MidnightMuse

Don't be her

2007-01-16T13:08:00.000-08:00

There’s a song by Tool – the first line is: "You’re such an inspiration for the ways that I will never ever choose to be." Being a Tool fan, every time I hear that song I’m reminded of this woman I met a few years ago.

Okay, looking back, it must be something like five years ago, if not six. See, I had a friend in Toronto, who had a friend in LA, who was flying up to Vancouver BC to visit the set of this television show. My friend couldn’t go meet her, so it was decided by committee or something that I would drive up – being only three hours away from Vancouver BC myself.

So, I figure this is gonna be harmless. I drive to Canada all the time, no big deal, and if something were to go hinky or get strange, I could just turn around and drive back home. This woman I was meeting was around my age, single, and had no clue what to expect in Vancouver, so I knew if this turned out to be one of those internet meeting horror stories, I had the upper hand.

Well naturally nothing happened, seeing as how I’m right here talking to you. I met this woman, and we got along just fine for what we were there to do. We made several set visits, talked to lots of actors and directors, producers, bla bla bla. But the one thing that really hit me from that entire trip was something this woman said.

Actually it was something she asked me, that first night. Some awards show of some sort came on the tv that night, and she was all excited to watch it. I frankly had no clue what was going on, since I pay absolutely no attention to any show that doesn’t interest me – and very few do. But she was settling right in to watch every second of this awards show. When she realized I didn’t know the majority of these actors or programs, she asked me this: "What is it you do with your time, when you’re not working?"

Now I don’t mean she was asking to be polite. And she wasn’t asking to make conversation. She was asking me because she literally had no idea what else there was to do on planet earth between working and sleeping except for watching television. She had no hobbies. She had no life.

She had nothing outside of television.

I’m not exaggerating here at all, I swear. She started grilling me about what I did, what hobbies there were and why did I like them – and would she like them – and what do other people do?

Her life was wrapped up in television. She even recorded programs during the work day so she would have enough to keep her going during weekends and holidays. This woman had nothing else in her life. She didn’t go out, she didn’t have friends, her family lived on the other side of the country. She lived for television and movies.

The only time she left LA was to visit television sets that weren’t filming in LA. She was wrapped up completely in these little fannish things, like fan clubs and fan fiction and all things related to people who can’t turn it off and go outside.

It was sad.

So do me a favor – if you don’t have a hobby, go get one. If you know more about the actors you see on television than you do your friends or coworkers, it’s time to turn that thing off and go outside. Buy a book and read it. Pick up some needlepoint or knitting. Learn how to build birdhouses or tile a floor.

Don’t be that woman.

Happy New Whatever

2006-12-29T13:31:00.000-08:00

I'm in a bad mood. I don't know why, there's no good reason, I just am. And I'm missing my happy pills.

When I had surgery on my elbow last March, I got these lovely pills to take for pain. Lots of them. Many more than I really needed, so I used them accordingly. Meaning, whenever I wanted to feel happy. I called them my Happy Pills. Just one, not two, and only on a weekend since they'd keep me wide awake all night long. But damn if they weren't the nicest things around. I'd lay there, awake but feeling very secure and happy and calm about the fact that I wasn't getting a lick of sleep. Got these same pills when I had a kidney stone, and I made them last nearly 6 months with rationing.

And my Muse adored them ! I could envision entire stories while laying awake, feeling so secure and happy. I'd smile and watch my characters interact and imagine fantastic scenarios for them. Those Happy Pills even gave me the inspiration I needed for the story I'm writing now.

But I'm all out of Happy Pills. And the stupid elbow is beyond the point of convincing the doctor I need more. Rum doesn't do the same thing, though I do enjoy that in my coke some evenings.

No more Happy Pills.

That's not what has me in bad mood, mind you. I wasn't addicted to them or anything. I think I averaged taking one every other weekend or something, no big deal. I was using them as a special inspiration-treat.

This isn't even the point of my post, I'm just grumpy.

The point of this post was going to be about Criticism.

As writers, we get a lot of that, in bulk, from Costco even. We sometimes ask fellow writers to read our work and give us a critique, and let me tell you, that is not for the faint of heart ! Luckily, I already had a pretty thick skin, so I can take it. But . . . oddly enough . . . I won't let them read my Precious (Alex and Evan). Mostly because those characters are near and dear to me in ways I can't even articulate - but I know in reality, they're anything but literary.

I'm going to stop there, 'cause I love my guys and I'm in the middle of writing them now, even.

So back to my point - The other day I was watching something on HGTV, Sell This House, I think it was. Anyway, someone comes in to check out a house that's been on the market for a long while without selling, and points out the issues and problems. Meanwhile the homeowners sit back and get all huffy and angry at the remarks. Watching this makes me think: You'd never make it as a writer, kiddo!

As a writer, you have to hear all sorts of opinions about your work, and smile politely while nodding and looking for the truth in what's being said. Because aside from "This sucks", usually there's something in a critique you need to hear. And you usually don't want to. But it's helpful, and you know it, so you listen bravely and try hard to think objectively.

It's not that much different than being told the color scheme of your living room is horridly outdated ! In both cases, someone you don't know is making a comment about something that's near and dear to you, personally. An expression of yourself, your emotions, or your creativity.

So what IS my point? I'm in a bad mood, that's what !

Some got brave and submitted to the Crapometer over at Miss Snark's blog. I didn't submit one, but I've been going there now and again and reading the comments she makes regarding the hooks people did send in. Yeah, a lot of them suck wind. And they deserve to be told there is wind being sucked. And sure, I've taken some pleasure in reading her snarking remarks, especially to the ones that leave me thinking: WTF?? I'm harsh when reading stuff like that, like when I'm in a bookstore looking for something to read - I'll give them all one paragraph to make me care enough to read one page, after that they're history and I move on looking for the next one that might interest me.

But this bad mood of mine has me feeling sorry for a lot of these people. Sure, their hooks suck, but they're based on a story this person just took months to write and fuss over. A story this person clearly devoted time and energy and emotion into, all the while hoping and praying that this was The One.

Only to find out, in mere seconds, that it isn't.

All seems rather futile at times, don't it? And yet we press on, write our little hearts out, sweat bullets over our queries, and submit again, and again. Then we do it again.

Writers aren't sane.

Happy New Year.

Now let's take a moment to enjoy my new Happy Pill :)

You Lost Me

2006-12-21T09:30:00.000-08:00

So yeah, I watched The Lost Room on the SciFi channel, and I have to admit I was really getting into it. I missed some bits here and there because I didn't DVR the thing right away, but I caught it all on the replay and have it stored for later.

But as a writer, I have a gripe.

Now, first off, I love a complex plot. And for emphasis, I'll repeat: I LOVE a complex plot.

I love writing that assumes the reader/watcher is intelligent enough to follow along, and takes us on a journey with twists and turns and unexpected originality. So while I was watching this miniseries -- and frankly my sole reason for taking an interest in this presentation -- was the writing. That lead actor was okay, could have been better looking for my tastes, but he was good in the role. The other actors were fine, all that falderal.

It was the writing that drew me in. The room, the key, the objects, the potential this tale had for a complete series and the sense of writerly wonder it boosted in me -- I found myself analyzing how fantastic it would have been if I'd come up with this idea, and where I could have gone with it. There were major feelings of jealousy involved, since I hadn't, in fact, come up with it.

All the while I'm watching this thing, I'm thinking ahead and wondering just how this writer is going to bring everything full circle. I was all set to be amazed, nay, dazzled by the conclusion. In my mind were all manner of possible angles and twists, and I could only wait with anticipation to see how this writer wrapped it up.

Then it was over.

No explanation. No conclusion. No satisfaction whatsoever!

Had this been a book, this would have been the point at which I would have thrown it physically and with great enthusiastic force across the room ! Threads were left dangling, answers were left completely Unanswered, and not one mystery was brought to a logical or satisfying conclusion.

And if you're thinking this was a perfect open-door to sequels, No, it wasn't. Sequels would have required a much different and better scripted lead-in.

This is what we call a Dud. A writer who had a fancy-dancy idea, and no where to go with it. A writer who envisioned a great, convoluted plot with twists, turns, flips and spins . . . but couldn't figure out how it ends!

As a writer, I can say that many of us start out with this. We have a picture in our heads of one scene or one idea, then realize there's a story there that needs to be told, so we work up some characters, stretch that one idea out into a set of ideas that connect into something we can call a plot. Then sometimes we'll even start writing the thing before we've figured out how it ends.

But -- and here's the real kicker -- we don't END that story until we HAVE figured it out! During the process of writing, more plot twists come to mind, and eventually, as you're busily placing your characters in peril and working out their eventual success, the ending comes to you. You spend a little time working out the logic, making sure it truly IS the ending you're looking for, double-checking to make sure it wraps up all the mysteries in a logical manner, and one that a reader could have figured out (which entails making sure you left just enough clues without giving it all away).

Then, and only then, can you type The End at the bottom !!!

If you have a great story, a twisting and complex plot, but NO logical conclusion, it isn't DONE YET !

Okay, rant over. I have to go figure out why this thing won't load images anymore, and think about switching to the new blogger. I just had to VENT first !

2006-11-29T12:25:00.000-08:00

Uh-Oh, it's NaNo!

2006-11-01T10:37:00.000-08:00

Yeppers, started at midnight, November 1st. So if I seem a bit scattered over the next 30 days, that's my excuse!

You can stop by and check my progress there, but since my username was already taken, I'm known as Legend at the Nano board. Come see how many words I have down, maybe read an excerpt if I put one up later, and check out my buddies - see how they're progressing and maybe even cheer us all on!

I'll be the one in the back corner, drooling and holding a bottle of Rum.

Got Nano?

2006-10-24T14:43:00.000-07:00

November is National Novel Writing Month. It's a worldwide whirlwind of insanity, wherein you must write a 50,000 word story in 30 days, start to finish. If you think that's easy . . . I dare you to try it.

Sure, for me, writing something of extreme length is a non-issue. I do that all the time. I write novels, after all. But doing that in 30 days? Even I think I'm an idiot.

What do you win when you finish, you ask?

Well . . . a cute little plaque to put on your web page, and the respect of your fellow Nanoers. And the envy of any writer who's never broken the 20,000 word barrier.

Yep, that's about it.

But there are perks. You get: Insomnia, Nervous Twitches, Headaches, Aching Fingers, Burning Eyes, and you either gain 20 pounds from all the chocolate, or lose 20 pounds from all the involuntary muscle spasms.

Either way, it's pretty much a win-win!

So, what might I be doing, you ask?

Well . . . here's the thing. I have this story waiting for edits, to be sent around in the hopes of winning an agent. I have a few more sitting around, waiting for the same process. I have another that just started, but my brain is having spasms, so that's going on hold. And, at the same time as Nano, have to finish a short (2,000 word) for a contest.

But for Nano, I'm going to revisit Alex and Evan.

My fans know what that means - another Alex and Evan for the web page. I couldn't take it any more. I cracked. I had every intention of writing this super serial killer story, mainstream thriller, intended for commercial publication. But my brain kept stammering up against this blockade, and nothing I could do was breaking it free.

Those of you familiar with the publishing world, understand how near-impossible it is to actually break in, write something spectacular, win an agent, then get a publisher. We all stand a better chance of being struck by a toilet falling from the International Space Station while a shark is nibbling on our leg and lightning is striking all around, then we do of getting through the writing, querying and acceptance maze.

One day I feel like I'm gonna make it. The next day, I realize there's no way in hell, and I can hear that toilet falling from above. A day or two later, I figure I have as good a chance as anyone. Then the clouds roll in and I find myself wading in the ocean.

Okay, I'd offer cheese to go with all this whine, but I'm lactose intolerant.

Sitting here, thinking very hard on each and every word in that "will this win me an agent" way, only served to keep me sitting here thinking - not writing.

I came to a conclusion the other day that has finally put a smile back on my face, and made me giddy about writing again. I've been taking it all way too seriously lately, and it stopped being fun.

I've met a lot of people this year who are brilliant writers. Very witty, intelligent and amazing people who can write circles around all the drek we find in the bookstores. The problem is they're not getting anywhere. I won't go into boring detail, but see my comparison above re: the shark and the toilet and you'll get an idea.

These people continue to plug away, but the fact that their work isn't being read by anyone, anywhere, is slowly and surely eating away at their writing souls. All they crave is an audience. All they hope for is that some day, someone will read their stories and love them. And they deserve it ! They really are brilliant writers - but for many ridiculous reasons, they're not getting published (at least not yet). It's a game of patience, luck, skill, ridiculous luck, patience, stupid luck, timing, patience and ABSURD LUCK! Now and again, one of them strikes the motherlode, and wins an agent -- only to wait years and find out that agent can't sell the story to a publisher.

Don't get me wrong -- I've also met writers who HAVE made it. They ARE published now and can be found on the shelves of your local bookstores everywhere.

It's not impossible -- just highly unlikely :)

For those of us who have day jobs, and write for pleasure -- that's all we want. Sure, the little (and I mean little) extra cash and the pride that goes along with it would be welcomed with open arms and a glad heart. But I see those who have been trying for so long, and they're close to giving up. I see those who crave only an audience, who simply want their "children" to be seen by others, giving up on ever being known.

And, frankly, I spent an hour at Barnes & Noble the other day and couldn't find a single thing that interested me beyond page 1. That's no ego talking, just personaly taste. I write what I want to read, because I can rarely ever find it anywhere. I find myself reading non fiction almost exclusively.

I've been feel guilty, and a little stupid, and more than a bit humbled because I do have an audience. I have fans, I have a base of readers, and I have stories to write that give me great pleasure.

What does this mean?

Basically, that I'm grateful for what I have, while still envious of what I don't. It means I'm going to continue to try and write for commercial publication. I have one ready, one and in the works. But it also means I'm going to continue to write for the web page.

I've spent the last 8 months learning what is and isn't true about publishing, and the truth is more bizarre than the fiction it produces! Talk to enough published writers, read enough Agent's blogs and Publishers advice, and you, too, can have scrambled brains for breakfast !

Oh, and rest assured -- with my fickle hormones, this could all change in a week ! But for Nano - it's gonna be a brand spakin' new Alex and Evan story.

So now that this blog post has gone from Nano to Nuthin', in sixty seconds or less, I'll try to recap.

Feeling lucky? Got Pen? Sign up now, join the Nano -- and abandon all hope !!!

Oh, and if you see my brains lying around anywhere, please mail them back. I'll pay for postage :)

Simplify, simplifly, semper-fi!

2006-10-11T14:07:00.000-07:00

I saw a commercial yesterday afternoon that made me want to throw away every electronic device I own, cancel my satellite TV, my cell phone service, and sell my computers, then learn to knit for entertainment.

Okay, sure, I do have other entertainment. I cut, shape and polish agates and gems, for one. I read, I write - neither of which requires technology. And my sister and I love an evening spent at our Mother's house, playing cards with her and her husband.

But really -- There was this commercial about some electronic gadgetry, or the future of possibilities, or maybe it was soap, but it was going on and on with these images of people all over the globe, in all cultures and countries, using all manner of computerized consumer products to email, web-surf, phone, fax, scan, and even track "friends". There was one image with some words that conveyed the opinion that, in the not too distant future, you can "subscribe" to your friends and look up their exact planetary location at any given time.

Does this disturb anyone else?

Not only that particular trick, but this entire trend of always on, instantly connected, always aware?

Anyone?

Seriously, it's getting to me. Yes, I own a cell phone, but you'll have to trust me when I say I only own it and only use it for emergencies. It's a security blanket for a single woman in this crazy world, who drives a 50 mile round trip commute daily. I swear the only time it's an indulgence for me is when my sister and I are out and about and decide we should phone Applebees for a carside dinner to go.

Yes, I have satellite TV. Yes, I even have cable internet. And okay, twist my arm and you'll notice I use a DVR to record programs automatically (look, ma, no vcr).

But suddenly, as I'm watching that commercial, it all felt very suffocating. I do mock people who have the Internet on their cell phones. Those self-important types who feel the need to check email while sitting at their son's school play. The guy watching a movie on his laptop, his cell phone and his FREAKISHLY HUGE hdtv, all during his supposed train commute to work.

I read somewhere that 80 percent of all cell phone calls people take in public are faked. That they're just pretending, in order to look cool. You know why I keep my cell phone on while I'm in public? Because it shows me the time. I don't wear a watch.

I don't disparage all electronics, because clearly I use and enjoy them. They have a place, they have a time, and they have a purpose.

But dear GOD, do we seriously need -- or deserve -- to know where our friends are at all times? Is it vitally necessary that we have access to our SPAM while we're waiting for our latte? Can we not go five minutes between Instant Messaging during dinner at a nice restaurant?

I was going to avoid any mention of: Back in MY day -- but . . .

It was just ten years ago when cell phones began to be interesting to the average Joe. A mere 15 years ago, most people didn't have a PC, satellite TV was a gigantic dish that took up your entire backyard and screamed your affluence to your neighbors.

It wasn't that long ago when we could drive down the freeway and only have to worry about people shaving or applying mascara. When pay phones were considered a necessary item on every block, just in case you had an emergency.

Not long ago, we didn’t have MP3 players insulating us from the outside world. Back then, we'd act a bit more polite to the other people in line, because we could hear and see them. We wouldn't dash across the street in traffic as if we were the only humans on the planet, because we could hear the car engines coming up from behind. I remember a time when we could walk down a sidewalk, see people coming and make room for them. Even smile as they passed.

And sure, this sounds really ridiculous coming from the mouth of someone who enjoys writing Science Fiction with futuristic settings.

But does the future really have to be so . . . annoying? Doesn't it feel sometimes like, if they invent one more thing that isolates us from the humans around us, we're all gonna forget what life is really like?

Yeah, sure, it's an exaggeration. I'm being ridiculous, overreacting and blathering at the mouth. That commercial just brought me to the brink, is all. It's just odd how these products designed to "bring people closer" are really there to isolate everyone.

Like they want to bring us all closer, but only in a virtual manner.

Okay, enough rambling. Consider this just a: Unplug that thing and go outside! Rant, 'cause that's all it really amounts to.

Now, let's just scroll back down to my post about MEN and relax, shall we?

It's a Love / Hate Thing

2006-09-21T14:05:00.001-07:00

Writing is definitely a strange, wonderful, frightening and ridiculous love / hate relationship. Only my fellow writers truly understand what I'm talking about, and I only understand it myself sporadically. That is to say, I only sit down and think about it when I'm feeling strangely moody.

Or moodily strange.

Here's my point. I have a new story in development. I have the title, the major plot and players, and I've been reading up on some facts I'll need to know in order to write a believable and hopefully marketable novel.

I stumbled for a few days searching for just the right names for my characters, but I'm pretty happy with the ones I came up with. It took me two days to find just the right title, even though agents tend to change those. And I've finally figured out the exact location this story will take place in and around.

The only thing holding me back is that opening sentence.

That starter paragraph.

Those first few words.

I have a full 5 days of leave next week, since I've got so much amassed that needs to be used before the end of the year, so my plan is to begin working on this new novel first thing next week.

And therein lies the Writer's Dilemma; Starting.

Oh sure, we get ideas up the wazzu, and get really excited about new characters, new situations, world building and plot constructing. We go positively Ga-Ga at the prospect of creating an entirely new mystery/thriller/Science Fiction epic to weave a complicated-yet-entertaining story that will -- hopefully -- leave our readers enthralled from page 1 to The End.

We love that part. We really do.

In fact, the most favorite part about writing is Getting Ready. We plan, we plot, we sometimes even diagram. We jot down notes, we daydream subplots, and the mere idea of sitting down at the keyboard for several hours of uninterrupted time makes us grin from ear to ear like silly little school girls.

But, invariably, there's a tiny, very quiet yet extremely eloquent voice hidden way down inside, where only we can hear. That voice whispers things like: "Hang on, you still have to do some fact checking." "Wait a second, are you sure you like that character name?" "You'd better put this off another day until you can work out the details of the killer's motive." "Just give it another day, some more thought, another consideration, maybe a few more days of research."

I like to think of it as standing on the edge of a dock, in the middle of a lake, in your bathing suit. It's a lovely sunny day, the water is pure and blue and inviting -- but it's also quite cold and you know there's gonna be that shock to your system if you just jump in. The cold might be too much to bear -- what if you have a heart attack? What if you gasp and suck in water? Wouldn't it be better to stick a toe in, then maybe ease one leg down, maybe even splash some water cautiously up your body, to your arms?

Surely it's gonna be a lot easier if you just sit here and look at the water, talk to all the other people already swimming around, and admire the beauty of the water, the lake, the lovely sunny day. Maybe you don't really feel like swimming today. Maybe you'll cramp up and drown, even.

But eventually, it just gets too hot to stay on the dock, and that water is too beautiful to ignore, and you're physically craving jumping down into the cold blue and becoming one with the purity of the lake. You begin to ache for the weightlessness of floating, the beauty of its coolness.

So you jump.

It's cold, and it's shocking, and for several minutes you're sure you're going to die and never swim again. You curse the thoughts that pushed you off that warm dock, and flail your arms and legs wildly in a desperate attempt to stay alive.

Then, before you know it, you're not cold anymore. Either you've gone numb, or your body has adjusted to the temperature, but it doesn't matter because you're swimming now.

And it feels good.

It feels great, even. You're swimming and wondering what took you so long to jump off that dock.

Writing is no different. The idea comes, you flesh it out and get excited about it, but soon realize the anticipation is such a great feeling, you're terrified the actual writing of it will pale in comparison. Finally, after a huge mental struggle during which you consider writing, quitting, and just treading water like a dead leaf, you sit down and force that first sentence out.

Then you push, and you sweat, and through great effort you turn that sentence into a paragraph.

Then a page.

Then another.

Then, before you realize it, you've adjusted to the temperature, doing the breast stroke with a smile on your face, and wondering why you waited so long to jump off that dock.

Speaking of Fleas

2006-09-11T11:56:00.000-07:00

(warning: The preceding is one consumer's opinion, nothing more. Don't even think about suing me.)

Several weeks ago, I bought a new Dell laptop. It's just like the one I bought a year ago, except a newer model of course and a few more bells and whistles. I admit, I'm a PC user, not Mac, and I prefer Dell over the other brands for many reasons -- but I'm not saying any others aren't just as good.

But the one thing that really bugs me about PC's is the garbage.

It's impossible to order a computer, with JUST Windows version whatever, and some office programs. See, that would be ideal for many of us. Just get yourself a bare bones PC (without the hassle of creating it yourself from scratch) and then add programs as you go.

No, they want to add things for you. Things you don't want, don't need, and will spend three hours trying to locate and delete when you first open up that box.

I'm used to it, really. When I got my desktop several years ago, it took an hour to clean off the crap they think you'll love to have, but once it was free of AOL trials and Automatic redirects, it was all fine and dandy.

The first laptop took me two hours to delete trials and free wares and redirects galore. I had to delete more offers than I could shake a stick at, and change all the automatic settings that wanted to take my PC on the Internet without my knowledge so it could download things I didn't want and share my information with people I don't know.

But after two hours, I got it up, secured and working fine. I surf with condoms and firewalls and all manner of protection, so I don't like my PC trying to do things on its own.

Now, with this newest laptop, also from Dell, it took me 3 hours, and some additional help from several technologically-inclined friends on my writer's group. This puppy had so much crap loaded on, even the hard drive was confused. I was so livid, I've decided this is the last time I buy a computer. If ever I need a new one, I'm going to go ahead and just build my own, like Frankenstein's monster. At least then I'd know what was inside.

I was shocked, and disgusted by the sheer number of programs Dell had installed to direct my little computer to specific sites, to share information with them and download little things I wouldn't want. There were Google-sponsored links and toolbar spies, and all manner of annoyances.

In fact, I got a phone call from Dell (from India) trying to sell me an extended warranty -- they hadn't "seen me get online yet" and wondered if I required help ! HA. I'd been online for weeks, but only after removing all the crapware that would have told them where I was and what I was doing.

It's criminal, I tell ya.

Criminal.

Ticks and Leeches

2006-09-06T08:52:00.000-07:00

The Internet, as most people realize, is a microcosm of reality. It's a slice of humanity, and inhumanity, congealed into one place -- a place that doesn't actually exist -- but a place, nevertheless.

And as such, it's filled with the fleas, ticks and leeches of humanity.

People who see everything as a chance to lie, cheat, steal, invade, disturb, and provoke their fellow human beings in any way possible, using methods such as phishing, spam, viruses, spyware, malware, comment spam and everything else under the sun.

It's not even sad, it's just pathetic.

These are the same people who see tragedies like the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center as an opportunity to scam good people out of millions. I'm not putting Internet annoyances on a par with that, but you get the parallel. This planet is filled to capacity with scum sucking slime.

I bring this up because of a recent spat of comment spam that has been making the rounds through web pages of myself and my writing friends. And no, it's not the first time. Neither will it be the last time. It just reminds me how many a-holes there are in the world, and how used to them we've all become.

You know who they remind me of? Those people who run around the Internet leaving ridiculous spam on blogs, sending meaningless emails to web page owners, and flitting in and out of forums with no purpose other than to cause trouble?

They remind me of those losers in High School. Remember them? The jerks who talked too loud, thought annoying you was the smartest way to gain attention, and had nasty personal hygiene. The ones who grew up to be known as Trailer Trash, who probably never managed to go to college, never left their home town, and probably still live in the basement of Mommy's house.

Now, instead of tossing spitwads around the class, or making ridiculous jokes about boobies, they can flit around with anonymity and leave unwanted comments on blogs, in emails, and leave droppings in respectable forums.

Oh, I'm sure they get a good laugh. I'm sure they sit around in their sad little basements in front of their sad little computers, after a day of working their sad little jobs, spending their sad little lives still telling boob-jokes because they have yet to see a real one, still picking their noses and typing out their little spams.

And the rest of us; still saddled with the good manners our parents taught, will sigh, shake our heads sadly, perhaps roll our eyes as we hit the delete button, place someone on ignore, run our virus scans and our spyware searches, and remove comment spam --

And rejoice, for we are not them.

Now that we've had our public service announcement, let's scroll down and look at the pretty men again!

MenMenMen!

2006-08-29T07:00:00.000-07:00

The other day, a friend of mine happened to mention how she liked the actor Ben Browder and wondered what exactly it was about the man that she found attractive, barring a slight (her words) resemblance to her husband !

That got me thinking – not just about Ben Browder, his tour on Farscape and his recent, and recently canceled tour on Stargate SG1, but about why I watch television in the first place – and what makes a man attractive.

And I have determined, through scientific study and deep, philosophical contemplation, that . . . I have no idea !

But who cares ? They’re just good-lookin’. So let’s enjoy, and I’ll blog something intelligent later in the week!

So You Wanna Be An Artist?

2006-08-22T12:10:00.000-07:00

This past weekend was a big show for us (us being my sister and I). We do this Art Show in Poulsbo every summer, it's a big draw and always filled with tourists and lots of cash. But I gotta tell ya, if you've never done anything like this before, you'd be surprised at what your fellow humans are capable of. Seriously.

First, let me just say that selling your art at a Show or Farmer's Market is truly enjoyable, nine times out of ten you make good money, you get great compliments, and after a few years and a few shows, you get to know the community of artists you belong to. And they're a great bunch of people. We all get to know each other, look after each other, and you become a sort of Family.

But there's always one that just doesn't want to fit in. A vendor who sees these Shows as cutthroat competition, instead of mutual artistic respect. And damn if there wasn't a doozy this time ! I won't mention her name because frankly, I have no idea what it was. She was there last year and made it clear to all vendors around her that she would not tolerate another vendor looking at her product ! (just so you know, all of us vendors like to be friendly and we do look at each other's product, it's just polite). She would throw a fit every time I walked by on the way to the restrooms, and bodily throw herself in front of her tent !

So this year, she comes again, and has a spot a few vendors over from us. I figure she's out of the way, and won't freak whenever nature calls, so we're ignoring her. And our section of the show was a lovely little cul-de-sac on a grassy section in front of the marina. It's truly a beautiful spot. Well Saturday was crazy for us -- our new line was a big hit and we were busy all day, but we couldn't help notice she wasn't making any sales. Now normally we commiserate with a vendor who isn't doing well, but this woman is just so snarky, we all get a kick out of it. ( I know, I know, rot in hell and all that)

Then comes Sunday. This little Snark decides that she was too hot in the sun where she was, so she decides - completely on her own - to move her entire tent (these things are 10 x 10 and large, with sidewalls and such) right into the CENTER of the cul-de-sac area ! So now, she's completely blockading the section, planting her large ass right in front of my own booth and that of 3 other vendors !

Well you can bet I blew a gasket. I'm sure my blood pressure was up that morning, but I had the other vendors behind me and we marched up to her and politely offered to assist her in moving her sorry ass right back to where she belonged. She refused, and continued to set up, so we went for the big guns and found the very nice man who runs the joint, and sure enough he moved her outta there.

Well, he moved her directly opposite us, where she thought she'd have more shade (come on, it's a park, in the sun, and it was 89* - we were ALL sweating !) Luckily for the little devil inside's entertainment value, she was now beside the volunteer booth that painted children's faces - and we saw a dog pee on her tables when she wasn't lookin' .

Yeah yeah, I'm evil. So sue me.

But she's the exception, thank goodness. Most vendors are fantastic people.

Then there are the customers ! These people are another breed entirely. A good ninety eight percent are normal human beings, like you and I. But there are exceptions.

The "gemologist" who thought we wanted to know she'd just been to Bali and paid an astronomical amount of money for a genuine opal -- she's a gemologist and knew they were genuine -- necklace that she really shouldn't have bought but the gems were of such high quality -- she knew because she was a gemologist -- she couldn't resist, even though the man selling it thought they were worth more than they were and she certainly knew better, being a registered gemologist and all.

Did I mention she was a gemologist? She certainly did often enough.

Then there was the 70-something woman who, out of the blue, hiked up her skirt to her hip - her HIP - to show us the scar from her recent surgery.

And the three women who ran into a friend of theirs INSIDE our booth, then proceeded to spend 10 minutes catching up on old times INSIDE our booth.

The lady who had a hard time seeing, so she'd pick up each and every stone, hold it up to us and ask what color it was.

And who could forget the two -- TWO -- people who thought, since we mine, cut, grind, shape, tumble and polish our own Agates, that meant they could bring us a rock they'd found years ago and have us make them a necklace.

I loved the little 30-something Princess who picks up one stone, holds it up to the light and declares to her friend that it's a pretty purple. She then asked me what it was called. "Blue lace agate" I replied. "But it's purple," she insisted, to which I shrugged and said "Actually it's blue, hence the name Blue Lace Agate" to which she turns to her friend and declares "Well this lady's colorblind, because that's purple." Luckily two other customers declared it very lovely blue, and the Princess stormed off.

There were no boogers on the velvet this time, but more than one person thought they could set their coke down and leave it. Put their GIANT purses on top of everything so they could look at one thing, thus preventing other customers from seeing anything aside from the giant purse. And the very nice man who parked his handicapped scooter in our tent, decided he'd use his cane for a few minutes, then wandered off with the key to the scooter, leaving said motor vehicle inside our booth.

All in all, it was the most profitable weekend we'd had in a long time, which we attributed to the new line of Lapidary work. And aside from the Vendor From Hades, everyone had a good time.

Now we get to stock up and wait for the Holiday Shows. They're another brand of Booger entirely !

Workin' on a Chain Blog

2006-08-18T22:10:00.000-07:00

So this Writer’s Forum I joined a while back, Absolute Write has a fantastically challenging thing called a Blog Chain, where several of us get together, without any prior thought or planning, and link our blogs. The first one in line makes a post, and the rest of us follow, taking a piece here and a bit there, and passing on the baton.

So here it is, my turn. I’ve been handed the torch by
Just a Small Town Girl and she’s left me with rather large shoes to fill, and on a Friday night ! In her blog, I read a very telling story about a Mother trying to endure a son - and one she should be very proud of indeed - going through his teenage years. In previous blogs, we’ve read stories about family, vacationing, random acts of kindness from strangers and as well as people known since childhood – and all of these things have put me in a very nostalgic mood.

When I was young, during my pre-teen and teenage years, my family owned property at Lake Cushman, in the Olympic Mountains. Don’t get me wrong, we weren’t wealthy or anything. But as circumstance had it, we had this property right on the lake, and a nice little boat we skied with. My summers were spent up there, for weeks at a time, living in a tent and using a scary little portable toilet with "walls" around it as a bathroom! My sisters and I entered the dreaded teenage period out there in the wilderness, and maybe that made life a little easier on my Mother, who had live as a buffer between her three daughters and an alcoholic Father.

I don’t dwell on that part of childhood anymore. My Father died last year, after a good – if not late – reconciliation and I miss him terribly.

But my teenage years up there at the lake were golden. I remember long summer days swimming, hiking, and playing with my Mother’s Irish Setter. The smell of the campfire, the way you feel when you’ve been sleeping on the ground for weeks at a time – achy and stiff, but loving every minute of it. And those incredible nights sitting around the fire, staring up at a sky that was filled with so many stars it made you dizzy just thinking about them !

That’s where my Muse was born.

I started writing then. I mean really writing, building my own worlds and characters and working out stories in my head. Back then they were my mental entertainment, and a place I would retreat to in my head when nothing else was happening, or when things were getting bad and I needed to hide. I could write a story while sitting in the car on long rides, or there around the campfire while the adults were talking. I even acted out scenes while running around in the woods or canoeing to interesting places along the lake.

On the opposite side from where our property was (this lake was quite large) there was an old, abandoned house they all say was haunted, so naturally we’d go there at least once a summer and walk around, scaring ourselves and each other.

It was a magical time.

My teenage years were, as most teenagers, filled with violent shifts in mood and atmosphere. Home would vary from extremely stressful to average every-day, depending on teenage emotions and my Father’s drinking.

But those summers up at the lake – where my love of creating characters, stories, situations, other worlds and exciting adventures – is a place and a time I will always remember with extreme fondness and great nostalgia.

I think that’s why I enjoy this special tea so much. Everyone in my family hates it, and doesn’t even like to be in the room with me if I’m drinking it. It’s called Lapsang Souchong, and it smells very strongly of a campfire. When I drink this tea, I’m taken back to my teenage years, back to the lake, to the campfire and those magical, mystical nights filled with stars and crickets and crackling logs. My Muse stirs when I lift the cup to my lips, and the smell of burning wood reaches my nose, tickling my senses and urging me to dream of daring men flying through space and having grand adventures!

I think it’s time for a nice cup of tea !

Next in this chain of blogs is Kappa No He Go check it out!

I'm gonna BLOW a freakin' gasket!

2006-08-17T15:08:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I go to the Dr. the other day, 'cause I'm passing small kidney stones again (nothing new there) and this nurse, she takes my blood pressure and gets a way high reading - like WAY high. She comments on how horrifically high it is, says she's going to have to mention this to the doctor, and out she goes.

So I'm sitting there thinking "Why didn't she take it one more time? Or try the other arm? Or even once consider, if it was indeed that ridiculously high and unusual, that she'd done it wrong?"

But no, off she goes. In comes the doctor, we chat about kidney stones, et al, and out she leaves. Tells me she'll call about a urine culture in 3 days.

Not word one about the blood pressure or the possibility that I might be Mount Vesuvius in the making. And no, I didn't ask because *I* assumed the nurse f-ed up.

Then, that NIGHT mind you, at 8:30 I get this call from the doctor, telling me my blood pressure was WAY out of line, and that I absolutely MUST check it several times a day for the next few days and report back to her, and possibly go on medication (NOT!)

Okay, I play nice. I borrow one of those home monitor thingies from my Mother, and I've so far checked it 6 times, and 4 out of the 6 it was well within norms. The other 2 times, it was "slightly" elevated on one number, not the second number, but each of those times I'd just climbed a flight of stairs.

So I email those results, and ask if she wants me to keep checking ('cause I'm thinking it's fine now, right?) OMG - she's insisting that I'm way too high, and have to continue to monitor it.

I checked my math, five times ! I swear to you, on a stack of Ryan Reynoldses, that my readings are BELOW 140/90, and she's telling me that my target (of 140/90) is still what I should be and I'm way above that and to continue checking.

I'm so freakin' confused and angry about this, I'm raising my blood pressure ! Can she not read? Was her calculator out of batteries? What was it about the numbers I showed her -- numbers that were BELOW 140/90 4 out of 6 times -- does she not see??

That's it, man. I'm checking it another few times, maybe tonight and tomorrow, and calling it good even if I have to LIE to her about the results.

*wanders off mumbling in search of Rum*

Are We There Yet?

2006-08-14T10:55:00.000-07:00

I'm so sick of summer.

Yes, you heard me ! I live in the Pacific Northwet for a reason, you know. Well sure, okay, I was born here and never left. But I never left for a reason, you know!

I hate hot weather. I get cranky when the temps creak up much higher than 70*F In fact, I prefer it down around the 60's, where it belongs. And blue sky is so over rated. I like a few clouds in the mix. Break up all that color with some visual interest.

I love Fall the best. Time to wear long sleeved sweaters and pretty little jackets. Time to cuddle up in the evening, watching TV on the couch with a warm sweatshirt on, sweat pants and thick socks, sipping a cup of tea with two cats snuggling on the couch wanting lovin'.

Time to sleep UNDER the blankets, when the room air is slightly chilled but the bed is oh so warm.

And I love how it gets dark early, and the world has that snuggled-up feeling. Makes me want to take a nap. And the colors all change from five thousand shades of green to grays and oranges and yellows.

There's nothing quite like driving home after work on a Friday, going around the bay when the sky and water are the exact same shade of grey, and it's already getting dark enough to turn the headlights on for safety. When the weatherman is pretty sure the weekend will be stormy, lots of wind, and you're thinking of nothing more than getting home, changing into something warm and comfortable, and sitting on the couch with a good cup of tea and a couple of cats, then putting in a nice, long DVD and enjoying the fact that it's Friday.

Are we there yet?

Blogblogblog

2006-08-10T09:03:00.000-07:00

Writers

We breed, you know. Like bunnies.

Then we link to each other, in something we call an AW Blog Chain, and we spin around and get dizzy.

It's fun!

So anyway, here's the deal. The writing group I'm with (Absolute Write) has various blog chains, to which I have become intertwined. One person starts a'talkin', then the next person takes over, and then passes the torch, ad infinitum. And there's the list I'm in:

Peregrinas

Pass the Torch

The Road Less Travelled

Fireflies in the Cloud

Even in a Little Thing

The Secret Government Eggo Project

Curiouser and Curiouser

At Home, Writing

Mad Scientist Matt's Lair

I, Misanthrope - The Dairy of a Dyslexic Writer

Beyond the Great Chimney Production Log

Flying Shoes

Everything Indian

The Hal Spacejock Series

Organized Chaos

Of Chapters and Reels

Just a Small town girl

Midnight Muse

Kappa no He

So go visit, read, leave comments. Visit early, visit often. These are very interesting, talented people with very interesting, talented things to say.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. But YES, they do allow me to play !

So shuddap and go check everyone out.

awchain

Boogers on Velvet

2006-08-08T11:28:00.000-07:00

Yep, it's nearly that time of year again. The time when my sister and I work an art show in Poulsbo, selling our jewelry, and get to put up with Humans Acting Strange.

It never ceases to amaze me how people will act, and the things people will say, right to your face. It's as if the mere fact that you're the Seller, and they're the potential Buyer, gives them carte blanche for lettin'-it-all-hang-out. Like they've been given a Free Pass, and can say things they would never say to another human being in any other situation. A Free Pass to do stuff they'd never think to do in someone's home, or in any other public place.

After years of doing this, going to certain shows in the area and working the crowds, you get to know the other vendors, and share your stories of the clients and the strange things they do.

But some of my all time favorites are classic, and shared among other vendors. Here's my Top Five.

See if you've ever done this:

5) The Parent Trap. "Don't touch, Bobby." "I told you not to touch." "Stop touching that." "Don't touch things." "If I have to tell you one more time, you're going to get in trouble." "I said stop touching." "Bobby, if you touch one more thing we're leaving." "Stop touching." "I told you look with your eyes." "Keep your hands in your pockets." "Stop touching!"

4) The Poker. Women walk up to your counter, look down at the jewelry, and POKE it with a finger, as if it might possibly be alive and just to make sure, let's give it a poke. Well that one didn't move, so let's poke this one. Now let's poke all the others, just to see if we can find the live one.

3) The Fashionista. Lady holds up necklace, smiles widely, turns to Lady-friends and announces boldly. "Look how gaudy this is! Can you believe someone would wear this?" Then turns to creator of said neckace, still grinning, and asks. "Who would wear something this gaudy?"

2) The DIY. Walks into booth with friend, glances at product (happens to every vendor, regardless of product) and declares "Oh you could make this, Maude. Just take a photo of it." Then picks up product and gives it a good go-over. "Sure, this is easy. And then you could charge twice what they're asking and make money.

And my all-time favorite:

1) Boogers on Velvet. You get a parent, sometimes two, dragging along a kid who has no interest in being there. Thankfully, they don't want to touch, but mostly it's because they're already diggin' for gold up that left nostril. The mother looks harried. The kid looks rude. While the mother is glancing at your product, sighing heavily with the mental angst of her life, and asking you if those pearls are real, her son removes said finger — with a full load — and attempts to wipe that precious booger on the black velvet fabric your jewels on resting on.

Ah yes, the glamorous world of Art.

The Newest of the New.

2006-08-04T13:54:00.000-07:00

Where to begin?

Okay, so much has been going on lately. My sister lost her job due to outsourcing to India, of all places. So she was unemployed from March 25th until just a few weeks ago. A little stressful for me, considering I'd just had arm surgery myself.

And on that, after 3 weeks of medical leave, all is well. It was a lovely break from work, I can tell you that! And the arm is fixed, though still sore now and again. They told me it would be for one year.

But I can type again ! Though my stamina has to improve. And I managed a little stock pile of pain pills that I use to encourage the Muse :D (ain't sayin' if I'm lyin' or not!)

I'm writing again - and there's the real news.

I've joined a group of writers, published and otherwise, on the Internet. So far this has been the best thing I could ever have hoped to find. These people are more than helpful and twice as wise ! I've learned a lot, taught a lot, and continue to mind meld with them and perfect my craft.

Which brings us to what I'm doing nowadays. I've written a humor piece you can read here: www.AbsoluteWrite.com

And I've just now completed the first draft edits to a story entitled: Mick Danger; Private Eye, Ear, Nose and Throat. Yep, it's a comedy :D

Only this one's destined for publishing. You know, the legitimate way most writers aim for. After a friend of mine gives it some scrubbing and a good wash-down, I'll be kissing up to a few agents and working that publishing contract angle.

Stop laughing.

Putting my fiction on the Internet, free for everyone, was in hindsight a stupid move. However, my ego really enjoys the groupies. And those stories aren't what publishers are looking for anyway, really. Think of any book you've purchased lately, and it'll have more sex, romance and wizards than what I write. That equals no-pay, which equals no publishing.

Hence my change in path.

Okay, but for those of you who already hammered me via email - I am still going to put out another Alex and Evan tale. If for no other reason than to get my sister - Evan's biggest fan - off my back!

Speaking of backs, mine's aching sitting here so long, so that's enough for now. More updates to come as I get my crap corralled and those ducks lined up.

Oh goodness

2006-08-03T16:57:00.000-07:00

Look at the time! I can't believe it's been so long since I came and updated this thing.

Well I'm just a bad, bad girl.

Okay, just a quickie right now - I'll be back this weekend and update the dust bunnies. Meanwhile I'm going to see if I can change the name of this blog so it will coincide with the web page.

But we'll see !

Meanwhile, if you've emailed me and I haven't replied, I will. I promise. It's been busy around here!!

The Latest, if not Greatest

2006-03-14T14:35:00.000-08:00

Here's what's up:

I'm starting a new story - another adventure for Alex and Evan for those who read my fiction - tentatively titled: The Shallow End of the Abyss.

The tricky part is . . . On March 22nd I'll be having surgery on my right elbow (see previous post), and unable to use my right hand for a few weeks. So typing this story is going to prove challenging - thus I don't expect it to be complete until well into this Summer.

The fun part is . . . During my few weeks at home with nothing better to do than daydream about this new novel and work out all the kinks, I'll be totally psyched about playing with Alex and Evan once again by the time I can use both hands on the keyboard!

In the meantime, I'll be trying my best to bang out a plot outline and hopefully the first chapter with one hand - and that should be interesting, if not comical.

My intention had been to write something new, explore some completely different characters in a completely different setting - I was even playing around with a non-sci-fi piece of fiction in my head, but before any of that could materialize, as I was passing some time one afternoon by reading Knowledge of Power, I suddenly felt an overwhelming need to visit Alex and Evan again.

For those who don't know (or don't care to know - I'll tell you anyway) my fiction can be read at:
www.mymidnightmuse.com And if you've never met Alex and Evan - well, you're missing out :-)

What can I say? I just love those guys!

Luckily for me, I've got a stash of DVD's lined up, a laptop and finally - a wireless cable internet connection - so surfing (one-handed) should be entertaining!

Lateral Epicondylitis anyone?

2006-02-24T11:53:00.000-08:00

I hate the term Tennis Elbow. I haven't played tennis since I was in High School ! Actually it was keying and using a mouse that got me into this mess (and heavy lifting on the job) - 3 years now of tendon pain and constant "rusted hinge" elbow. After physical therapy for 4 weeks failed, and a nice big cortisone shot didn't help, it's surgery time.

I'm looking forward to it - not just having the elbow fixed, but having the 2-3 weeks off work ! I've never taken more than one week at a time in all my years of working. Never. So having this much time to sit around on the couch, watch DVD's and read books, is really appealing. Not to mention the added bonus of narcotics and an eventually pain-free right arm.

There's still a few weeks of waiting, my surgery isn't scheduled until March 22nd. And I've been told all about the procedure - no big deal, really. They just numb up the arm and go for it, takes a half hour, no big thing. And my orthopedic surgeon tells me some people are pain free as soon as it heals, some take a year, but 99% are perfectly fine within one year of this simple procedure.

But what I don't know - and haven't really been able to find out by surfing the internet - is what to expect in those 2-3 weeks. I've been told I can't go back to work during that time, and I'm sure I won't be allowed to use the keyboard on the PC - except one-handed. And I know I won't be able to pick up either of my cats (after all, one of them weighs in at 15lbs!) That'd be Rumor. His brother, Secret, is a good 5-7 lbs lighter.

So I was wondering - since this is a very common ailment and the surgery is pretty routine - is there anyone out here who's had this done? Someone who could maybe give me a heads-up as to what I can expect this to be like??

Wouldn't you know it - not only am I right handed (and it's my right elbow) but I'm getting a new story worked up (Alex and Evan) and won't be able to type with both hands for who-knows-how-long !

My tennis career is over for sure ;)

Eureka!

2006-02-15T08:38:00.000-08:00

I've figured out the secret for getting published . . . LIE.

All this time I've been calling my work Science Fiction, when I should have labeled it a Biography. Or called myself a former male prostitute. Or claimed to be fourteen years old.

If Oprah could only catch wind of me, I'd be famous !

I was disgusted when I heard of one author getting caught in a lie - then it happened again, a little less publicized, and then again, only slightly more publicly. Sure, it's only news when Oprah falls for it - but in the past month I've seen three separate cases of flat out, unabashed, blatant lies previously known as popular, well read and well respected works. And to make matters worse - the authors become famous a second time when the lies are made public ! Everyone runs out to read the "scandalous" work, which brings in even more money for the publisher, who has now scored twice.

Authors claiming to be writing from personal experience - that of a young former male prostitute - when in fact they're a forty-something female who just couldn't get published as herself. Or a guy who completely fictionalizes something he claims to be a biography. An author who gets notice because of her young age, when she's really in her thirties. A story written as fiction, then posthumously changed to a biography to sell more copies.

The usual trick to getting noticed by a publisher is to present a cover letter that compels them to read your work (which had better be just as good). Once they read your work, the idea here is that the story itself will compel them to publish.

Clearly I've been misunderstanding the rules !

The new trick is to dazzle them with bullshit and hope they bite.

So what do you think . . . I'm getting ready to start my new story - think a publisher would buy a modern-era science fiction tale full of intrigue, subterfuge, and aliens as an autobiographical work penned by a five year old literary prodigy, former prostitute with a drug problem and one bad eye?

If only Oprah could discover me . . .

Looking Up

2006-02-03T10:47:00.000-08:00

Things are looking up

Sure, the weatherman is measuring our rain in feet now, instead of inches. But the Seahawks are in the Superbowl, gotta love that.

After bemoaning the state of things the other day - and all the crap that's out of my control - I decided the only thing to do was to take control of the only thing I COULD take control of. Found my new dentist's phone number, made an appointment and, last week, had that mondo-huge root canal ! WooHoo.

Well, it's just the start of what will end up being a nice new crown and a few other odds and ends, but at least the worst of the ordeal is done and over with. Had my pain pills and my antibiotics - have more appointments scheduled - and felt downright giddy at finally taking charge and getting something done.

Still waiting on my HMO's approval for that surgery, but that one isn't something I can take charge of.

But visiting the dentist, and having that root canal done, got me in such a positive, forward thinking mood - I couldn't help but go with the flow. I purchased a cable modem/wireless router, and scheduled an appointment for my new High Speed internet connection to be installed !

Yep, that's right. . . I took the plunge. Jumped in. Charged ahead.

By this Saturday afternoon (sometime between 1:00 and 5:00) I'll be enjoying the grown-up internet like all the other adults ! Not only High Speed, mind you, but I'll also have the laptop wirelessly connected - so I can see what all you guys out there find so fascinating in the idea of surfing the web in my jammies on the couch.

By the time The Who is streaming their summer concert over the internet for live viewing, I'll be an old hand at it. (sure, the Ox is gone, but Daltrey and Townsend are still worth the price of admission).

So I'm definitely stepping through the door into my happy place. Root canal done, crown prep/crown/cleaning still to come, but already on the docket. Cable internet being installed - surely the HMO is next to phone?

I'm looking forward to that 2-3 weeks on the couch !

Chaos

2006-01-23T12:20:00.000-08:00

Do you ever find yourself sitting there, at work or at home, feeling as if your mind is just busily spinning its wheels? I don't mean you're cookin' on all 6 cylinders, going a million miles a minute with purpose and drive.

I mean when your wheels are all spinning and you're not getting any traction. The smoke starts to come up and there's all that squealing but you don't gain any ground.

I'm pretty sure this is just one of those phases that the brain goes through - and I'd like to believe this happens to everyone - but it's making me crazy right now. I feel like there are a thousand ideas running around in my head, all equally important and exciting, but not one stands out large enough for me to focus on and grab hold of.

For instance (and I use this analogy because I can relate it well) Right now I have the urge to write another novel - and I'm going to - but I can't seem to decide which one I want to do. I have vague ideas for a sequel, as well as somewhat interesting ideas for at least two (if not three) completely new ones. The problem is, not one of them is standing out strongly enough in my mind to take over and push the others out. And until that happens - until I can decide on which one to do - I can't concentrate on it exclusively, which is necessary in order to flesh it out.

I feel like my mind is filled with shallow pools, not a single one deep enough to dive into, but I can't stop running around all of them with my bathing suit on.

To add to the mental confabulation, I'm trying to decide on whether or not to take up an old hobby this Spring or to find something completely different. I'm beginning to feel obsessed by the need to become possessed by something - which usually, in my little mind-set, means I'm searching for a creative outlet that usually ends up in my writing a new novel.

But for now, I'm dealing with this bizarre mental wheel-spinning and it's starting to make me a little crazy. I'm sure it's not being helped by the fact that I need to get to the dentist and have some work done (who ever puts THAT on top of their list of things to do?) and I'm waiting on the slow deliberation of my HMO to decide when I can have an elbow repaired - which will put me off the computer (at least two handedly) for a few weeks.

Actually I'm really hoping that being able to have this (minor) surgery on my elbow will be a blessing in disguise, because it's going to keep me away from work for 2 - 3 weeks, and I have NEVER, in my lifetime, taken more than 1 week off at any given time.

Never have I spent more than 5 consecutive weekdays away from my job. And for the sheer ability to sleep late, and watch some DVD's, I'm really looking forward to it. And I'm hoping that much time to myself (and with the aid of narcotic pain killers) I'll be able to make a decision on which story to tell, and move forward with it. (and I supposed in there somewhere I have to fit in that - expensive - visit to the dentist)

But what really gets me is this feeling that my brain is sputtering and spinning with a plethora of ideas that won't take enough shape for me to dive into.

Does this happen to anyone else? I have to believe it's normal - the feeling that there's so much going on but nothing clear enough to focus on - and that lots of people feel this way now and again. I have to admit it's mildly depressing (unless it's CAUSED by a mild depression)

I'm sure that eventually, one of these story ideas is going to win out over all the others, and I'll be able to focus on it and flesh it out. I'm tempted by a sequel, a non-science fiction serial killer tale, a completely new and different science fiction tale, and an action/horror piece that I can't even figure out past a few images. Most likely, the sequel will win out simply because it's easier and comfortable. But there are a few new ideas I'm dying to find the time and energy to tackle.

But having too many tales to tell (as well as too many new hobbies to try out) and only so much time to tell them (or try them) is another frustration I'm trying to deal with !

In a small way, I think I can understand what people with ADD feel like - not being able to pick one thing and focus on it to the exclusion of all others. Which normally I can do.

And I'm not an obsessive person as much as I am possessive. I'm happiest when an idea has completely taken me over, and I can think about it all day long, take it with me wherever I go, explore it and see where it takes me - be it a hobby or novel.

It's like being stuck at work, when there's something at home you really want/need to get to, but since you're at work you can only try to organize your thoughts on the home project - and you're just sure once you get home, you're going to forget all the things you wanted to get done because you were only able to think of them while you were at work.

I suppose after I get these dental visits over with, I'll be a happier person. And if I can ever get that surgery scheduled, I'll be able to relax.

But until then, I'm not sure if I want to scream until my face turns red, or just take a nap.

It's RIDICULOUS !

2006-01-10T14:34:00.000-08:00

Everything is a commercial for something else.

Remember when you could watch television and see the show on the entire screen? You know, back before the networks decided they needed to put their logos on the screen during the entire program.

Then, slowly, they started popping up. I don't know who was first, but some of them started out pretty big, and dark - obscuring part of the bottom corner of the screen. Then some networks opted for the see-through version, but still made sure they floated there, prominently on the screen - just in case, during the half hour or hour you were watching - you forgot what channel or network they were !

They were beyond annoying, regardless of how large or small, how opaque or transparent. And though they've been around a few years now, I still feel monumentally annoyed by them.

And if that wasn't enough - new and more annoying crap is sneaking onto our screens while we struggle to watch what can only be described as marginally entertaining television to begin with. Have you seen them? The promo graphics advertising a different program on the same network, while you're watching ?

There you are, struggling to find interest in the wasteland that is television, and right in the middle of your program, the entire bottom quarter of your screen erupts with moving graphics, video and flashing details of some OTHER program you have no interest in watching, that's coming up next or on this network tomorrow, whatever.

I thought that's what all those commercial breaks were for?

Silly me, I assumed that during those breaks is when the networks should be airing their promos and hawking their other shows and specials. Apparently that's just not good enough. Now they have to interrupt what you're trying to see with a nice big ad for something else they want you to see. And I wouldn't be surprised to find an ad during THAT program, for yet another.

It all came to a head last night, as I was watching Vegas. It's not a favorite show of mine, by any means, but I do watch it.

Until last night.

Three-quarters of the way through a new episode, they took a ridiculous situation on the show, and suddenly switched it into a promotional advertisement for the Winter Olympics.

Right there - in the Vegas episode - a screen pops up and says "Now, a sneak preview of the new mini-movie for the Winter Olympics" and the "action" from the Vegas scene goes from the show, flashes over the globe to Italy, and this ridiculous mini movie starts up.

The program BECAME the commercial !

I was so enraged, I turned it off. The Vegas episode wasn't finished yet, but I didn't care. NBC took me from watching a program, to watching a LONG promo for their Winter Olympics coverage - assuming I'd stay and watch since the episode hadn't concluded yet and they'd "get back to it".

Well F-that. I'm sick of it. EVERYTHING everywhere is just a commercial for something else.

It's pathetic.

Is it any wonder so many of us now simply wait for a series to come out on DVD and watch it, commercial-free, in order and without interruption, preemption or delay? It's bad enough when you DO find a program you can enjoy, then have to wait months at a time during the winter "special program" season, and the month of reruns - stretching a series to the point of forgetting what in the hell was going on, when it used to air, and what network to find it.

Ever watch a Sci-Fi movie and notice in the backdrop of the futuristic city, there are screens everywhere showing constant commercials in various languages? They give you the impression that entertainment is gone, and video exists only to promote products.

Welcome to the future ! It's impossible now not to see that coming, and coming fast. No sooner did people discover the internet, than ads started popping up with such frequency, they had to invent software to stop them. You drive down any highway and the billboards block the views, some even get distracting with flashing lights and video.

I remember one time, as a kid, we were driving up to Edmonton (Canada) to visit some aunts and uncles, and I saw for the first time one of those billboards that has three-sided slats that move around, showing three completely different ads on one billboard space. I remember then thinking how cool and techno that was.

Now there's one section of freeway between Tacoma and Seattle where they have a flashing video billboard with so MUCH flash and color, it's not only distracting, but extremely difficult to read and comprehend while traveling 20 miles above the posted 65mph limit.

It's overload. It's sickening. It's enough to make you wish you could sell all your possessions and join a cult somewhere in the hills, where they use oil lamps and rely on each other for entertainment.

It makes me want to stay home and read a book.

Or write one.

Baby steps

2005-12-28T10:04:00.000-08:00

It's absurd, really. For an ISP, the easiest task in the world is creating a new email account. And yet my ISP - oz.net - is still struggling with the concept some 3 months later.

And wouldn't you know it, they finally start to take little tiny baby steps after I've reached that state of Nirvana where I no longer give a rat's ass. I've decided, hopefully sooner rather than later in the year 2006, I'm going to switch to cable internet - sure, it's more expensive - but it's also speedier, more reliable, and I can network my house wirelessly and enjoy some of the grown-up internet pleasures it would seem everyone BUT me has been enjoying for several years now.

Sure, I don't surf much. I mostly write and think about writing, and blog about ridiculous things that are floating around in the flotsam and jetsam that is my brain.

But at least I'll have the 2 emails.

So I get this phone call, on Christmas Eve, no less - from the head (yeah, right) of the parent company that has long ago swallowed up what is known as oz.net, asking me if my new email address is working properly yet. I laughed (in a sort of hacking way since I'd been woken straight out of bed by this call and I still had a cold) and informed said "head" that not only has it NEVER once worked, but that I'd grown weary of calling and complaining about it.

Not to Fear ! said "head" tells me. He's on it, and will deligate this problem immediately. And in fact, since his working slobs are working the holiday weekend, I should get a call no later than Monday informing me it's all up and running and perfect.

Right.

Well I didn't bother to believe him. But on Tuesday, just for shits and grins as they say, I logged on and found - much to my mild surprise and shallow caring - that it is indeed there.

It doesn't WORK, but hell, it's there. It can send email, it just can't receive same.

In fact, it can't receive ANYTHING. But hell, I must not have specified that I wanted an email address that functions - surely. And who am I to complain? After all, it's got 50% useability, eh?

You know - I visited an orthopedic surgeon last week who gave me a cortisone shot in my elbow - and that was more fun than dealing with oz.net

In fact, I'd rather go have surgery on my elbow than deal with my ISP again. But, just so I'll have something to compare it to when I schedule the procedure, I went ahead and emailed them - From the account that sends and doesn't receive - applauding them for finally figuring out half the problem in just over 3 months, and asking how many more months I'll have to wait for the other 50% to fully function.

Yeah, I'm holding my breath on that one.

Now it's a contest - what's less feasible . . . My getting published, or Oz.net getting their collective CRAP together?

And the race is on !

Riding a snail into battle

2005-11-28T13:58:00.000-08:00

Years (and years) ago, in a sci-fi magazine, I remember seeing a sculpture in silver that really caught my eye. Had it not cost $2,000, it might be adorning my living room as we speak. But it really spoke to me then, and the memory of it is really speaking to me now.

It was a knight, in full armor carrying a battle lance, sitting astride his equally-armored, trusty steed as they rode into battle.

The steed was a snail.

Three weeks ago, I called my ISP (oz.net) and requested a second email address be created. My account comes with up to 5, and I've never utilized them. I've been with OZ since my first days on the internet - back when they were this little Seattle-area only ISP, and it was the owner you spoke with when you called.

Well I called Billing, and the very polite lady on the other end of the phone gladly opened up a second email name for me, and allowed me to choose a password. She told me the new email name would be up and running within the hour. I was too busy that day to care much about using it, but I was very pleased that it was available and feeling rather oddly proud of myself for actually taking advantage of something that was available to me all these years.

Feeling proud that following Monday, I went online to use my ISP's online email reader to check the new account, before setting it up to read at home on my computer. I type the name, and the password. Nothing.

I type the name and password again. Nothing.

I retype the password, very carefully. Nothing.

Calmly, I decide the online mail reader is having difficulty, even though my regular email addy works just fine.

I can hear my trusty steed snorting in the barn.

That night, I get my good old dial-up driven computer online and check my mail, working fine. I set up the new email name . . . nothing.

I emailed tech support at oz.net and they politely tell me I'll have to call tech support, they're not going to help me via email - even though the web page sure enough does say you can email tech support.

Slipping on my battle boots, I pick up the phone, dial the number. After choosing 4 for tech support, I'm treated to the usual recorded message, thanking me very much for holding, a technician will be with me shortly. (I'm subjected to rock-n-roll from the 1950's as my reward for holding) and I can hear the barn door swinging open.

Finally, someone answers the phone, and I politely explain my dilemma. "Ah," the tech support person says, "that's not a problem. We'll just reset the password." As I'm confirming the email name, the password, my address, my full name, my phone number, my credit card that's used to automatically pay every month, and my mother's maiden name, I realize I'll need more than just my boots, as I see my trusty steed snorting in the barn.

"Give it an hour," the tech happily informs. "It'll be working by then."

"Uh-huh." As I hang up the phone, I take a deep breath and expect that surely - THIS will work out fine. I go back to work, giving the hour an extra 30 minutes before I try again.

I try again.

Nothing.

I call again. This time Kevin answers the phone - I think to jot down his name - and I explain what's happening. Or rather, what's not happening. Kevin assures me they just have to reset the password - give it an hour, it'll work just fine.

Kevin lied.

I'm fully dressed now, heading out to the barn. After an additional 2 hours for good measure, I try again and am not overly surprised to find nothing is working. That night, from home, I call again while saddling my steed.

Ella answers the phone, and listens politely to my explanation of the problem - and after assuring me resetting the password will fix it all - I being to smell the dung. Politely, to be sure, I explain to her the futility in that action, and beg a more reliable solution. Understanding my problem, she assures me a work request is being filled out now, and tech support will phone me back within 6 to 12 hours with a resolution.

Grasping the reigns of false hope, I go about my weekend fully expecting a phone call.

By Monday, I'm understandably tense and already mounted, ready to ride into battle.

I phone oz again. Todd answers. I explain the issue. Todd wants to reset my password. Don't even bother, I tell Todd. So, reconsidering this, Todd suggests we CHANGE the password - surely that will fix it within one hour.

One and one half hour later - Nothing.

My steed and I are riding into battle, fully armored.

I call oz again, and get Josh (or Joss or John - could hardly tell from his accent) and this poor Pakistani gets an earful. AH . . . but he has decided to "take ownership of this issue." And by God he'll call me back in one hour with a solution.

He called me back, actually. Josh (turns out it was Josh) assures me it's not the password that's the problem (!) he's now changed it to something only he knows, and it still doesn't work - so he's going to fill out a work request and it'll be taken care of. Tech support will phone me back no later than 24 hours from now.

26 hours later, I call oz and get John. My face is reddish, I'm feeling the anger. My steed and I are in a full gallop, heading straight at the enemy. After hearing my tale, and looking up the many "notes" on my account, John checks it out.

John comes back - after a round of Beatles tunes I still can't get out of my head - and explains it all. See, Josh didn’t fill out the work request correctly. Ah, but John knows how to do this - and there's even a (are you sitting down?) Level 2 technician standing right beside him ! Seems John will fill out this work request, and my new email will be fixed and working within 7 hours, tops ! Oh, sure, no one else has called back when they said, and okay, it MIGHT take up to 24 hours, but these guys are good, and they'll be calling me back in 7 hours or John will eat his hat. Of course, hang on, it's the day before Thanksgiving - okay so they'll for SURE have this fixed by Sunday at the very very latest, and they WILL call back at home to assure me of this repair. No doubts at all. For sure.

Today is Monday.

My armored snail and I are charging head-on.

Jerome answered the phone this time - after someone else simply hung up (caller ID, no doubt). My snail and I let it all loose on Jerome. And when Jerome offers to reset my password, I went medieval on his ass.

I had to explain to Jerome that Josh changed the password, and even I don't know what it is any more. After giving Jerome enough time to read the pages of notes, and put me on hold for 10 minutes, I'm told that the work request was never seen by anyone - because they're so backlogged right now. Oh, but he assures me it's been in the queue for 3 weeks.

Liar, Jerome. When I called last Tuesday, it was never created.

Oh no, he assures me, it's been there this whole time.

You're lying to me, Jerome. Either that, or Josh, Kevin, Ella, Todd and John have all lied, and only YOU know the truth - which is it?

Jerome again offers to reset the password.

I offered to shove my battle lance up Jerome's ass.

Jerome now says that since we all NOW know what the password is, he can simply reset it and it'll be working in one hour.

Jerome - you're pushing it. We already KNOW it's not a password problem. I explained the entire saga to Jerome once again, and I doubt he's listening.

I suspect Jerome is an animatronic puppet - like that chimpanzee you can buy at Sharper Image.

My conversation with Jerome ended with him stammering, and my declaration that the great and powerful OZ has but one week, and one week only, to have this problem remedied - after that, my snail and I are riding off into the sunset and switching to cable internet !

What was once a small, local ISP concerned with the little guy and his/her problems, has become The River - a nationwide ISP that doesn't give one little white rat's ass about any single customer.

And I'm left riding my snail into battle, with justified frustration and righteous anger as my armor - going up against a nuclear warhead that can't even hear my battle cry.

She's Off !

2005-11-17T10:07:00.000-08:00

My baby - my little novel of 160,400 words has been sent off to the publisher for "consideration".

I'm not kidding myself - the chances are extremely slim. But being published is not WHY I write. It shouldn't be WHY anyone writes - and if it is, then that writer should stop writing.

But I won't lie - it's been a dream of mine since I was very young. The idea of actually being published someday still tantalizes me, and I will still yearn for that to happen. But rejections won't stop me from writing, I know that too.

Over the past week or so I've read some interesting things, author experiences and such. Like the highly published author who couldn't sell one of his novels to anyone, so he decided to sell it himself, online, for donations - a chapter at a time (No, I don't mean Stephen full-of-himself-King). Or the author who self-published, then sold so many copies of his book to friends, business acquaintances and booksellers, a publishing company picked up on him and he's been cranking them out ever since. Or the (local) 8-year old girl who just published her first book on how to write books!

Among all of these, I like the man who published his first novel at age 60 and went on to become a Nobel Laureate.

One thing that did upset me as I poured over this novel and changed some things around - was the sometimes-appalling writing! Looking back, I realize that I rarely read my work when it's finished out of fear. Fear I'll realize it sucks. Fear I'll find glaring mistakes and not know how to fix them. Fear I'll chicken out and throw it away.

Fear that I'll realized with horrific certainty that I'm nothing more than a poser, and a bad one at that.

So this bizarre, embarrassed fear keeps me from scrutinizing my novels as a whole when they're completed. And the result is, obviously, poor style and bad habits. Things I had trusted my editor to catch and prevent. Things my editor should have been good enough to realize.

I am reminded more and more of the many reasons why I fired my editor.

I'm giving one of my other earlier novels the same treatment as this one I've just completed, to change it and make it stronger. This one was edited by someone else, someone with a different style. I'm interested in seeing if I - as the writer - can see the difference.

My current editor is more of a reader and style guide than nit-picking detailer, and I much prefer that. Our styles and desires match completely, and I'm more free and unfettered when I write. More confident.

Confident enough to start submitting, and DOING something about this life-long dream of mine, to one day see my name on the cover of a book, perched neatly on the shelf of your local Barnes & Noble !

'Tis better to have loved, and lost

2005-10-28T14:55:00.000-07:00

We all know that’s total bunk, we just don’t let it stop us. Which is why I decided to work up one of my novels and submit it. I’ve got nothing to lose but a bit of pride, and we all know that’s no good for anything other than tripping us up, right?

I’m just wondering if there’s a fundamental difference between a writer who knows his/her work is crap, but submits it anyway – and a writer who believes his/her work is ground breaking, when it’s really crap, and submits it ignorantly.

I can promise you all, I’m the former, not the latter. As I go through this novel, altering, correcting and generally feeling embarrassed at the occasionally (violently) poor quality, I’m constantly hounded by the deep understanding that this – and consequently me – is never going to live up.

Let me assure you – I’ve been around the block.

In fact, I’ve been around the block, down the road and up the path.

I know how to submit to publishers. I know how to locate them. I know the ins and outs and the cold realities. I know only agents will tell you you’ll need an agent. I know “not accepting unsolicited manuscripts” means bugger right off, we have a slush pile five miles thick already.

I know the formats, I know the prejudices, and I know the tricks to getting read.

I know where the hoops are, I’ve just never been able to jump that high.

See, the trick to getting anyone to read your work isn’t your work – I could be the second coming of Shakespeare himself, but without the PERFECT summation letter, no one would ever read me.

The trick – the one and only way to get anyone to hesitate between opening your envelope and tossing it in the shred bin – is to WOW them with the summation. It’s the one and only thing they’re going to read, and it has to introduce you, and explain in brief but amazing detail, your entire novel – in one page.

Imagine seeing a movie that has you buzzing – you loved it, can’t say enough about it, but you realize none of your friends are going to like it one bit – so you try to describe it to them, giving the entire plot away in a manner that will make them NEED to see this movie, and you only have five minutes to explain it all.

That’s how you get read. It’s not how you get published, but you won’t even get read if you can’t wow them with the letter.

And that’s after you’ve found one or two you can submit to in the first place. As we all know who’ve been around this block, down that road and up this path, each and every publisher out there has a slush pile filled with people ten times better than you. They’re not hurting for books to print, and they’re not at all desperate to read yours.

In fact, they’d really rather not.

Sure, they’re all looking for that next big money maker - - but anyone who visits a bookstore can see, very few books fit that bill. So these publishers have been taking all these risks already, on all these other duds. Why should they care to try yours?

So on days like this, as I’m nearly finished refurbishing this novel and fretting over the extremely daunting task of a summation letter that might - - just might - - have a chance, I try not to think about all that Love and Loss crap.

I just think about Jose Saramago, who published his first novel at the age of 60, and now stands as the Portuguese Noble Laureate.

Maybe I have more blocks, roads and paths to go around before I get there, but at least I’m walking !

In Xanadu . . .

2005-10-18T10:56:00.000-07:00

Did Kubla Khan, A stately pleasure-dome decree . . .

Way back in High School – a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away – I had to memorize that poem and then recite it in front of the class. To this day, I can still recite the ENTIRE poem, word for word.

I don’t know why that stuck in my head, when I have trouble remembering what it was I wanted at the store once I got there. But stuck it did.

I believe that’s the reason there’s no room left inside my memory-keeping section for the little details of my own tales. Like how many months a trip took the characters, or exactly how old I may have said someone was. I’ve even been known to forget the hair color of recurring characters, or what floor an office is on.

Some say memory loss is a problem of age, but I say it’s due to an overly-filled brain.

To compensate, I’ve tried many things, from jotting down notes to using a PDA – only I found I couldn’t be bothered digging out the PDA, turning it on, then hunting for the little factoid (all the while risking completely forgetting what it was I was looking for in the first place because along the way I saw something shiny). Notes are simpler, but they bring up an entirely NEW can of larva . . . Namely my innate and frightening need to organize everything ! I figure, why have notes if you’re just going to jot them down in random order as they come along – how can something written down in that manner help at all, when it’s not categorized, ordered and easy to reference?

So I’ll start jotting things down – as I am now during my revision of one of my better novels. I start out okay, taking down some simple facts of one character as I come through chapter 1. Innocent enough, you’d think.

But then chapter 2 comes along, with entirely new facts cropping up regarding an entirely new and equally important character.

And suddenly, interspersed in those chapters about those characters, are minor players who will be recurring and growing in their relevance in later chapters.

So I look at this jumble and realize, suddenly and with great horror, that the facts are mixed up all around the paper, with lines and crossed out bits and recalculated timelines . . . then it starts.

Creeping into my conscious the way dust invariably finds your nose.

Before I know it, I’m more concerned with how my notes are being recorded than the progression of the actual novel. I’ll find myself spending hours sitting here, thinking of ways I should organize the notes, with subjects and facts – perhaps some color coding. I’ll seek out various notebook styles to no avail, then move on to little pocket-sized notepads that ultimately don’t do the trick.

Then I’ll get an idea for a database, easily searched, cross referenced and marked – only what should I use? Excel ? Access? Something simple in Word, perhaps? Ah, but I don’t have Excel or Access at home, only here at work – not the appropriate place for such a database.

And then this little voice inside will laugh at my foolishness. After all, how likely am I to stop what I’m doing and look this information UP in any database? Perhaps the answer is simple . . . perhaps just use the colored highlighting feature of the word processing software to mark important facts. Ah, but again, how difficult would that be? I’d have to scroll incessantly to find what I was after.

Then the real issue pops it’s ugly head up over the top of the compost pile - - Actually looking at this information ! Typically, as organized as I like to be, while I’m writing I fall into another dimension entirely – and the idea of looking up a fact or verifying some data never even enters my mind.

Don’t get me wrong – I know my characters intimately. I know how they dress, how they look, how they smell. I even know their favorite foods and strange habits.

I’ve been writing in some capacity longer than some of my coworkers have been alive. So how could I possibly EVER forget something as simple as right hand vs left hand? Blonde hair vs Auburn locks? Five years ago vs Three years ago? A two-day trip vs a four day journey?

It’s easy.

In Xanadu, did Kubla Kahn
A stately pleasure-dome decree.
Where Alph, the sacred river ran,
Through caverns measureless to man,
Down, to a sunless sea. . . .

Potential Humiliation

2005-10-06T13:39:00.000-07:00

Now that the new page is up, and the newest story has been posted – receiving thus far positive review – I’ve delved into a new project, involving an old one.

Namely, I’m completely and for dual-purpose, rewriting one of my favorites.

Keeper is getting a remodel.

I say for dual-purpose because – technically – I’m going to try something I haven’t tried with any of these stories before . . . and for good or bad, I’m going to let everyone with any mild interest follow along. That is to say, I’m going to try – to the best of my meager ability – to get Keeper published properly. Not self-published, not vanity published, not fly-by-night published, but Honest to God, real publishing company Published.

I don’t think it’s going to work. I believe, truly, that I will fail fully and completely.

But I’m going to try, with honest effort and a mind that's open just enough to let the bugs in.

Anyone out here who has been tossing around the notion of being published, or wondering how, if and where, might find these future misadventures educational. The rest of you will just be mildly amused.

And those of you wondering why in the hell I’d come out here and announce all this will just have to keep scratching your heads.

There’s a benefit to anyone who enjoys my novels – and that is, regardless of my success or failure, you’ll eventually be reading the version of Keeper that I’d always intended to put out. Bigger, Bader and Better ! Beefed up with the detailed backstory I wanted to include originally, more description, more action, more edge. The story I always new it could be.

I’m not ignorant. I do realize the novels as written currently, while popular with some people, are not what an industry publisher is going to give a crap about. They have to be “updated” in order to be of any interest to the “general public” as it were. Let’s face it – even if you like my work, you have to realize it’s not what you’d be picking up off the shelves of Barnes & Noble. Then again, much of what you would be picking up off the shelves of Barnes & Noble is, in point of fact, utter crap.

With that said, they’re not changing to the point of being unrecognizable. They’re just getting a shot of steroids, as it were. To change them would be to write completely different stories – and I don’t want that. I love Keeper, and the sequels that story spawned. Whether anyone of importance will agree remains to be seen.

So basically, what I’m saying is – let’s all go on an adventure, shall we? Let’s find out what it takes to beef up an otherwise mildly entertaining story, and what it takes to start a collection of rejection letters from publishing companies !

And let’s do that here, on the blog, in full view of you good folks on the world wide web, so the humiliation can be complete!

I’m figuring on one of three outcomes:

1) This doesn’t work, I’m humiliated and disgraced, laughed out of offices nationwide and made a mockery of on the Internet. I’ll hide my head in shame, cry in my rum and coke, and go back to doing what I’m doing now – maybe with glasses and a fake nose on.

2) This doesn’t work, no one notices my failure, I put on the glasses and nose, delete the posts from this blog to hide the evidence, and continue what I’m doing.

3) This works, I become published, do a happy dance, and those who were following along gain the courage they needed to give it a go themselves.

3b) I then sell the movie rights, write sequels that all become huge blockbuster hits, and can finally afford that root canal I think I probably need.

Well, you know what I always say . . . Hope springs eternal, but fate always piddles on your shoe!

We shall see.

My Midnight Muse

2005-09-30T19:57:00.000-07:00

Okay, let's see if this is going to work tonight . . . See, I had these great plans - to post the new story and debut the new web page all at the SAME time. Only, as luck would have it, things never seem to go as planned. Take this week in general . . . it's been pretty crappy.

So I finally get the new page up, get everything transfered and uploaded and all pretty and soft and shiny - then come HERE to post about it, and wouldn't you know it, Blogger has crapped out. As I type this, I'm not sure it's going to work.

Been a frustrating couple of days.

So I took today off, and thought I'd just go relax and enjoy Serenity on her opening day - catch the first showing before all the kiddies get out of school. There I was, all happy an excited - been a Firefly fan since day one. Nothing prepared me for what happened.

Let's just leave it at that.

So here I sit, once again trying to post this blog about the new story. Had a few drinks to get over my movie-shock, and I'm thinking this blogger still isn't going to work.

Screw it - time to kiss Grandpa anyway. Posted the new story, and I'm going into hiding for a couple of days (the weekend, anyway) so no one can hurt me. It's like this with every new story posting - toss it up there, duck and hide ! Maybe no one will see me. Maybe everyone will see me. Maybe no one will like it - maybe I'll never know.

Maybe it's best that way.

Maybe it's not.

Hell - maybe someday I'll find my happy place and it won't matter!

In the meantime, you'll find me hiding out at www.mymidnightmuse.com

And if you go see Serenity because you're a Firefly fan - bring a tissue! s'all I'm sayin'.

What's in a name?

2005-09-21T13:52:00.000-07:00

It’s the oddest thing . . . I was preparing to update my webpage, and advance it to a real, honest to goodness domain without advertising, and with much more room and available bandwidth for visitor downloading - - Assuming the best, most straightforward name for the page would be MY name, I figured I could register KristineWilliams.com After all, that couldn’t possibly be taken, could it?

Yep, sure ’nuff could !

I can’t see what or who the page is conveying – it’s listed as Under Construction.

Well that just bites, lemme tell ya. My own NAME, and someone else is using it !

Yeah, I know, it’s most likely someone else who’s name that is . . . but seriously, what are the odds?

Now I’m kinda sputtering. My newest story has been given to my reader for review, and I’ve promised people it will be available by the end of September – so I thought it’d be pretty cool to introduce the new domain name/web page with the premier of the new story.

And yes, foggybrain.com is taken, too ! It’s some sort of scam travel page – don’t go there!

What a pain in the sit-upon. Now I either have to forget the whole idea, and keep things the way they are, ads and annoyance and all – or sit here and try, and try, and try again to not only come up with a domain name that sounds good and conveys what the page contains – but one that also isn’t already taken.

That’s harder than it sounds. I’m sure those of you out there who’ve done this before can relate. You have maybe three or four great ideas, and they’re taken. So you relax your ideas of what’s good a tad, and try again, only to find THOSE taken as well. So then you try to get creative, hoping that what you’re coming up with will not only be easy to remember, but easy to use. Then THOSE are taken !

Then, before you know it, you’re naming your page something like www.Ican’tthinkofanythingbetterthanthis.com ! And you get stuck with the less than simple email of me@Ican’tthinkofanythingbetterthanthis.com !

This really REALLY bites !

I have to go pout now, more later.

The Writer I Want to Be

2005-09-16T14:54:00.000-07:00

A strange sort of chain-of-events have collided in my mind and reached an interesting conclusion. I’m not sure which is more curiously interesting – the chain of events, or the conclusion they reached, but what better place to muse them than here.

I was watching a DVD the other day, The Transporter with Jason Statham (drop-dead gorgeous hunk of a manly man) because Transporter 2 is out now, and I’d never seen Transporter 1. Well naturally all the reviews went on and on about how vacuous the plot was . . . having seen it I can honestly say “Who cares?!” It was exactly what I was looking for – action/adventure/and a fantastic looking leading man. I wanted a movie that would entertain me, something I could watch while checking my brain at the door, and it filled the bill and then some. I'm even going to watch it again this weekend!

I love men – and I love watching men in action movies. I don’t require plot, or depth, or morally uplifting values. Just good looking men, and action.

It was candy, but with the satisfaction of a steak dinner.

Then this week I was checking up on a television show that premiered its new season on the BBC this week, but I have to wait to see it here on A&E in January. I like spoilers, as I’ve said before, so by the time it airs here in the US, it will have concluded it’s season in England – meaning I can read up on each episode while I wait.

So I’m on the web page, reading what viewers thought of the season opener, and I couldn’t help being surprised by the wide variety in opinions. I mean, these people’s views ranged from loving it to hating it. Some thought it was the most intriguing plot they’d seen in a long time, while others felt it was as empty and boring as most US programs. I marveled at the different things people said, each one practically contradicting the next, as if they’d seen two completely separate programs.

Then I’m sitting here today – having just now completed the corrections on my latest story (it’s going to my reader and her yellow high-lighter and green pen now) thinking back on a conversation I’d had years ago with someone . . . She’d made a comment about how my writing was good, if that’s the audience I was striving for.

Well to be honest, it took me a minute or two to realize she’d been insulting not only my writing, but everyone who reads it. Basically she was suggesting that I write poorly, and my readers mostly likely aren’t intelligent enough to realize this.

After a few days pondering that – and worrying that I really was writing very poor quality drivel, it slowly began to dawn on me that no, I wasn’t. I admit, freely and readily, that I am no genius. I’m not exactly penning out the next Pulitzer prize winning novel, or something you’ll EVER find on anyone’s best-sellers list. But the truth is . . . I don’t care.

In fact, the plain and simple truth – the one that concluded with all of these various chain of thought events twirling around in my brain today – is that I honestly don’t WANT to be. I don’t want to see myself on Oprah’s must-read list. I don’t want to be the subject of college Literature debates.

When I was younger, I loved nothing more than finding those books I could flash through in a summer week. Books full of adventure, characters I could visualize and fall in love with. Books with just enough plot to hold things together, and follow along from paperback to paperback, heavily peppered with action, adventure, mystery (never really been one for romance !)

They weren’t high literature. They were perhaps what some would consider “dime novels”, or serial adventures, and I couldn’t get enough. I’d get excited when I found a new one to read, and couldn’t wait for that one long summer day with nothing better to do that curl up somewhere with that paperback in hand, and dive in – completely immersing myself in the pages until the rest of the world simply faded into grey around me.

Cheap paperbacks you could fit into your purse or beach bag. The kind you read so many times they had a permanent crease in the spine.

These were books that became your best friends. Characters you could daydream about while on long car vacations with the family. Paperbacks you couldn’t buy enough of, and hated to see end each time.

They’re exactly the books this woman was telling me I was “lowering” myself to.

The literary equivalent of an action movie.

A paperback version of the Transporter. All fun and macho fluff – the stuff of daydreams -- no real purpose or insightful thought.

She was telling me that’s all I was going to amount to. All I was ever going to manage. As good as I was going to get.

I’ve decided now to take that as a compliment !

That’s exactly what I strive for. Exactly the type of entertainment I can only HOPE I’m achieving. The kind of writing I'm working to improve upon and make even more adventurous and exciting.

That’s the writer I want to be.

The Fog of it All

2005-09-08T12:02:00.000-07:00

I was born third in a family of 3, so as the baby, I admit I was spoiled. Still am, really, only now it’s ME who spoils me.

Perhaps that’s where my love of spoilers comes from – but whenever there’s a TV show or movie I’m following or anxiously waiting for, I’m the type who enjoys finding out what’s to come, reading spoilers and looking at images. For me, that’s not ruining the outcome or spoiling the suspense, but rather BUILDING more excitement of things to come.

And yeah, to a certain degree, it’s because I’m not very patient and don’t like to wait around much !

Which brings me to my point, being that I’ve decided to pick a random segment of a random chapter of my newest piece of fiction and post it on my page as a sort of spoiler, or teaser, if you will. Hopefully to build interest and keep me on my self-imposed schedule of posting the whole thing by the end of September.

Another new idea I had – after Geocities once again informed me the traffic to my free page has consistently caused it to be taken off line for a day – was to purchase an ad-free page with unlimited visiting rights, eliminating down time.

I’ve contemplated this before, and I already have one of their ad-free, pay-for-it pages for the jewelry business my sister and I operate. Sure, there are other options, but for $8.95/month, this is pretty easy and heartburn-free. So I go back and forth, up and down, like an ADD sufferer, trying to make up my mind. It’s not that I can’t keep my mind on one thought – it’s that I have too many thoughts all cramming up, hands raised, demanding to be first.

I couldn’t hope to come up with a decent name for the page, much like trying to decide what – if anything – one would want tattooed on one’s body. So if I take this plunge, the page addy would (hopefully) simply be KristineWilliams.com I figure as a writer, that’s the most logical, sensible thing to do. I could come up with a “name”, but what if I got tired of it? And just trying to name this blog took me hours. All the names I wanted were taken. I’m not completely convinced I’d want FoggyBrain.com as my official, fiction web site address !!

Tempting, and highly descriptive of my actual thought processes . . . but probably not.

Though I’d love to someday have my (jewelry) company logo tattooed, I’m told that would constitute a lot of ink, and I know little of tattoos, making the probability very low-end.

I’ve rambled, haven’t I? Few people know me, but those (maybe 1 or 2) who do, could tell you that rambling is my specialty.

I’ll even let you in on a little secret . . . In the not-too-distant future, I’m hoping to pen a completely different, somewhat humorous tale of a soft-broiled detective, to be titled: Mick Danger; Private Eye, Ear, Nose and Throat. (kind of an inside joke, being that it’s been inside my head for the past 20 years, waiting to happen)

Not only have I lost my train of thought today – I’m not sure I even had a ticket ! So I’ll go wander around for a bit, see if I can gather up some semblance of something and return next week with what we can all hope is something more insightful, comedic, or at least decipherable to post !

Or not.

Tastes like Chicken

2005-08-15T13:27:00.000-07:00

For the past few weeks, I’ve been in a sort of a daze. My Father died on July 20th – it was an unexpected shock that really brought home all those cliché notions about never putting things off another day. The funeral wasn’t until this past Saturday, due to him having lived in Yuma AZ and my stepmother bringing him up here to Seattle. So something that should have taken place sooner ended up being dragged out nearly a full month, placing my brain in a sort of holding pattern.

I toyed with a few topics to write about, concerning death and writing – death of main characters and why I despise that emotional crutch used by many writers of both literature and television/movies.

But I’ve had enough of death for now. While closure is only for doors and windows, I feel my life slowly returning to something akin to normal, and I’m craving that.

The one thing that kept me relatively sane during those long weeks was my writing, which I continued to do whenever possible. My characters were welcome friends, and it was a relief to lose myself in their universe.

As a consequence, I’ve managed to complete my latest story. Only its first draft form, of course, but the bones are all there. Now comes the interesting part, wherein I must add flesh to the bones, see that they’re properly filled out and working well. Then I’ll give it to my reader, who will offer suggestions and requests.

Then it’s microscope time – where I practice my newly established solo editing.

And this is the tricky part.

This is the part that makes me stop and wonder, on occasion, if other writers feel the same way. At that point in time when a story is done, basically ready to either sink or swim on its very own out there in the big scary world . . . I wonder if any other writer gets as chicken as I do.

It’s that point where I haven’t committed yet – I can still back out and not post it. I can still run away screaming like I’ve just seen a spider and go sit in a corner somewhere, clutch my can of Raid and mumble to myself.

This is the point where I start to find “other things to do”. Stuff that I can use as an excuse NOT to sit down with a pencil and printed copy and put in several hours of work.

Next to actually posting – and spending that horrific few days wondering if it was a hit or a miss – this is the hardest, scariest, most difficult time.

I’m quite sure I’m my own worst critic. I read past stories and all I can see is their flaws – which I’ve vowed to rewrite and improve, as soon as I have some time this year. But right now I get to deal with the butterflies. And the questions . . . Is it exciting enough? Did I describe that section well enough? Is the emotional level there? Does it all make sense? Does any of it make sense? What happened to my sense??

I can’t really talk to people about this, because they’ll just look at me funny, laugh with derision, and wonder why in the hell I’m doing such a thing when I don’t get paid for my trouble.

And I have no good answer, since I really don’t know why in the hell I do such a thing, I just know that I do it. It’s what I do. And as long as I do it, I’ll worry about it. I’ll fret over it, panic about it, and fuss with it.

And then, when it’s over, I’ll most likely do it again.

As much as I’d like to think all the great writers feel this way, I’m quite sure they don’t. I’m sure their egos have them so far removed from the real world I’m slopping around in, they couldn’t relate.

Yet something – some little, quiet, perhaps overly hopeful voice is wondering if maybe, just maybe, that life I’ve so longed for - - the life of the published author - - isn’t possibly exactly like this life, only perhaps a little more satisfied. If I ever were to “make it”, become published and perhaps – dare I wish it – popular, and attain that life of theirs, would I even notice the difference?

Fame, fortune, peer acceptance – take that away and I suppose we all do taste like chicken.

A Tribute

2005-07-25T13:14:00.000-07:00

Robert Henry Williams -- the only child of Percy Andrew Williams and Sigrid Kristina Akerstadt -- grew up in Port Orchard, in the Puget Sound area. After a stint in the Army during the Korean war, he settled down in his home town, married a Seattle girl, and started working for the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard.

He was a Naval Nuclear Inspector, a volunteer firefighter, a scuba diving instructor, the son of a United States Marine from Arkansas and a Swedish immigrant.

And he was my dad.

He taught me how to swim. He taught me how to dive. He taught me how to handle anything that floats, with or without a motor, regardless of the size. He taught me marine safety, boating safety, how to build a fire and pitch a tent, how to bait a hook, gut a fish and read the weather.

He showed my sisters and I how to set up a camp, build a shoreline bulkhead, and use power tools. He taught us how to play tennis, drive cars, climb trees and navigate rough water. He made sure we knew how never to get lost, and how to find our way back no matter where we went.

My dad showed me how to build anything I wanted, and take care of it once I did.

He taught me that when using a knife, always push away, never pull it toward you. He taught me that if you can’t carry your gear, you’re not strong enough to use it.

He showed me how to adjust the timing belt in a car, change the oil, and when to buy a new one.

He made sure we grew up with pets, and always took perfect care of them.

Even though he had only daughters, he saw to it we went camping, water skiing, and hiking all the time. He taught us to be resilient, independent, self-assured and confident.

He loved history, war movies and spy novels. Boating, camping and golf were his favorite pastimes. When he was a young boy, he had a German Shepherd that wouldn’t allow his mother to spank him! As a teenager, he’d borrow his father’s car without permission, then reset the odometer. He thought dogs were great, but secretly he preferred cats.

My dad had a favorite saying, whenever we were out on our boat and he saw a bigger one. He’d point to the owner of the bigger boat and say “Now if I had that, and he had a feather up his butt, we’d both be tickled.”

Robert Henry Williams was born on September 21st, 1935. He died July 20th, 2005.

He was my dad.

Building the Perfect Man

2005-07-19T11:01:00.000-07:00

So I downloaded the trial version of this software program, Poser, and played around in what limited capacity the demo allowed - - and I must say, were I not preoccupied with writing, I might be tempted to devote the every-waking-hour this program requires to attain any real results.

The demo, as far as demos go, isn’t great. It’s so limited, you can’t access enough controls to decide if you can or will enjoy the full version. And there’s no way I’m shelling out the nearly $300/US to purchase that. And unless I were to stop writing completely, and sit around doing nothing BUT use this program, there’s no way I’d get good enough at it to produce any sort of results.

And I’m just not ready to stop writing.

Also, clearly, I’m no artist !

But it was a hoot - you can actually take a face, male or female (only male in this demo) and build yourself the perfect man. Kinda like a click and drag version of a police sketch artist - you can alter every feature of the face, right down to the wrinkles in the brow line, and even animate body, hair and clothes. With patience, a talented person could create their own fully animated original movie with this thing, complete with actors.

Well you could, I couldn’t.

And oddly enough, even after a few hours of goofing around with it, I still couldn’t “create” faces for the characters I write. They’re clear as day in my head, but I couldn’t translate that using visual media. I could get the eyes perfect, but the nose was off. I managed the jaw line, but the chin wasn’t good.

And just as I suspected, the tutorial assumes you have a Masters Degree in Geometric Science. Just try and grow a beard and moustache!

Ah well. I had to try. I get these little mental burrs up my proverbial butt and can’t get by them until I try it out.

The flip side, and the one I find most fascinating, is that after trying something like that and failing, I dive straight back into the story I’m working on at the time (yes, I am working on one) and I seem to have a whole new excitement about writing. Finding out I suck at something makes me run right back to the one thing I like to think I don’t suck so much at !

Sometimes doing that is like taking a mini vacation. You had some fun, did some out-of-the-ordinary things, but then you’re suddenly glad to be home again.

Now I’m glancing around and realizing I’m within a couple of chapters of the end of this new story, and I’m getting excited. From the outline, when you feel that tingling sensation as a story begins to flesh itself out in your mind, to the first page of Chapter 1, when you look at that page number on the bottom of the screen and wonder how on earth you’ll have the stamina and patience to crank out the whole story, to the middle, when you can see so many pages behind you, and yet still so many more to come, right up to the final few scenes when you look back at all you managed to say and marvel with much humility that you were able to DO that much, say and write that much, and still realize there’s room for another.

The next best feeling to starting a new story, is realizing you’ve nearly completed one.

But don’t take those dentures out of the glass yet, Grandpa. The car is only just warming up in the garage.

It's Foolproof !!

2005-07-08T10:06:00.000-07:00

Ever find something that intrigues you - maybe a software product, or complicated-looking piece of equipment or hi-tech toy - and while a large portion of your brain is screaming out how cool that would be, and how fantastic it looks, another part of your brain is remembering all the other cool, fantastic and really neat-o things you’ve tried in the past. You know the ones where you got completely confused by the directions, couldn’t put it together, couldn’t make it work, couldn’t quite figure it out.

You’re checking out something new that sparked your interest, and you see that it’s being advertised as basically something “anyone can use”. They’re all but coming right out and saying “Unless you’re a complete moron, you can use this.”

Sure, it LOOKS simple enough. They’ve even used phrases like “drag and drop” or “no assembly required” or my favorite “easy step-by-step instructions will have you up and running in minutes”.

So you assume you’re not the complete moron they’re talking about - after all, you can work a PC, you own a house and can dress and feed yourself -- hell, you even have a career and drive a nice car ! They’re saying this is simple to use, and you’re not a simpleton, so give it a go !

I like to think I know my limitations. I mean, I’m a writer, but I’m not Shakespeare. I can fuse two metals together, but I’m no welder. I can build a database using Microsoft Access - but so can anyone who uses that program.

But every now and again, something comes along that just looks so nice, and so much fun, and really appeals to this little voice inside my head that thinks - if only I could really make this work the way they say it can, I could have a lot of fun with it.

I’ve read up on the product, and it sounds pretty cool. I’ve even checked out the web page in detail, and they sure make it LOOK easy enough. After all, you just “drag and drop” from a wide array of choices, make simple alterations that any Howler Monkey could make with his eyes closed, and Voila! You have this really cool, completely original result.

Right.

The other voice in my head (there’s so many to choose from) is reminding me of all the other times I’ve tried such “easy to use” things. Turned out, they weren’t so much “easy to use” as “quick to confuse”.

I’m not an artist, not in the visual sense. My mother is a painter, two of my nieces are incredible with watercolor, acrylics and even pencils. My nephew has an amazing talent with the brush. Even my stepfather can wow you with charcoal.

Me . . . I do a stick figure and it looks like it’s been run over by a herd of angry Water Buffalo.

But I’ve always harbored this deep desire to illustrate certain portions of my fiction. Maybe not for display, but for my own enjoyment - - since I write Science Fiction, I’m creating things that don’t exist, and sometimes have to sketch them out in order to remember where the head is, what size the door was, what those alien marks looked like, or where did I put the couch in relation to the galley?

And then there’s the characters. Sometimes you have to SEE a facial expression in order to adequately describe it with words. For some reason I can’t remember if one main character has a special mark on his RIGHT or LEFT hand ! And to think, I created him! It’s easy, though, to forget little tiny things like that when your mind is occupied by the story as a whole - while you’re trying to work out the physics of how they’re going to get a crashed ship off a planet, or how your characters are going to figure out what’s happening . . . you can forget one or two little things and not even realize it.

So along comes this piece of software that promises to be easy as pie (though personally I find crusts a little difficult to master). They say that anyone can do this - using prefab models and thousands of variations, you can drag and drop your way to creating three-dimensional, photo-realistic images of human beings, animals, even scenery.

It’s called Poser, newest version is 6.

It’s rather expensive - so the little voice in my mind that has doubts concerning my non-idiot abilities to follow simple instruction is speaking right up. It’s shouting - rather loudly - that soon after I install this program, I’ll discover what a moron I am and how amazingly confused the complex instructions have made me. I’ll be reduced to a blithering idiot who can’t comprehend the difference between rendering and dithering (which sounds oddly like blithering) and quickly I’ll learn that “drag and drop” just naturally assumed I had a degree in mathematics and spatial relations.

Well never fear, there’s a 30 day free trial ! Oh happy day - I can explore the borders of my own ineptitude without spending a dime.

So I’m gonna try it . . . Not today, though. If it has a 30 day expiration, I need to wait until I can devote a few steady weeks of trial and error, error, error and more error. So I’m thinking next week, if I can. I’m gonna try this thing out, most likely expose my extreme lack of visual artistic talent and my apparently limitless ability to disappoint myself.

I’ll let you know how badly it goes.

Just a personal venting

2005-07-06T11:24:00.000-07:00

I think I’m being stalked.

Not in that afraid-for-my-life, Fatal Attraction way that happens to some people - but stalked nevertheless.

Several months ago, I told this woman I no longer needed her to be my editor. I wasn’t happy with her ideas, she missed way too many of the little details that a writer trusts an editor to catch, and she’d been - in general - getting on my nerves over the years.

Now she won’t stop calling me.

I’ve had to stop answering my phone so the answering machine can screen my calls - and I hate being a person who does that! I don’t fault anyone out there who does use their machine to screen calls, after all personal time is personal time. But I don’t generally do that because I don’t generally get bothersome phone calls.

Until now.

In the past three weeks, she’s phoned my house multiple times a day, sometimes leaving a message, sometimes hanging up halfway through the recording. I know it was her, because I *69 the number.

I don’t call her back. In fact, I haven’t called her in more than 2 years. Her phone calls, which generally consist of a full 60 minutes of “my life sucks” followed by a complete grilling wherein she demands to know minute details of what has taken place in my life in the short (usually one or two days) time since her last call.

About seven months ago, I decided to try and “ween her off” by avoiding giving her any information, aside from the “Oh, nothing much” and “Just hanging out, nothing special” replies, hoping she’d get bored. It didn’t work - and I know why now . . . She doesn’t call to hear me, she calls to hear herself talk to me.

Over the years, she’s never really heard a word I’ve said. I’ve had to repeat things over and over again, explain things I’ve explained so many times before. I’d tell her something and a day or two later she’d act like I never told her. I came to realize last year that I know every detail of her life - she tells me often enough - and she can’t even remember the simplest things.

If we had a bad phone connection, it was always my phone going bad. If we were emailing each other and it took too long for email delivery, it was always something wrong with my ISP. In fact, her definition of emailing was assuming I should provide entertainment for her. We tried instant messaging one summer, and I soon learned the conversations were completely one-sided. She didn’t say anything - with the exception of “Where’d you go? Why aren’t you saying things?”

I was never more glad than when she changed jobs and could no longer use email at work. For so long before then, my days were filled with emails from her that said nothing more than “Why aren’t you keeping me entertained?” I’d never get a “good morning” from her, but rather “You have to be there by now, why aren’t you emailing me?”

I dunno, call me paranoid, but does that sound NORMAL to you?

When my writing began to be popular, she flew into one of the most bizarre jealous rages I have ever witnessed from an adult. And I mean it was strange ! I was suddenly to blame for her not being more popular than me, when she wasn’t even writing.

Her selfish, self-centeredness has gotten the better of me. I just can’t take it anymore.

So I’ve resorted to screening my calls - but that can’t go on. It’s been 3 weeks, and she’s still calling 2 or 3 times a day, sometimes leaving messages, sometimes not.

I’m going to have to take some sort of action - I just hate that I have to. Normal people would stop calling after leaving one or two messages, and wait for the other person to reply. Clearly I’m not dealing with normal, here. And in case anyone’s wondering - this is not some young, innocent kid we’re talking about. She’s quite a bit older than me. This woman is in her mid-fifties!

And yes - clearly some of this must be my fault - after all, I let it go on for so many years and just kept bending over backwards. I took all the blame, all the belittling, all the ignoring and verbal abuse, and didn’t do anything about it until now. I’ve reached the end, the breaking point.

And I’ve wasted good time fretting over the whole situation. Well, I’m not taking it anymore!

Sorry to unload here - I didn’t mean to use this blog as a self-cleanser, but sometimes you just gotta scream. I apologize if I’ve wasted a few minutes of your day, but I had to get that off my chest - it was ruining the elastic of my bra!

Thanks

Where were you raised, in a barn?!

2005-06-29T11:00:00.000-07:00

We live in a polite society - or so we keep telling ourselves - and I can only conclude that this is correct, and it’s the select few who are striving at every corner to prove me wrong.

Case in point: Near my house, a mere 1 mile away, is a Starbucks (yes, I live in latte land, so it stands to reason) and like any of the other coffee or tea houses I frequent, there is an accepted social decorum. You place your order, retrieve your refreshments, and - if you choose to stay there - you find a nice comfy spot and relax. If you’re with friends, you find a table of suitable size and sit, sipping and chatting using what we term an “inside voice”. That is to say, you do not laugh loudly and rudely, or converse at a volume intended to call children in from the playground for their evening meal !

A simple concept, and yet it alludes so many.

Every Sunday, without fail, at “my” Starbucks, a crowd of women gather. They number around five or six, gather several tables together, and ALL TALK AT ONCE - loudly, rudely, and with absolutely no regard for anyone else inside or out.

You go in to place your order and find you have to raise your own voice so the person a mere two feet from you, on the other side of the counter, can hear and comprehend. This group - we’ve dubbed The Gaggle - laugh incredibly loudly, raise their voices to be heard over each other’s raised voices, and spread out so that no one could possibly walk around them or by them.

My sister and I have taken to either picking up our Sunday morning treat in the drive thru, or at another coffee house altogether, just to avoid the rudeness.

This Gaggle clearly hold no regard for anyone on this planet other than themselves. They don’t care that they’re rude, annoying, loud, obnoxious and literally take complete control of an entire establishment for several hours at a time every week. They don’t care that people stare at them, give them the “evil eye” or make other marginally polite public displays of suggestion, offering them the opportunity to quiet down like the rest of society or risk a shotgun blast to the head.

I’m assuming - and this could be a stretch - that taken one at a time, these individual people are likely to be as polite and socially aware as the rest of us. But for some reason - call it gang-mentality if you will - when they gather into a full-on Gaggle, all bets are off!

If this Gaggle were in a bar, or restaurant, you would assume they were drunk. Trust me when I say I am not stretching the description here - they’re just plain RUDE. And what makes this matter so inconceivable and unforgivable is the fact that they simply Do Not Care. They clearly could not care less that they’re being as rude as poorly raised spoiled brats accustomed to having their own way and throwing public tantrums when denied.

In fact, it’s my contention that these are the very people responsible for those children we all loath to sit with on planes, stand near in grocery store checkout lines or share a movie theater with.

I can understand why the employees of Starbucks do nothing. These are, after all, paying customers. Unlike a library, there’s no posting of a “please be quiet” sign, society assumes you know how to conduct yourself in a polite manner while in a public setting.

But why do we, as polite human beings, stand by and take it?

I’ll tell you why - because we’re POLITE! We’re so polite, we know it’s rude to approach a stranger and reprimand them on their public behavior. You’re supposed to glance sideways, give them “that” look, and they’re supposed to realize they’re being obnoxious and - out of fear of public embarrassment - tone it down.

I’m finding these days that works less and less, because more and more of the people who make up this supposed Polite Society are so impolite, they just don’t give a rat’s ass. They’re used to spending hours online, isolated from the public, insulated from social situations - then when the need arises, they surround themselves with their friends so they can maintain that sense of being in their own living room wherever they go. They drive as if their cars were simply telephones that transported them places, they feel the need to share their musical tastes with anyone inside a five-mile radius, assume the grocery store aisles are for their children to play in while they phone friends to share the latest gossip, and think nothing of reaching or cutting in front of you without so much as a “pardon me” !

They’re the reason I don’t go to the movies anymore. You either have some kid kicking your seat, teenagers chatting loudly in front of you, or a guy beside you with too much cologne. The last time I tried, a couple in their 50’s thought it was their living room, and they chatted about the movie as though they were alone on their couch - critiquing the sets, the actors, the film - at a volume the rest of us reserve for in-home use.

Well I’m mad as hell, and I don’t wanna take it any more !

But I will, and so will millions of others like me. Because we live in a polite society.

I’ve fantasized many a scenario wherein these rude Gaggles are mowed down, cut to pieces, banished from all social situations, and one - where little purple bug-sized aliens infest their brains and foofy hairdos, and send them screaming out into traffic where the little ships zap them up and take them to planet Rude-as-I-Wannabe, where they’re placed in zoos and forced to sit inside little cones of silence, unable to chat with their fellow abductees, while loud-mouthed little purple aliens walk by, taking no notice whatsoever and chatting loudly on their little alien cell phones.

That one’s my personal favorite.

Klatu Barada Nikto

2005-06-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

Aliens - many a Science Fiction writer’s joy. And I, too, have on occasion added them to a story. Although they’re not necessary - one can have a high quality piece of Science Fiction without adding a single alien being or creature. When television does it, all too often they cheat, and have their aliens speaking perfect English, contractions and all !

I’m not a Star Trek fan - so you’ll understand when I say one of my major beefs with that franchise is their lack of imagination when it comes to aliens. All they ever do are variations of the bipedal humanoid, alternating the color of the skin or the shape/size of head ridges or nose bumps to indicate another species. Come on, people! Is this a budget constraint, or a lack of creative thinking? I could probably count on one hand the amount of times they got creative with their aliens.

I realize if you want your aliens to communicate, you have to give them language - in television that usually translates as English for reasons of simplicity. Some programs at least use a form of translation device to explain their ability to understand an alien language. One show - Farscape - used a method of implanting nanobots into the brain that would instantly translate any language into the one you understood. A stretch, maybe, but more fun than most. Until the main character was implanted, every alien there spoke a completely different and totally alien language.

There’s a trick some script writers use, when creating dialog for an alien that is already established to be English-speaking - it’s a cheap ploy, but it does distinguish them from Earth-based humans. You simply assume they wouldn’t know slang or contractions - so instead of Can’t, they say Can not. Instead of It’s, they say It is. Take any paragraph you’ve written or any group of sentences you’ve said recently, remove all contractions, and you’re left with a very formal sounding person the writer is hoping will pass as alien. And let’s face it, formal speech is pretty alien these days.

Personally I think it’s arrogant to assume aliens, even humans from other galaxies who’ve never heard of Earth, would speak English. Why not German? Or Chinese? Of course it’s done so those of us who understand English will take enjoyment from the story. Though I once read - as an assignment in college - a book that was written in English with all the dialog in Spanish (and no, I don’t read Spanish) I still managed to get through the book, understand what was taking place, and get an A on my review. (which brings up another subject I’ll discuss in the next blog!)

Aside from language is another issue that plagues me; Aliens who act just like us! Typically they walk on 2 legs, breathe air, sit down, eat solid food, drink liquid water, etc etc.

Easy to do, easy for your audience to understand, but also a lazy - cheap way to cut a corner.

I remember a class I had (way) back in High School - one of the biggest influences on my young life was a writing teacher - Mrs. Wright - who dared us to challenge convention while keeping within the realms of physics - a necessary evil when writing Science Fiction as opposed to Fantasy where anything goes.

She challenged us one day to try and look at our class - the room, the students, the furniture - from a completely alien perspective. And I mean alien. You couldn’t even assume that, as the alien looking in, you had legs that bent or opposable digits. Even a chair would hold no meaning, and you’re trying to make sense of these things you’re seeing, and attempt to theorize their use based on life as YOU know it, as the alien.

Have you ever seen one of those Swedish ergonomic chairs - where you just perch your ass on one section and lean your knees into another? They don’t even resemble a chair as we’re used to seeing, so when you come upon one of these things, you can’t for the life of you figure out how you’re supposed to use it. There’s no flat part where your butt goes !

After someone shows you how it works, and you get in, you can see it for what it is. But heaven help you if you have to get up in a hurry !

I’ve had some fun creating an alien environment and asking my characters to figure it out. They come up with all manner of logical theories, based on life as they know it, then change their minds as something new comes along. Without making contact with the owners of the objects they’re finding, they can theorize all they want and never truly know the answers. Unless you see the aliens using the items, your characters can’t possibly know for sure. But you, and they, and -- with any luck at all -- your audience, can have a great time trying.

Just keep in play the laws of physics to the best of your ability - understanding certain things might have to be fudged for readability (accepted fudges include gravity on space ships and faster-than-light travel) You can explain some things away by putting your story far enough into the future to assume someone has invented it by then, or add some alien technology to explain what can’t quite be figured out. You’ll soon find the word “alien” is a useful catch-all for the bizarre - as long as you don’t go overboard !

And keep in mind - NASA loves to harp about how liquid water is necessary for life. That’s not true. Liquid water is only necessary for life as WE know it. Carbon based life. Don’t assume your aliens are carbon-based, or in need of liquid water. That’s just plain boring.

So in my opinion, if you want to create aliens - go for it. But seriously GO for it. Don’t assume anything based on the world we know. Maybe cats really DO read minds and rule the universe. After all, who’s cleaning the litter pan, you or them?

And hey, maybe we’ll make great pets !

Flipper, The Final Frontier

2005-06-07T13:56:00.000-07:00

They say space is the final frontier. Well at least William Shatner said it was. Doesn’t matter to me, I’ll never get out there. And frankly I don’t care. If I did, I would have become an astronaut when I was young.

But you know what really curls my fries? The fact that there ARE no more frontiers!

Ever since I was a kid, and learned about pioneers in school - how our great grandparents left everything they’d ever known and forged into the unconquered world. How they packed up their belongings, and ventured forth, not knowing what they were going to find, what their lives would be like when they got there. Not even knowing for sure if they would get there.

That’s the kind of person I wanted to be when I grew up. And I fantasized in school that by the time I was a grown up - since all the continents were already colonized - they’d have deep-sea, underwater cities where I could go and become one of the first or second groups to colonize the ocean and live miles under the surface. My own brave new bubbly world.

I have ancestors who packed up all they owned and braved the seas from Sweden to Seattle, not speaking a word of English, to start new in America. I have ancestors who left all they knew, family and friends in Scotland, and traveled over the Atlantic to Alberta, buying a massive piece of land and building a homestead, living off the land. (okay, sure, you can't really live off the sky or the tree branches, I get it)

And here I sit, born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, with no place NEW to venture forth into.

I’ve resented that since the day I realized they just weren’t going to get around to colonizing the ocean, like I’d planned!

There are no more frontiers. No more unexplored regions of the planet, no more continents in need of colonists. And no, the Amazon doesn't count - it's been discovered!

And they found bugs. Really big ones.

There just are no brave new worlds left.

I think that’s one reason why I write Science Fiction. I know I’ll never get up there, and I don’t really believe anything that I write will even come close to being a reality - but at least through words, I can explore the unknown - see what’s never been seen, forge my way in a dangerous new world, facing the odds and risking it all just to be one of the first ones there !

More or less.

It’s not quite the same when the brave new world you’re exploring is something you had to create first. But in a way, by creating new worlds - keeping to science and physics to the best of ones ability - you could call that exploration. As a writer, I do not live vicariously through my characters (they're men, I am a woman) - but I do enjoy seeing through their eyes on occasion. I like watching them discover these new worlds and situations, and it never ceases to amaze me how they react to them.

So, until they get busy on that undersea colony, I guess that’ll have to do.

But I'm keeping my water wings handy!

It's like being pecked to death by chickens

2005-06-01T11:03:00.000-07:00

Writing novels - posting them for the free enjoyment of anyone interested - and using a Web Page to distribute . . . is like being pecked to death by chickens.

First the page had too many graphics. So I removed them.

Then the page wasn’t an easy color to read. So I changed it.

No one liked having to read a chapter segmented into several sections. I had to wait for Geocities to catch up to my file sizes, but eventually I was able to change that.

Then it was too frustrating to have to read chapters instead of the whole story on one page.

After that, it became too annoying for them to wait between chapters for the next one.

Next they wanted to download the whole story, so they didn’t have to spend any time online.

Thanks to some very helpful naked campers, I managed to find the right - most accessible file format - zip that up tight and post them all.

Ahhh - - now it’s too hard to download a zipped file.

Can’t open a zipped file.

Seem to believe you have to pay a fee to read a zipped file.

Have no programs on web tv that open files.

Can’t make Word read an .rtf file. (yes, you can)

Can’t figure out how to download, unzip, or read a file.

Have no way of unzipping a file - what’s a zipped file?

Can’t spend more than 3 seconds online at any given time - can I mail them printed copies for free?

Love the page.

Hate the page.

Thanks for the new file formats!

I can’t stand the new file formats - how do you expect me to read the stories?

Downloading is so easy now!

I can’t download - change it or I won’t be able to read them.

I preferred to read the chapters online, can’t I change back to the way it was?

Don’t know anything about computers, couldn’t possibly download or figure out a zipped file. Fix it.

Can’t I email them the entire, unzipped, whole series in Word format, complete with snacks and a drink - after all, I’m doing this for free, that means I must be a desperate whore willing to do anything to get people to read the stories.

Chicken McNuggets, anyone?

Time Out

2005-05-23T11:16:00.000-07:00

Isn’t it funny how time only moves quickly when you’re looking back? Whenever you’re looking forward, it appears to be crawling along, taking forever to pass. But when you look back, you marvel at how much of it is gone and how quickly it went.

Time is an interesting thing. We can spend time, waste time, wish we had more time. We can make time, pass time, wonder where all the time went. We can even kill time. The only thing you can’t do with time is get it back.

A little over a year ago I took up a hobby. Genealogy, they call it. I think of it more as curiosity. I don’t have a large family, and they haven’t been in this country (America) all that long - and very little was really ever known about most of them. I wasted a bunch of that precious thing we call time by not being interested enough while my grandparents were alive. It wasn’t until I took up this hobby that I discovered photo albums filled with fascinating images and interesting people, and now there’s no one left to ask about them.

I’ve made lots of progress, and learned amazing things. I even became emotional when discovering death certificates of family members I’d never met, and ancestors who died long before my own parents were born. I’ve wandered through cemeteries, found those I was looking for and also wondered about all the ones I walked by. Headstones that were worn, weathered, forgotten.

Once I found photos in an antique shop, being sold for the frames they were in, and it was upsetting to think these were photos of people who weren’t being remembered by anyone. Perhaps those who knew who they’d been had also passed on, with no one left behind who cared.

One day, while scanning the old photos of my great grandparents, and even a couple of my great-great grandparents, it struck me how incredible this really was.

Here I was, holding photos of people still using horses to get around, and I’m placing them in a flatbed scanner to save copies of them in my PC.

When I was a kid, computers weren’t for home use. We learned how to “key” using actual typewriters. My grandparents were around when televisions were invented - and here I am using a personal computer and scanner - saving digital copies of them onto CD’s, making movies of their still images with soundtracks and special effects, even using a thing called the Internet to learn more about their lives.

Having no children of my own, I’m saving all of this information for my nieces and nephew, and wondering - if they survive and become grandparents, and one of their children’s children gets curious and starts looking things up - what incredible tools will they use? Will they laugh at the simplistic methods I used to record history?

Or will time have its revenge, and simply forget us all?

Size Matters!

2005-05-09T13:35:00.000-07:00

Sure, some would say - and they’d be right - that it’s better to read a short, well-written story, than a long, heavily involved novel of mediocrity. But if that short, well-written story is over in less than an hour, and the long, heavily involved novel of mediocrity keeps you interested for a few days - which would you prefer?

I like to think I’m somewhere in between well-written and mediocre. Perhaps I’m delusional. Perhaps not. No one can truly say, and I would be a fool to venture a guess.

Art is in the eye of the beholder, yet we all know a steaming pile of dog mess when we see it.

However, when I’m reading something, and I’m enjoying the characters as well as the world or worlds they live in, I want to stay a while. I want to linger there, providing I’m enjoying myself, and hang out with them as long as possible. I don’t care if I’m coming away with a higher sense of anything in particular - I just want to be entertained.

So it stands to reason I’d like to write them big, too. Never one for a short story, I like to write as much into a tale as I can, providing I’m saving enough for a sequel.

There are several “best part of’s” when it comes to writing. The best part of a sequel is planning it. The best part of a new story is imagining the plot coming together. The best part of getting ready to write again is figuring out the entire outline, start to finish. The best part of typing out the words is seeing where your characters are going to take you.

One of those best parts is that point when you realize just how much you’ve gotten down. How many pages you have to scroll through to get to the bottom. When my last novel was finished, it was 148 pages long. A total of 77,670 words. A novel is considered anything that’s 50,000 words or more, and this was one of my shorter ones.

You don’t think about this while you’re writing. At least you shouldn’t, but you do. Striving for a certain length can make parts of the story sound forced. But to say that -- upon discovering how much you have and how big it’s getting -- isn’t a fun fact, would be a lie. About the time I’m up to around 80 pages or more, I start to feel pretty good about the whole. Typically around then I’m three-quarters of the way through and feeling fine. I’ve got dialog I can reference back to, situations that have risen and been resolved, while new ones have come up, along with the main issue driving the whole story.

At this point (I’m on page 5 of the new novel - sequel to the last one) it’s hard to imagine reaching page 100 or more. I’m just getting them warmed up, starting off, working on some dialog, some wandering around. I have to keep shutting it down to do some work, then opening it up again when I have a few minutes to spare. Seeing that little, insignificant number 5 at the bottom toolbar can sometimes be discouraging. After all, the entire story - except for the little details - is already worked out in my head. And even though on a good day with coffee I’ve been clocked at 90 wpm, you can only type as fast as you can think.

Realistically, I know it’s going to take me a good 3 months to write this whole story. Then another week to read through it very critically, and my reader gets another week to read through it with red pen in hand (actually she prefers green). Then I sit and fret about it for a week or so. And allow me to digress a moment in praise of my new reader - who can be credited for having me make a huge change, twice, which then resulted in the possibility of this very sequel.

My former editor often mocked my ability to write sequels. “There’s nothing more for them to resolve,” she’d say. “They’re going to become boring.” I find that everything they do opens up windows of opportunity for other things to be done. “Plot just doesn’t interest me,” she’d add. To her, Plot is a 4-letter word.

Personally, I like these guys. They’ve become family to me. Just as the guys in my other works. When you create a character, and the world he or she lives in, you have to own it. You have to be more familiar with them and their world than they are, so that anything odd or alien the reader encounters is commonplace to your character. It can’t be commonplace to your character if it’s still alien to you. You have to know them intimately, as well, so you can predict their reactions.

I say predict because -- just as any real, living, breathing individual -- you cannot dictate their every word. If your characters have become alive, as alive as they need to be, then even you won’t know what they’re going to say each and every time. They’ll surprise you, take your story in different directions, change a scene into something more wonderful than you’d had in mind - because they’re real enough to do so.

And that’s how it will happen. I get a story started, get the scene going, then basically sit back and watch them run with it. I take down everything they do, everything they say, everything that’s going on around them, until I’m so deeply involved in their actions, reactions and dialoging that - before I know it - I can look down and see that page counter reach the 80+ mark. Then 100. Then as we’re racing through the thickest part of the plot and the action is building, I’ll completely forget what that page counter says until finally - out of breath and trying to find the best scene to end with - I’ll realize 148 pages have just gone by, and I’ll smile.

Deep down, I know page counts don’t matter. Word counts don’t matter, unless you’re publishing. The thickness of the printed pages in my hands doesn’t matter.

All that matters is the fact that I can spend an entire weekend lost in their universe, listening to what they say, watching what they do, and what happens around them. I’m not finished in an hour and wishing there was more. Like having an entire season of something on DVD that you can watch without commercials, through an entire rainy weekend.

Yes, as much as they say it doesn’t - size really does matter !

Cotton Candy

2005-05-02T11:07:00.000-07:00

Grandpa had his dentures in, the whole visit went really well. Good times. Now I get to enjoy one of my most favorite parts - the planning of the sequel.

This sequel was in my mind the whole time, floating out there, only teased upon in the new story. Now it’s teasing me. Giving me snippets and flashes of scenes and scenarios, with hints of deeper things to come.

It’s like watching a movie in my head, only it’s not the feature film, just those impressive theatrical trailers. I’m not sure how other writers go about this, and it wouldn’t matter, because everyone has their own method - but for me, planning out a new story starts out visually inside my head.

The characters are as real to me as people you know intimately. I can see them, hear their voices, even smell their skin. I see the way they roll their eyes at each other, the way their toes look when they’re barefoot, the lay of their clothes. They wander around in my head passing time while I work on what they’re going to do and say. So when I figure out a section or segment of plot that I’m planning, I try it on by having them act it out in my head, entertaining me with variations on the scene until I find the one I like.

It’s a blast. There’s special effects, drama, even a soundtrack - all playing out in my head, adding scenes and segments, building on this theatrical trailer in my brain. And as I watch this trailer build, I get flashes of new threads, new items that build on the trailer - like cotton candy filaments building on the cone until I have myself a big ol’ wad of sugary goodness. No nutritional value, and it’s gonna rot your teeth, but there’s a surprising amount of flavor and you’ll definitely get a rush!

The best part about creating your own universe and building on it, is what it gives you for later use - a foundation with lots of rooms. If your worlds are complex enough, and populated with situations and history, you have fodder for the future. A sequel can build on what you have, forge new territory, and borrow from unresolved issues in the past - all at the same time. Anyone you haven’t killed off is there to be used. Any place you’ve visited is there to visit again. Any situation you’ve resolved, can be unraveled.

I have the most fun watching these trailers play out in my head, then suddenly seeing a connection I hadn’t thought of before. One of my characters will say something, and a whole new direction opens up, connecting two scenes and making another complete scenario. Truth is - I don’t always know what’s going to happen. Oh sure, I’m the writer, and I always have a grasp on the story as a whole - but the details, the little things that take place to move the plot along, or accent the story here and there - a lot of those surprise even me. One character says something - and out of the blue, the other will react in a way I hadn’t predicted (even though yes, it’s all coming out of my own head)

It sounds a bit schizophrenic, I suppose. But the truth is, sometimes these characters tell ME what’s going to happen next. Sometimes they surprise me by their reactions. I do write down a story outline, chapter by chapter, hitting the major points until the resolution - just so I don’t get to straying off too far. But an outline MUST be fluid - when you’re writing dialog or action lines, the very words that get laid down can change an entire scene or chapter. The way the characters have dealt with something, or the things they’ve said, can add a completely new dimension to the whole. This last outline I did ended up not being a full outline of one story, but rather the building block of the sequel as well - all the elements that didn’t end up in THIS version, are the foundations for the sequel.

Sometimes I throw myself a curve ball. Like killing off the majority of the human race. Was it a mistake? Maybe. I think the only mistake was that I should have given it more attention - But I didn’t want to bog down the tale with too much detail about other things. I just wanted it to happen. And for a while, I wondered if I’d left enough room to continue with the series. Had I eliminated too much? Was there now nothing at all left for my characters to do?

Turns out, not only is there plenty for them to do, there are entirely new directions in which to do them.

And I get to sit here, quietly enjoying these theatrical trailers playing out in my head, until the whole story comes together like a big ol’ wad of cotton candy.

It's like kissing your Grandpa

2005-04-27T11:18:00.000-07:00

You love the man, and you love the time you spend with him, hours of playing chess while the rest of the family are playing poker or watching television. You think he’s the kindest, sweetest Grandpa anyone could ever have - and being around him feels like the best part of what family is.

But first you have to kiss him Hello. And he may or may not have his teeth in when you do it.

That’s what it feels like to have a new work of fiction completed and ready for public viewing. I love it, because I love the characters I’ve created and the universe I’ve built for them. Spending time with them is like spending those great summers at the lake as a kid.

Good times. Familiar times.

But here comes Grandpa - the sweet old guy - and you don’t know if he has his dentures in or not.

You gotta do it. You know you do. There’s no way to tell until you do. If his teeth are in, it’s a quick Howdy-do and on to the pleasantries. If not . . . well, ick.

I don’t have to put the story on the internet - I don’t have to share it with anyone. I’m not even completely sure why I do. But I do. I feel compelled to, since I don’t have a publishing contract that would put them on bookstore shelves. And those readers who do enjoy them, really Do enjoy them. And I’m both flattered and grateful, and willingly keep sharing.

You know what they say - You can’t explore the galaxy sitting on Uranus.

But it’s this very stage - the day or two before I bite the bullet and get it posted - that really dig in hard. Is it good enough? Could it be better? Did I make a complete blunder somewhere and haven’t seen it? Will this embarrass me right off the Internet? Am I completely deluding myself into believing these stories are any good whatsoever? Is everyone laughing at me behind my back? Am I a fool for doing this?

These questions will eat away at me for several days, and grow worse the day I post. That’s when Grandpa is reaching out, starting to smile - and you don’t know yet if those dentures are in place, firmly supporting the gums, or soaking in a glass somewhere down the hall.

For the first couple of weeks, I’ll live in fear of two things: Getting email about the story, and not getting email about the story. For a while, I’ll open my email with trepidation. And when a message is there, I’ll hesitate ever so briefly before opening it - and during those few seconds while it’s coming up on my screen, I’ll look away, fearful of what it’s going to say. Deep down inside I’m telling myself this isn’t why I write - validation is for parking, after all. That it doesn’t matter if anyone liked it, as long as I enjoyed doing it. My Reader loved it, and can’t wait for more, what else is important?

But when someone does come into your space - when someone does bother to say something - it’s like having a stranger walk by and hear them comment on your baby. We all know not all babies are cute.

You have to be humble, you put on a brave face and tell yourself you’re the greatest thing since tofu cream cheese, but you’re really just scared spitless. Your ego isn’t puffed up, it’s hiding under the bed with that sock you lost last month.

If Grandpa’s wearing his dentures, it’s gonna be a good day.
If not . . . Well it ain’t gonna be pretty.

Written into a corner

2005-04-25T09:54:00.000-07:00

I’ve written myself into a dilemma.

With my latest novel done - do I put it up on my page now, after having been read by a second pair of eyes that found it to be fantastic and fun, and risk my former editor finding out - or do I send it to her and suffer through the backwash that’s going to come flooding down the pike like a broken damn, threatening to delay the story for months?

Do I chance my having caught any grammatical errors and sentence-structure faux pas, and risk being humiliated and embarrassed because I’ve let some of them slip ? Or do I send it to her and withstand the hurricane of put-downs, snide remarks and jealousy-laden comments just to have some grammar examined?

My gut is telling me to pass. To take the opinion of my reader, and my own satisfaction with the end product, and put it out there for others to read. It’s a matter of pride, of course, to have a product out there that’s as grammatically perfect as it can be.

My gut is telling me how I do this for fun and pure writing pleasure, nothing more. There’s no fame, and certainly no fortune in this. I do it because I love the characters I’ve created, and the worlds they live in, and I enjoy visiting them just as often as my readers do. I love being in the center of their universe, watching them interact and deal with issues.

I do this because I love it. I love them. And I do have readers. And they love these guys as much as I do. That counts for something.

That counts for everything.

I have always done this on my own - always ! Sure, somewhere along the way I enlisted someone to point my grammar in the right direction - never could bother with details like that when I have a tale to tell. But in the past, my grammar-checker did just that, and only that. This one . . . this one’s different. And I don’t like it anymore.

She mocks my readers - she mocks my doing this for free on the internet - she even mocks my ability to write a novel in under 4 months. My gut tells me she mocks it because she can’t do it.

My gut tells me if I post this before she sees it, there’s gonna be hell to pay.

And my gut tells me if I feel this way - something needs to be done. Nothing should make me feel this way. Nothing should make anyone feel this way about a thing they do for pleasure.

No one can make you feel anything unless you give them that power, right?

So my gut is telling me to go ahead and send her a copy, but to also go ahead and post it on the web. Let my readers decide if it’s good or not. Let the public be my judge and jury. After all, she doesn’t get on the web, she doesn’t look at my page - she doesn’t even remember the address.

And it’s mine, after all.

All mine.

Got any aspirin?

2005-04-22T10:00:00.000-07:00

I wonder what it means when the prospect of speaking with a friend fills you with - not happy anticipation or pleasant warm feelings - but a pain between your eyes. When the sound of a particular person’s voice on the other end of the phone gives you a sense of depression instead of enjoyment.

When you hear someone telling you about their week and it’s been the same thing day in and day out for the past ten years - always gloom and doom and “my life is terrible, nothing went right, why do I bother - how was your week?”

What does it mean when the drama queen on the other end of the phone line suddenly says “We need to talk.” Or “I have to ask you a difficult question.” And all you want to do is hang up the phone and go back to your pleasant evening? When you’re asked: “I thought we’d already discussed this, what made you change your mind?” And it’s easier to just walk away from the entire conversation than it is to even think about trying to explain - because you have explained, a hundred times, and they just never listen. They never hear you.

What is your mind trying to tell you when you review all the arguments you’ve ever had with someone, and see them as missed opportunities to break away ?

I suppose I feel a little guilty for letting it go on this long, and letting it get to the point where it’s grating on my every nerve. I’ve had a raging headache for the past two days just trying to figure out how to deal with a situation that’s going to come up in a few weeks - something that I’m in complete control of - but that I know will be blown up into a total and ridiculous Drama with a capital D.

Does anyone else ever face a constant: “I don’t understand” this or that from someone, and all you wanna do is scream “I know you don’t understand, and THAT is the issue in a nutshell!” But you don’t. Or you can’t. Because you’re too polite. Because you don’t really want to cause harm - you just can’t take it any longer. You’ve looked back over the years and realized so many things that you’ve seen and willingly ignored or denied . . . and now you’ve reach the point of exploding, but you can’t.

You can’t explode, you can’t scream and yell - because you’re too polite, it’s not the right way to handle things, and you realize deep down that it wouldn’t get your point across anyway. So you suck it up, you put on your game face and try to let it slide, deny what would make you happy and play along as if nothing’s wrong. Even knowing that doing THAT is wrong.

What do you do when you come to the conclusion that - during a friendship - you were the only one doing any work? That it was you who was always there, always reliable, always supportive, constantly looking for ways to help, to encourage, to lift-up. That it was you going out of your way to be there - sacrificing your time for their needs - doing things you’d rather not do because it was what they wanted? That it was you putting up with things, ignoring little insults, giving in to demands . . . What do you do when you realize you’re just not interested in being a doormat any longer - but the person wiping their feet hasn’t got a clue? They wouldn’t realize you were fed up, wouldn’t understand your wanting to move along - or at least get out from under - and wouldn’t even SEE their boot-marks all over your back from years of treading?

Do you cut and run - even when that just seems too rude? Do you try to wean them off, distance yourself slowly over time and hope it works?

I just keep thinking about the Drama that’s going to develop - the absurd phone conversations designed to put the blame and guilt on me - that no amount of explaining would conclude. I keep thinking about all the headaches it’s going to cause when I try to assert my control over what’s rightfully mine to control - and always has been. I keep thinking about the put-downs that are going to come when I try to pull my feet out of this boggy marsh.

My only saving grace is the fact that this friendship is a coast-to-coast one. I’m here, on the West, my “friend” is there, on the East. It’s not like I’d have to change markets I shop at or stop going to a favorite restaurant for fear of meeting.

It’s actually killing me not to just lay out specifics, name names, explain in detail all the issues and all the crap I’ve put up with over the years - it’s almost worth it just to hear someone sympathize. To have one person tell me I’m justified for feeling this way, and have every right to want things to change. Or even tell me I’ve been an idiot for ignoring things all these years. That I’m the one being the drama queen.

But that would be petty. And mean.

So I’m just going to sit here - stewing - with this headache behind my eyes, and wonder what the naked campers would do in a situation like this.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

2005-04-18T13:55:00.000-07:00

I can taste it - the new novel is nearly completed ! Well technically it is done, but my first revision is down to the final two chapters. Then it’s off to be read, checked by a pair of eyes other than mine, and hopefully ready for human consumption.

If I were ever in a position to offer up advice to other people creating their own fiction, and considering posting it on this world wide web of ours, it would be to wait until your work is complete. I used to post a chapter at a time, I had the misfortune of being talked into doing that and it started to get annoying.

I much prefer posting only once the story has been completed, and will be trying my hand at posting a completely downloadable version this next time. It’s probably the easiest thing in the world to do, put a file up and let people just download the whole shebang, instead of going through it on the web. It’s just one of those things I haven’t tried doing yet. I once thought I wanted to use the internet and all it’s wonderful potential to enhance the fiction, with images, sounds, even java (something I never got around to) But for all the potential the internet holds, it’s limited by the equipment your readers are using to access it. The images were too large, the files too big, etc etc. So I’ve since given up.

I’m a purest when it comes to music - never watch videos. Music is made for the ears and the imagination. So I’ve gone that way with my posting - fiction is best read in black on white, held in the hand instead of glowing at you from the screen.

Regardless of how you choose to post - the one thing you MUST avoid at all costs is posting part of a story, then quitting !! I had the misfortune of sharing web space with someone who started out writing a story, something that would take her a full month to crank out one simple 4-page chapter ! And then, against every promise she swore to uphold, she stopped.

Her excuses? Life too busy, home too much of a mess, stress at work, no time.

Reality? She’s disorganized, lacks discipline, complains about every aspect of her life, and she lacks the ability to write anything from start to finish. She has never, in her life, written a full and complete story.

And she was angry that she wasn’t getting the kind of feedback she felt she deserved (!!) She was getting letters and compliments, but it wasn’t even a completed story! She expected heaping mounds of praise for each word that sprang from her keyboard. And it had to be detailed, of all things. She wanted precise praise and congratulations that would point out each and every aspect of beauty (bla bla bla). When that didn’t prove true, she got upset and quit. Justifying it in her own mind as being a pearls-before-swine issue.

That, my friends, is truly sad.

To any of you soon-to-be authors out there - nothing’s more pathetic than someone who whines and complains about the quality and/or quantity of feedback.

Nothing.

I’ve seen writers who got fed up and quit because people weren’t praising their every chapter. I’ve seen people get jealous of others who DO get feedback. And I’ve seen people convince themselves that the reason they’re not getting feedback is because their readers are too foolish to recognize genius.

Pathetic, but true.

My advice - Don’t expect anything. Write what you love, write what makes you happy, write with the best ability you have - share it with the world once it’s done or just share it with friends if that’s all you intend. End of story. Take pride in the fact that what you wrote what was important to you. That it spoke to something deep inside you that had to come out. We write because we must - not just because we can. We can’t resist the urge to flesh out this daydream of ours, to see it come to life on paper, watch it grow into something amazing.

Don’t do it because you crave fame, or expect mounds of heaping praise from adoring fans! If that comes, good for you. But don’t expect it. Don’t hinge your future writing on it.

Validation is for parking garages!

Do expect criticism, complaints about the web page itself, requests, and judgment. Do expect - out of every 100 letters of praise and congratulations - at least 1 whacko who won’t have a single nice thing to say, but won’t have any problem at all saying everything else.

But whatever you do, wherever you do it, the ONE thing you must avoid at all costs is posting merrily along, then quitting halfway through ! You’ll lose all credibility, all respect, and any chance of being read again. You can’t expect anyone to hang around waiting for you to get your act together. No matter how good you may be !

If you can’t respect your audience, you don’t deserve them.

Future Shock

2005-04-14T11:14:00.000-07:00

I’m beginning to enjoy this little steam vent, so I’m taking a break from reworking my latest novel to put keyboard to screen and air a few pet peeves !

My mind tends to wander, especially the more I try to concentrate on a specific thing. Sometimes I think I’m hyperactive, only my body and brain are in disagreement. I have a million thoughts running through my head at any given moment - not in an ADD way, they’re all cohesive and controllable - but my body prefers just sitting down watching all the action !

If only I were as physically energetic as I am mentally - I’d be rail-thin.

Anyway, back to the peeve - it has to do with “fan mail”. I’ll ignore the ones who can’t understand the fundamental difference between Science Fiction and Fantasy. What I write (and read often) is Science Fiction. Along with the frustration of dealing with movies and television shows set in space and written by individuals clearly devoid of any understanding of the rules and laws of physics - I find myself occasionally hearing from someone who suffers what I call “Star Trek Syndrome.”

(in a quick aside: All hail Joss Whedon when he made the short-lived Firefly series, for his knowledge, understanding, and fearless display of proper physics - most of the time, anyway. A thing of beauty, that was.)

Star Trek Syndrome is the belief that any novel or story set in a future time should depict perfection. No cancers, no hunger, no poverty - - easy-to-use machines that instantly tell you what’s wrong with your body and how to fix it. No one’s ever overweight, or unattractive. You press a button and food appears, cooked and ready. Weapons that never run out of ammo. Computers that never fail. The list goes on !

That’s not reality, that’s Star Trek Syndrome.

Reality is more interesting. Imagine having to Control-Alt-Delete the Enterprise! Didn’t you just ONCE want to see the elevator stick? Or someone rushing down the hallway who trips? Or have that huge view screen on the bridge show the Microsoft Blue Screen of Death? Just once??

It’s one thing to write your futuristic science fiction novel and show perfection. It’s another matter entirely to EXPECT perfection just because a story is set in the future. We haven’t cured cancer yet, what makes anyone think we will in 100 years? Or 200?

Another mistake - Light speed. Here’s a hint: If an object is 500 light years away, and your ship only has “light speed”, it’s gonna take that ship 500 years to reach it.

Stay current, people ! Stephen Hawking recanted his theory last year and admits black holes probably do not exist.

One of my favorite movie booboos is the guy-exposed-to-vacuum scene, where some hapless dude has a tear in his suit or gets ejected through a hatch. Love the debates directors and script writers undergo trying to decide if that guy’s gonna explode or implode!

Fact is, he’s just gonna suffocate and die. All the air would be sucked from his lungs as soon as he opened his mouth to gasp (assuming he would), there’s no more air to suck IN, so he dies. It’s debatable whether or not he’d freeze solid first - depends on the proximity of a heat source. Freezer burn IS inevitable, though.

I won’t even mention ship engine sounds in space ! Puleeze!! I’m just not sure if they do it because they’re ignorant, or because it makes for a more exciting “car chase” in space.

Star Trek Syndrome also includes techno-babble. Dazzle them with bullshit ONLY when you don’t have a clue yourself and you know it. Script writers use that technique to fill gaps - like writers who inject the F word in dialog every third or fourth word . . . it’s not a sign of modern, hip writing, but a stamp of stupidity. They’re ignorant of dialog!

Dialog is easy, people. Ever have a conversation? Put quotes in there, interject a few adverbs, adjectives, etc and you have dialog!

If you’re gonna get detailed about your ship and its engine - do a modicum of research. Use a technique that’s at least BASED on a current theory, feel free to add several generations of research to it that hasn’t taken place yet, but don’t pile it on too thick. If you don’t read current physics theories and don’t plan to take the time - then avoid specifics! Generalize - tell us your ship can get there from here in ten days. We don’t really care how, we just wanna know what everyone will do after they arrive.

And if you want the future to be pristine and Trek-Like, fine. But never, under any circumstances, assume all futuristic stories should!

So - to that one twit out there in cyber life who keeps emailing me and calling me a fool for not simply putting “transporters” on all my ships - put down the Pop Tart, power down that PC, change your t-shirt and GO OUTSIDE ! Or read a book. Or something.

Just get a clue. There IS life outside Star Trek !

On the brighter side

2005-04-12T13:56:00.000-07:00

At least editing a new story slowly and meticulously with pencil and paper takes a long story and turns it into an even longer story ! Only halfway through chapter 2, and my changes have already added 9 pages.

That doesn't make it good, of course, just longer !

I find myself slightly preoccupied with various thoughts. Do I post this story the same way I always have, or just put it up for complete download? I know I sure as h*@& wouldn't sit at a computer and read an entire story, I'd print it out. But these people . . . these readers . . . sometimes they take and take and take and just demand more!

Sometimes.

Granted, most of them are incredibly polite, and extremely sweet.

Truly the vast majority of feed back I get is nothing short of perfect courtesy. And for them, I want to bend over a bit further. I want to figure out the best and easiest way for them to just click a link and download the whole thing in one big swallow, so they can print it out, or carry it around on their pda.

But there's always the one. That one out of fifty who comes along, says something REALLY stupid, then makes the demands. Instead of asking nicely if I could provide easy downloads, they threaten never to read another story until I do.

My typical reply?

Blogger has rules against profanity, so I'll leave it up to the imagination!

It's stupid - I know - but even though I can get 100+ fantastic comments and great letters and really sweet, polite fans - - there's always one in the bunch who thought the stories were ridiculous, made no sense whatsoever, had far-fetched plots, poorly constructed characters and confusing dialog !

And I'm thinking - So, you read them ALL ?? Why? I mean come on, these things are LONG! I'm not writing little short stories here, people.

Why, in the name of all that's holy, would someone READ - what is it now, 5 or 6 stories - and only THEN write to the author and tell them how badly they sucked? I'm thinking if you didn't like them, don't read them! I could not personally care one little tiny bit if YOU read them or not! And while I can (and should) take the bad with the good - I do require the bad to show at least a modicum of intelligence !

After all - if 200 people tell you a plot was great, and ONE person comes along and says they didn't understand any of it - who's really the idiot here?

Phew. That felt good. I'd worry that I'm pissing people off with this blog, but I know there's no one here - a great feeling, really, to know you can vent this way, like screaming from the top of the mountain. Maybe some naked camper is hearing the echo.

Then again, maybe not !

What I Want

2005-04-11T11:05:00.000-07:00

Like minded people. In person, I have no problem finding like minded people. Except I haven’t yet found one who can discuss writing -- especially the unique and sometimes bizarre world of writing fiction that is posted on the internet for the free enjoyment of others. That just isn't something you bring up with regular real-world friends.

First of all, we writers are a solitary, slightly volatile and always a little paranoid group of individuals.

Second of all, doing it for free on the internet leaves us dangling out there in the potentially ridiculed, you-must-have-no-talent zone.

Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m a complete hack, with no talent whatsoever, just typing to hear myself think. That just may be the case, actually. Don't imagine my ego keeps me from believing this could very well be true.

What I want - what I’ve always wanted - is to find a group of people doing exactly what I’m doing, who’d like to occasionally chat about it. About the pitfalls, the frustrations, the excitement, the fun, and the wonder that is writing. What I hate is people who just want to sit around and talk about their story. Get feedback, praise, that pat-on-the-back they feel they so richly deserve.

I just want to talk about WRITING. About the direction it’s taking, the influence and effect (or lack thereof) of the internet. About what does and doesn’t seem to sell. About how characters take shape, how descriptions are rendered, what goes through your mind when you’re working up a plot. I’d love to talk about what feedback does to a writer, about how it makes you feel, how much authority you give it. How you feel about your own work, how you deal with writing fiction that may or may not ever be read by anyone at all.

That’s what I want. Just a handful of like minded people. People who understand that one minute you want to sit around and discuss things, but the next minute you don’t ! People who understand the writer’s mind and how on and off it can be.

What I want is to find out I’m not the only one on this planet doing this.

I rarely get what I want.

On Writing

2005-04-08T09:13:00.000-07:00

Week God-knows-what . . . somewhere around nine -- I’d guess -- into the writing of the newest story.

I’ve entered the gravy stretch, as I call it. Having just completed my newest piece of fiction, I now face the job of “buffing” it up, adding filler and natural preservatives.

Now that the grunt work is over, the hard part begins. Actually the hard part can be a blast - once a story is completed, from start - through middle - on to end, the bones are laid out. Then the task of fleshing out can begin. Bringing life to the beast. It’s a great pleasure to sit there, holding these pieces of paper, all neatly punched and bound together for convenience. While I write in front of a computer screen, I edit on paper with a pencil, scribbling notes and changed lines in the margins (singled spaced because double just looks too funky, even if it would make my life a whole lot easier).

I read an article one time, years ago, about how all these famous authors worked. What techniques they used, what habits they fell into when penning a new piece of fiction. One would use an old manual typewriter and bang out words onto paper, never even considering reworking a single line. One wrote in pencil, on neatly lined paper, for an hour every day regardless of inspiration or ideas. Another got up every morning, would march straight down stairs and stand at a typewriter until exactly ten pages were laid out, then quit for the day.

I used to think these methods might have merit, and perhaps if I could develop a routine or discipline like these great authors, I’d be two steps ahead of the game. I think it took me, maybe five minutes after reading that article, to realize how stupid that was. It wasn’t the method that made the writer, but the writer who made the method.

Me - I work while at work, sneaking in a paragraph here, a sentence or three there, in between daily work, during breaks and lunch. There was a time I would write at home, late at night, in my room at the computer. And that worked great, till I got tired of it. Now I almost never write at home, unless I have printed pages that I’m buffing and adding gravy to. Then it’s on the couch, with a pencil, in the single spaced margins.

Having been taught early in writing classes that only a weak thinker uses ‘He said’, ‘She replied’, ‘He suggested’. A truly creative person finds other ways to finish a sentence, indicate who said what and how it was stated. Recently I’ve changed my thinking, and now force myself - against what had become instinct - to put at least some of them in. But honestly - how often can you say ‘He replied’ ??

Ya gotta get creative, see. This is where the sweat starts. It’s filler, that’s all. The potatoes you’re having along with the meat. But it’s necessary, like the veggies. And it’s hard. It’s the hardest part, the most fun part, sometimes more of an aggravation than anything - but it’s what makes the story. A good writer can fill the pages between dialog and action with filler that entertains. A great writer fills you up without you even realizing you’ve just eaten.

And still, I’m left struggling to find new and creative ways to indicate speech, always mindful of the late great master Douglas Adams who wrote: “His statement hung in the air much the same way a brick doesn’t.”

Now that’s deep, man!

Pet Peeve #1

2005-04-06T09:55:00.000-07:00

Humans are just about the strangest animals I know. I can say that, being one and all.

And I know I’m not the only one who enjoys spending a day sitting somewhere, coffee in hand, just watching people. It’s a popular hobby.

But let me tell you - if you REALLY want to experience people-watching, and can take large doses of strange behavior in a semi-interactive, personally intrusive way - you should put up a booth at your nearest Farmers Market or art show, and try selling something. It’s a huge eye-opener, lemme tell ya!

My sister and I have been doing this for 5 years now - we’ve found ourselves a part of this community of artists who do shows in our area and beyond. It’s a very interesting, and rewarding hobby whose side-effect is sitting in a booth for ten hours, watching people go by and ranking them into specific categories.

And Lord is it interesting!

For instance: Women come along, children in tow, and we hear one of two things: “Touch with your eyes, only.” Or “Don’t touch anything. I said don’t touch. Stop touching. Do I have to tell you again? Put that down. Stop touching! Don’t touch. Keep your hands down! I told you stop touching. Don’t touch anything.” The latter is almost always proceeded by the parent looking at something he or she can focus deeply on while pretending to ignore the child who still keeps touching.

Neither method works, by the way. Children see things, they want to touch them. Children who have been raised with no manners, will touch them! Occasionally we’ll witness the “Touch with your eyes, only” method having some effect - but then you see a “Don’t touch anything” parent try that on their own child, to no avail.

Personally, I don’t see the logic in “touch with your eyes” because kids are picking up on the action word “touch” and not comprehending the part where they’re not actually supposed to reach out and touch something. But there are exceptions.

I can say, though, that I prefer a child who doesn’t quite “get” that concept, over the one who has to be told over and over and over again and still won’t obey. Blame the kids? Of course not - any parent who has to repeat an order more than twice is doing it wrong.

We’ve considered putting our jewelry behind glass cases, but women are tactile shoppers, and jewelry begs to be fondled. So we sit, and we watch, and when children come into the booth and their eyes light up with brat-filled mischief, we go on full alert !

Another favorite annoyance of mine is the “Oh, I could make that myself.” Especially when they come in a flock. Several ladies, all coming in the booth together, chatting and nattering about something. One of them will always pick up a necklace and announce loudly to her friends “Oh Betty, you make beads, don’t you?” whereupon Betty will turn and reply with a smile “Sure, Mary-Ann, I could make that. You can get that stuff just about anywhere.” Then Mary-Ann will inevitably turn to myself or my sister, smile widely, lay the necklace down and say “Beads sure are popular, aren’t they? Seems to me everyone is doing this now.” Then they all wander off into the next booth, blithely ignorant to their own rude behavior, where we hear Betty inform the Raku pottery vendor that she took a clay class in college once, made things just like these.

Is jewelry popular? Sure. Can just about anyone with the right tools and supplies and a smidgen of talent make their own? Of course.

Anyone with a kitchen can bake a cake, too. Does this mean you walk into a bakery, glance at their offerings, then tell them that YOU can do a much better job? You have friends who have ovens, how hard could this be?

My pet peeve isn’t so much WHAT people say, as much as the fact that they’ll say it. Out loud, to your face, without even imagining it might or could be rude !

Coming up, Pet Peeve #2 . . . Put it back where you found it !

On writing

2005-04-04T11:24:00.000-07:00

A very schizophrenic hobby if ever there was one.

Writing is a solitary pursuit. An extremely personal one. You create characters and situations, give them life and make them do your bidding - all by yourself. And yet the goal is - having completed a tale in solitude - to share it with the world. If it weren’t for sharing, you wouldn’t have need to write it down. It would exist as nothing more than a thought, or daydream, of exquisite detail and enjoyment. And yet, sharing your writing is like allowing strangers to watch your daydreams.

A writer is someone who can daydream in minute detail, and MUST write it down. One who can create characters and situations that never existed before, but cannot resist the urge to see that daydream become reality in the written (or nowadays keyed) word.

If you’re published, you have credibility. If your work can be found on the shelves of Barnes & Noble, or ordered from Amazon, you’re a “real” writer. Anyone else is simply a “wannabe”, someone who couldn’t cut it in the published world, or doesn’t have the talent required to make it past a rejection letter.

True?

I’m still undecided.

On the one hand, I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a child. I’ve dreamed of seeing MY name on one of those paperbacks on the shelves, of being one of a group I considered elite and wise.

On the other hand - I’ve learned a lot about those people over the years. They’re elite to the point of snobbery, and uphold the belief that those who are not published are not writers, not talented. I’ve learned that the very group my pride wanted me to be a part of, isn’t something I would be proud to join. I have a natural aversion to "celebrity".

But then that little voice creeps in - the one that says if you WERE a part of that crowd, you wouldn’t care if they were snobs because you’d be a snob, too.

Funny thing happened one day, several years ago - I’m at the bookstore, looking for something to read, and I can’t find a thing. I’m standing there, looking at all these published novels, paperbacks, anthologies - and they’re all crap. Simplistic characters, cookie-cutter situations, clichéd endings - even a writer I considered a favorite, Anne McCafferey, I realized she’s not good, she’s just published.

Don’t get me wrong, she was good. In fact once upon a time, she was great. Then all her characters started looking similar. All her situations resolved themselves in exactly the same manner. The only thing that changed from novel to novel were the names. Then I began to realize just how much drivel is out there, sandwiched between glossy covers. Boring, unimaginative crap published by such big names as Del Rey, Bantam, Columbia - from Science Fiction, to General Fiction, and right on through Mystery.

I found myself time after time reading a book only to stop a quarter of the way through in frustration, knowing I could do better. Nothing was giving me the thing I craved. Nothing had the same satisfaction of books I’d loved in the past. Even Tom Clancy novels were now just so many pages upon pages upon pages of descriptive detail that I didn’t give one hoot about - with real character interaction spaced so far distant as to make it useless.

Do I consider myself on a par with Tom Clancy? Lord no! Do I consider myself good enough to be published? Knowing what publishers are looking for, I’d have to say No. They want that drivel you see on bookstore shelves. They want dime novels that kids will buy in droves, or mysteries that will sell hundreds of copies to book club members. They want deep emotional sagas that Oprah will talk about, where women live battered lives until they finally break free and run off with some handsome savior. Or the military detail of a spy thriller that makes sense only to retired officers with time on their hands who want to relive the glory days.

They want marketable work. And an interesting note - published authors don’t make their living writing. Only the Tom Clancy’s and Michael Chriton’s make a living doing it, and that’s mostly because they’ve already made a living doing other things. Nine out of ten published authors have day jobs.

So why do it? Am I just spouting sour grapes because I’m NOT published? Point of fact - I’ve never sent any of my work in. I haven’t even attempted. Publishers have slush piles larger than my bedroom - stories they haven’t read, novels they’ve accepted but have no need to print yet. When you send something in, you don’t get read, your cover letter gets a glance - if it doesn’t WOW them, that’s it. If it WOWs them, you’re tossed on the slush-pile floor (at the bottom). If and when they need to put something new out, you’re in a long line. Want a real ego-buster? Try reading the established guidelines for any publishing house, then imagine yourself meeting those guidelines. You won’t even get passed the line that starts: We are not accepting any fiction from unpublished authors at this time.

Who needs that? Do you NEED to be published for validation? Do I need to be published in order to be a writer? Does posting my fiction on the internet, free of charge, make me a member of the future of what fiction writing is and could be, or just someone who can’t “cut it” in the real world?

Honestly? I don’t know.

That’s what makes writing a very schizophrenic hobby if ever there was one.

Revelations

2005-04-04T08:52:00.000-07:00

Funny thing about life-changing events. They tend to change one’s life, and one’s attitude.

In October of 2004, my sister - with whom I also live and share a house - experienced a life-threatening condition that required immediate emergency surgery. For a good 24 hour period I sat alone in a waiting room not knowing what was going to happen, then for a good three months after that, I worried about the financial backwash. I’m happy to report all ended well, with my sister’s health being restored and our finances surviving just fine (but only after involving a lawyer and petitioning the Insurance Commissioner of Washington State which took up several months of my time). Thanks to that experience, not only have my letter writing skills gained me prestige and publishing with a lobby group, but I’ve also reached a very important conclusion in life: It’s MINE.

I’m tired of putting up with things I don’t have to, and people who annoy me. I’m tired of wasting time in situations I could just as easily avoid. And I’m sick and tired of politely agreeing to things, ignoring things, and going along with things that I don’t want anything to do with, just because someone ELSE thinks I should!

Ever have a friend who decided to just glom on to you, like you needed a mother or something - someone who gets it in their head you’re helpless and therefore need to be taken care of? Or a friend who asks you constant questions, needing to know every little detail of your life, what you’re doing, where you’re going, who you’re doing it with, why you’re doing it - day after day after day ?

Or worse yet - a friend you’ve had for years and years, who constantly took advantage of you, expected everything FROM you, and never reciprocated? Someone who expected you to constantly “entertain” her, who would only email you to complain that you hadn’t been keeping up a constant stream of “entertainment” to make her day a happier one? Someone who could tell you how great you are in one breath, then berate you for some imagined offense or stupidity at the drop of a hat?

Sounds odd, I know. And the worse part is - I put up with that for many, many years. I made adjustments to MY life to accommodate hers. I’d constantly change my opinion to avoid an argument, not because she was right - but because trying to explain to her MY point of view would become an exhausting exercise in futility ! I let her opinion shape things I did, things I said - I let her views confuse my own convictions.

I think a lot of us do. And I think it’s time to stop. We only get one life, one go ‘round. There’s plenty of crap in this world we can’t avoid, so why do we put up with the other stuff?

I say it’s time to break free. For myself, and my sister, we’re just not going to take it any more. I now understand why my grandmother always spoke her mind, and never took any guff from anyone - she’d reached this point. She’d achieved this realization in her life that in fact her life was HERS and hers alone. True friends understand that, and have no problems with it. Anyone else simply doesn’t matter.

I’ve been a fool for allowing someone else’s views and thoughts and opinions cloud my own just because she spoke them louder, insisted they were the one and right way, and would berate me for thinking otherwise.

I will be a fool no longer.

Day One

2005-03-31T11:26:00.000-08:00

Having taken the plunge, I now find not one single thought forming cohesion! But in time, it will come together. This blog exists really for no other purpose than to give myself a place to vent some steam, air some oddities and document random ideas. If not one other person comes by, that's fine. Sometimes you just need an outlet - a place to vent some steam, regardless of its purpose.

I have two major loves in life these days - I write fiction, and I make and sell jewelry with my sister. Both offer up some interesting insights into life, liberty and the strangeness of the human animal. So mainly, my posts will be of two vents: What takes place in the crazy world of craft shows, farmers markets, art exhibits and that wacky thing we call "Selling your art to the public." Or, as we insiders call it - dealing with the whackos. My other vent is the wild and crazy ups, downs and frustrating middles of writing original fiction that's posted on the internet (at least until I get lucky enough to get published!!) - not holding out much hope.

But, since I've only just finally managed to get a name for this blog that wasn't already taken (trust me, FoggyBrain wasn't my first, second, or even thirteenth choice), and I've only just now figured out how this works - this post is about all I can manage today.

Tomorrow, April 1st, is in fact my birthday. No fooling. So this little outlet is my little gift to myself. I can sit here in the privacy of my own computer, spew forth wisdom, knowledge and experience, and pretend it all makes perfect, introspective sense. And knowing that no one I know is reading this, I feel more free to open up.

But since I tend to get a bit long-winded, I don't honestly believe anyone's going to make it through many of these! But that's okay, this is here for me. Seeing thoughts on paper or screen helps clear out my mind !