Bad Book Reviews!

I'm launching my 'Bad Book Reviews' here now!

What qualifies a book as being a 'Bad Book'? Typically these are the books that have done well enough to earn a following of hatred.

 I'm open to suggestions, but the books must meet these criteria. One, the book needs to be pretty well known. Two, no self pubs, horror or excessively violent books, no non-fiction or politics. Three, I reserve the right to reject any and all recommendations. Four, I'm looking for books that might appeal to people, yet managed to still go wrong. Books that completely tanked for being terrible got there for a reason. I want books, that like certain 'B' movies, find there way onto shelves over and over, despite being terrible.

Got any ideas? Thus far on the chopping block are '50 Shades of Gray', and 'Twilight'. I've already read both, but I'm waiting on 50 Shades to do a comprehensive overall review of the trilogy.

So give me your suggestions! What are some terrible books out there that manage to sell? What books do you want me to critique with no holds barred honesty? Give me ideas!

When Depression Helps you Set up Camp and Stay There

I wrote about my depression a few weeks ago.  Many people were hugely supportive, and all those kind words helped.

I am not all better. I still haven't seen a Doctor, and it's really just a self-defeatist attitude, and a almost Freudian forgetfulness that makes it that much easier to procrastinate. Thing is, I'm not miserable all the time.  I'm not unhappy all the time.

I had an amazing birthday. I was already having a good day,  then so many friends sent me birthday wishes through twitter and Facebook that it made the day that much more wonderful. I was really surprised, and grateful, that so many people stopped long enough to type a few words. the whole week went by in a blur.
I am lucky to have friends, who at the very least, are there to tweet and text almost any time of day. I'm lucky to have a fantastic family, a husband who is incredibly perfect for me. A beautiful daughter who is very well behaved, despite inheriting her mother's tendency toward weirdness. I have tons of extended family there to talk, to help, to support me.
I am so very fortunate to have all of these things.

Yet it doesn't fix my brain. It doesn't keep the depression from creeping in and making me unhappy in spite of all the things I am grateful for. Sometimes the very nature of depression makes it easier to be angry with myself, because I should be enjoying my life. I should be happy with what I have, and I shouldn't waste so much time on mindless pursuits that I'm only doing to stave off the weariness.

I compared depression to being lost in the swamps. The thing about being stuck in the mire, is that everytime you fall in the quicksand, nearly drown in the bog, or get mauled by an alligator, you have to retreat. You lose ground, you lose time. Instead of being able to push forward with your life, you feel like you're never making progress.

For me, it starts to become a pattern, the depression creeps up and mires me in place, and after so many tries to do something ambitious, to succeed, and after so much failing, it's easier to not try anything. That's one of the things I hate the most.

If the job is easy, perhaps tackling a load of laundry, or baking a tray of cookies, I'll take it one, and then congratulate myself on the small achievement. Then because I did something, that becomes justification to do nothing else. It'd be different if what I was attempting actually took my out of my comfort zone, or required a real commitment, but I don't do those things when I'm down.

I've set up a camp on a small piece of 'safe' land in the swamp.  I never try anything big. I avoid leaving the house except when I have to.  I avoid offering to help/socialize/interact with people, and I completely avoid tackling any creative project that requires real effort and passion. It becomes a sort of wall, and if I stay within it, then maybe just maybe I won't wind up failing, I won't wind up trying anything that might fail, and so I won't fail myself.

I don't want to drown in the swamp. So rather than trying to swim, I'll just avoid going near the water.
This is the stage of depression, this form of self limiting behavior, that's so easy to get stuck in. Even people who don't think they are depressed, don't think they've ever been depressed get trapped here. You aren't really happy. You aren't miserable, but you aren't enjoying life either.  It creeps in, and you tell yourself all the little lies: that you never really wanted to try for that dream, or that you never really cared for the friends you've lost touch with. You aren't really hurting, you aren't really sad, you're just existing.

Sometimes I wonder how much of my life I wasted just letting life pass me by because the depression and my own insecurity kept me from trying. I wonder how many of those years where I didn't really do all that much are actually a product of me becoming complacent in my own apathy.

Let me make sure I explain. It's okay to have a life where you stay at home, work on your own hobbies and enjoy a quiet life. There is nothing wrong with a peaceful life. What matters is what you feel about your life. Sometimes I feel like I'm failing in some way because I'm NOT a stepford wife. I don't have a clean house and I'm perpetually disorganized and I just don't care if clutter piles up. But having a clean house or a perfect kitchen isn't what makes me happy. If you are legitimately happy and satisfied in your life then you aren't camping in the swamp.

I'm not in the swamp because I want to be here. I'm here because I'm afraid to leave right now. I hate the voice in my head that is constantly shooting down my hopes. I hate the crippling uncertainty that makes me feel convinced that my next attempt at anything meaningful will fail. I hate the fact that life starts to become a meaningless blur. So many days that don't matter, weeks and months that go by without me doing anything outside my very small circle of what makes me ...not happy... but safe. I hate the tired weariness that comes with it. The sleep disruptions, the irritability.
I'm going to get help. I'm going to get out. I don't want to live here anymore.

I just hope that if you read this and see yourself, or if you know someone else who might be helped by this, that you're willing to share it with them. Help them get out. Its so very easy to believe, when your depressed, that you don't really deserve to be happy, and that nothing will get you there.
Just because you got lost in the swamp doesn't mean you should settle in to live there. There is more to life than settling for misery. Please, if you feel the same way, get help. Tell a friend, tell a doctor, call a hotline and if you can't get out of the swamp on your own, your friends can be the rescue team that shows you a way out.

Hang in there. It will get better.
Liz

Current Projects

aka What is Sizzling in my Brain Pan

I'm trying to write without falling into that place where I start to hate the words. This means I'm also dabbling in several projects to avoid stagnation. For some writers this is a kiss of death. For most this is probably ill advised. Regardless, these are the ideas I've slapped onto paper to call them mine.

What I'm Writing:
Pyrophage -aka Talia. 2nd Draft done, percolating between heavy edits and some large formatting issues that need to be addressed. Genre: Urban Fantasy, Dystopian Sci-fi. Series. 1st of 6. (Burn baby BURN!)

Fiends Rise - aka GIANT LIZARDS EAT MANHATTAN  1st draft 30% done. Outlines are done, (most) world building done. Hurting my brain so I'm taking a break. (Related to Pyrophage. Same world. 2 of 6.)

Anna Undying - YA Vampire Fic, Modern Hungary. (Castles+Cellphones=awesome) Hard outline done. MC fleshed out, secondary characters falling into place.

Laboratory 6 - Short story. Urban Fantasy. Underground science compound, Emus, Raptors, and science geeks. I'm panstering this. I'll probably make an outline, but it's a short, so I'm trying to see if I can wing a first draft w/out too much pre-planning. (Candy Coated Emu. 'Nuff Said.)

Pending Book Reviews:
50 Shades of Grey  (3/10 stars)
50 Shades Darker (I liked it more than I expected)

Suzanne Collins:
Hunger Games, (7/10 stars)
Catching Fire (5/10 stars)<-This may change. I want to reread.
Mockingjay (2/10 stars) (YES. REALLY.)

Chuck Wendig: Mockingbird (Really awesome. Need to re-read critically before rating)
Seanan McGuire: Ashes of Honor (<3! But needs a 2nd read.)

Twilight.... (Sigh. Yes, I may actually read the whole thing. If only to say YES, I read it, now STOP ASKING ME.)

Maybe some Charlaine Harris to round out the reviews, but frankly I already have SO MANY to do. Just... yeah. Give me time.

Also, this week was my birthday! (October 3rd) So I may be receiving even MORE BOOKS as gifts. I have been subsequently more busy as a result. Hopefully I'll be putting more work in here in the future. But first I have to plan time to sleep, meds, and all that jazz.

Vampires, and why Twilight isn't For Me.

I've always been a fan of vampire fiction. It started with Buffy when I was a teen, and Anne Rice (Yes, I was a teen dressed in black and chains reading "Interview with a Vampire" and "Lestat"), but more recently I almost hate to declare my love for the undead, since it always leads to the inevitable "Oh! So what did you think of Twilight?"

I will say this, having an internet account and moving in literary circles has made it impossible to avoid the anti-Twilight movement, the meme's, and the rants of people who did not like it. To be fair I did try to read summaries, and read the first chapter before making up my mind, but besides my innate desire to avoid 'book fads', I just found I could not suspend my disbelief, my ideals of vampires, long enough to want to read fully.

When I was a teen I spent much of my time in a vampire RPG chat. A lot of free-form character building, a lot of teens, and all the angst and drama of vampires. This is a big part of why I simply cannot fall in love with Twilight. After having seen every hackneyed vampire cliche, every angsty vamp/mortal romance played out by (mostly) flawed writing, I've no more room for the drama of "I'm undead, and your a teenager, but I love you enough not to kill you, or any other human being, because I’m a PG vampire in LOOOVE.”

This may not be fair, considering I haven’t read the books, but I think I’m just too old for the target demographic. Hell, I was bothered by the age and mentality of the twenty-one year old Anastasia in "50 Shades of Gray", the idea of a girl at the mentally and physically immature age of 16 dating and becoming obsessed with a man who looks her age but is centuries older bugs me. He is both old enough to know better, and yet we are supposed to view him as this romantic ideal man, wiser and stronger… Yet dumb enough to embroil her in a world of life or death vampire politics, werewolf games, and ultimately kill her at 19.

Then there’s Bella. Confused, lonely, typical teen. If they presented Bella as a more complete person, as a mature, self-contained individual (More like Buffy, or Katniss. Someone with inherent life experiences to lend her maturity) then the impossibility of the romance would make more sense to me as a reader.

Yes, Edward is breathtakingly lovely. Yes, any teenager with self-esteem issues would give her left hand to be worshiped by a male Adonis who thinks she’s amazing and special. (After all, that is how many sexual predators work.) Thing is, it’s all just too good to be true.

The appeal of vampires was always the trade-off of supernatural ability with deadly weakness. Vampires are super strong, beautiful, and seductive. They live forever, but they can never see daylight again, and they have no choice but to kill living, sentient human beings to continue their stolen immortality. The idea of feeding off animal blood so you can have a more sympathetic vampire is cute, but that’s not the point. Vampires are supposed to be deadly. They are supposed to be liars and seducers, stealing blood from the living so that they will not die. You can make the vampire sympathetic despite those issues, but it doesn't change the truth, vampires are dead. Vampires are predators. Vampires are murderers.

That’s what’s wrong with Twilight to me. Making vampires, all vampires capable of walking in the sunlight (except for fear of looking a little odd), and giving them phenomenal powers that they can obtain without being a danger to a human,  takes all the drama away. It leaves you with a shiny sparkly all too perfect hero with nothing to prevent a happy ending except for the possibility that he’ll snap his girlfriend in half in the bedroom, or that he’ll get the munchies while they snuggle in a sunlit field of daisies.

This is why I never got into Twilight. Bella is too young, too uncertain, too ordinary, and Edward is a shiny ideal without the deeper flaws that should be found in an immortal killing machine. I expect more from a vampire than stalking a teenager out of love. Stalking her for a snack makes much more sense.

Perhaps I am too jaded. I’ll stick to Underworld and True Blood. Even Buffy was a better tale for teens.

A 2nd Review of "One Salt Sea" by Seanan McGuire

(While I'm battling with my brain I'm reading. So have a book review! I love the Toby Series, and even though One Salt Sea came out last year (9-2011) I wanted to review it again because it astounded me just as much the 2nd read. Enjoy!)

There is a distinct possibility that I reviewed this book before, probably sometime last year when I first grasped this book with that feverish giddiness that comes with something new and glorious. I read it, and was drawn into a fantastic story that I loved. It’s an amazing book.

The thing is I struggle with reviews. They’re hard to do, and even harder to do when you read a book for the sheer joy of loving the series, because once it’s over you’re still riding that rush of new words and dazzling adventures, reeling from the climax, while simultaneously wandering around stunned for the release date of the next book.

A really good story yanks you out of reality, takes you on an adventure that makes you feel and see a different world, and when done well, the drop back to reality, back to this world, is a sudden crash, body rudely tossed from a getaway car that speeds off without you.

This time, the second time I've read the book, it’s simpler to come out of it and see all the details that made me love it. It’s easier for me to explain why it was amazing. I can only hope it encourages you to read it too.

This review will contain spoilers. If you’re worried that might make it impossible to enjoy reading the book, please read no further. 

*insert something profound*

I feel I need to post. It's not really a blog post... It's more of an apology. I could say how busy I am (not really) or how I intend to get back to things really soon (maybe). Truth is, I'm sliding into the mire.

I've tried to blog about it before. When it doesn't feel that bad I try to put the words down, but if I get interrupted or I stare at the words too long, I can't finish.

I haven't been writing. That hurts most of all. I stare at the files that need to be completed, the outlines of scenes that need to be written and I want to cry. I hate myself for taking a break... even if I know, I know I need to stop and fix myself first, I feel like I'm failing my story. I feel like I'm failing every other writer who's still managed to write through their own drama and problems.

It starts out so slow. I think I'm okay, then I have one bad day, and I think I'll bounce back. I usually do... maybe it's a bad week, but I usually bounce back. Except now the days are getting shorter and I remember that last year, and the year before that, fall is when it starts to hit harder, last longer.

Living with depression is like making your way across a swamp, there are hidden dangers all around. If the light starts to fade, or you make a wrong step, or you pursue the glimmer of a wil-o-wisp of false hopes, then you slip and the mud gets deeper and the water gets colder and you have to backtrack to safer ground before all is lost.
Maybe that's a stupid metaphor. It really is so hard to just keep typing this when I'd rather just hide in the most oft spoken lie: I'm fine. It's the lie I wear like a false armor, to hide the shame of being 'broken', of being 'defective', of being 'depressed' and there isn't a damn thing I... on my own... can do to cure it.

I need help. Yet there are few things I hate more than picking up the phone to find a doctor and get some kind of treatment. It's easier to convince myself that all the things that could go wrong, will, so why bother?

I'm on twitter obsessively. I wait for people to say things that might distract me, to chat with friends and smile and laugh and for those few minutes... hours... I feel better. If only it would last.

I don't want to worry anyone. Goddamnit this is hard. I hate myself for even writing the words here. "drama queen" "whiner" "you'll just upset people" My depression has a lot to say on the issue.

I'm going to end it here and click post before I lose my nerve. To my friends... I'm still trying to get better. I'm trying.
this is nothing but today.... maybe tomorrow will be better... I cling to that hope.
Maybe saying something here will take some of the pressure off and I'll find some more traction.

I'm sorry.

A Flash Fiction Story: Mixed Messages

I'm a big fan of Chuck Wendig's blog over at terribleminds.com and he does an awesome weekly flash fiction challenge for interested writers, for the first time I decided to sit down and snap something out. the challenge was to smash different genre elements together and create something that fit in several places. I liked the results. This is the product of one day of writing, and a few quick and dirty editing passes. Hope y'all enjoy.

(I am nervous about 'publishing' my work. Especially something I was forced to spend so little time on. Since there's only a week given in the contest. I'd like to make a bunch of disclaimers, but I'll just let you read it and be the judge. Now, I'll go back to pretending I'm invincible and the BEST.WRITER.EVER. ;) )

Flash Fiction: A Game of Aspects

Mixed Messages

Her name was Marion. She had the body of a pinup girl, and the eyes of a lost soul haunted by some inner grief. Bright blue eyes that blazed out at him from beneath ravens wing curls. She was beautiful and alluring, and Troy wanted her at once.

She sat at the bar drinking a dirty martini like it was going to drown the sorrow she was failing to hide. Troy slid up to her. His grey suit was tailored to fit, and pitching his voice low, he tipped his fedora at the lady.

“Why don’t I buy your next round?” She looked at him, flushed. Her skin looked so pale against her black flowing dress. Black wasn't her color, neither was the sorrow that hung on her every move.

“Oh, I shouldn't.” She breathed, her voice breathy and frail, matching her perfectly as she glanced down.

“Look babe, I can’t stand to see a pretty little thing like you looking so sad. Just let me keep you company.” He bartered, leaning on the bar and stunning her with a smile. Her lips curved slowly, a timid little smile brightening her whole face.

“Alright, but only for a while. I have to meet someone.” That was a mysterious answer, and his interest was piqued, but even as he bought her a round and they talked through the evening, she refused to tell him more.

She looked up to the clock after barely an hour, and her face went pale.

“I have to go now.” She whispered. Troy’s heart gave a wrench, something about this girl called to him, more than any dame ever had. Wherever she was going, she didn't seem happy. Alarm bells were ringing in his head but he didn't heed them at all.

“Let me walk you… wherever you’re going.” He said offering his arm. Her lips tightened, and she looked ready to say no, but her worry made her reach for him instead.

He took her hand and led her to the street. It wasn't far, she said, as they walked out into the night.

“If you need any help… I can help you.” Troy offered, all but begging. She looked at him, sapphire eyes in the dark holding his, her smile so sweet.

“You’re an angel to take me this far, but it’s too dangerous. I can’t let you. He’d…” Here she stops, cringing, a tear in her eye. Feeling suddenly bold, Troy turns her to him, leans down and kisses those sweet lips. Her skin’s so cold in the chill night air, and she stops, frozen at his touch. He pulls back, afraid, and her eyes hold his.

“I’m sorry. I couldn't bear to see you cry.” She smiles, and puts a cool hand to his cheek.

“Oh, you dear sweet man, you should go now before you get in too deep.” She pulls her hand away, almost trembling. It might be the cold, or she might be afraid. Troy slips off his suit coat and wraps it around her.

“It’s too late for me babe. From the moment I laid eyes on you it was trapped in your spell.” Troy wants to see her smile again, but he can’t help feeling grim. “Is it your man, husband maybe? Are you afraid of him?”

She flinches, betraying herself, turning her face away.

“It’s too dangerous. You shouldn't be near me.” She glances at the old clock tower and gasps. “I’m going to be late. I've got to go!”

She took off running, heels clicking in the autumn starlight, and he followed like a fool, chasing her down the winding lane, the amber trees whispering their warnings as he went.

He paused when she fled through the cemetery gate. Old steel arches looked foreboding, and what was a girl like her doing in a graveyard at night? His blood chilled, he could practically hear the warmth and light of the bar calling him back to the clink and pour of a whiskey on the rocks. It would be so easy to turn back, but he remembered the look in her eyes. He couldn't let a lovely lady go into the dark alone.

He pursued her down the lane, losing her for a moment among the headstones. She slipped behind a crypt, and he lost her. A glimpse of grey by the moonlight showed him she wasn’t far, but it was only his coat, left draped over a tombstone.

He heard the sound of voices then, whispers flying susurrus on the breeze.

“You’re late. Where have you been?” A sharp mans voice. Followed by a plead.

“Please. I’m sorry! I couldn't do it. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. It’s wrong!”

The man’s voice was a snarl of rage. Troy felt his blood boiling as he inched closer. There was a pistol strapped to his leg, and he leaned down carefully to slip it off his ankle.

“Do you want to die?! You’re running out of time, Marion!”

That was all he needed to hear, he whipped around the crypt, holding his pistol steady, and faced them. She stood in tears, before a man dressed in black, his skin pale as a corpse, wearing a suit that looked twenty years old.

“That’s about enough!” Snapped Troy. “I don’t appreciate you threatening the lady.”

They both turned to him, Marion cried out.

“Viktor no!” As the man beside her snarled, his teeth like fangs, and leaped across the space. Troy snapped the trigger, the crack of gunfire as he fired again and again. Viktor stumbled, extending a hand, his long nails scratched across Troy’s face as he fell to the ground, stone cold and still.

Troy could feel his arms trembling. This was far more than he’d planned. Still, he knew she was worth it. He went to her, stepping over the fallen man. She stared at Viktor’s body then looked to him, her eyes impossibly wide.

“Oh Troy, you’re bleeding.” She whispered. Troy saw her trembling. She must be freezing cold, so he held her close.

“It’s okay babe. As long as you’re okay.” He murmured.

“Ohhhh…” She gasped. She seemed suddenly tense. “You shouldn't have come.”

“It’s alright. I’d do it again.” He said, with a smile.

“Would you?” She whispered. Her voice sounded so strange, strained and altered. He looked down, into blue eyes turned impossibly black. A gut punch of horror filled his loins yet he stood rooted, trapped in the depths of her eyes. “Oh Troy… I’m so sorry.”

The fangs changed her voice. They changed her face too, but she was still beautiful. She bit his neck, holding him tight, and all he could do was gasp one last weak cry. She held him as he died, tears in her eyes, even as she killed him. His last thought being that it served him right, a girl like that was too good to be true.

As she lay him down beside a tombstone, Viktor stretched and stood.

“There my love… It’s done.”

Marion dashed the tears from her eyes and the blood from her mouth.

“He was so kind.” She bit her lip. “I hate this! Will it always be so hard?”

Viktor grabbed her close and kissed her. She kissed him back, melting in his bony arms.

“It gets easier with every bite my love. Give it time. You only died yesterday.”

Marion smiled at him, a smile that lost its sadness.

“I died to be with you.”

Victor stroked her pale cheek.

“Now he died to be with you.”

Remembering... and passing the memory on.

I have a bunch of other blog posts scheduled. They'll be ready later in the week. Today however is a day for something else. Today is September 11th. It's been eleven years, over a third of my lifetime.

Yet events like that stay seared into your memory forever. It wasn't just watching the news, seeing the buildings fall, it was the aftermath. It was seeing the faces of every victim on TV, hearing their families, seeing the handmade posters and photos hung along the fence at ground zero. It was the days the rescue crews spent searching, digging, trying to find anyone left alive in the rubble. The horror of the final death toll.

That day was also about the heroism of ordinary people. The way Flight 11 was rerouted by the passengers. The Firemen who ran into the towers knowing the risk... and doing it anyway. The police and first responders, who were there when the buildings came down, and the men and women who braved the dust cloud to go in after survivors before anyone could even see. That day was about the sheer loss of life, but also about how willing we are to unify against bitter circumstances to help each other.

I was only 17 when the towers fell. I was home sick that day, and wound up watching the news til I was too stunned to watch anymore. Then we watched the rest of the week. Nothing else sticks in my mind about that day, or the days after, my life revolved around trying to keep in the loop, wondering if we'd known anyone involved, watching them go through the pieces. It didn't feel real at first. The first footage they showed of the plane crash, and then the towers collapse, none of it felt real. That such a thing could happen, deliberately happen, was beyond my imagining.

Now today, as I got her ready for school, I had to try to explain to my five year old daughter what Patriot Day means, and why we all need to remember it. I wasn't going to wait for the schools to tell her, wait for her to learn it in history class. It may have happened six years before she was born, but it was important in so many ways.

So I told her about everything that happened as gently as I could without death tolls. I told her firefighters and police rushed to help people, even though they were in a lot of danger. She asked a lot of questions, and I tried to answer honestly. I told her today is an important day to remember all the good people who died, and that we should always be grateful to police and firefighters for being willing to rush in when there's danger and help people.

I may have to find a suitable children's book to share with her. Through all of it, I want her to focus on the positive. Terrorists performed a horrible heinous act, but their goal was to cripple us, make us feel weak, and instead people pulled together to help and save each other. I know this act has spawned a lot of politics, and unfortunate amounts of racism and religious bigotry, which we'll discuss when she's older. Right now, we aren't going to talk about the terrorists, or their motives, they are the faceless evil that hurt innocent people. Do their reasons really matter?

The 'bad guys' are all dead or captured. While other terrorists remain, today isn't about them. Today isn't about revenge. It's about mourning, remembrance, and knowledge that every day in our lives is precious, and should be grateful for it. For all that was lost, we remember. We will not forget.

Life, Equality, and Everything

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Just a quick note on my philosophy on life.  I believe a lot of things, and those things work for me. I choose not to believe in other things, and that is my freedom to do so. I feel like we are so often buffeted by controversy and rageface, especially when we’re online for any measure of time, or if we have the misfortune of being drawn into political ‘discussion’. It’s really important that we try to remember to respect and understand another’s opinions and choices.

I think the crux of all bigotry and friction lies at its very heart a big discomfort with things that are different. Maybe it’s religion, maybe it’s sexuality, maybe it’s an opinion on a book.

But here’s what you need to remember:

Different isn't evil.

Different isn't wrong.

Different doesn't need to be hidden, castigated, shunned or changed.

Different isn't scary.

It’s just different.

If you’re straight, and that guy is gay, so what?

If you’re Christian, and that guy is Muslim, so what?

If you thought Star Wars was the best thing ever, but that guy never really liked it at all, so what?

Life shouldn't be about wasting your energy hating, fearing, or trying to change the people around you. Granted, if you love something like Star Wars, or Religion, you might have this crazy wild urge to find someone to share it with. That’s GREAT! Up until the point that you keep pushing your opinions on someone else after they've politely said they are not interested.

Bigotry and hate is like a mushroom farm, it thrives best when locked away in the dark and is fed on bullsh*t. If there are people who are vastly different from you, rather than trying to change them your time would be much better spent trying to understand and learn more about them, and why they feel that way. You might find your opinions change… or they don’t!

Exploring a new religion doesn't mean you’ll automatically convert. Just like watching the Star Wars box set with an obsessed friend doesn't mean you’ll run out and buy a light saber. Life is full of choices; make the choices that are right for you. Based on your experience and what makes you happy.

As a corollary, don’t let other people tell you how to think, act, feel. Not religion, not family, not politics. People give you opinions that are often what they hope will make you happy, but they are opinions, not edicts. You figure out what is right for you.

There are limits of course to healthy expression. Do not do anything that impedes another person’s life, freedom, or self. Don’t mess with children or animals. Don’t be a predator. And don’t be a dick.

I have a lot of opinions and I feel strongly about some things. I do not expect you to agree with me. I only hope that you will keep an open mind and listen to all the words before deciding on a judgement. I’ve realized that almost all of my pent up frustration, especially regarding politics, comes out of a feeling that people keep making damning judgments about others. Everyone in politics seems so eager to assign blame while accepting none. It all becomes us vs them rhetoric and it’s just exhausting.

I’m in favor of fairness. I’m in favor of equality. I’m in favor of personal freedoms being protected by law. I’m in favor of listening, not condemning.

So that’s my philosophy. I do have my bad days, like everyone else, I have days when I get mad, or I get frustrated, or I’m totally baffled by something. I’m not perfect.

But no one is.

And that’s okay.

Liz 

Thoughts on Religion

This is one of the things I love about twitter. Sometimes I have the most interesting conversations with people I wouldn't otherwise meet. Like Thea van Diepen, who I've talked to about the hypothetical weight of a sealskin and more interesting ideas about organized religion.

Our conversation got Thea thinking, and she wrote a series of blog entries and like me enough to quote me. :) It's worth taking a look at. You can also follow her on twitter @XpectAberration.

http://expectedaberrations.blogspot.ca/2012/08/whats-up-with-this-whole-chosen-people.html

The blog has three parts. Standard Disclaimer: Once you leave my blog I'm not liable for the content of other people's heads. I just try to make sure the other heads I visit are interesting.

Intentions

I apologize for not having more new content up here. Blogging is one of those odd little activities that I wind up having a lot of feelings and plans, but I find myself juggling doubts and worries as well. It becomes one of those semi-competitive things where it isn't that I want to be better than the other blogs I read, I just don't want to be that much worse.
I'm a pantser, fly by the seat of my whimsy sort of blogger, but I started questioning that too. For while I want to maintain the freedom to just climb up on my blog and say whatever I'm thinking about, I recognize that in sitting down, typing something out and hitting send. Well... it's not the best way to present quality writing.
Then my brain starts to worry that people who read my unedited and sometimes sub-par blogging will assume that this is how I WRITE, and dear god they're JUDGING ME! What if they assume my book (which isn't even finished or being shopped yet) is TERRIBLE based on my mad slapdash approach??

This led to me not blogging, anything, because after I wrote it I'd set it down to edit 'later' and then I'd spend all my time editing, revising and writing on my MS that the blog entries just got abandoned. So clearly that much planning isn't going to work either.

So I'm going to compromise. I'm going to write my blog posts nicely, and neatly as I can in Word. I'll check my spelling and commas like a good girl, and then after a quick copy edit I will post them with the understanding that this is NOT my best work, but I am saving my best work for my actual novels. I'm not saying I'll deliberately put anything here that's not a unique idea, the writing I put here I am to have good content. I just don't have the sort of focus to regularly update a blog with perfectly polished entries.

Books are easier. Books I plan the end and middle and beginning before I start, I poke and prod and write and rewrite. My blog is more a stream of consciousness ramble that starts out with a point, eventually gets there, then sometimes continues on to a new question. It's not the prettiest most planned thing in the world.

But frankly, I need it. I need a place to write the words that are topical and important to me without having to worry about if it'll still be relevant in three weeks or a month, or a year. I want to write about what matters when it matters so I can work these thoughts out in catharsis, and maybe even spawn a meaningful discussion.

I intend to have more regular content here. I intend to link to other blogs that are relevant and interesting. I intend to do vocal, interesting, and possibly NSFW book reviews. (If I review a book with profanity, there might be profanity in the review. If I review erotica, there will be discussion of sex scenes. Don't be scared.) I intend to rant about possibly triggery subjects like rape culture, the phenomenon of 'the creeper' (related), and how to be less awkward in public (A process I'm still learning.).
I will probably discuss depression/anxiety/OCD my specific problems with those, how they relate to writing. I also hope to use this space for occasional musings on things that I love, things that inspire.
It's very likely that I won't hold myself to any sort of specific format, some posts might be long, some short, others might simply be a link and a quote to something I think is thought provoking.

All said and done, my goal is to use this space, to add to my scope here, and not just limit the freedom of my thoughts to twitter. This will be me, uncensored and not super focused. It'll be me trying to gather my thoughts, internet wandering, writing, and reading to one place so anyone interested can join me. Hope you enjoy that.

Additionally... this is like a New Years Resolution. I really hope I can stick to it. :-)
Liz

Letting time go on by...

I've neglected my blog, for which I'm sorry. I find it hard to allocate time to blogging but I don't want it to go untouched for months.
Currently I'm on vacation deep in the midwest, surrounded by vast tracts of corn, wide rivers, and ancient trees. For the first half of the trip I essentially set aside the computer completely, except for a twice daily check of email. I haven't surfed, I haven't blogged, I haven't written. It's been fantastic to unplug my brain for a few days to let myself breathe. I haven't stopped thinking about writing, but instead of feeling that urgent weight of all that I must do, instead I think of it with all the realm of possibility.
I've fired a host of guns with my Uncle, something I'd never actually done since I was 14. Shotgun and handgun and .22 rifle. I loaded a ammo clip, and I loaded the guns, and I found that all my theoretical knowledge was right.

I've swam in the pool, seen the Dark Knight Rises on an IMAX screen, and played with my daughter. I've also voraciously read books for 4 hrs a day, reveling in the time to read, to sit in quiet, to enjoy a little peace.

Probably the most interesting little tidbit I found on this trip was a Readers Digest, I picked it up, and skimmed through the headline stories. "Presidential Debate" and "How to tell if your child is Overweight", "End Affirmative Action", and "911 Please Hold". These are all such current pressing concerns... But the cover was a little faded, and the typeset looked dated. I looked a little closer.

It was dated November 1996. Sixteen years old, and yet so much is still the same. Strangely, I find that a little reassuring. So many people seem to be in a panic about the future, and how much change we might see based on politics or environment or policy, but the old adage seems to hold true. "The more things change, the more they stay the same." I'm okay with change for the better, but I'm not in a rush. Things will happen as they do. I'm not going to worry.

Crossing the Streams

I am Liz Peterson Author, but in another section of my life, I am Liz Peterson, My Little Pony enthusiast and toy distributor. I am currently managing two very separate passions that I adore. In this I am very lucky, but I also try to keep them separate to avoid confusion, and to make myself more accessible to both fandoms.
I don't try to sell my writing on my Pony site, I don't try to sell ponies here.
However, once in a great while there will be something important enough to be worth mentioning here and there. Sometimes there will be something I want to mention everywhere I am, because it's something so important to me. Regardless of what other content my sites and blogs entail, they are all containing portions of me. My passions, my ideas, my heart and soul.
Sometimes we have to tear the walls down. Sometimes we have to cross the streams.
With this preamble, I'd like to invite you to my other blog, to talk about something that matters to me.
It's my art, and it's a Charity Auction, and it's giving back a little bit of hope and light to people around me who have lost everything.
Please, spare a moment of your time, and take a look. If it's not your fandom, please pass it on to those who might see it as something they might like.
http://mylittleponymadness.weebly.com/1/post/2012/06/pony-charity-auction-and-a-plea-for-your-help.html

Thank you so much for your time.
Liz

Memories that drive me

I've thought back recently to moments that helped me know where I was going. Times in my life that tell me this is something I want to be. I've several of them, but one of the most driving points in my life came in one of the hardest times of my childhood. 

When I was in seventh grade I was a tiny quiet little thing, with glasses, braces, and a certain social ineptitude. I was the least popular kid in all my classes, and school was a torment. I might have fared better if someone told me what conformity was, or how to do it, but even without my dorky appearance, every time I opened my mouth to use extremely big descriptive words, I set myself apart from the group all over again.

It was halfway through the school year that my English teacher gave us an assignment, a completely open creative writing project. We were told to write a short story, it could be about anything. It was one of the first times that I could remember being given a chance to simply write, without a dozen addendums and rules to take the joy out of it. We were all to write a short story, about anything we wanted, and the stories would be put into a book as a gift for another teacher.

I was excited. I don’t remember the exact reason I chose my topic, but I decided to write a short story about a man eating bear that stalked a man in his cabin, hoping to eat him too. I thought it came out wonderfully, if I had saved a copy I’d love to read it again, I can hardly remember how it came out. But I do remember writing the climax, the man made a break for freedom, cutting through the woods, finally having to run as the bear bore down upon him… And then the bear got shot by the forest ranger, and the man was saved. (I don’t think it occurred to me to have the bear win. I was twelve, and they tend to send notes home about stories involving graphic death.)

I was so proud of that story. The irony of it is I probably would have turned it in, received my marks, and forgotten that story completely if not for what happened next. I turned in my story, and then the next day, during study hour, the teacher called me to her desk.

“I know what you did.” She stated. (This all sounds so cliché, but I swear those were her exact words.) I blinked in confusion. I don’t remember if I said anything or not, but she went on. I’ve forgotten her exact words, but they went something like this.

“I read your story. It’s very good.” There I smiled, she liked my work. “Except that it’s obviously too good. ‘Slavering’? I don’t know where you stole it from but you aren’t fooling me.”

I was completely baffled, stunned really. She told me I’d be receiving a zero for the assignment and had to take home a note. I may have cried, but I don’t remember. Years later, it does strike me as a certain irony that my English teacher was oblivious to the 900 page hardback historical fiction I had propped on my desk during reading hour. Or the fact that I was completely shunned by my peers for using words like ‘slavering’ in a conversation, but it was the fact that she didn’t that let this story stick in my mind.

I brought the note home to my Mother. I do remember her reaction, she looked at the note and looked at me.

“Why does she think you didn’t write it?”

“She said the words were too big for a seventh grader.”

“Has she met you?”

After that was a phone call, maybe even a teacher conference. My Mother was outraged by the accusation. “She’s scored at a 10^th grade reading level!” The teacher was convinced, my paper was accepted, and it all had a happy ending.

Yet through it all, it wasn’t the final result that stuck with me, or even the words that I wrote, it was that singular moment. That instant where I went from being told my words were good, but that I was unworthy of them. That strange moment of disorientation, when my ability was called into question.

I’ve always had a stubborn streak. This whole incident served to prove to me that I had an ability to write, a potential that I shouldn’t squander. The very words, “this is too good to be written by you” only serve as fuel for my goal. I want to write my stories, and tell them well, so that people will find them fantastic. I want to earn my writers spot, because once upon a time, my words were good enough to convince my teacher that they didn’t come from me.

Movies as Homework

While I'm working on my epic science fiction series, I haven't had as much time to read critically as I'd like. I still read for fun, but between chasing my daughter around and keeping up with edits, reading for homework has fallen by the wayside. Then I sprang upon a new idea. Now with each scene I come across where I want a different perspective, or to do more research into strong and similar character building, I look  for movies, often movies I've already seen, that I can watch critically for research.
So far my list includes heavy action and sci-fi titles, but I'd be interested to know if this technique works for anyone else.

List:
Resident Evil (the first one). Goal: Examine Alice's evolution from amnesiac scared girl, to super powered badass. Watch for clues to her changes that lead into later movies.

I Am Legend. Goal: Look at the survival methods chosen to keep living as a lone survivor in a demolished and highly dangerous area. Explore the survivors guilt inherent to the plot.

The Bourne Identity. (Honestly, I haven't read the books and the movie didn't wow me, but it still has seeds of usefulness. Even a BAD movie can help a writers growth by exploring WHY it didn't work.) My Goal: Look at the distress and cognitive dissonance of a man who's lost his complete identity, only to discover he may not LIKE who he used to be. Examine the psychology and potential traumatic fallout of a complete loss of identity, and what(and who) helps us form our choices.

I'm focusing on these movies before I think of a few more. While I have picked two zombie movies, it does seem to me that currently people only allow society to be destroyed by zombies in film. :) Since my novel series relies upon the destruction of mankind, this is important research.

What sort of movies mirror the current work you're writing? Even movies from a different genre can inspire with a single similar character or relationship. If you could pick a movie to learn from, what would it be and why?

The Short Story: How to End It.

Lately I’ve been reading a bunch of short stories. Mostly free, I confess. I’ve been tackling shorts as a way to unwind in between massive editing forays into my own full length novel. Reading while in ‘editing’ mode, has perhaps made me more critical, but I like to think that I understand WHY I don’t like something, not just WHAT I don’t like.

So in a few blog posts hopefully. I’m going to explain some of the pitfalls I see in short stories and some advice on what to do with it.

Disclaimer: I am not a professional editor, I’m a writer. I prefer to read full length novels, but the same rules can apply to writing shorts. Honestly, I think shorts are especially hard to write in a satisfactory way because of the decreased length. As Jim Butcher once said, “It’s like trying to have a knife fight in a phone booth”. You lack room to expand the tale.

But it CAN be done, for example, look a Junior Reader series book. Their larger font usually means their half as long as the page length suggests (compared to adult fiction) yet they find a way to tell a complete story, beginning to end. If you have time, think about picking up a few to look at writing in its simplest form, they’re quick reads, and often fun.

Common crits/bad reviews: “Too Short.”

This phrase can puzzle writers because they’re writing a short, so the length is expected. What the reader in this case usually means is that something about the ending didn’t satisfy. Every story, no matter how short, needs an arc. You have to have a beginning, middle and end. In a short story, it can be too easy to rush to finish, you reach a point then, “andallthisstuffhappenedokayTheEnd.” This isn’t a school essay hastily written the night before. It’s a piece you want people to understand.

To work on endings you need to focus on several key areas:

1.      Did I answer all the questions?

If your story is a serial, SOME floating questions are okay, but you STILL have to get the character to an END, a safe place, a haven, a point to catch your breath. IF you are writing more to it then YES leave a hook, but that cannot be ALL you leave.

Some famous short stories end on a twist, or a sudden question, then that’s it, the author doesn’t write more. I hate that. It’s a cheap trick. Don’t be cheap. If you can’t figure out a good ending without resorting to “and it was all a dream” then your story isn’t done.  (Note: You CAN write dream stories, but you have to leave allusions to the fact that things do not add up. They must be done WELL. All rules can be broken if things are done amazingly well. This is NEVER easy.)

So re-read, if you go on for a paragraph about the glass rose on her desk, and then the rose is NOT important at all, remove it. If you put emphasis on something, make sure it matters, don’t waste the readers time with the extraneous. ANSWER the questions. “Hattie wondered if she’d ever make peace with her mothers passing.” Is this relevant? Does she make peace? Don’t leave the reader wondering.

2. Make your endings satisfy! 

Is your ending: “Hurry! Rush! keep reading! go go! STOP! Where’s the next page? WHAT THE HELL?” Be not the season finale to Game of Thrones on HBO. 

If people are buying a short story, give them resolution. Hooray! Bob survived his death defying injury when he jumped from the flaming helicopter to rescue the baby seal! He lost his limb, but Annie still loves him! People want CLOSURE. If your character is a skeptic, kidnapped by aliens, probed, then dumped in a cornfield, does he drink himself sick and convince himself it was a dream? Or arm himself with tinfoil to PROVE THE TRUTH? 

We want a peek at what will happen, along with what HAS happened. Don’t just say, Bob was a skeptic, then he got taken by aliens, the end. That’s a beginning and a middle, give us an END. Give us a REASON for spending 5 thousand or 20 thousand words with Bob.

3. Is THIS THE END??? Okay, no one wants to hear question marks when they finish a book. They want to know, either a) I’m done with you. or b) Ha, gotcha! There’s a 2^nd half to this coming out later. Decide BEFORE you write/publish/sell what you are going to DO with this story. Many authors who’ve written great novels either get asked, or get motivated, and wind up writing short stories that feature characters from their novels. This is great! It allows people a quick glance at characters that are fully fleshed, have whole histories, and yet come together in a short piece.

Did I say this is great? Let me clarify, this is great when it’s DONE RIGHT. Even some incredible long fiction authors find themselves flailing at a short piece. You have to balance the fact that Thor the Weasel Farmer, has an entire SAGA devoted to his feud with the evil ermine-mongering Pikipsie clan. There’s only so much back story you need, or even WANT to put into a short story. Give readers a taste, a thin veneer, not enough to confuse them, but enough that they can sense the greater depth.

““I knew we’d meet again!” Growled my arch nemesis Ermine Jill.” Just looking at that sentence tells you, they know each other, and if people are curious about their OTHER adventures, you can mention them on the last page in the bio. You don’t need to recap other books.

Okay, what about the new guy. Bob has a great story, Bob is going to tell you his story in five short stories in a series. Okay… Well, here’s my first question, Why did you choose to present a fiction with that much content as a serial short? In some cases, you might do it as a publishing agreement. You get 5 short pieces in a magazine anthology or something. That gives you range to present your work.

But consider the possibility of saying, ‘Gee, I have five 20K word shorts in a series. I could just do some editing, and make it a 100K Novel.’ What you have to determine is if you have individual arcs for each story. Some things just WORK as a Serial. My favorite is Sparrow Hill Road by Seanan McGuire. Each chapter has a rise and fall and flows as its own little story playing into a greater whole.

Here’s what you don’t do: DO NOT take a novel that you are finished with /partway finished /uncertain of chop it into pieces, and then sell it as a series of shorts. Unless you are willing to chop, rewrite, and edit the hell out of that work to make sure each arc reads like a short. Do not lie to the reader and market it as a ‘short work’ when really it’s a Part 1 of 4 of your novel. Or god have mercy on that poor unsuspecting reader who pays for part 2, 3, or 4, and winds up stuck in the middle of a confusing half finished story.  You may know it’s the middle piece. You might even put it all over the description. It doesn’t change the fact that it will alienate the reader.

(I am violently opposed to anyone publishing unfinished work. It’s a lazy shortcut. You finish, you edit, you polish, and you do it right, or you stop trying to sell me crappy e-books. That’s all.)

So if you want to write a serial short, because you wrote one, and loved those characters so much you want to give us more, just make sure your endings feel like endings. There may be things we are left to discover, but give us a place where the action slows, the reader breaths, and we get a little closure. “And Thor wept over Pete’s tiny weasel grave, knowing even as he laid his tiny buddy to rest, he would surely seek vengeance on that conniving Ermine Jill.”

There is an end, and a hint of foreshadowing. They do it all the time in comics. (Not to be confused with TV Cartoons made from comics where they do ‘to be continued’ all the damn time!) Uncertain how to imply continuation while giving an ending? Read a comic. Look at how even as Eric Banner is always trying to avoid conflict, you just KNOW conflict will find him for another issue. Look for allusions to the future, and hints of continuation in the theme.

If you ARE writing a serial? It helps to imply it in the title, “Ambers Honey Pot Adventures: The Tale of the Pygmy King” She has more than one adventure, and the colon implies that the title may be on more than one piece.

So that’s my advice on endings. Answer the lingering questions, Make sure your story arc includes an ending, and do not neglect the arc for a series. If short goes right into another short with no pause, no stopping for breath, no end in sight, then you’re writing a novel, (or novella) not a short.

Tune in next time when I rant about other short story thrills and woes. From plotting to speed, I hope to keep your shorts trim, fitted, and roomy enough to breathe.

This Was When I Quit: My Journey as a Writer

It's strange, on this crazy writing journey of mine. Sometimes I tell people I've been writing forever, sometimes I say I've just started, and honestly, it's both. It's all these contradictions, fact and and a contradicting fact that is also true, with clarification.

I have wanted to be a writer, a storyteller, a person who writes books, since I was about 6 or 7. I don't remember if there was a specific book that inspired me, I just knew I loved reading, and I loved words. In third grade my teacher first brought out the 'half pages'. The bottom half was lined, the top half was blank, so we wrote stories on the lines, and illustrated them in the top. I wrote stories about a lovable dog that got into trouble. (I don't think they made any sense. I was seven. I would have to edit them prior to publication.)
By the time I was ten I was dreaming up Star Trek NG fanfiction. I don't think I ever got it written down, but I'd act it out, inserting my original character into the Starship Enterprise D and rewriting my favorite episodes.
(It was at 12 that I was bullied relentlessly. I developed an ulcer, and had to leave school. 90% of this abuse centered around the fact that I used 'big words', and read 'big books'. I didn't know how to fit in.)

When I was fourteen, I got my first rejection letter. I had written a full fan fiction manuscript for the Animorphs Series, and sent a letter to K.A. Applegate offering her my concept. It was a very sweetly worded rejection, and it looked handwritten. Sadly I lost it, and to this day I wish I had it, to start my rejection pile off on a high note.
But see... Here's the important part.
That was when I Quit.

I quit writing fan fiction. Oh, I found other outlets and still wrote fan fiction every so often, but I never saw it through. I never forced myself to push through the hard parts, or to find a better way, I would just lose interest, walk away, and abandon those files. I still have them (On a FLOPPY DISK PEOPLE. Oh, how this dates me.) I wrote Harry Potter Fanfiction (along with half the world!) I wrote Fanfiction for the Amelia Peabody series by Elizabeth Peters (knowing my name. I confess I was saddened to learn that was only her pen name), I wrote fan fiction for Anne Rice's Vampires. BUT I never finished, because I quit. I saw I would never BE PUBLISHED, if I wrote myself into someone ELSE'S world.

So I started writing original fiction. I'd get an idea, write half of it down, find myself flailing somewhere, and give up. I kept them, but never finished. A lot of it was vampires. I loved vampires and did a huge amount of creative writing through a chatroom, (A pure text HTML coded RPG. Actual WRITING with no animation, dice, or DM. For those who speak geek.) I had wild vampire adventures with seductions and intrigue and betrayal through my screen name. Surprisingly this really did improve my writing. There was an elite club of characters, they all had these amazingly well written posts, and I wanted to be like that. I whipped out my college vocabulary, I practiced making my words flow, while describing my actions. It was still, in terms of fiction, horribly done. I'd use the same word 50 times in a night, but it forced me to write the words.

Then years passed. Life happened. Instead of going on to go to school to be a writer, I discovered no one thought it was practical. I'd starve, they said, so I did a few years of college, life happened again. Relationships, jobs, many, many failures, and finally good stuff. Marriage, baby, and a nice place to live. In 2007 my friend approached me with this great idea... It'd be a graphic novel, no, a tarot deck, no and actual novel! And a movie! Each time we talked about it, the ideas got bigger, longer, more elaborate. We talked for hours about this amazing world we were going to have. I made a character that was my favorite, he made one that was his, then we fought over the timeline to make each have their shining moments. We took AMAZING photographs themed toward the WIP.
It was going to be a series. It was going to be epic. Someday we would be millionaires!
I finished one draft of one novel, he wrote his draft, but putting them together... didn't work. We fell into the pit of despair filled with wrath and hate and daggers (I mean that literally, we both own a shit-ton of knives, we just don't use them on PEOPLE duh.) It wasn't going to work. He said he was done.

I tried to keep going, then I faced the mountain, the mountain every writer must face. You reach a point where the glamorous money and fame and riches prove to be a mirage... Then you see what actually lies beyond the alluring deception. You see edits. Corrections. Rewrites. You see plot holes and misused metaphor, tropes and excess description. You see your first draft for what it is... crap on a page. Words... that only in the crudest form... reflect the story your trying to tell.

That was when I quit.
Oh, I could make excuses. That I was a new Mom, that I had a baby to raise, or that my depression was acting up, or that I was more concerned with buying a new house.(these are legitimate reasons, but they were not MY reason.)  

The truth is, I just wasn't ready.

I looked at all the other writers and I thought, I'll NEVER be that good. I thought about the work, and how trying to get published takes HOURS upon hours of blood sweat and toil. Then you have Agents, agents and editors that are so overrun with queries that no matter HOW brilliant you are it will never actually grace their fingers.

And guess what, if they sign you for a multiple book deal, you have to make MULTIPLE BOOKS! On a deadline! Without them sucking! Or you'll FAIL and it will be such an EPIC FAIL that the entire INDUSTRY will pause and laugh at you as you fall.
I wasn't afraid of failing. I was afraid of not failing quietly. I was afraid that yes, my work would finally pay off with a beautiful heartfelt AMAZING book I'd spend years crafting. It would do AMAZINGLY well! People would FLOCK to buy it. And then my second book would go HORRIBLY WRONG. It wouldn't get finished... ever... It would get written, but so badly that all my fans would set fire to it. I would be kicked out of the Authors club and told to NEVER darken their doors AGAIN.
That was my fear. And even as cartoonish and laughable as it sounds... It shut me down. It made me quit.
I quit, and I told myself. "I can still write, I just won't go through the pressure of getting published."

That was five years ago. Then in late February or early March of 2012. I realized something. My life, was not gong how I pictured it. A lot of things were there, but like many people, at some point I looked around and all I could see were the things I gave up. I kept getting bad news about family, bad news about my health, and I finally just said to hell with all of it. I was going to sit down, and write my novel til it was done. Then when it was done, I was going to make it better. Then when it was amazing, I'd sell it. Sink or swim, if all I managed to do in life was get my NAME on the cover of a book I wrote, then that was going to be my goal.
Profits? Eh, if I fail, I fail. If I make money... That'd be cool.
Fame? If I get INVITED to a Con because someone WANTS me there as an AUTHOR, that's fame enough for me. That's the dream. (I have a much more specific dream of walking up to Jim Butcher with my novel in hand, slapping it down and saying, "I BEAT the BEAR!" Go read Jim Butcher's bio at jim-butcher.com. I'll wait.)
I have nice, small, achievable expectations. I'm going to keep doing this. I’m not doing this for me. Not really. It's for the story that sits in my head. It's for the characters that live and fight and weep because of the life they live on the pages. It's for the world I created, because I love it.
If I abandon my story now... A whole fictional world dies. (Remember Alderaan.) That's a tragedy I won't be responsible for.
I sat down in March, seized by a fevered madness to WRITE my STORY. I got the first draft out in a month. It's actually turned into two books. It's... kind of a beast. BUT the words are there, the potential is ALL THERE.
 This is the FIRST time I've decided to try for publication. This is the first time I've committed to going the distance. I've been writing forever, yet all of this is new.

Since April I've been working on edits and rewrites. It's the second time I've written this story, and it's already at LEAST 80% better. I've set my BETA Piranha fish to chomp-chomp-chomp on my story and spit out the nasty bits.
I am on my way.
And sometimes I still look at the mountain I still have to climb. I look at the deadly ledges labeled 'query' and 'publisher' and 'self pub' I look at the frightening crevasses labeled 'self-doubt' and 'failure'.
But this time I'm ready. I have made friends who share the journey, I have worked hard to research the science, the truth behind the fiction, and I keep honing my craft more and more each day. I've received encouraging words personally from REAL AUTHORS (I say with hushed awe), who tell me not to quit, to keep going and find my way.

Most of all, I know I'm ready because I've figure out who I am. I am a writer. I am the pen that springs forth worlds of my imagining. I am a mad genius of sadism to characters and masochism to edits. I am crazy, but I am sound. I like who I am.

And This, is where I harden my resolve, look at the mountain, and I WILL NOT quit.

The gap in Time... an authors relation to character.

Today I found the perfect song. A song that embodies the soundtrack for my novel, a song, that on so many levels, resonates with my Protagonist. Every time I hear it I think of her, and I wanted to badly to share this song  but I realized, to everyone else, even my BETA's it won't make sense. It won't make sense until the end.

See, I feel like I'm standing on a different thread of space-time in my writing, and in many ways it's jarring. For me the book is done, I've written it. Hell, I've written it twice already. It's not finished, polished, done... But it is completed. Yet the thing about it, is this is book one. It's the start of a potentially long and elaborate series. I have the frame work laid for up to six books, if not more, and already at least two short stories.

My relationship with my Protagonist is VASTLY different from my anyone just starting the book, because I'm seeing her as who the book helps her become. Yes, when I go back and edit, I see the world through the eyes of who she was then, and she's still her... But there's so much more.

I think every writer hits this point. Some right away, some get further into the book to get that far. For example, Jim Butcher and his Protag. Harry Dresden. I'll avoid specific spoilers, but who Harry Dresden is prior to 'Changes' is a vastly different person, in a vastly different situation then he is afterward. In fact even through an entire book, as a reader, we're left wondering what his life is going to be like, and how he will have changed.

Whereas, Jim, well even if he doesn't have all the specifics of the book hammered out in advance, he does know where Harry is going. He knows who Harry is now, and hell, he knows who Harry will be in the final scene of his final book. Writers have this outside omnipotent view and it can be confusing. I've heard fans wonder WHY an Author took so long to answer a question about a character. But what you have to understand, is that we know the story... But sometimes we've edited the finite details, changed and rewritten one scene so many times, that the color of a side characters eyes might elude us, or the exact importance of a piece there no longer matters.

The other obvious problem, is spoilers. Right now I'm hammering at my novel solo, and I don't have anyone who's immersed in this world as much as I am. Hell, people haven't even read chapter 7, and I'm JUST WAITING so I can TALK to someone about Chapter 7! One thing I love about being a reader, is reading something alongside someone, or after someone, so that when we both hit a scene of major importance we can shriek together and discuss. I can't do this with any of my readers yet. Especially as everything is still being crafted and edited, I can't risk telling them what is coming, because I need them to read it and allow the story to unfold without any knowledge of the future. I need to know if the proper cues and details are in the PRINT without giving them clues.

It's hard to be the only one who knows the end already. I feel like I'm standing at a future point in time, waiting for everyone I've left in the past to catch up. I want them to see my Protagonist at the end. I want them to see that glimmer of who she is going to be.
I wonder if it was hard for Jim Butcher to write the twelve books before Changes knowing how much the future events would change him? I'm impatient enough with my Protag, and I get her (somewhat) where I need her by Book 2.

So remember when you ask an Author, at the end of book one, or two, or thirty, why an important even happened, or what was implied by a certain phrase... Remember, they're standing outside of time, and can see all the way to the end. So if they take a moment to answer, it's likely because they're trying to remember what HAS happened, and what HASN'T HAPPENED YET, and give you an answer that will keep you n YOUR present, without betraying the future.  (Now I understand why Doctor Who has such a hard time having meaningful conversations.)

So be patient with the writers... We mad few who know entirely too much about the world we live in, while being surrounded by obsessed geeks that may very well figure out something we haven't (I look forward to that day!)... Be patient, because we're trapped out of time, seeing everything at once, and often that makes it hard to see as well where you are standing.

A plea for the future...

I find myself troubled. I’m bothered enough to blog about politics, which isn’t something I usually do. Sadly, like many Americans, I only tend to notice the sway and grind of politics, when the wheels turn to bear down and effect me personally. Too often, things pass into law, elections go unnoticed, and changes are enacted… Beneath my notice, without my seeing.

Then sometimes there are injustices that scream so loud, and so painfully, that you can’t look away. You can’t ignore it… Well, you can, but not without choosing to look away. Not without choosing to sit silent and watch the world change.

I don’t believe our current system will fall into the hands of despotic leader. No, our system is too crippled by two parties so busy undercutting the other that they’ve stopped actually giving a damn about what the bills actually say, all that matters is whether their opponent is in favor… or not. I’m not so much worried about Congress, as I am about the voters, the people, and how many of us our sitting silent. I start to ache for the state of our future, and not because of the people in office, but because the real people in power all the voters in the country, are the ones who put them there.

Today I was getting my 5 year old daughter ready for bed, and she’d heard some of my conversations with her Daddy about politics. She looked at me and asked.

“Mommy, what does ‘Hate’ mean?” She asked.  

I realized this was one of those moments, where I could teach her, where I could give her an example.

“Sweetie, Hate is a bad thing. Hate is when people dislike something so badly, that all they care about is controlling that one thing. They don’t care who they hurt, or how they make other people feel, because they hate something.”

It’s the best explanation in the world, and it breaks my heart to think about it. There is so much fear in today’s politics, so much hate, whether it’s for a specific type of people, homosexuals, women, racism, or even just hating your political opposite so blindly that you refuse to grasp the bigger picture.

Hate is when you care so much about what you want, that you don’t stop to consider what your doing, and how it might hurt others. Hate is based on fear.

It’s important to remember that in politics. How many laws have to be defended by their creators as ‘not being that bad’. How many laws that are up for debate are based in the idea of crippling a type of person for a ‘greater good’? Now I’m not talking about tax law, or Medicare, or the areas where the ultimate argument is money. I’m talking about laws that subjugate a person based on gender, race, or sexual preference.

How is it even possible that in THIS country, in the information age, in a time where we can learn about virtually anything, instantly… HOW can ignorance be running our politics? It simply seems unbelievable to me.

What scares me most is that the votes are winning. People are voting to take the rights of other people away. People are voting to subjugate people based on a sexual preference, which has NO bearing on their character, intelligence, or rights. If such a bill was passed to limit the legal standing of the disabled would this have passed? If such a bill was passed to limit the legal standing of white men, would this have passed?

If the answer to that question is no, if that question appalls you, then maybe we should think about what WE are doing to our friends and neighbors.

Hate is what motivated people to act in fear and hostility, without considering anyone else’s hopes. Hate, and often greed are what motivate people to dissolve another persons rights.

And what I wonder most, is will the future we are creating for our children with these votes ‘protect their families’ or just be another slowly grinding wheel of government used to crush their dreams? I don’t want my daughter to judge another child who has ‘two mommies’. I don’t want my child to feel that she must date only the ‘acceptable’ gender/race/religion. I want her to choose the person who is right for her based on how happy and deeply in love she feels. If my child is gay, that’s okay. If my child is straight, that’s okay. It’s not me she needs to worry about fulfilling. It’s herself, and all of her own dreams.

Why is that so hard to choose? Why is it so hard to vote for tolerance, acceptance, and hope? More importantly, how many of us agree, that the world would be a better place with more tolerance… But all too often we sit in silence. We sit home instead of voting. We believe the news instead of reading the ballot. We watch the world change around us, while we stand still.

We can’t sit silent. I can’t sit silent anymore. Not when it means my rights will slowly be fought over and dictated by someone else. Not when I believe the world can be better. Especially if I am willing to fight for it. 

It has to hurt.. to get better...

I've been editing. The slow insanity driven hideous bone crushing pain of revision.
Words are good, but you want to make them better, a plot is beautiful, but you need to make it sing. You go along stabbing at every weak point just to see if it will give.
It reminds me of cows... There's an old story I heard about cattle. When you first introduce new cows to a new field, the cows will walk the entire fence line, and lean against the fence. They push at it, every step of the way, just to see if it will fall. If the fence doesn't fall, they accept the bounds, get off it, and leave it alone.
Building a story is similar to that process. You have to be willing to push at every weak spot, poke at every action, analyze every turn. It has to be strong enough to hold. If you leave a weak spot, a question that is never answered later in the tale, it becomes a hole, a void. Then, like cattle, your readers attention finds that hole and wanders through, leaving the world you've built.
Part of my struggle hasn't just been with the words themselves, but with the length. My tale is longer than most books should be. there are a half dozen ways to fix it, and I'm evaluating each one, but one thing I've learned, is that sometimes if you push on a story, the story pushes back.
I've considered deleting scenes, or changing the end to come together earlier, but sometimes deleting scenes is like pulling out whole chunks of a story. If the story doesn't need it, you can do that. But if the story needs the words and you remove too much, it's like yanking fence poles from your fence. The plot line gets weaker, you tear out too much, and it's too thin to hold. Or more appropriately, it's like pulling beams from a tower. A good story should hold up to scrutiny and most readers. You don't want a mid-game jenga tower of half-cobbled together ideas, lumpy in places, and barely staying upright.

I think the biggest question in my story is should I make it hurt less? Should I make the end come swifter and the fall less cutting? Should I spare the pain?
I know i'm going to get asked that, (and if my BETA readers are reading this I know they're getting nervous.) maybe by an agent, a publisher, or perhaps someday by a reader or in reviews.
The question will come... Why did you make it hurt? Why did it have to be so heartbreaking?

Because, my friends, anything less would have been a cheat. Anything less would have been a flaw. I believe in karma, and I believe in humanities ceaseless search for retribution. Right or wrong, bad things happen to good people. Right or wrong, good people become consumed with a desire to get back at those who wronged them. Right or wrong, forgiveness is an uncommon act that only comes with a sense of self sacrifice. You give up a part of yourself to let go of  a grudge.

What my character goes through is a trial by fire. All her flaws come back to haunt her in one guise or another and she has to overcome. She has to realize that the greatest enemy isn't the one outside, but the enemy within. The demons of rage and selfishness and yes, even blind loyalty, have consequence.
The hammer must fall. The curtain must close, and in the end we can't run from our choices.

This is still a redemption story... But the redemption doesn't happen right away. It wouldn't be a book series if everything happened right away. Like all things, spiritual growth takes time. Like life, spiritual growth takes pain.
You have to fall down, to get back up. You have to be sick to appreciate health.
And sometimes your petty choices drive you to the brink of ultimate loss and you find yourself at rock bottom.
But you know what the good news is about rock bottom?
There's nowhere to go but up.
I may need to make my story shorter, but the acts on the stage aren't going away. Hamlet still dies, and Macbeth still kills the king... Oh wait, that's not MY story. Regardless, these are constants. These are what make a story soar.
We see, through the pain of others, the uncomfortable truths about ourselves we might avoid.
And I aspire to tragedy.

The Floating and unhinged in the Middle

I'm still trying to figure this whole professional writing thing out. It might be just me, it might be just some floating sense of existentialism that fades in the morning when my alarm clock wakes me at ass o'clock ant the weekday begins with a screeching jolt that leaves my head pounding and my innards twisted with hate. Hell, if I feel like this tomorrow it'll be an improvement over most of my early mornings.

I am a writer. I am the god in my own little world. I go out and I network with writers, we tweet and we blog and we share. We gladhand and we encourage. We send each other off to fight out own literary foes. In my mind, I want to believe they are my compatriots, not my competition. but essentially, down at the core of it, this is a lie. We are all struggling for the chance that our work will be seen, our work will be loved, and as much as I love my writer friends, there is a dark a jealous voice that makes me keep my SECRETS to myself. My Manuscript, my precious, might be hinted at, alluded to, even quoted... But I don't tell them all of it. I don't share the best bits and the deepest part. I've become so secretive that even those BETA reading don't know where the next turn might lead. This is probably good for them.

But it doesn't change the fact that sometimes you fall into that fugue, that transitory middle, you hover somewhere in space, and you see the person who just got signed, launching their book after X years of toil. Then you see another, still toiling, swearing that THIS WILL BE THE ONE. You see yet another, whose first and second books are out, and they juggle the same madness finishing a third, wishing their bills were paid and yet posing like a celebrity before their rabid fans at a book signing.

It's like an insane asylum filled with people left to roam free, all with the same disease. We talk to our imaginary friends, live their lives, make them suffer and make them triumph only to break them down again. We make friends with other writers and we encourage each others madness, all making noises of how exciting it all is, while deep down hoping our work does as well, does better, isn't sunk by them.

And here I sit, less than a year in, grinding on this book like maybe it'll be published tomorrow... And maybe it will. Yet I feel even giving voice to that hope will leave me torn asunder by the others with the same madness. I want my book to fly, to rise free and unfettered from the ashes and be glorious. Yet it seems everyone wants to burden down optimism with stones of 'sage advice'. This took YEARS to create. This took dozens of drafts. I didn't find an agent for a decade, and by then I'd resorted to eating shoes. I exaggerate, but it's sort of like telling a teenager they'll 'understand when they're older'.

My book isn't ready yet. But it's getting there. It already does-not-suck and it's on it's way to becoming exceptional.

I'll tell you a secret, here on my blog where no one else will hear us...

I hope to get it agent worthy in a year.
I hope to have an agent tell me how glorious it can be within a year after that.
And hopefully sometime after that, I'll have found someone to publish it.

I can hope for these things. Chances are, I will be waiting much longer. But I will not give up the path while I wait. I will not neglect my craft while my opus gets ready to fly.
Hell, if I work very hard, and nothing causes me to go into a coma...
I should have the first three books drafted and arranged in two years.

That at least is a goal I can achieve.
Failure may be a possibility.

...but quitting is NOT an option.

A day to remember...

This is a date that is important.
Today is a date I will remember and set my goals by.
Today is all encompassing and all glorious.
My first draft of my novel is done.

Boo yah.

Glory to the anti-hero

A long time ago in a basement far away...
this novel's original inception began. The brain child of friends talking over an idea that started as one thing, and turned into another and another, until finally only one person remained, still clinging to the kernels and threads of a wild fancy long since expired.

My tale is born of the ashes of another dream. My character, my favorite character is the anti-hero. Oh there is a hero in the tale, there has to be. A sentinel of good, that blazes boldly against the dark, and strikes down evil.
Yes, I have a hero... but my favorite character isn't him.

Its her. The jaded weapon, the fury to behold, the pragmatic warrior. She doesn't blame anyone for her sins, and they are many, she doesn't expect acceptance after her crimes. For they are numerous. She is too thick skinned and hard to even admit to anyone but herself that the faces of her victims still haunt her at night.
No, she's there to make sure things get done. She's there to keep the hero on track. Mostly... she's there to rip apart her foes with brutal efficiency.

She was broken a thousand times, cast in the heat and tempered in its flame. She was forced into being a weapon. And in the process she lost everything...

It's not a black and white world. The good guys might be better than the bad guys, but they're far from perfect. Some of the bad guys are almost better than the good guys. But this is war, and when imperfect people have to fight against impossible odds, we always have to choose a side.

So I save my love for the antihero. Broken but unbowed. She is not a nice person.
But she is glorious.

The Unintentional is often the best...

I had a series of events all laid out in a line. They sort of made sense, and it helped with the flow.
Then I set down to writing them, and I thought about the actual CHARACTERS playing these roles, and suddenly what started out as a simple row of events, took on a whole new beautifully layered complexity.
It stopped being just Oh, Bob did X... and became Bob needed to do X to prove that Y was important to J thus allowing event B to have SO MUCH MORE significance.
It became beautiful and crystalline and complex. With layers and depth and real functions.
I LOVE the way this is going.