barefoot through a derelict horse stall. Loads of shit…

I’m okay tuning everything out while I am working on a project, right up to this point in the process. Here, is where I’m no longer rushing to the story in order to hear what it has to say, because I know already. The honeymoon is over, we made it through the seven year itch and are complacently settled somewhere between midlife crisis and retirement. We’ve put a down payment on the camper for God’s sake.

It’s time to renew our vows. And so, with any luck, I’ll go hide away somewhere for a few days (soon!) and return triumphant, suffering the writing hangover to beat all hangovers.

You’ve Gotta Read to the End…

The whisper of his breath hits my sweat damp flesh, winter water on a summer afternoon.  I brush his hand from the nape of my neck and roll away from his embrace, squinting as the early morning light threads through the blinds and pierces the remaining fog from a night of disconcerting dreams. “I’m tired.”

He chuckles low. “You’re tired an awful lot lately.” With a feather weight stroke, he moves a curtain of red hair aside, allowing the cool air to sweep over my flushed skin, then drops a kiss onto the curve of my shoulder.  ”Is everything all right?”

I nod mutely.

“You sound so convincing. How does it feel? Does it feel like the truth?” He leans up and tilts his head to see me better. When I don’t answer him, he graces my lips with the pad of his thumb. “I would rather hear you out loud.”

“I don’t have anything to say.”

He laughs again. “I suppose I should go check on hell. Care to tell me where I can get a hold of some ice skates at this hour?”

“Is it that hard for you to believe?” I sit up, uselessly clutching the sheet to my body in a sad excuse for piousness. This elicits an arched brow from him.

“Kind of late for that.”

“I’m married.”

He smiles and the world suddenly feels like it’s shifting beneath me. “Don’t you think I know that? There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish I could have you all to myself.” He pauses and reaches to take my hand in his. “I know that’s not what you want. But, I’m dying without you. At least give me what you promised. Just that much, that’s all I’m asking. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more? Isn’t that how we wound up in this situation to begin with? You just wanted to know my name. That’s all. Nothing more. Then, you just wanted to walk with me. Nothing more. Now, look at us.”

He absently draws circles on my palm as he looks down to his left. Then, suddenly, he meets my gaze again and this time it’s with the same passion and strength that I fell in love with so long ago. “You are everything. And if I can’t have all of you, then I’ll take whatever is left. I’ll sacrifice the happiness that I could have with someone else, just to spend a few stolen moments with you.” He rises to his knees before he pushes me down and straddles me, leaning down so that his face, his mouth, hovers mere inches from mine. “Some moments contain more than whole lifetimes ever could.” And with that he kisses me.

I anticipated it, felt it in my bones before our lips touched, but the ability for something to be both everything and nothing, hot and cold, idle and wild, all at once, can never be fully expected. I am breathless when he pulls away, my body weak. I sit up and lean into him for support.

“What I promised, nothing more.” I whisper.

He nods once, smiling. “Nothing more.”

I shake my head and with a  humorless sigh acknowledge the overwhelming ache in my chest. It’s no coincidental emotion. He always brings lucid visions of places and creatures I couldn’t have conjured on my own. When that ache leaves it always takes with it hours, of a sort of drunken revelry with the keyboard, accounted for only by the pages of prose left in it’s wake; a frenzied, timeless scramble to keep up with him—the story. I suppose I should feel a little guilty, but that reaches down and snatches the heart of the matter from my soul—I am in love with writing. Yet, more specifically, it’s a two way street. He never fails to tell me when I’ve neglected him. He leaves gentle reminders at times and then when I start to feel like I’ve felt lately, he loses those haunting, cryptic murmurs and gives me no choice but to admit that I am bereft of life without him.

There are worse things in life.  *wink*

Forged in the Fire

Silence

“That which the dream shows is the shadow of such wisdom as exists in man, even if during his waking state he may know nothing about it…. We do not know it because we are fooling away our time with outward and perishing things, and are asleep in regard to that which is real within ourself.”  ~Paracelsus, quoted in The Dream Game

What is important? What is vital and necessary? Everything in my life boils down to those two questions. More specifically, the answers to those questions have determined what sacrifices are being made with the hope of attaining something more than perishable things. Allow me to explain.

Dean Koontz’s wife supported him for five years. She made the comment that if he couldn’t make it as an author by the end of that time frame, then he never would. By the time that five year period had ended, she had to quite her job just to manage the business end of his career. Does everyone need to leave gainful employment in order to become a successful author? Of course not! However, he looked at his life, looked at what was most important to him and then determined what was truly vital and necessary (bills, etc) and made the choice to sacrifice some perishable things. This sacrifice wound up being the greatest investment of his life.

But, I know it wasn’t easy. I can imagine the conversations that took place concerning his ‘lack of work’ and his wife’s dedication to providing for them while he was taking that chance. I know, because I’m going through it right now. Again, as authors, we get the short end of the stick. No one sees the unrealistic amount of work we produce (and mostly toss for the good of the novel). No one sees the countless hours spent searching for just the right rhythm, just the right combination of words to paint a picture of the worlds we see in our heads. At least, no one sees it until we’ve been offered a profitable book deal. Then, overnight, everyone’s whispered words shift to effusive affirmations of our talent and perseverance.

Meanwhile, we’re seen as lazy, unable or unwilling to pull our own weight and worst of all, selfish. How can we possibly put our spouses through this? Has it occurred to you that they might be doing so willingly? Perhaps they love us enough to give us the chance of a lifetime? Just maybe, they see in us what we know in our hearts to be there. How lucky are we to have found someone who is willing to make those sacrifices with us. I work, not just for my own benefit, but with the intention of being able to bless Ben tenfold for what he has given me. I want more for him and for the children we will eventually have, than what I could ever provide working a typical nine to five. But, more than anything, I want to be the person that I know I am, when I am living my life the way I was built to live it. I want to be at my best for them, and my best is not the girl wearing the nicest clothes or living in the largest house or sitting on the nicest furniture I could afford. The truth is that I shine brighter in my simple grays, in my conservative home and with less possessional adornment than I ever would in the world we could be building for ourselves.

Does that make it any easier when others call judgment on us? When they don’t understand why we do what we do? Does knowing that their judgment doesn’t matter, make it feel like it doesn’t, in fact, matter? Not even a little bit. But, at the end of the day, just as we do when we receive the fifteenth or the fiftieth rejection letter, we have to look inside our own souls and say to hell with everything else. This, this nonperishable blessing, this irreplaceable existence is what is important. It is all that is vital and necessary.

THE INEVITABLE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE and stuff…

“Every family needs a zombie infestation plan.”  ~American Center for Zombie Apocalypse Preparedness

Speaking of the inevitable Zombie apocalypse, the People for the Ethical Treatment of the Undead (PETU) did form that council back in 1994 and are still working on establishing proper protocol for dealing appropriately with those individuals who are Living Impaired. Incidentally, zombies are looking for brains, which means there are a great many people in my hometown who have absolutely nothing to worry about…

What in the world does this have to do with writing? Easy…it’s my newest form of self motivation. See, every time I feel like stopping or taking a break, I’m simply going to imagine that Zombies will eat my brains.

“Write! Or I will eat you.”

Didn’t I tell you? Efficiency is the key. Not to mention how cost-effective it is. Zombies make great pets—they don’t use the facilities (it has something to do with that whole regenerative cell thing), and when they get hungry, I just feed them one of my obnoxious neighbors. I’m working on my cul-de-sac as we speak…

Zombie Apocalypse Preparedness tip #1: Surround yourself with cripples, they’ll never out run you. Better safe than sorry (or politically correct).

My Very Existence…

Lean on me

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” ~Albert Camus

I find myself often more in need of my characters than they are in need of me. I may need one’s strength today, another’s cowardice tomorrow and still another’s grace the next. Perhaps that is the very definition of a literary purest. I am what I write and I refuse to change out of the inconceivability of the act.

I don’t always know why. Take Jessica Slate, for example, a character I hadn’t seen (nor had any intention of ever seeing again) since I was thirteen years old. That’s what  the J.S. in J.S. Chancellor stands for, by the way. She was created during one of the most difficult periods in my life. I was very much alone and something in my soul needed her strength, her tenacity and her protection and so she emerged from the depths as my heroine. My friend and I wrote the books (all 5 of them) between classes and in the evenings and on weekends…and eventually they were put away and became that very special sort of memorabilia that gets brought out only on really sentimental or really drunk occasions. At least, that’s what I thought until I saw her again last year.

She’d grown up quite a bit.

In fact, she wasn’t the sweet blonde human girl I’d remembered. She was so much more than that—she was a tender, warm hearted, kick ass vampire who had been taken from her beloved husband ten years prior by his arch enemy, only to be stripped of her memories and given a new life as a Covenant Assassin. My little girl had grown up—but then, I suppose that I had as well. And now, my monsters were a little less obvious than before. Last time they were people—actual flesh and blood beings who embodied all of my fear and weakness, who stole from me innocence that should have been protected, who created waking nightmares in what had once been a good and simple life. This time…I couldn’t put a name on what was happening to me. But she could.

I suppose in order for this to make much sense I should back up, really back up and be a bit more vulnerable than I’d intended. Not that I’m terribly uncomfortable with telling you this, but it isn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever said. When I was in the seventh grade, my world turned upside down. I wasn’t alone, there were others who suffered through it with me—but we were mostly silent. It wasn’t that we didn’t think anyone would understand or believe us. We knew they believed us, but no one cared. If they didn’t see it, it didn’t happen. I grew up in the south, mostly. I went to public school and somewhere just prior to my seventh grade year our town became nothing but a powder keg of racial tension, ready to go off at the slightest spark. Because children often suffer the sins of the parents, our junior high became a war zone for a very hands on battle between whites and blacks. White girls were routinely molested and harassed by several different groups of black boys. White boys were physically beaten and all of us were verbally assaulted. I can very clearly recall sitting in class and standing up after the third day in a row where the boy next to me grabbed me between the legs. My teacher (a black woman) said that I was being racist and that no black boy would do something like that to a white girl. I took an empty seat that was close to the door, despite the fact that our seats were assigned and all but dared her to send me to the principal. Another friend of mine was pushed against the lockers and since this blog isn’t rated mature, I won’t tell you the details of what happened to her—let’s just say that I was one of the lucky ones. Was this a poorly funded school? Far from it—in fact, this school was the ‘richest’ of the public institutions of our town at the time. And the nicer the neighborhood was where you lived, the more of a target you were. I grew up in one of the wealthiest areas in town, unfortunately. Did I tell my parents? Yes and no. I went home at Christmas break and declared that I wasn’t going to go back. After being told that no matter the circumstances, I wasn’t going to be home schooled or put in private school, I figured that telling my well meaning but naive parents would only bring more heat. So, I went from nearly all A’s, to barely clearing C’s and D’s and started wearing all black, skipping school, smoking cigarettes and vandalizing things. I was called to the principal’s office more than a few times. Were my folks ever called? No. I was doing my very best to get suspended—copping to things I wouldn’t have even been suspected of had I not confessed. Yet still, no one ever said anything. Why? Because they all knew, and all it would take was one parent to step up and say something and everything in our racially ‘perfect’ world would come crumbling down. People would have to talk about their differences and admit the issues. Did anyone? No—most parents pulled their kids and sent them to one of two private schools in our town. Sweep everything under the rug—that’s what people do down here. So, I coped by creating a world where I had control over what frightened me.

High School was better—significantly so. My freshman year brought good things and good memories, but by Sophomore year I realized there were some lingering issues related to what I’d gone through before—feelings of insecurity and anxiety that all stemmed from being so vulnerable and…well…abused at such a pivotal age. So Ariana’s world was born (Fable).  I needed something bigger than myself to believe in, a faith that was more powerful than the one that had so catastrophically let me down before; a faith different than that of those who were supposed to be my voice when I couldn’t speak. I needed a war to fight beyond the one that was being waged, and lost, in my soul…

That war—like so many we’ve waged as humans, had no clear winner and everything was placed on hold as I transfered schools the summer before my junior year. I suppose you could say that this was my time of rebuilding, of healing. I didn’t pick up my pen with the intent to write anything more than poetry, journal entries or essays for more than nine years.

When I did, the first thing I finished was Fable (the first trilogy in a series of three). I won’t bore you with the details of all of that, but what prompted me again to start writing was another kind of war. This time it was the emotional fall-out of growing up and realizing that life and therefore relationships, will never be perfect. Parents make mistakes, children make mistakes, husbands and wives make mistakes—friends make mistakes. It is what makes us who we are.

I sit here in the early, quiet morning hours, and  I see that all of the moments of my life are tied together for better or worse by a well woven cord of characters:  Jessica Slate was my childhood, Ariana my adolescence. Gabriel was the father I had once, but lost to middle age depression and apathy and a slue of things which will remain unnamed. Michael was the savior I’d once thought I’d never doubt, the Christ I’d once had unshakable faith in and ironically he’s who led me ultimately to the Catholic Church (and coincidently back to Christ), because through his eyes I saw what real faith is and what it entails. Aubrey is the bearer of all the things that as an adult I can’t cope with—all the memories and fears that get to be too much, the insecurities that would halt all forward momentum should I ever try and name them all. Ariana is the bearer of the wounds I’ve too much pride to admit to having still and all the things in my life that should have been but weren’t. She maintained the emotional innocence that I buried long ago in a poorly executed attempt to save myself from bitterness.

Jessica Slate as she is now, is my back bone. In an industry, a career, that is brutal and unforgiving—she provides the much needed pat on my back and the comforting whisper in my ear that says, ‘To hell with them…” There are nights when I’m too tired to keep writing, or the scene is too emotionally heavy, but the story still insists and so Aubrey lovingly takes the keyboard out of my hands and keeps typing. I’m amazed she can hear herself think over my snoring. There are days when I’d love to have a good long cry on my father’s shoulder—just as I feel the silence growing too heavy, I’ll hear Gabriel say in his rumbling, war worn voice, “I’m not as fictional as I look…” E.L. Doctorow once likened being an author to organized schizophrenia. Perhaps he was on to more than he realized.

Or perhaps he too heard those not so subtle voices in the dark…ones that cajoled, or coerced or even comforted. Maybe his spirit too was so imprisoned that his very existence was in and of itself an act of rebellion. Some nights, and darker still, some days conceive such unspeakable and dreadful dreams that I may be sure of nothing else in this world but of the absolute and irrefutable certainty of those creatures born from the mire of my imagination. Some prose is so utterly truthful, that it leaves me with the realization that to continue willfully existing and thus to continue writing so, would be a rebellious act against my soul.

Tonight, I pen in ink that which I couldn’t bear to shed through tears. May it whisper life into some long abandoned place. Tonight, I rebel against all that would have silenced me a lifetime ago. Nay—several lifetimes ago, for as an author we peer out through the bars of a multitude of cages. May we sing in freedom, if for no other reason than to hear ourselves draw in poisoned air and make of it something worth committing to memory. May we find a reason for rebellion.

Rinse and Repeat

Ophelia

“Sometimes you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when it feels like all you’re managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position.”
-Stephen King

I watched a movie the other night that felt like a startlingly accurate portrayal of a writer’s life. I mean this in the daily, mundane, trite sense of the term. Which movie? Deadline, starring the late Brittany Murphy. For those who haven’t seen it, I won’t ruin it for you—there is a rather decent twist at the end. What I will tell you is that her time spent in solitude felt very much like what I experience on a daily basis. Well, minus most of the apparitions and at least half of the gruesome occurrences.

This won’t be the case for those of you who don’t write full time. If you have a 9-5, you’ve likely got something remotely resembling a schedule and while you may produce the same or higher volume than those of us left to our own devices, it all comes about in a very different way. The case is also different for authors who have a bulldog’s determination when it comes to the allocation of their time.

I have neither gainful employment nor any reasonable respect for the use of my time.

Alice, Brittany’s character in Deadline, staggers out of bed at an absurdly late hour after staying up to work on her script till the wee hours of the morning. She drags her ass to soak in the tub upon waking because she isn’t awake to do much of anything else. She forces herself downstairs to drink coffee and work some more: This consists of a lot of staring and leads to searching around the attic, the equivelant of which would be my googling whatever strange things pop into my mind at 4 0′ clock in the afternoon. Later in the evening, still sitting in front of the same blank page she sat in front of hours earlier, she pours a glass (or two) of wine and continues to plug away. Several pairs of comfy pants, flip flops, raggedy shirts and a gaggle of loose screws later, she emerges with a full manuscript—though the reader never actually sees her making much progress.

Aside from how clever I found the ending to be, I smiled because it felt like an autobiographical moment. I do that every day—I mope, I talk to the dogs, the wall and occasionally Stabler on SVU…and yet, for all the ‘not-writing’ I do, I manage to do an awful lot of writing. Sometimes I feel productive and other times, as Stephen King so aptly put it, I feel as though I’m shoveling shit from a sitting position. I’ll screw with a coma at noon and take it out all together by midnight. I’ve determined (probably later than I should have) that there is a great deal of creation that goes on in the stillness of a writer’s heart. Why else would we bolt awake from dreams with images so real they could have been shown right alongside Avatar?

You’ve probably known this for decades and should pity me for being so late in the game. I’m just glad I don’t have to continue flogging myself for waking up at 1:00 pm or remaining in my pajamas until company arrives. Now, this is not the usual for days when I am not working. When I’m officially ‘off’ the clock, I at least make the effort to seem outwardly presentable to the UPS delivery person.

This means that I’ve just recanted everything I said in an earlier post on how to become a successful freelancer. Those tips I gave you lasted a grand total of two days. They were a productive and miserable pair. So what about you? If you write from home and manage to look like a human at 4pm, do tell…

Doesn’t Play Well With Others…

It isn’t that I feel your criticism unworthy of making my work better—that isn’t the case at all. It simply makes my work yours and I’m not willing to share the burden. You see, I don’t play well with others. Well okay, I didn’t just figure that out—I’ve known most of my life. It has just been brought back to my attention.

Yeah, I understand that this is part of the industry, get a thicker skin, blah, blah, blah. I’m not talking about career moves here. I know better than to argue with the editor who is trying to get my manuscript in shape, or to refuse my agent’s suggestions. I do have a brain and a smidgen of common sense (not much past that, mind you). I simply have a different opinion on the value of a ‘critique’ than most.

Before I say anything else, let me make clear that I have beta readers—a couple of which are brutally honest and I handle it just fine. I want to hear what they have to say, because I trust them. I know where they are coming from—I know their bias and their preferences. We don’t always agree on things and more often than not, we clash. But the dialog is always beneficial because I know what to do with it. Now, with that said, let me state that I personally would never join a critique group. Why? Because my belief in positive reinforcement pervades my ability to give what others consider ‘useful’ criticism, and I am an independent creator. I’m not alone in this viewpoint. There are a slue of other authors who agree with me, but an even larger population that doesn’t. When I’ve voiced my opinions on this in the past—without fail, I always get the you should toughen up and take what’s good for you lecture. It’s always well worded and backed up with solid logic. Problem is, Thalidomide also had fairly sound logic behind it…oops. Feel that an unfair comparison? Toughen up and take what’s good for you. Thalidomide is a powerfully effective drug, and works wonders for patients with Multiple Myeloma and Leprosy. In other words—what’s good for one person, isn’t necessarily good for everyone.

I did a little research to see if I was being a sissy. Turns out there are more than a few authors who swear by cautiously accepting critiques on their work. According to Kristen Painter:

“Luna/Berkley author P.C. Cast doesn’t use a critique group for two reasons. One is that she feels her writing process works best as a solitary endeavor. “Often it feels as if I’m soughing through mud, but it’s mud I have to fight through myself. That’s how I resolve plot problems and how I develop characters. If I had help, or even too much input from others, I don’t think my end product would be the same.” (http://www.kristenpainter.com/writers/CritiqueGroups_RWR.pdf)

Painter goes on to list the second reason Cast doesn’t use a critique group as time. “Many authors produce work at a greater rate than a critique group can critique.” To be fair—in addition to the authors she lists as not using groups, Painter also shows the other side. So, I’m not saying that there isn’t value in it. I’m merely saying that it doesn’t work for me. I find it infinitely more useful when a reader points out areas of strength than when they comment on what they personally didn’t like. If eight out of nine readers mention my character development as being strong and no one ever says anything about the worlds I’ve created—I’m going to get the idea that I need to work on my level of description. Maybe some authors don’t take subtle hints…rest assured, I do and have no need for others to tell me what they would have done had it been their story.

I suppose that gets to the heart of my issue. When you hand your work to other writers, you are asking for just that. No writer can read something in the draft stages without the question, ‘what would I have done here’ staining their ability to be objective. And that’s the problem, it isn’t your story. You’ll never hear me tell another author how a story should have gone—that isn’t valuable feedback. Nor will I ever suggest tearing a story apart because it isn’t ‘marketable’ the way that it is. Critique groups as they are now, are a relatively new creation. A writer in decades past would have a few trusted readers, if he/she showed an unpublished work to anyone aside from their editor. The concept of a collective or collaborative effort is an invention of mass market production. If you want to produce a manuscript to please the masses, show it to them first.

Personally, no thanks. I’m a purest when it comes to fiction. If it didn’t happen that way, I’m not changing it or adding fluff to make it more palatable to the market. Period. Burn me at the stake for it—the masses are good at that. I’m simply tired of seeing it worded as an absolute, when it isn’t. I’m tired of reading that in order to take yourself seriously as an author, you should sign up for the unsolicited criticism of an anonymous online community or a face to face, weekly commitment with other authors…because no serious author does it alone. This simply isn’t true at all. While we may be the exception, we aren’t a myth.

I’m not interested in hearing critique groups or critiques in general defended. I’ve heard it all, more than once, and saying it again won’t change how I feel about it. Writers get up in arms over this…which makes no sense if you think about it—I’m criticizing the norm and you’re immediately rushing to the defense…doesn’t that fly in the face of your argument? Shouldn’t you take my words for what they are and maybe see if you can’t learn something from them? Improve? My favorite argument thus far is the assumption that since a work hasn’t been published yet, there must be something inherently wrong with it. Really? You believe that? And passing it through enough critiques will eventually whittle down the ‘errors’ and you’ll have a ‘publishable’ novel at some distant point in the future? Formulas don’t work. That, is a formula. To hell with those who say it needs shredding. Tolkien himself told Lewis that he should scrap Father Christmas from The Chronicles of Narnia. Several years ago a poll was done in the united states that asked grade school children what part they liked best, and wouldn’t you know…Father Christmas won by a landslide. So, it isn’t even a matter of who is giving the criticism—whether they are qualified or not—you know when something is right or wrong in a story. Have a little more faith in yourself and your ability to write.

Stephen King said it best, “No, it’s not a very good story – its author was too busy listening to other voices to listen as closely as he should have to the one coming from inside.”

Dance with the Devil

Hell's Belles--Deviant Art

I don’t leave lights on. I don’t double check locks or closets. I suppose this could be my serious stomach for frightening things—and hot food since we’re on the subject (never met a hot sauce or a zombie I couldn’t handle). So, while brainstorming this horror novel—the one that won’t be touched until sometime early fall (draft wise), I have stumbled across the age old question: What do you fear?

I asked this in a post on facebook and received a handful of good answers. Overall, one thing was clear: The most elemental fear is the fear of the unknown. We have some very fundamental ways of dealing with this, which is why I chose to be a psychology major instead of an English major. I may have a harder time structuring sentences than most, but by God, my characters will be solid as stone. We deal with fear by trying to organize, and thus gain control, of what we don’t understand. We’ll make it understandable. Be it through religion, science or a 9mm, we’re going to make sure that whatever we fear is under our ‘not to be worried about’ category. Why do people make the comment, “You aren’t near a hospital” to those living in the country? Because there is a reasonable assumption that the hospital will spare you death or dismemberment or both.

We use religion in the form of ritual; faith by believing in an ‘all good’ higher power; justice by assuming that only the guilty suffer; science by assuming everything has an explanation and even survival of the fittest with an assumed understanding of the human body and its inherent weaknesses. We assume the efficacy of weapons or illness on all sentient beings. Thus, as an author, if we are to psychologically affect our readers, we must systematically take it all away.

I’ve never read a book that made me want to leave the light on. Rarely does a movie really strike me as truly frightening. I want to write a story that not only causes you to leave your light on for a month—I’d love for you to double check every lock in your house, start attending mass again and maybe even memorize a prayer to the patron saint of  please for the love of God save my sorry ass. lost causes. My homework: Study the anatomy of fear. Sounds fun, huh?

I don’t like blood and gore—it has its place, but I prefer otherworldly. Consider the barbed wire man in Silent Hill—the dude in the bathroom, for those of you who forgot. The sheer inconceivability of his predicament is what is utterly frightening. How would any sentient being wind up like that? Those things frighten us because if the outcome is so awful, how much moreso must the doer of such an unfathomable act be? Also consider the drawings by Stephen Gammell, for the Scary Stories series. Haven’t seen them? If you call yourself a horror fan and you haven’t, you’d best be googeling. The man’s got talent in spades. I mention him because all of his drawings have roots…I mean this literally. The edges of the objects, even stationary insentient ones, have root-like things growing from them. Ah, hell—I’ll include a thumbnail to save you the google (you’re gonna google it anyway). See what I mean? I grew up reading ghost stories, seeing illustrations like the one below and hearing my mother’s awesome
rendition of Little Orphan Annie and the Goblins. I had no choice in the matter—I was born and bred to love the supernatural and horrific. So, you tell me—what makes your skin shiver and your bones shake?

Sam's New Pet

You Want a Piece of Me?

Time

Olympic athletes train every day. They wake up at absurd hours because they need more time than a normal human schedule allots. Before the average Olympian has ever won a medal, they have supporters. The public cheers them on because they want them to succeed. When they compete, they are known for either life altering mistakes (broken limbs, public falls, etc.), or dream achieving performances. If I have my facts right, most of them don’t hold full time jobs while engaged in a ‘training’ season.

Writing is no different. Save the public’s basic understanding of what it takes to become a master of our craft. Family members question our absence at holidays or get-togethers. Friends whine about unanswered phone calls, unaddressed emails or short visits. In-laws, acquaintances and neighbors ask why we don’t do something more directly related to gainful employment…or worse, success. I suspect they don’t truly know the definition of the word.

Publishing companies, those few who are willing to accept unsolicited submissions, make the bold requirement, ‘No multiple submissions’ yet with the same tongue, ‘Expect a reply within 6-8 months.’

For each agent, a writer must research all the particular likes and dislikes, the format (there are just as many ways to submit a query as there are stars in the sky), the amount to include (five pages, no pages, query only, full synopsis), and even how to address the agent. This essentially boils down to personal preference. Agent X doesn’t appreciate being addressed by their first name. Agent Y wouldn’t get past the greeting if it didn’t specifically address her by first and last name. Bottom line: you don’t want us to succeed.

I don’t want to hear the usual crap I hear from the publishing world about professionalism, courtesy and all of the excuses used for  supposedly ’streamlining’  the process. We get to read all of the time about one author or another who had the audacity to….fill in the blank with the offense of the week.  I’ve read more than once how it isn’t possible for an agent, NOT to be FOR authors. Really? Step outside of your self-righteous shoes and read your bullshit for what it is. “Don’t submit to anyone else for half a year, wait for me to send you a form rejection.” Really. That’s–FOR authors? Did that sound supportive to you? Oh wait, you didn’t say it like that, did you? But that’s what you meant. There are whole blogs dedicated to educating authors on how to better get along with agents by way of bettering their queries and synopses. How about a blog dedicated to agents on how to respect the amazing amount of time and soul it takes to write a single piece of work? I’d be blacklisted in a NY minute. If I’m not already. Oh and don’t bother telling me that they are being magnanimous enough to spend a few moments of their precious time to ‘help’ us out.

*Sigh* I’d love to see just one agent, make a single dime from selling books without the authors they’ve signed. Wait, books don’t exist without us. So, unless HAL develops literary aspirations, we won’t EVER see that.

Why would I be blacklisted? Free speech right? For everyone but us. I have a big problem with the amount of arrogance it takes to expect every writer to take hours out of their time researching your personal tastes in such depth that a simple slip of the tongue could warrant a rejection slip. Don’t think that possible? Do a little research and then come tell me it’s never happened. I have better things to do—like, I don’t know, bettering my craft, for example. I know, how dare I expect to spend my time actually practicing, actually writing. Will I stoop to this heinous act myself?

Yeah. Because if I ever want to see my work on the shelves of a brick and mortar store, I don’t have a choice in the matter. But let me assure you—should fortune ever smile on me, and I find myself in a position to REALLY say something about this, they’ll get a serious piece of my mind.

Oh, and because I know some smart-ass will either ask or think this. Yes, I would be saying this if I were published or currently signed with an agent. Don’t believe me? Well, nobody’s perfect.

You might be my dog if…

Are you serious??

Most authors I know have pets. If you’ve been following my blog you know that I have two dogs (Aubie & Ella). Ella is the golden/shepard mix to the left and Aubie is the handsome fella in the title picture above. Now, I’m at home full time which leaves them little time to talk about me behind my back, but I’m sure they sneak it in somewhere. And believe me nothing has changed as far as their opinion of me goes. Take for example this morning: I have a third of my coffee left on the end table when I take a brief (like, 2 min) break from writing and leave the room. I return. No coffee. Aubie, who is snuggled next to my laptop (he weighs 89 pounds) is looking mighty guilty.

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“I didn’t do it.”

“Ella is in her crate, are you gonna blame her?”

“Can I?”

“NO!”

This got me thinking about us as authors and our pets and the very special relationship we have with them—perhaps one that is unique to us. I discussed this with both of my beloved children and found out a good deal about how they view this little life of ours. Here is a typical day for them.

“Is she ever going to get up and let me out of here?” Ella asks from her crate.

*Smirk* Aubie, curled up on the bed. “Nope. You’ll be in there forever. She told me so.”

“You’re such a big jerk.”

Later…

“Pssst.” Ella whispers. “Hey! She’s doing that thing again.”

“It’s called writing, twerp.”

“Are you sure? She’s just staring at the wall. Her soup is unmanned.”

“Yeah kid, go stick your nose in it and see how ‘unmanned’ that soup is.” *Laughing* “I bet I could get away with it.”

“But you just said…”

“I’ve got skills. Bark like you have to go out really, really bad.”

*Ella nudges me and leads me to the back door where I wait patiently for a minute. Then we both return to the den.*

*Me staring at my ‘untouched’ bowl of tomato soup* “I could swear I had more of that left.” *Looks at Aubie who is snoring* “Oh well.”

Later still…

“Is she talking to you?” Ella asks, bone halfway sticking out of her mouth.

“Nope.”

“Is dad home?” *chomp chomp chomp*

“Nope.”

“Then who is she yelling at?” *chomp chomp, cough, chomp chomp*

*sighs* “I told you earlier, she’s writing. Don’t you ever listen?”

*chomp* “So…she’s not talking to you??”

Latest, or perhaps really, really early tomorrow…

“Are you hungry?” Aubie asks.  *Paces in front of the hall closet where the food is*

“Nope.” *Ella smiles, laying upside down with her head hanging off of the couch*

“Really? I am. How are you not hungry?”

“Did you know that there is a huge swirly thing on the ceiling and that if you look at it like this, it moves?”

“It’s called a fan dumb ass, and it moves even if you’re not looking at it.” *Barks like he hasn’t eaten in days*

*Sneezes from being upside down* “Wow. Sure goes fast.”

*More barking* “She’s got those things on her head again. Fall of the couch and maybe she’ll see you and take them off.”

*Another sneeze followed by a roll and subsequent tumble onto the floor*

*Me, taking my noise reduction headphones off* “The rescue could have told me you were brain damaged.”

Later still…

“Aubie, come here!” *Me from the floor, lying on my stomach*

“K, coming!” *Trots down hallway with Ella in tow*

“Walk on my back”

“I got in trouble for that last time.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Let’s try it again.”

“I don’t know…”

*Ella backs up two spaces, wags butt, then takes a running leap onto my back excitedly* “Ha ha! Attack!”

“ELLA!!!!”

Sweet Dreams

Last Rites--Yogoro

I’ve been asked on more than one occasion where I get my ideas from. I’ve said loosely that I get most of them from dreams, and perhaps that answer has been thrown out insincerely by others. I was never joking (weird, right?) when I said it. Which can only lead me to one conclusion: I’ve got one hell of a twisted mind to come up with some of the dark, eerie things that wind up taking form in my dreams. Consider the image I chose for this post—welcome to my world.

What brought this on? I had another dream night before last that had me furiously scribbling images before they could flee. The novels of ‘undetermined genre’ that were wrecking the pool table, well, this was one of them. I laughed when I woke up, right after breathing a sigh of relief that I had been in fact dreaming, because I knew it was coming. And all of this got me thinking about things that are truly, deeply, terrifying. What scares me? Well, subtly scares me worse than anything blatant. The moment in the movie where the camera is focused on the main character and pans across something in the background that makes your skin crawl, that has you clutching the arm of your chair going, “Wait, WTF? Did you just see that?”

The trick will be figuring out how to do that in a novel. I’ve never written horror before—and being me, this will of course be dark fantasy and not truly Horror in the purest sense of the genre. Nonetheless, it will be as close to horror as I’ll ever come as an author. Because the images are so random in my head, and trying to string them together right now to tell you a story is impossible, allow me some room to give you a brief glimpse of what I dreamt.

The beginning of the story (and what I saw first in the dream) shows a girl who is either with friends or alone in a car, driving at night, and suddenly wrecks. Nothing is said as to what happened next or how it relates to the rest of the story.

The main character is a man, somewhere in his thirties, a physician. He is playing a game with friends—maybe at a holiday party, or birthday party, something. Somehow this will lead them into a world that feels like a cross between that of Silent Hill/Pan’s Labyrinth & American McGhee’s Alice in Wonderland. There is clear, yet dying goodness beneath all of the dark, otherworldly stuff—flowers choked by weeds, figuratively speaking. He realizes somewhere along the way that they are inside of the girl’s head, where she is trapped by whatever ‘evil’ force rules that world. The main character comes to this conclusion after it is revealed that he is her doctor—she is in a coma at the hospital where he works. At some point the others (those left alive—lol), will have a chance to escape and he will decide to risk his own life and stay behind, to go after her. So, there is a classical fairy tale element here, but much, much darker than anything I’ve ever written. This is not to say that I’m new to these types of images though. I’ve spent years telling these stories—and for some of you reading this on Facebook, who have known me for a while, you may remember me at some point scaring the pants off of you. Sorry about that, by the way.

I’ve always loved horror—movies, novels, the whole nine yards. I’ve always liked the rush and adrenaline that comes with feeling like you’re flirting with death. I guess it’s no different than people who go bungee jumping or cliff diving. I prefer to do so with my imagination. My mother asked me lovingly at lunch the other day, where she went so wrong? (She was kidding—right mom?)

Ah, I’m perfectly sane. Balanced. Just darkly imaginative. My mind is always speeding at ninety to nothing—can’t help it. Wouldn’t want it any other way. So what about you? What frightens you? What makes you leave the light on?

Results…

Fable: The Rise of Eidolon

Side view

Here is an update on “Something for us”: The book arrived and I was quite pleased. The pages are sewn in, not glued. Spine was solid and the whole project looks mint. However, there are some things you need to know if you are going to have your work professionally bound like this. For starters, pay careful attention to the formatting. Lulu goes into detail about this, but yours truly got a little overzealous and didn’t read all of the directions. So don’t do what I did, read all of their tips before you place your order. Also, 12 point Times New Roman was way too small—way too small. Again, this was something  they mention in the directions, so had I read them…well, you get the picture. Bottom line is, they rock. They did a great job. Interestingly enough, I had book two printed at Fedex, just in a three ring binder…and get this, it cost about the same amount as it did to get it made at lulu. Heh. Only reason I didn’t is because I was printing out book two for a final line edit and polish (and I don’t have a printer). Go figure. And before anyone asks, yes I borrowed the graphics, just as I do here from time to time (the photos are usually ones I’ve taken). Some might have a negative opinion of this practice, but I don’t since I’m not using any of it for profit.

Sewn pages

left flap

The Utility of Tangents

Monster in the Tub--Roadio Arts

I like to think that there is a place in my mind—a waiting room of sorts, where all of the stories that I’ll pen, are mulling around, interacting with one another—perhaps arguing about whose turn it is and why it shouldn’t be so. Some are allowed out in pairs, some are solitary. Oh, I know that there are a multitude of things that I (as an author—and occasionally a human being), will encounter that will inspire me.

You see, that’s what decides the order in which these stories are imagined. It’s like the number they assign you at the DMV. You wait your turn until you see your number, in little red lights, pop up on the box. If you miss your turn, they’ll continue to call you for a set amount of time, and then that chance will be given to someone new. My stories all have numbers—I don’t know what they are. But, I’ve learned a valuable lesson this week: I have no say in their distribution.

That’s not to say that I don’t sometimes believe that I do. I argue with myself quite a bit, on one story’s progression or another. But in the end, they all have turns and it’s of no consequence how hard I might try to force one in another’s place. They don’t stand in single file lines, as I’d like them to. They stand like five year olds, perpetually asking absurd questions or fighting with whoever happens to be in front of them (and in some rare instances whoever is behind them). What brought all of this to mind, is the apparent story that I was accusing quite literally of being in the wrong room. It appeared with number in hand, excited, and all I could say was:

“I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I don’t write romance novels that don’t have some element of the supernatural in them.”

“But, I have a number.”

“Yes, I can see that. But as I said, I’m simply not who you are looking for. And I can’t imagine how you wound up here. I’ll have to get with the frontal lobe about that. What time did you arrive here yesterday?”

“I didn’t. I’ve been here. And I have a number.”

“You couldn’t have been here long, I would have at least suspected you might be approaching the front of the line. Now, let’s talk about the last place you were before you were here and maybe that will help me figure out where to send you.”

“I’ve already told you…I’ve been here. And how do you know that there isn’t anything supernatural involved? I’ll tell you what, lets just sit for a moment. I won’t take up much of your time—I swear. I have a story to tell you.”

So, 38,000 words later—I have a very conceited romance novel in the works (There’s nothing worse than a story running around saying, ‘I told you so’). Perhaps there is utility in tangents—in those wayward stories that wind up somehow wandering into our brains and picking up a number somebody else dropped. I’ve discussed this in depth with several portions of my left brain and that’s the only logical conclusion we can come up with. Either that or someone’s getting fired. Not to mention how loudly Nightshade and Icarus are complaining that it’s still their turn. There isn’t much you can say to soothe stories like those. They’re impatient to begin with, being single volumes and all.

I suspect there is a slight element of the supernatural—though it appears arguably as my main character’s brain and not the ghost of his dead sister, who is whispering cryptic hints in his dreams about the killer’s identity. The story is also refusing to identify itself with a title, so for now I’ve lovingly dubbed it, ‘Not a Novel.’ It doesn’t appear to appreciate this much, but that’s what it gets for being so damn close-lipped.

Oh, and just to add insult to injury, the story let it slip that there are more than a couple horror stories hanging out in the billiards room (of course my brain has a billiards room).

“Oops, did I say that out loud? I meant to say that there are some stories of ‘undetermined genre’, wrecking the pool table.”

“Self-righteous son of a…”

A Little Something For Us

Fable

I did something terribly vain and utterly selfish last night: I ordered a nicely hardback bound, complete with dust jacket, copy of book one (Fable). I have nothing against self-publishing, but it isn’t something I would ever do. So, I was long under the impression that until I see true publication, I would never see my books in the form that I think honors them most…hardback. I just found out, to my dismay, that there are ‘private’ only options for getting your material professionally bound. And for about $22 and a little shipping, I did the deed.

I couldn’t have imagined how excited I would be! I didn’t take a whole hell of a lot of time on it, as far as formatting and such (which means I’ll likely do it over)…the cover was very literally thrown together in about twenty minutes (almost as hastily as this blog post). And since this is only for my enjoyment, I used graphics from several different places (Sorry to whoever I ripped off, I’m doing it only for my own private use).

Prior to this, I’ve only had my work spiral bound from kinkos…and there is something inherently wrong with that. It didn’t feel right.  With the technology we have these days, why not have your work bound? It didn’t cost much more, at all actually.  There was something freeing about this, about holding a hardback book in your hands. Something validating. I guess, there was some part of me that only wanted to be published so that I could have my work bound and sitting nicely on my shelf. Damn it, who says I need Tor for my books to sit next to Jennifer Fallon’s? Not on my shelf, by God. On my shelf, I’ll be nestled between two of my favorites: Carol Berg and Jennifer Fallon.

Okay, so I’m making this out to be a bigger deal than it is….I know. So, I got it printed, big deal…but it is. How many authors have died while their work was still in nothing but a scattered mess, or loosely bound in notebooks or lost as relatives weren’t sure how to take care of it. Who doesn’t know how to take care of a book? (Don’t answer that…) And what a lovely gift for those friends/family/perfect stranger turned readers, who have been there with you through the journey? Why should I have to wait until I get published to be able to hand them a bound copy with a thank you/dedication page, acknowledging how much their support meant? How is this any different from an artist matting and framing their artwork? Writers get kicked in the teeth, A LOT…for everything. We get the least amount of recognition, until we’re wildly successful (and how many of us will be?). We often have to wait the longest to see our work honored. No more…I’m done. I’m done waiting on someone else’s approval or okay.

Well, dilemma solved. For now anyway. This isn’t a stand-in for publication. But it is salve to those whose work may never see the light of day, or whose work won’t see that light until the author’s death. We have the right to enjoy our own hard work, to see it well-presented.

So, here’s to a little self-indulgence. A little something for us, for a change.

Mad World

Organic

Being a writer is an interesting thing. Some people are awed by it, others are mystified at our persistence. Either way, there is a reason for the stereotypical, ‘misunderstood’ author who wears all black and mopes about. It isn’t a matter of depression or apathy…it’s something deeper than that—more fundamental. There is a well of emotion that accompanies the feeling of ‘creation’ in the way an author feels it. It isn’t the same as painting a picture or writing a song: We mold worlds and out of that mire, we sculpt sentient beings to populate those worlds. Yet, at the end of the day, the paragraph, the page, the story, our characters are still there. It seems perhaps a flighty emotional thing to say, but truly listen for a moment. We fall in love, we fight for truth or justice, or just another day’s breath—we hate, struggle against poverty, injustice, cruelty or we struggle with the inability to come to grips with the guilt of a character’s actions. As an author, we experience in a way—even if it be slight, everything our characters experience. We joke about it, we make light of the journey—mostly to make the path a little less jagged and the rocks a tad smoother.

Often, in the early hours of day—when the mind isn’t aware of things like ‘time’ or ‘place’, these things take on a power of their own. I will never touch Tabor’s face, or trace the lines of his scarred, dragon, skin. I will never hear Ariana or Aubrey sing. I will never taste Bronach’s tears or hold Jullian’s hand. I will never yell at Trinity to stop being so damned self-righteous. I will never walk through the ruins of the Garden of Dedication in Adoria, or brave the Goblin Keep of Koldavere in Avalar. I will never see the suns set in Sedel. I will never tuck Lucan into bed, or read him a bedtime story, or wash his worn, pilled, snoopy pajamas. I will never know the name of Bronach’s lost love because he cannot bear to bring her to mind—so neither can I. There is at least one moment, in every author’s life, where the depth of their grief is profound, and it won’t have anything to do with tangible circumstances. Those events certainly affect writers, as they would most people, but this isn’t what I mean. How do you mourn imaginary things? Places you’ll never tread, landscapes you’ll never truly feel and characters you’ll never touch. It may not have come for you yet—rest easy, friend, for it will. If not now, later. It will come and I want you to be prepared for it. I wasn’t.

It was sometime between dusk and dawn, the night air was cold—I could feel it coming from the open flue of the fireplace. I was working on ‘A Thief of Nightshade’. It was one of those sessions where all the effort is in your head and your hands move fluidly over the keyboard and you fight to keep up with your story. And suddenly, as the song I was listening to stopped, I felt it—utter stillness. The scene played on; Jullian woke from his nightmarish captivity to feel the weight of the Fae crown on his head and the overwhelming guilt of realizing that his precious love—the shy girl he’d fallen in love with and married, from our world—had somehow crossed over into Avalar and found him despite all odds. But it had cost her dearly and at that moment, that cost appeared to be her life. And as I watched him pull her into his arms, touch her face, breathe her name, I suddenly understood, in a bizarrely authentic way, what it meant to experience that particular loss. He didn’t believe that she would ever see his world. When she does, he bitterly regrets the price. As authors, we create worlds that are hard for some to even imagine, but it comes at a cost.

I’ve read that most authors experience grief at the end of a story, that a depression ensues that isn’t too unlike mourning a death. But, even that is different. This is the stark realization that our hearts believe in these worlds more than we think. Rationally speaking, we know that what we pen is false—we spend countless hours weaving things in such a way as to convince the reader to buy the lies. And yet, in doing so, somewhere along the way, we bought them too. I suppose that in all good stories, the author has bought them first. How else would we weep at fictional scenes? You could explain the empathy by using the idea of universal humanity, and this may be the case for some readers, but not for us. We are different beings in our own worlds. Changed. And once we emerge, we are never the same.

I’ve said before that writing a novel is like a relationship. If this is true, then the relationship we have with the worlds we create may be likened to a lifetime. And authors have often mused that they have perhaps lived a multitude of lives, and ultimately—those lives are lost to us all the same. Because when that moment comes, the one I am now formally warning you of, it feels like a life has been untimely taken. Most of us have experienced death, the physical feeling that sweeps over you when you remember that you’ll never see that person again—you pick up the phone to dial their number, only to realize with jarring pain, that they aren’t there on the other end. I closed my laptop that night, and whispered into the dark—cold breathed and numb, ‘were it only so.’

For readers, some worlds never die…for authors, those worlds die a thousand deaths. This is just one of many, and I pay the price gladly…but every now and then, I grieve.

Top Ten Gifts for Writers

Has your beloved writer friend/spouse/relative, gotten tired of that bookstore gift card yet? What about all those blank journals you’ve been buying them? Or those fantastic pens? While they are never bad things, there are certainly some better options out there. And while foregoing a ‘tried and true’ can be unnerving, here are 10 gifts you can be sure they’ll use.

Keurig Coffee Maker: This little gem rocks my socks off. I can’t tell you how many times my coffee, before the dawn of this genius invention, got cold from sitting in the pot. Most coffee makers these days have an auto-shut off; which if your writer is in the middle of a session that time will have run out and then some, by their second or third cup. Yeah, they make stainless steel carafes and what not, but why wouldn’t you want all of the options that come with a one cup wonder like this? Your writer can move from dark roast to decaf with the flick of a wrist and the touch of a button.

Writer’s Aid Kit: This is going to take a bit of effort, but you’ll reap the rewards for much longer than the time it’ll take to throw this kit together. Writers, like sports players, have odd ailments. Achy hands and wrists from typing and jotting notes; lower back aches and headaches, not to mention neck pain and a sore rear end. So, what do you put in a Writer’s Aid Kit? Here are some, unique—but well worth it, ideas:

• Arthritis Cream: No, I’m not kidding. Just ask the writer how their hands feel after a long session.
• Heating Pad: For back pain.
• Icy Hot: Again, no I’m not kidding. This stuff is fantastic for weird muscle pain (ask the writer—you’ve got muscles you wouldn’t imagine having an ache in until you’ve sat in one position for nine hours solid).
• Tylenol and Advil: Headaches, and of course all of those other aches I’ve been whining about.
• Candle: Check with them on which scent is appropriate. Invest in a good, high quality, candle that will last. Woodwick and Yankee are personal favorites of mine.
• Gel Cushion: Imagine this as the gel bicycle seat for novelists. Biking in a marathon isn’t too different than writing a marathon session. You can find these in different materials and shapes: Check Sharper Image, Brookstone or even Ebay.
• Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul
• Chocolate: You didn’t think I’d leave this out, did you?
• Microwavable Neck Pillow (rice or bean filled): These may come in different scents or totally scent-less. You’ll need to check with your writer to see if they are sensitive to certain smells or not. Ideally, look for one that can be micro-waved for heat or placed in the freezer.
• Eye Drops: Looking at a computer screen for hours on end will dry out most anyone’s eyes.
• A Million Dollars: Sorry, just wanted to make sure you were still paying attention, though if you’ve got a few million hanging around…
• Slippers and Loungewear: Throw in some comfy slippers and a lounge outfit, maybe yoga pants and a sweatshirt—or if your writer is a bit more on the classy side, you can go with a sweater/leggings combination (check http://www.shopreddress.com). Remember every writer is different. If your writer is a guy, look into a smoking jacket and some moccasin slippers?
• As a tip here, you may want to place these items in a basket, book tote or even in a nice box. If you have the funds, you can make the basket itself part of the gift by investing a little into it. Longaberger baskets, made in Dresden Ohio, are well made, heirloom quality baskets that anyone would love.

A Weekend or Week of Solitude: This may very well be the most wonderful thing my husband has ever done for me. He sent me off for a 5 day stay, to Callaway Gardens Spa, in Pine Mountain, Georgia. It was wonderful and worthy of an entire blog post on its own.  This may be especially poignant if your writer is a parent. The basic idea is to give them more than a few minutes on their own, uninterrupted.

Massaging Back-Rest: You can find these everywhere now, but one of the best ones can be found at Brookstone. It has an LED reading light and plugs in for heat and massage. It comes complete with side pockets and a cup rest. Now, if it would just finish writing my novel…

Writer Inspired Jewelry: Not that we need reminding that we work for nearly pennies on the hour, but there are some really fantastic ways to commemorate the calling. I’ve found everything from charm bracelets on ebay, to quill ink pen necklaces. Just type those three little words in google and hang on.

Levenger: And I mean, anything, from Levenger. They have bookends, lap desks, and kitchen sinks…ok, not that last bit, but you get my point. They carry EVERYTHING a writer covets.

A Shadow Box: What? You know how good your writer is, how talented they are. They need to be reminded and nothing tells them how much faith you have in their work, than by buying a shadow box for their acceptance letter…because it IS coming.

New Music: Do they have an ipod? Or Mp3 player? Then buy them a gift card for iTunes or whatever site they frequent.

Wine and Such: So maybe your author isn’t a coffee fan. If this is the case (or they like both, like me) then invest in a nice bottle of wine and a set of glasses. Or, even better, buy a REALLY nice bottle of wine in anticipation of their impending ‘publication’ and tell them it is for that specific occasion. This might pair nicely with that shadow box I mentioned.

The Amazon Kindle: What’s the best part about this electronic diamond? The writer can read their own stuff on it. AWESOME. That way, the next time someone asks them on the commute home, “What are you reading?” They can say with no little enthusiasm. “Me!”

Here are some great places to start looking for those gifts:

http://www.shopreddress.com (For that sweater I was talking about!)

http://www.inkygirl.com/gifts/

http://www.shakespearesden.com/writing1.html

http://www.levenger.com

The Etiology and Treatment of ‘Authoritis’

Authoritis is an unfortunate syndrome, which has only recently begun to receive attention from mental health professionals. It has, however, been in existence for ages and was only considered to be more than merely an ‘inconvenience’, with the invention of the Gutenberg press in 1440. With the dawn of the information age, it is now a recognized syndrome (Gore, 1983).

Those suffering the condition in years gone by were told to “take two aspirin and see if the urge passes (source anon).” Despite a history of clinical neglect, it is estimated that more than half of all books found in brick and mortar stores, were penned by someone suffering some form of Authoritis, also called an ‘author’. According to the DSM V-TR (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders), American Psychiatric Association (2009), there are five characteristics required to warrant a proper diagnosis of Authoritis.

1. Adolescent onset
2. Cyclic anti-social behavior
3. Cyclic psychosis; to include hallucinations (auditory and visual)
4. Obsessive behavior; to include insistence of imaginary creatures called, ‘agents’ and ‘publishers’
5. God complex; consisting of claims that one has ‘created whole worlds,’ and ‘characters’.

Clinical Features of Authoritis

ADOLESCENT ONSET

Clinicians aren’t certain why the syndrome begins in adolescence. It has been recorded in some children, as early as the age of six—though it is usually a less severe form of the syndrome and studies have shown that 78% of children, who demonstrated three or more characteristics of the disorder, would later develop full blown Authoritis (R.L. Stine, 1990). Typically, adolescents will begin by writing in what is called a ‘diary’: Recent research has shown that diaries are ‘gateway’ perpetuators and may serve by their use as an early indicator of the syndrome. Curiously, some adolescents may throw the term around loosely in reference to their identity, though it has been proven that while children showing signs are more likely to develop the syndrome, only 35% of adolescents claiming the diagnosis, ever go on to develop more than the characteristic God complex.

CYCLIC ANTI-SOCIAL BEHAVIOR

This aspect of Authoritis, despite the hallucinations and psychosis, is the single most prevalent symptom reported by the friends and family of those with the syndrome and is typically what prompts interventions and eventual medical treatment. The author will be perfectly social one moment, only to sink into a depressive anti-social trance. This trance will often find the author sitting in one place for extended periods of time, often more than five or six hours straight, sometimes staring at nothing but a blank sheet of paper or computer screen. Phone calls, visits from friends and family, personal hygiene and health are all abandoned in favor of engaging in a trance or a trance-like state. Any attempt to break the author of this behavior has proven to be detrimental to the concerned friend or relative, and in some cases, fatal.

In the most critical cases, this anti-social behavior becomes what is known as a ‘writer’s block’. Hygiene is said to be at a critical low and will typically be accompanied by crying, cussing and screaming fits.

CYCLIC PSYCHOSIS

For those living with an author this may be the most unsettling characteristic of the syndrome. The author is often seen speaking to themselves, sometimes repeating the same sentence in a variety of tones or voices (King, On Writing, 2001). At times, particularly after a lengthy trance-like state, the author will even use more than one voice and appears to be conducting entire conversations between multiple personalities. Any attempt to question the sanity of this action results in a blank look, followed by aggression or the abrupt closure of the psychosis—which will only resume later with greater intensity. Clinicians recommend, in order to minimize the severity of the episode, that the author be left alone.

OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR

This is reportedly the most curious behavior of authors. Despite habitual assurance that ‘agents’ and ‘publishers’ do not in fact exist and even if they did, they wouldn’t have any desire to see the author’s penned psychotic episodes; those suffering Authoritis press on and insist that their delusions will prove true by the achievement of ‘publication’ or representation by an ‘agent’ or some other ephemeral creature (Critique Circle, 2006). While half of all books are rumored to have been penned by an author, this is believed to be a classic situation of correlation not equaling causation (Miss Snark, 2005). This shared delusion among authors has even held its own against the adversity of being shown without doubt that books are indeed created and placed in brick and mortar stores by monkeys.

*As a side note, the CLC, or Coalition of Literary Chimps, is outraged by the publication of this article and is threatening libel, claiming that this will project their members into the spotlight and out of obscurity where they have remained since leaving NASA (CLC, 2009).

GOD COMPLEX

This is the easiest symptom to identify, merely by the author’s own need to habitually tell others about the worlds they have created (Facebook, 2006-2009). It manifests very early in the syndrome, and is seen by medical professionals as progressive in nature, sometimes leading to multiple worlds, characters and volumes of written or printed material to validate the author’s creative and God-like abilities. It is said, with no uncertainty, that this characteristic is directly related to the psychotic episodes, though some authors have been found to record words amounting to nothing more interesting or ‘creative’ than the phone book (Left Behind Series, Jenkins & LaHaye, 1999).

Causes of Authoritis

With the official, medical, recognition of Authoritis, there has been a concerted effort at identifying its cause. So far, there are several models to consider:

Sociological Model

Most authors are woefully bereft of gainful employment. Some individuals who were discovered by the monkeys and had their books created, make the incorrect assumption that it was because they are authors and thus subsequently they report that this is their livelihood. This has been shown as unfounded time and time again with little or no impact on author’s claims (Harlequin, 1994). Other authors may be so incapacitated by the syndrome as to be unable to do anything else but write, which leads to poverty, eventual hermitism and in the most severe cases, suicide (Hemingway, 1961).

Biological Model

So far, cross-culture and regional studies have shown that while creativity may run in families, there is thus far no evidence that parents suffering the syndrome pass it on to their children (Tolkien Jr., 2007).

Psychological Model

There are a significant number of psycho-social and psychiatric based theories explaining Authoritis, the most notably being: Organized Schizophrenia. There are several more that claim the syndrome is not of any biological origin at all, but due to a lack of attention in early childhood; evidenced by the presence of imaginary friends and need to color on inappropriate things (Sesame Street, 1987).

Treatment of Authoritis

Treatment of Authoritis has proven most elusive. There have been centers created for the practice of group therapy (Also called MFA’s), and many institutions are offering classes in an attempt to help those suffering the syndrome cope with it .They are usually referenced as ‘English’ degrees, though very little evidence may be found relating their existence to effective management and in some cases may even cause the frequency of the psychotic and anti-social behaviors to increase significantly. They have however gone on to serve as more proof that being an author is not actually required to write books, as many non-author students have gone on to be discovered by the monkeys (Harlequin, 2005).

Prognosis

Prognosis of Authoritis is bleak. Medication has shown absolutely no effect whatsoever on the lessening of the syndrome’s most cumbersome manifestations. Authors can expect, however, a normal life-span. Despite this positive revelation, most authors will write for years or even decades before Alzheimer’s sets in or the syndrome mysteriously disappears. There is said to be some correlation between the loss of ‘agent/publication’ delusions and the remission of Authoritis.

This article was written after reading the brilliant ‘Etiology and Treatment of Childhood’ by Jordan W. Smoller, which you can find here: http://www.pshrink.com/humor/Childhood.html

Foundations of a Writing Life

 

One step at a time...

This will likely translate to another article for Examiner, but I’m going with the casual side of things for now (for this blog anyway). After being stuck on the last few chapters of ‘Nightshade’, I broke ground. Once I voluntarily walked away from gainful employment back in September, I struggled to overcome depression and heartache and to really write like I once had—with total abandon and dogged perseverance.  I realized today, just like I realized after my first really bad block, that all it takes is the promise of a deadline. An immediate deadline. You see, I sat down in my kitchen this morning and proclaimed to the dogs (I mean this literally), that I wasn’t going to get up until I had the rest of Nightshade plotted.

They laughed.

And yet, I emerged triumphant, despite my own fears and doubts (and those of my hairy companions). 1500 words of plot, fully fleshed out and ready to be written. Tomorrow, or likely the very wee hours of tomorrow, bring an excitement that I haven’t genuinely experienced in over a year. I wrote Icarus (the vampire novel that I’ve been working on and no, that isn’t the title…consider it a nickname) while I was working in the dredges of hell. Ok, that was a tad dramatic, but you’d understand if you worked there. And while I love the characters and their story, it wasn’t the same as Nightshade and the Fable trilogy. It’s a matter of urban vs. epic fantasy. Even though Nightshade is a stand alone piece, the stakes involved are epic indeed. So, the bottom line is that the emotions involved in those works differ from one to the next: Icarus is gritty and harsh—bloody, gruesome, gratuitous sex and violence (and inappropriate humor). Nightshade and Fable, are light and while there are most certainly darker scenes in both (this is me we’re talking about here), they don’t translate the same to me emotionally, as an author.

All of this got me thinking about what it means to be a writer. We’ve discussed writing rituals and how isolating an experience it can be, but those are different things. I am talking about the decision to become more than merely a writer by title, but by practice. You are essentially laying down a foundation for your life as a writer—unknowingly, you are setting a cornerstone into place that will determine how you deal with frustration, sorrow, relationships and ultimately, how you will see your writing in light of publication or lack there of. You’ve got to ask yourself the question, “Am I writing for recognition, or for the craft of it.” This is not the same thing as asking if you wish to be published or not. Don’t confuse the two. The former question is simply clarifying your motives. The answer is the cement of your foundation. It is the thing that glues it all together and not unlike a story, it is what gives you strength while you are still learning and developing. Consider this: If you knew, right now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that your work would never be published, would you write it anyway?

Would I? You ask. Without any hesitation, my answer is yes. Yes, a thousand times. When I started, I feared what all new authors fear—not being talented enough. But, I’ve come to learn that while I will always fear not being ‘good enough’, you only lose this battle when you quit. So what if you suck right now? Most authors who write for a living will admit to sucking worse five years ago (assuming they were writing then), than now. Some claim to still suck, though we as readers know better. What was their answer to that question? Agents tell us all the time, that the chances of getting published are akin to winning the lottery. Friends and family ask why we don’t take up something more, profitable? But if you love writing enough and believe in your characters and stories enough, there is no other option but to spend time with them and work on putting down a reasonable resemblance to what we see in our heads.  It may take much, much longer than you expect. It may flow better than you dreamed possible. But you will never know until you begin.

So, lay those foundations. Set a goal, find someone to hold you accountable. I’m always here. Have a great Monday tomorrow!

J.S.

 

Concerning Waffles…

 

Deadly Nightshade

Or rather, I should say, concerning waffling. See, I am sitting at my desk at an absurdly early hour (3:42am if you must know), feeling more than a little guilty about not finishing Nightshade or Icarus before beginning yet another project. I thought I could get over the minor annoyance that this guilt was proving to be a couple of days ago, but you may consider this my white flag of defeat. Instead of committing to pen 50,000 words of a new project in November—I will pen the rest of Nightshade, which lacks about that much. I wrote a couple chapters and a prologue for ‘Of Blood and Bone’ but the story simply isn’t ready to be written yet. I’ll know when it’s time. You can’t force these things…

 

I know what brought this on. I reread Nightshade and afterwards, sat and listened to a play list that I’d created for a second epic series that I’ve dubbed ‘Beggar King’ and remembered what it felt like to be inspired in a creative sense. That sounds more simple than it is. See, there are a few choice scenes for the aforementioned epic series that I’ve already fully fleshed out—and I haven’t committed anything more than a couple of maps, character sketches and a prologue to paper for it. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that when Fable is finished (revised and proofed–they’ve been penned for more than a year), Beggar King will be the next large scale piece I work on. I know this because of how intense those few scenes are. I can taste the sweat of my main character as she sits, wounded and mute, in the dungeon of her beloved’s kingdom, accused of a crime she couldn’t have committed—her own murder. I feel equally his grief when he realizes what he’s done, only to bring her back from the edge of death and find out too late that the spell cast on her was two fold–undoing it may grant back her speech, but it will erase any memory she has of him or her alter ego (who she was accused of murdering).

Icarus and Nightshade are stand alone pieces, as I’ve said before, and for whatever reason—I like to work on smaller projects like these in between the larger, more exhausting ones. While I like the ideas, and certainly the title, for ‘Of Blood and Bone,’ I don’t feel the characters yet. I still have faith in it, but any story you write is a relationship of sorts: You can ruin things by going too fast and lose them by going too slow. I need to finish Nightshade. I have been avoiding it because of how hard some of the subject matter is—most of my work is somewhat dark in nature, especially the fairy tale stuff. Nightshade is no exception. So, I will heed my own advice and dig my heels in. It’s easy to start something else, dive into that honeymoon phase when everything is easy and flows without the woes of queries or edits or revisions or any of the things that make writing in a professional sense such a nightmare sometimes. What is difficult, is staying the course and seeing your story through till the true end.

That First Step

 

I’ve already referenced myself twice concerning my thoughts on world building, but I am drawn to say it a third time for the benefit of a dear friend of mine–another author, who is at the edge of a tremendous undertaking.

I wrote in an earlier blog;
“We musn’t tell them everything. Some things, certainly, but not everything. I mean this as no excuse for poor detail or fractured narrative. What I mean is this; know it, inside and out, every detail: The peoples, long since faded from memory that once thrived where your hero now treads; animals that will never wander in your protagonist’s path and ruins that are too covered with centuries of stories to be seen. Every rock, village, tide and turn. This is the foundation upon which worlds are built. These are the underpinnings of much greater things. Like steel beams in a modern building, it holds…it structures the fabric of your imagination.
Because after all, it is the utterance of a thing that makes it what it is. As an author, you will always (without fail) know more about your worlds than can be shared with your readers. Your acknowledgement of it is enough. If it is strong, it will carry through your prose and filter into the minds of those who dare dive deep enough. Those are the worlds that leave us dreaming long after the last page has been turned. Like the never ending story, some worlds will never die.”

As authors, we have at our disposal legions of excuses and perfectly rational reasons to not sit, alone in our chair, submerged in our own head for hours on end. I mean–what sane person would? But here’s the thing–and the reason I brought up the world building thing again…you’ve gotta take that first step. Writing is exercise and if you don’t do it religiously, you’ll feel out of shape. Which means, don’t expect to run a marathon on your first try. Take it slow and set a word count each day, or if you are more comfortable–each week. I find that per day is better, simply because I am the queen of procrastination. Case in point, I have two Adairondak chairs sitting in my office because I have been putting off water-proofing them. You’d think two giant, awkward wooden objects obstructing the path to my desk, would encourage me to get it done. Nope. I just step right over them–well, okay, I stumble right over them. Whatever–you get my point here. Take a deep breath and dive in, because nothing feels more amazing than holding in your hand a finished, ideally polished, novel.

I’ve encountered fear and discouragement in different ways and at different times in the last few years, in regards to writing. The hardest block I’ve ever run into was at the completion of the third book in the Fable trilogy. I hadn’t bothered editing the first two books ( I wrote straight through to 370,000 words), I realized suddenly how massive the undertaking was before me and froze. I didn’t write more than damn it for nearly three months. It took the iron clad deadline of a prepaid freelance editor for me to go back to the unbelievably shitty first draft.

So Matt, November 15th. Mark your calendar. No excuses, no apologies and no whining! I expect at least 10,000 words. Totally doable if you break it down by a five day writing week. =) You’ll thank me for this later–it might be when we’re 80, but still…you’ll appreciate my obnoxious meddling eventually.

For everyone else, If you are on facebook and feel like commenting (which I love and greatly appreciate), please remember to do so at the actual blog post : http://www.jschancellor.wordpress.com.