Spent the weekend in Chicago

On Thursday, rain pelted the roof and wind rocked the casbah, resulting in mass power failure for many of the local states. 2/3, possibly 3/4 of Kalamazoo County was without power, including yours truly.

Luckily, my parents have a generator and while I bravely perservered through no A/C, sweat on my brow and determination in my stance, I opted out of suffering and hitched a ride to Chicago with one of my college friends.

Much conversation and traffic later, we arrived at our other friend's condo, a super cute, hi-tech place in Boystown. While there, we jazzed around town, spending too much money and eating great food.

Portillo's http://www.portillos.com/ - A Chicago favorite, I recommend their burgers and the onion rings weren't half bad either.

Pasta Bowl http://www.pastabowl.com/ - Truly a must for Fettucini Alfredo lovers. Mmm Mmm Good.

Lincoln Square is a quaint area for shopping, including a fun little bookstore called the Book Cellar. http://www.bookcellarinc.com/ I love book super stores where I can find almost anything, but this little place made me wonder what it would be like to own a small store, consciously hemming and hawing over every little book you picked to stock. What fun!

A great little store with a little of everything is Eclecticity http://www.eclec.com/ - Where I bought a writing game to help with those trouble spots. I look forward to cracking it open and letting the juices flow.

My girls and I played a game called Moods, where it isn't what you say, but how you say it. Anyone who is a fan of improv or acting, or just likes a case of the sillies, try this game. Truly a Zany experience.

My hitched ride stayed an extra day and then continued their trip cross country, so I bopped onto and train and with the help of a mellow massage therapist from San Diego, enjoyed the slightly prolonged 2.5 hours back to Kalamazoo.

Writing pet peeves

I'm reading Stephen King's On Writing and he lists his writing pet peeves as does Mr. Strunk from the famous little writing book Elements of Style.

Here are a few of mine...

I concur on the horrors passive writing, however I write passively more than I should.

The word "suddenly" bothers me. In a movie, suddenly works because all of the sudden there is something there, but in books, things just don't suddenly happen. The reader reads at the same pace and to use the word suddenly seems rather silly. Just say what happened and then how surprised people's reactions were.

I dislike headhopping, switching between different perspectives often. I caution writers to be especially careful when people of the same gender are involved. When so many "shes" or "hes" are involved it becomes confusing and sometimes overuse of creative pronouns can be irritating as well. I personally like when each scene is written from a different perspective, much clearer to read and understand.

Too many names. Only name the characters that warrant a name. Too many names is confusing, especially if they start with the same letter or sound. To elaborate on this, only give really important characters last names.

I'm sure I will come up with more for later but that's it for now.

Sad news is the reason I've been gone for so long

I'm getting a divorce. I'm sorry for my inconsisent posting. I'd like to be able to promise that it will get better but frankly, I have no idea what is ahead of me in life.

We set plans in motion and think to the future, but occasionally, a random meteor flies in from Chaosville and lambastes us. Well that's where I am folks.

I'd like to think of this as an adventure and that I will put one brave foot in front of the other, but I'll be honest... I'm scared. I don't know what looms in front of me. This is a scary time of the unknown, but it is also a time of the what could be, and possibly what should be. The world is my oyster,and while I've never liked seafood, perhaps it's time I gave new things a try.

Any positive mojo sent my way would be most welcome.

Thanks for sticking around. It means a lot.

Update and a new ditty

I've been gone quite awhile. I left for a two week vacation to Michigan, which has turned into quite an adventure, considering I am currently in Texas. Sorry for the delay in writing/blogging, but frankly I've just been having too much fun. I will blog more in the up coming weeks, especially starting in August as my vacation won't be officially over until then. :( I have been writing, only a few pages here and there, but progress is progress and I look forward to getting back to my daily goal of 4 pages.

here is a little ditty I wrote while on vacation. The characters intrigue me and I look forward to seeing what hilarity ensues, because I assure you, it will.

Suzanne, never having been graced with an orgasm, is a control freak. One might think she would don a tightly wound bun or prim collars, but they would be sorely mistaken. Sue exudes eccentricity with her long flowing skirts, tattoos, brightly decorated toenails and charm dangling hairwrap.

Suzanne is not what we would call a fuddy duddy.

Goes to show what we know.

Philosophically Sue is a master, a mind boggling source of information on any topic, all relating to the deeper thoughts of what man is, on why man is here. She can discuss sex, drugs, rock and roll, metaphysics, rocket science, evolution, creationism, Buddhism, Hinduism, the merits of homemade play dough verses brand name and whether the newest celebrity marriage will last. She can do this all while sewing a quilt by hand, playing the stock market and running her Fortune 500 company.

But even for all that, Sue is not happy. She does not consider herself accomplished.

She has never had an orgasm.

***

The waves lapped against Suzanne’s body with the rhythm of something sinful and sweaty. The constant barrage on places left virtually untouched by anyone save herself left Sue a tingling feeling dancing across the surface of her skin. Her bathing suit, a simple one piece with a bright sarong lying on the chaise lounge poolside, hid all the necessities and yet accentuated her trim waist, long legs and ample bosom.

Blonde hair floating around her serene face, eyes closed, and a small smile playing upon her lips was how Griggs found her. Griggs was enchanted from the get go, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Who is Mr. Griggs? Why does he go by his last name and what in tarnation was he doing by the poolside this one afternoon? Simply it all comes down to a case of mistaken identity. Neither Mr. Griggs nor Suzanne know who they truly are. Let’s start at the beginning shall we?

Mr. Griggs is a miracle baby. He was born of a fifty year old mother who never believing herself capable of having children, was quite shocked to find her willy nilly sexual ways had finally caught up with her. At the ripe age of thirty, Mr. Griggs dealt with an eighty year old mother who frankly, we’d like to say was a tad bit more sane in her earlier life, but that would be a lie. Mr. Grigg’s mother, while not as mad as a hatter, certainly had a different way about her, combine that with the natural oddness that comes over a person as they age and Mr. Griggs has had his hands full.


A tribute to my cross country trip.

Internal Monologue of a Rejected Writer

I've concluded a little something about myself in the past few days. While I write books, short stories etc... I'm not exactly an author and definitely not a novelist.

I enjoy writing and people enjoy reading what I write, and yet I don't have a love for words. I think I should have a love for words. I surely should know more words than I do. My vocabulary is fairly limited, I'll admit. At some point in my past, more than likely my rebellious teens, I opted to use swear words instead of other adjectives. I've never liked English class and couldn't tell you what an adverb was for a very long time. Dependent clauses...? Ha! I love them... I think.

I certainly do not have a fine honed knowledge of the craft of writing. Would I like to possess such a skill? Sure. Am I willing to do what it takes to get there? Ugh. There in lies the rub. To be completely honest, I am a person who lacks a certain self confidence. I question myself all the time, and when I find myself lacking in a certain area, I try to avoid it. If I were to learn about the craft of writing in all its glorious and terrifying detail, I would be admiting to myself quite clearly that I have no idea what I am doing... which would greatly affect my writing. I'd constantly be worrying about how many dependent clauses I have and worry that I used the word so about 50 bazillion times.

So how do I combat this feelings of inadequecy? I don't. I avoid learning these things that make me feel bad. It's quite easy really, grammar texts are so boring and my eye lids start to feel heavy after the first paragraph, which I no doubtedly already read 5 times and still don't understand it.

Perhaps this behavior is some sort of conditioned response because I know the outcome of this information... I have no clue. All I can hope to do is try to trick myself into learning these things, or go on hiatus from writing while I learn all I can and then write in a completely different way.

How do I plan on tricking myself? Because really, not writing isn't an option. All I can do is try to read with a more discerning eye. I'll have to keep myself apart from the story line and try to focus on the craft of a book, not a pleasant experience for if it is a book I enjoy, the craft is normally close to flawless and thus isn't apparent to the reader who becomes totally absorbed into the story. So you see my predicament.

When I read books within my genre I'm okay. I see many similarities between the styles and don't find myself sorely lacking. But when I pick up a book out of my genre, I start to see my own failings. I don't have enough exposition, but most readers in my genre don't like exposition, oh but look how well this writer uses it and the depth it gives the characters and the book as a whole... but my readers don't want that kind of depth that quickly... but I feel like I'm cheating them out of a better story by leaving it out... Look, you crazy mental writer its going to be hard enough to get published as it is without you throwing all kinds of exposition into a genre that doesn't welcome it. Leave it be.

Ahhh... there we find the source all of my ramblings. I've received two rejection letters via email already. Two, not a whole lot yes? But I've done some research and am also sending some queries out to publishing houses and I just have this feeling I'm doing something wrong. My queries are fine, they are going to the right people and I'm going through the proper channels... but I feel like I'm burning bridges by doing this before getting an agent. Let's say one day I do get an agent, is he going to be able to pitch my ms to an editor I've already been rejected by? There are only so many publishing houses that will publish paranormal fiction. What if I'm rejected by all of them? What do I do then? Somehow this impending distaster seems to not only be looming on the horizon, but the horizon seems to be racing toward me at the speed of light.

I know this sounds like one big poor me blog and in all honesty it probably is. I know somehow I'll forget about this problem, or work it out for myself. I know that I'll learn the craft eventually if I keep writing. But I haven't been blogging lately and am feeling something lacking because of it. I've been busy sure, but have had some breakthroughs and haven't shared them via my blog. So I felt the need to be honest with all of you today, as honest as I can be. This is how I'm feeling today, so this is how you all will receive me today.

And I love you for it.

Opening Up to Rejection

I still haven't heard back from the agent. I keep telling myself it's too soon and it really is, but that still doesn't stop the anxiety from rising time to time. I'm trying my best to shore up my defenses, to submerge my brain and heart and soul into the pool called reality before I hear back. Most likely it will be a form rejection letter, I know that. My brain knows that at least. My heart and soul are a little less sure of that fact and are wary and hopeful at the same time.

This line that I walk as a writer is a fine one. I need to put my soul into my work, then I have to lay it all out on the line. And even if rejected, I have to put my soul on the line again to keep writing, to keep trying. My brain knows this, it knows what it should keep doing, but the brain is only one third of what I need to be successful. My brain I'm fine with until the heart and soul start messing with it, and until my brain tries to rationalize what my heart and soul feel, until my brain shores up its defenses so tight that nothing gets into my heart and soul, or out of it. This is what I'm trying to prevent from happening.

Am I being too sensitive about it? Sure, I am, my brain knows that. My heart and soul haven't had the exercise my brain has had though, they aren't as strong and are much much more fragile. So I ride this line, the one between reality and hope, and between hope and dreams carefully.

Some friends tell me that of course I'll be chosen, its a great book, great query letter etc... but those friends aren't perhaps aware of how the publishing world works. Other friends tell me that the agent is stupid if he doesn't want to at least view a partial, and I dearly hope these friends are right and I also hope the agent isn't stupid :) Other friends try the realist approach, probably the one I need most now. Many authors are rejected for years over and over again for years but keep writing. I need to remember these authors during this time. I need to remember that nothing good happens without risk and you can't risk if you don't put any of yourself out there on the line.

So friends, family, help me strengthen my heart and my soul, not harden it, but strengthen them to stand on their own two feet, to be able to ride out of the storm if there is one, to be sure enough of themselves to keep on trying, to keep on giving.

Because I want those things, I want to keep giving, I NEED to vent my creativity. so if not for anyone else, I need to strengthen my heart and soul for me, because whatever happens, I NEED to keep writing. For sanity? Happiness? Fulfillment? I don't know, but that doesn't make the need any less potent. All I know for sure is one thing...

I am a writer.

Out of Control cont.

I write the beginning of this some time ago and really liked it. I was diligently working on book 2 the other day and my brain wouldn't cooperate with it so I worked on something else... I added onto Out of Control... here it is so far...

Out of control. Does anyone know what that truly means? Sure there are drunken nights where we go a little wild, but we still made those choices. Our minds were under the influence of alcohol, but alcohol doesn’t tell us what to do. It cannot control us, it simply loosens our morals a bit, causing us to do what we would if we had no inhibitions. Alcohol makes us do what we really want to do.

That certainly isn’t being out of control, perhaps being drunk is simply being out of the control of society, of civilization.

But what truly is being out of control? We have choices we make everyday. The waking up in the morning, the getting out of bed—we choose that. We wear certain clothes. We talk with certain words—all choices.

What if all that was taken away from you? What if you weren’t even able to think your own thoughts? If you had no control over your motor functions? What if someone—something—had control over your breathing, and even when you blinked?

Welcome to my world.


***


Water pounded on my bloody fingernails as my brain snapped into place. They had given me back control too early…again. If only that were a good thing. I much preferred the days when I woke up blissfully unaware of my nighttime activities.

My stomach revolted and I doubled over in pain, awaiting the worst to come. Every awakening was the same—a moment of clear headedness followed by the racing stream of images of my covert actions. Like a dream, they drifted out of my mind’s grasp as soon as I tried to hold on. The memories I lacked were as elusive as the chip in my head was present.

Our bodies are ruled by little electrical pulses directed by our brains. A chip can control those pulses more effectively than our brains. The technology that held me together and kept me alive was the bane of my existence. The irony was not lost on me.

Decisions had been decided, deals had been done—I’d made this choice. Purging myself of whatever entered my stomach from the night before was on par with me trying to vomit the remnants of the deal I made with the titanium devil—fruitless. I’d have to eat again and I couldn’t survive without my mechanical friends.
Dragging my sorry ass out of the bathroom, I looked at the clock in the kitchen, seven in the morning. Not bad, I’d only lost a few hours this time. How much damage could I have done in three hours time? Downing a glass of water from the sink, the taste of regret and vomit was replaced with the cotton mouth feel of dread. The cordless phone sat innocently on the counter, unaware of its part in my mood swing. The date and time on the caller id taunted as it flashed. Picking up the phone, I threw it across the room at the clock. Both smashed into bits and after leaving a sizable dent in the wall, fell to the floor.
I hadn’t been booted up for three hours.
I’d been plugged in for three weeks.
***
The second I knocked on the door, I regretted my decision to come here. I bounced my heel on the ground of the dirty alley while I waited for Fister to come to the door. I’d never been here before, but just like every other Jack, a term used to describe those of us who jack into the system, I knew who Fister was and where he lived. He was a shyster was what he was. And where he was? Well picture the most God awful place imaginable… the place where even sin is afraid to come…where nightmares are preferable to reality and you have the abode of one Mr. Fister.

I looked down both ways of the alley. No one was here not even the rats. If the rodents were smart enough to stay away why the hell wasn’t I?

“Marilee Jenkins, what an unexpected, albeit no less delightful, surprise.”

Jerking my head back to the doorway, I stopped breathing for a moment when I met the eyes of the man before me—the man who shouldn’t know who I was. Handsome in the traditional sense of symmetrical features, Fister’s face wasn’t appealing in the slightest. His too wide mouth was not softened by slightly full lips, but hardened by thin stretched bands instead. His teeth were straight enough, but from years of bad hygiene, they’d rotted away until small points were left. His eyes were actually quite a nice cross between blue and gray but his pupils were always so small you felt as if he would prick you with them at any given moment. The man would’ve looked okay from a distance in profile. He’d probably even look nice, a model citizen if you will with his unassuming medium brown hair, as long as he didn’t show his teeth or turn his stare on you.

The man was scarred, oh not on the outside mind you, no his skin was flawless on the outsides. On the inside, running just under the surface of Mr. Fister was being comprised completely of scars, some his own, but mostly the scars of others. You see, Fister here is a scavenger—a self made Frankenstein.

D Day!

My query letter is written, finalized, printed and placed inside an addressed envelope with a SASE. All I need to do is seal it and put a stamp on it. Easy enough right? Oh probably except this is the first time I've ever done this and I need someone to hold my hand and tell me it's all going to all okay.

Is my manuscript really done? Are the first three chapters good enough to make the cut?

BLAH! GET OVER IT! *deep breath* Okay I'm over it I did it, it's sealed stamped and put in the mailbox. Wish me luck!

Things be always be worse tho, I could be this guy...

Comparing your work

I'm feelig a bit conflicted today. I can't say who said this as it is one of a "Ya know what they say." Well they said that the traits you don't like in someone else, are the ones you don't like in yourself. I'm wondering if that's true with writing as well.

I just finished a book by a very popular author that I like, but I didn't like this book. I felt the plot was forced, the character interaction abysmal and found the resolution lacking. Now, I think I do a pretty good job on the character interaction in my own writing, but I will admit that there are times when I definitely feel like I don't know to make a mystery work. When the Aha! moment to me seems weak or forced. I think that since I already know what's going on I wrote the damn thing afterall, that the Aha! moment isn't going to be a moment of revelation because I knew it all from the beginning. So I can't really judge that moment very well. Is writing this pinnacle moment something an author learns over time or is it instinctual? Any thoughts on this would be great!

Sandra: the woman, the writer and the reader on Susan Elizabeth Phillips

I’m emotionally exhausted. I wish I could say it’s from me putting my all into my book, but it isn’t. I just finished reading Susan Elizabeth Phillip’s book, “Honey Moon.” As with most of her books, but especially the ones from the early nineties, she puts me through the emotional wringer. There are so many ups, downs, twists turns and in this last one, even a spiral, that I’m left reeling when I finally close the back cover. There isn’t a book of hers so far that I haven’t been snookered into reading in one day. And believe me, to go through all those emotions in a day is a harrowing experience. When I finally finish that last page and look at her picture on the inside of the back flap, I don’t know whether to curse or praise Phillips. As a woman, I curse her because she brings too many of my own emotions to the surface, as an author I admire her and am fiercely jealous. As a reader I’m in awe of her talent and her insight into the human mind. I saw her speak at the Romance Writers of America conference last year in Atlanta, GA. I wonder if her insight into the human psyche is from her past as an actress? Either way, she puts so much into these books that I’m amazed she has anything left of herself. I suppose I shouldn’t be too amazed, seeing as her and Honey just took a small part of me with them. Hats off to you Susan Elizabeth Phillips!

A short farewell

Upon finishing the first major edit of my manuscript, Inevitable, I’ve been taking a break from blogging. This break wasn’t intentional—just sort of happened. I’d become wrapped up in editing, or I expend my brain to the point where it was only in Inevitable mode. Unfortunately for my blog readers, this is still where my brain is. My mind is gripping the manuscript so much it’s difficult to read books without wandering to my own. So with my tunnel vision, I’ve opted out of blogging for a little while. When I feel Inevitable is finally done, I will come back to blogger and to all of you.

-ST

The stream of conscious blogger

I vacillated on what to blog about today. I thought I'd blog about the latest book I'm reading, which isn't "latest" at all, Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. But I hadn't finished it yet, so then I made a list of books I've read recently (way too many considering I'm still not done editing my book) and thought I'd do mini reviews of each of them. Then I got to playing on the internet as I'm known to do, and ran across a thread about the VT school shooting.

So I said my piece known about that and caught myself repeating lines from F451 in my head. So I wrote this long thing about how he's right and it's amazing how clear his vision of the future was etc... etc... Then I copy and pasted it into my "Create Blog" box and stared at it. It didn't say everything I wanted to say about the book, hell I wasn't even done reading it yet. Was I doing the book justice by making commentary on it when I was only 1/3 of the way through. The fact that I felt lead to discuss when it wasn't even finished made my decision for me. I had to respect the book and author that affected my that much with only part of his book. So I closed the lid to my laptop and finished the damn book.

Here I sit, done with the book and a rash of thoughts swirling in my head. I'm looking over what I wrote from before and still agree with everything I wrote, but there's so much more I want to say. It's almost 5 pm my time and I'm feeling guilty for not blogging already and I haven't even attempted to look for a video yet and with my shoddy internet connection, that's going to take awhile.

My conclusion to this small dilemma I have today? I will not post my thoughts on F451 and Ray Bradbury's genius today. I have too much respect to lay down immortal internet words about his work when I don't have the time, nor presence of mind to do them justice.

Handling Self Doubt

Is thinking your work isn’t good self doubt? Or is it recognizing your failings and fixing them? Aka editing

I’ve been editing quite a bit lately, in fact I’ve done about 80 pages in the last few days. I went back to read chapter one of my book and it wasn’t flowing for me. That’s a problem… or is it? Am I being too hard on myself? Am I not in the reading mood? Are the problems I’m seeing really problems, or just me doubting myself?

There’s really no way to be sure when you are in a mood. So I’m forcing myself to sit back and take a break. Not from editing all together, but from looking back at chapter one. Knowing myself, it’s all too possible that I’m just in some mind funk where nothing is good enough. So I’m waiting it out until I’m in a better frame of mind.

So what to do when you are in the crazy brain place where you hate your work…

- First thing you do is come up with specific questions on what you think is wrong with the passage. If you aren’t being nutty about it, the questions will help you revise later.

- Take a break from the part you are disliking—move on to a different part

-Write something new, different than what you are editing or writing before, perhaps you are just bored

- If you are dead set on figuring this out right away (not advisable) go to one of our beta readers and ask them what they think, but be forewarned, you must have specific questions, not just “does this suck?” But more like, does this part flow well, does it match the rest of the story? Is it lacking excitement?

- When you are in a better frame of mind, compare the part in question with a part that you do like, what are the differences?

Just know that it is entirely possible that you are being neurotic about it. We’re writers after all and have characters speaking to us in our heads, being neurotic isn’t too far behind. BUT, it is also possible that you are simply observing your work with a neutral eye… not an easy task. So make your notes, come back when your head is on straight and realize you are a genius, either in waiting it out so you didn’t destroy your work, or having the awareness of self to look upon your work with a discerning, critical eye. Either way you win.

Mermaid part 2

Hands tied behind my back, he hefted me over his shoulder and dumped me in the back of, what I’m guessing is a van—the industrial kind that don’t have seats or windows in the back. I bounced against the hard metal floor, wondering if I’d bump into high tech listening equipment that seemed factory installed with this type of vehicle—at least according to movies, and I didn’t have much experience with dry land excepting motion pictures, both the making of and the watching.

“Watch it, you’ll bruise me.”

“I’ll do more than that by the time I’m done, as I’m sure you’ll remember.”

Unfortunately I did remember, and I could picture his sly smile as he said it. So smug.

“And what will my father say about that?” There, that ought to put the fear of God into him, no one messed with Poseidon or his children and got away with it.

“Ahh, but he sent me after you my lady. Got yourself into a bit of trouble up here on land it seems.”

He what! Oh that was just like something Papa would do, send this cretin after me when he knows our history. Possibly Daddy thought I’d come back easily if what’s his name over there came for me.

The ear splitting noise of the metal doors slamming against one another marked his exit. The roar of the engine was followed by a lot of jarring bumps and turns. Was he going off roading? Knowing him, he probably did this to rattle me. He was always doing this sort of thing back home—anything to get a rise out of me. One would think that with Akheilos as his father, he would’ve learned a bit more self restraint, but not my Strix, no he always had to make his own mistakes and I was still waiting for them to come back and bite him on the ass.

After a long time of grueling bouncing back and forth causing my breasts to ache like they were used for punching bags, Strix stopped the van. Dragging me out by one ankle and tossing me over his shoulder again, he carried me into a building. Dumped onto a soft surface, the bag was taken off my head.

“Triton will get you back for this. You know how protective of me he gets.”

“Ah yes, the infamous brother. Protective of you, Khary? He just tried calming you when you had your little hissy fits, which was often by the way, so you wouldn’t cause ships to crash. Triton likes his humans almost as much as he likes his calm seas and that damned horn of his. You were just a means to an end.”

Pursed lips, I refused to take Strix’s bait. Making me angry and frustrated was only going to make me puke again, and knowing him, he wouldn’t let me make it to a bathroom and force me to lay in the mess. After turning to my human form, I still had to puke the prescribed once a day, although controlling the tides had nothing to do with it, just force of habit I guess. I mean, what did my people expect? I grew up my whole life throwing up every morning, bulimia was the next most logical step when I took on my human form, so I fit in perfectly in Hollywood where bingeing and purging is the name of the game.

After much hmpfing and general fidgeting, Strix untied my arms and laid me back on the bed. His eyes turned the shiny onyx they always did before he… ah hem well maybe I should’ve kept still and not drawn attention to myself.

“You need to rest up, for I’ll be back to tire you out shortly.”

Dragging his eyes from my body, I felt every place they touched. Now hot from head to toe, it was going to be a bitch getting some sleep, and knowing him, I’d need it.

Slippery Slope

The past few days I’ve been quite busy. Not with writing, but preparing for writing, and no not even research. I’ve been rearranging furniture. I moved my bedroom outfit around (the bedroom doubles as my office) I cleared my old computer desk off and the newer one (the nice big one) and am swapping. I made room for it and bought a new bookcase, which is delightfully full of novels. Oh how I love looking at the books I own.

So then its all set up, organized, even partially decorated. Then I get onto to my writing and editing. That is when I take the step that is invariably leading me down a very slippery steep slope. Now that I have the room, I’ve started making notes to myself on sticky pads then sticking the notes to the wall. So far I’ve managed to have only three on the wall, but I feel the desire to place more, to vary the color depending upon the note. I feel the need to make maps and place them on the wall, to find pictures out of magazines for my locations and to print out my character pictures and push pin them to the wall as well.

In fact, I’m even looking forward to gazing at those items on my wall as much as I like looking at the books on my shelf. I anticipate feeling like a general of my own world. There I am, standing near my wall, dressed to the nines, with a long pointer indicating certain areas on the wall size map of the city my book is placed in. I point out the suspects and their most likely hiding place. I give the run down of what’s happened so far in the plot then look into my non existent audience to field questions. Except all that stares back at me is the bed I forgot to make when I woke up that morning. But nonetheless I am inspired by this daydream and now I’m off to search for maps on ebay.

Mermaid Short

The water was clear blue, just like every other day. Well today perhaps there was a slight greenish tint to it and that ladies and gentleman, is the extent of excitement in my life.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to have excitement. Hell, I even miss the days when people would constantly ask me how I went to the bathroom. I was kind of like “duh!” but when the lower half of your body is all scales and one big tail fin, I guess it’s okay for humans to wonder. Now when we got to the how do I have sex question, which invariably included a lecherous leer, that’s when my patience ran out. Oh there were a few times when the man asking the question was cute enough, and asked in such a way that I showed him, but those days are over. Now, I’m all washed up.

I have performance anxiety. It isn’t supposed to happen, ya know. I’m kind of like a werewolf who turns with the full moon. When the tide is high, I’m a mermaid, but for some reason I can’t turn anymore. So here I sit, on the rocks near the ocean longing to be somewhere I can’t. Everyday I make note of the color of the sea and what happened to me on days when the sea was that color.

I’m a has-been, never will be again. My body is still amazing by human standards, but people recognize my face and then I’m no longer a female with a hot body, but a mermaid with an ordinary set of legs.

I’d like to blame it on the Lubriderm commercial I was in. You know the one, an alligator walks around all slow like and a chick with a great pair of sticks rubs lotion all over them. Yeah well, take that commercial but combine the gator and the chick into one person, a scaly hot chick—that’s me. I’d be in a Mer form then rub lotion on my tail and viola, I’d be ordinary again, albeit with silky smooth, evenly tanned legs.

Pebbles cascaded down the rocky path and bounced their way by me to plummet into the crashing waves. Oh great, he was here again.

“I don’t want any, don’t have any, don’t need any.”

“That might matter if I gave a shit what you thought.”

Turning around, I saw a face I never wanted to see again for as long as I loved… er…lived. I caught a glimpse of his onyx black eyes and slicked back hair before he threw the burlap bag over my head.

In my prime no one would’ve kidnapped me with a potato sack. Silk, it definitely would’ve been silk. I thought I would at least warrant a poly-cotton blend—oh how the mighty have fallen.


In russian???

A writer on writing

Writing is easy isn't it? The hard part is coming up with the story, right?

Um... wrong. I have ideas coming out my ass, but not the time to write them all. No, the writing itself is the hard part. Just telling a story in person is easy, telling it well and with interest is more difficult... now writing down that story and making it interesting is something else all together.

When you tell a story in person, you have inflection in your voice, hand motions, facial expressions, you set the pacing. All of those things come naturally, but when you write a story down, you have to implement those into your work with interest. Just saying, Her voice was sing songy as she said "You'll never catch me" Isn't as interesting as it could be. You can't write *insert suspense* or *dramatic pause* Hell you can't even write *pause* the most you can do is put in a comma--ooh how interesting.

So then, how do you make it interesting? Hmm, beats me, you just do. Ha.

No, all of those things I've been listing throughout the past few months are what you can do to make your story interesting. Keep the action fast, show, not tell, watch how passive your tense is. Keep things written in the proper order unless you are obviously telling the story out of order and it all comes together in the end. But of course all these things only work if you have a good story to begin with.

All of these writing techniques are called the Craft, the writing craft. To quote Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Good Craft won't get you published, but lack of good craft will prevent it.

It takes more than a good story to make a good writer, but lucky for us, for the most part, craft can be taught. If the writer has a natural feel for how a story is supposed to be told, the rest is just gravy. If the writer doesn't have a natural feel for how a story is supposed to be told, they should read more books, watch more movies until they figure it out. If they can't? Well maybe they aren't writers.

Not that, as writers, we are some elitest group who don't accept all members. No, being a writer is just something you are or you aren't.

Born that way? Possibly.

The only way to determine if someone is a writer or not is the person themselves. No one can tell you, you aren't a writer. Only your self doubt can do that. If you feel the desire, no the need to tell a story, then you are either a storyteller (actor) a screen writer or a writer. You make that decision. But like any other talent/art, it takes practice.

Bellies so many

Tara ran her hand over her stomach. Hard, ripped, defined lines, everything a stomach should be.

Suzanne ran a hand over her belly, her pot, her bringer of life. Her belly was done, the timer had popped up and it was time to take it out.

Janis ran a hand over her stomach, her gut, her pooch. Soft, yielding, everything a stomach shouldn't be. But her daughter loves the feeling of safety it provides when someone she doesn't know tries to talk to her. It is a place to hide her face when she feels shy, it is her sanctuary.

Rose ran a hand over her stomach, troubled again. Would food ever sit well with her again or would the sickness take her long before that?

Nayla ran a hand over her distended stomach. Pushed out in starvation, it was misleading. Her insides were swollen from malnutrition, not from being overfed.

Angie ran a hand over her stomach, or the few rolls that made up a stomach. Would the faint red lines ever fade away? Would she ever find the time, the drive, to work her rolls away? Would she ever accept that this is how she looks and go out in public again? She'd love to see her daughter's play in person.

Kathryn ran a shaky hand over her stomach. Flat, but flappy. She'd lost too much weight, the doctors weren't going to like that, her children weren't going to like that. They'd try to make her eat again. More it's always one more, one more bite of jello, one more roll, one more chunk of chicken. One more appointment, just give us one more year with her.

Julia ran a hand over her belly and gave it one loud smack. Giggling, she showed her younger brother what she could do. He tried to do it too, but her bigger belly made the louder noise. The whole beach, her favorite place, could hear her belly smacks.

Common mistakes of fiction writers

1. Passive writing: If you don’t know what this means, chances are, you’re doing it.

Passive: Susie had mentioned that to me before.
Active: Susie mentioned that to me.

Passive: We started to walk to the store.
Active: We walked to the store.

Passive: I’d been contemplating this for awhile.
Active: I contemplated this for awhile.

Passive: There was a rainbow in the sky.
Active: A rainbow decorated the sky.

2. Either too long complex sentences or too many short ones. Long sentences go on and on and by the time the reader has gotten to the end, they have no idea what the hell you are talking about. Too many short sentences make the reader feel stilted. It’d be like reading in a strobe light—jarring.

3. Infamous telling as opposed to showing.

Telling: Tasha was confused and frustrated
Showing: Tasha fisted her hands against her sides as her brows drew together.

Telling: Bob’s head was cut off by Bobbette.
Showing: Sword swinging in an arc, the blade cut cleanly through the already bruised skin of her throat.

You tell me which one is more interesting?

4. Preaching. Pretty self explanatory but as a writer, you may not even know you are doing it.

Preaching: Justin watched as the teens tripped over their pants and blared loud rap music. What was it with kids today? Fashion was one thing, but pants that long, and showing boxer shorts? It just didn’t make any sense—common sense. And the music, ugh, the music. Didn’t old people have a hard enough time hearing without the music blowing out their eardrums?

Not Preaching: ................*crickets chirping*............


Yup that’s right, nothing. Cut out all preaching unless it is essential to your character. Chances are with fiction, you aren’t writing your thoughts about the world down in some philosophical manifesto that will change the world. You want everyone to know that kids with baggy pants are stupid? Make them trip over them. Music too loud? They are criminals and get caught because their music covered up the sirens wailing to come pick them up. It basically comes down to show, not telling again. Show us why these things are bad, or good, don’t just spout your opinion about it and expect the reader to swallow it. I wouldn’t.

5. And last but not least for now. Over use of the exclamation point. It tends to leave the reader feeling like whoever is saying or thinking stuff with !!!! after it is ditzy. Like, oh my god! Everything is so exciting, I can’t contain myself! Typically the exclamation point serves one purpose in fiction: when someone is yelling. Thoughts should not have ! Excited statements, unless screamed, should not have ! Show us the character is excited, don’t show us they’re dumb by making them seem like excited puppies about ready to pee on your floor. No one I know like a pissed on floor and chances are, your reader won’t either.

Til next time…

-ST

And now time for Keith Moon, is really IS excited by everything.

Character Profiles

Profiles of a few characters from the Sam series.














WHO are you?