Inspiration

I found inspiration last night, writer-friends. It was one of those nights so beautiful, so magnificent, that to call it life-changing might not be too far from the mark—it was that good.

You see, I went to the orchestra with my father (his treat). He’d upgraded his subscription for the night so that we had seats in the front row, within sneezing distance of the first violins, and to be so close to the musicians was… amazing.

The program began with Mozart’s 39th Symphony. This was the first of his final three symphonies, with neither the pathos of the 40th nor the brash buoyancy of the 41st, but a wonderful sway and flow with flashes of understated humor. Charles Dutoit conducted, every inch the kindly old gentleman, carrying the orchestra along with gentleness and sophistication, and I’d never heard Mozart sound so fine.

The second piece was by Bright Sheng, a Chinese-American composer (still living), and was an interesting, bravura piece of program music fronted by a dark-haired, fine-featured bombshell of a soprano in a dazzling black dress. We were surprised to find that the composer was in the audience that night, and when Dutoit and the soprano (Shana Blake Hill) called him up after the piece, he was the image of humble competence—a slight, dapper man, who repeatedly bowed and thanked the orchestra and soloist most self-effacingly.

But the third piece! Ah, the third piece of the night was Rachmaninov’s gigantic 3rd Piano Concerto, played by Nikolai Lugansky. I've listened to the Rach 3 innumerable times, but, by God, I’ve never heard it like this! That close to the stage, every nuance, every note could be heard. The smooth strings leapt out, never overwhelming the piano—every subtlety could be heard. Lugansky played a bright and elegant concerto, fingers impossibly nimble on the keyboard, seeming to dance over, around, through one another to scatter the composer’s cascades of notes.

And the second movement? I confess I’ve always been more drawn to the pyrotechnics of the first and third movements, but for some reason (perhaps it was our proximity the players) the intimacy of the Adagio touched me in a way I’ve never experienced before. Several times I had to close my eyes against the tears, I swear to you.

So where in all this was the inspiration? It lies in this, my friends: last night I heard Rachmaninov’s soul. The man’s been dead nigh-on 70 years, yet I can know him like a brother, because in every note he penned, he gave a bit of himself to the world. Last night, Lugansky’s fingers played the notes, but Rachmaninov’s heart beat in every hammerstroke on the piano strings.

My God, friends—this is art! It is why we write! We are driven to create, to tell stories, to communicate, and no matter what kind of stories we tell, there is something of us in them. Our minds make these stories, word by excruciating word, and when they’re done, they are a record of our thoughts, our hopes, hurts, fantasies, fears, loves, lusts, our dreams—and even, when we write true enough, our souls. Our words are us.

So I didn’t write much this week, didn’t even come close to meeting my goals, but I don’t care. This week was not a loss. It was not a loss because last night I remembered why it is I write, why I want this so badly. I found something that cleared away the distractions, the perendination, the myriad things that infringe on my creative time. That something was beauty, truth, lyric loveliness in the soul of a man long dead.

I rediscovered art last night, my friends. I fell in love all over again, and today I could weep with joy for it.

Today I will write.

Premature Blogification

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, writer-friends, about this whole blogging thing—how to do it effectively, entertainingly, and time-constrainedly. It’s an odd thing, relative blogospheric success, in that as one’s readership increases, one begins to lose a bit of what made blogging so much fun in the first place. (No, not the money, the personal relationships. Duh.) It’s even stranger for an aspiring-writer-blog, because these things are supposed to be our nascent platform, and we want to promote ourselves and our writing, while still focusing on our fiction.
But then yesterday I read a lovely post by the inimitable Harley May, in which she said this:

There are times I think I started blogging/tweeting too soon. The relationships I’ve made are precious and irreplaceable. I’ve received opportunities I would not otherwise have, but it’s distracting.

And that got me thinking. Did I start blogging/tweeting too soon? Is it the best use of my time to write blog posts and bounce around the blogosphere making friends when I could be working on perfecting my craft and publishing short stories and writing novels and querying and stuff? (Parenthetical note: I am not quitting my blog, nor am I retiring from the blogosphere. This is just another one of my ruminatory posts on finding the right writing balance.)

Anyway, it’s in the nature of blogs to change focus over time, as the author and the author’s career grow and change. Elle Strauss posted about this the other day, confessing to blog-stalking a fellow author, reading several years’ worth of posts in one night, and said, this, among other things:

It was interesting to see how [Successful Author’s] blog changed as her career advanced. She even blogged about it once, saying how the sites she obsessed over early on were replaced by other sites once she got her agent, and that she felt her blog was maturing as she did.

Change happens, right? It’s inevitable, in some regard. Now and then, writers even quit their blog, finding they have nothing new to say anymore.

So what does this all mean to me, then? I’m not too sure, frankly. One thing I know I’m going to do is try for a bit more discipline in my posting. Until now, I’ve just word-vomited and posted whenever I felt the urge. I think I’ll do what so many other bloggers have been doing recently and go all MWF on your asses. Some weeks I’ll miss a day, but I think it’ll be better for me if I word-vomit, schedule the post, and move on to my fiction. (BTW, if you don’t like my “word-vomit” phrase, feel free to replace it with “craft thoughts of magnificent eloquence and sparkling wit.”)

Will making this change help my budding career? Who knows? I do know that I’ve got a bunch of short stories needing finished, new ones to start, and a backlog of work to submit to litmags, and when I’m blogging, I’m not working on any of that. And after all, if I’m to work on building a following, wouldn’t it be nice if I could happy-happy-joy-joy with y’all over acceptances and fiction wins? Yes, it would.

Enough solipsistic cogitation for today, then. Go have a wonderful Memorial Day weekend, U.S. writer-friends, and have a wonderful, um, normal weekend, international writer-friends. I promise to silently toast you as I char chunks of meat on the grill and sip beer as is my manly right on long summer weekends. Cheers!

The Art and Science of Responding to Blog Comments

Lucky you, writer-friends! I’m posting an excerpt from my memoir-in-progress* in order to introduce today’s topic. And this is all the preamble you’re getting.

~~~~~

I sit on the ottoman, which is conveniently located on top of the gliding rocker in the living room, because I am, at the moment, too lazy to take the ottoman off the gliding rocker in the living room and would prefer to sit atop it with the seatback of the gliding rocker reaching about the middle of my lower back. My laptop is on my lap (surprisingly enough), and the children are playing on the Wii Fit at the other end of the room. Rather, one of the children is playing with the Wii Fit, while the other bounces up and down in imitation of what the first child is doing on the Wii Fit (which is leading a marching band around an arena, ostensibly, but which looks more like flailing about with the wiimote and nunchuk and stomping his feet now and then.) My wife is on the couch, nursing Tiny Girl.

“Okay, Small Man,” I say, glancing up from the computer screen, “it’s Blondie Daughter’s turn after this. When you’re done, hand her the wiimote.”

I return my attention to the screen and let my fingers tappity on the keyboard as I respond to todays’s blog comments. There are many blog comments, so it is taking some time to respond to them all. I keep Notepad open and type the responses while simultaneously referring to the comments in my browser window. I will cut and paste the responses into the comment box when I am finished.

The Wii game ends. “Blondie daughter’s turn, Small Man. Hop off the Balance Board.”

“One more game, Daddy.”

“No, hop off the board and give your sister the Wiimote.”

“Okay, I’ll change the Mii first.”

“No, let Blondie Daughter change the Mii.”

“But I want to change it.”

“What did I just say?”

Small man continues to attempt to change the Mii, remaining firmly ensconced atop the balance board. I glance down and finish typing a sentence.

“I wan’ it!” Blondie daughter is now attempting to grab the wiimote from Small Man. I start a new sentence, look up to see Blondie Daughter’s little arm raised to strike.

“BLONDIE DAUGHTER! Don’t you DARE hit your brother!” I lean forward, and the ottoman digs into the seat cushion of the gliding rocker, threatening to tip me forward and onto the floor. I lean back hurriedly. “And Small Man, give your sister the wiimote—NOW—or you don’t get to play the Wii tomorrow at all!”

Small man folds his arms across his chest and glares at me after stepping off the balance board and handing his sister the wiimote and nunchuk.

“Thank you, son. Now just let your sister play.”

I look back at the screen, type a couple more sentences.

“But I don’ wanna play this gaaaame….”

“Then choose one you do want to play,” I say without glancing up.

“I can’t.” Blondie Daughter pouts and stomps one little foot.

“Yes, you can. Now just choose one.”

I go back to my typing, but a sudden chill in the room makes me look up. My wife is giving me the stink eye….

~~~~~

I think you get the situation.

Now, one of the joys of blogging is (virtually) meeting all kinds of fun and interesting people, and having little conversations with them in your comment section and theirs. But, as you might understand, these conversations take time and attention. Sometimes said time and attention could be put to better use wrangling children, or working, or doing myriad other real-life thingies that help make ends meet and keep spouses happy. And thus I find myself at the place where my perceived responsibility to you, my dear readers, has begun to conflict with my responsibility as husband, father, employee, insert-other-appropriate-title-here….

So. I’ve decided to take a page from the books of folk like Lisa and Laura, and Shannon Messenger, and to respond comments via e-mail whenever I get the chance. Lisa confided to me the other night**, as we were alternating between shots of tequila and rips from the bong,*** that she and Laura have a folder with, like, six thousand comment responses that they just don’t have time to send out, and they both stay up late at night worrying whether people will hate them for not commenting back or responding to things, and then they Skype one another at 3 am and cry and take antidepressants together**** and end up falling asleep on their keyboards clutching bottles of Prosecco.***** But we don’t hate them, do we, folks? No. We don’t. (So really, they could lay off the pharmaceuticals, couldn’t they?)

Anyway, I hope this will allow me to still keep in touch with all you lovely folk who take time out of your busy days to comment on my silliness here. And really, it’s not you; it’s me. (I’m not breaking up with you. Don’t worry. I’m just trying to find that ever-elusive balance between social media-izing and writing and life. Perhaps this’ll help me along.)

But if you all hate me for this, I’m totally Skyping Lisa and Laura at 3 am to cry and take antidepressants.

~~~~~

 

* I’m not writing a memoir.

** This may not be based on an actual conversation.

*** I may have made some of that stuff up.

**** I made this up too, but it could be true.

***** This one could also be true, but I can’t be sure. They might be clutching a bottle of something else.

On being a bastard

Okay, I’m a bit of a snarky bastard. This much most of you know. Mostly it’s all in fun, but every now and then I have to face the fact that instead of being a snarky bastard, I’ve just been a bastard. ‘Tis true, sadly.

Look, I don’t care so much about offending people. It’s quite simple, actually: if you don’t like the content of my fiction, or the fact that I occasionally use four-letter words, or you don’t quite get sarcasm, or you just don’t like guys who wear shades in their profile pics, then don’t read my blog. What else is there to say? Sure, you could leave me a comment telling me I’m a jerk and deserve to spend an eternity in hell for saying “fuck” in a blog post or something, but then I’ll just figure your personal issues are bleeding into my blog comment section, sip my vodka, and move on.

So if you’re offended by something I say? Don’t read me. Unfollow, unsubscribe, whatever. I don’t check those numbers anyway, so I won’t know who you are and I won’t hold a grudge. It takes all types to make the world go round, folks, and there’s room for people that don’t like me or my writing.

Offending is one thing. Hurting is entirely another.

The sad fact is that when you choose to indulge in edgy humor (which I do, regularly), you can end up unintentionally hurting people. It may be by commission or omission, but it can happen nonetheless. I try, when joking around, to remain sensitive  to people’s issues—I’ve even DMed pre-emptive apologies on Twitter when I wondered whether something I said might’ve strayed too close to that line between humor and meanness. And most times, it’s cool. But on rare occasions, it’s not.

Humor makes assumptions. We assume people will understand what we mean, will interpret our words in the way we intended them to be taken, but this is not always the case. Sometimes we assume too much, and when we assume too much, occasionally we end up causing pain. This, writer-friends, sucks.

In online interactions, all we have are the words, people. We don’t have gestures, facial expressions, vocal tones, or any other methods of indicating our true intentions. We can *cough* or ellipsize… or use other methods to communicate our point, but things still get misread sometimes.

Be careful how you use those words, writer-friends. There’s a reason they say the pen is mightier than the sword: both can cut, but the cuts words inflict can be deeper and take longer to heal. Sarcasm’s all well and good, until it’s interpreted as cruelty. Use it judiciously.

So if I’ve offended you at any point with what I say or how I say it on my blog? I’m mildly apologetic, perhaps, but the internet’s a big, big place, and I inhabit the merest corner of it. You’ve options elsewhere, and if you exercise them, no hard feelings on my part. But if I’ve hurt you, been insensitive, accidentally cruel? Please tell me, and I will bend backwards to apologize with all the eloquence at my command and make amends as best I can.

The world’s got plenty of suck to go around, writer-friends. I’d rather make people smile than cry, is all. Now get out there and snark nicely, y’hear?

Victoria Mixon kicked me in the tenders

That’s figuratively speaking, of course. I’ve never met Victoria, and if I did, I’m fairly sure she wouldn’t haul off and boot me in the cojones unless I said something rampantly offensive in the opening moments of conversation (“My, they did a wonderful job of airbrushing the second head out of your headshot for your website! Wait, that’s a pimple? *thud* Ow!”). No, it was this post she wrote on 4 Ways Social Media Can Screw Up Your Writing. Go ahead, read it. I’ll wait.

*waits*

*taps fingers*

*stretches*

*yawns*

Oh, you’re back? Hi. Um… did you feel the need to swing by the bar on the way back to have a few cold ones? I kinda did after reading that. She doesn’t pull any punches (or kicks), does she? For the non-link-clicking-inclined in my readership, I’ll reiterate the 4 points for you. Here (the capitalizations are hers):

1. It can EAT YOUR LIFE.
2. It can MAKE YOU STUPID.
3. It can CONFUSE YOUR PRIORITIES.
4. It can KILL YOUR SOUL.

Now, arguably, not much could make me look stupider than I make myself, so point 2 isn’t so much of an issue for me. But 1, 3, and 4? Yowza!

Who among us hasn’t sat down to write and then thought, ‘Let me just hop on Twitter to say I #amwriting and then I’ll start.’ Then, after tweeting and checking to see who’s responded to you and looking to see what Luke Romyn or Tawna Fenske or Harley May have said recently and RTing funny or interesting things from your Twitter-friends and clicking on links to things other people have posted, you realize it’s two hours later and maybe you should start actually #writing but it’s getting close to bedtime and perhaps now would be a good time for a nightcap. Yeah.

Ooh, and how about this one? You get up early in the morning, intending to write, and before you open the Word (or Wordperfect or OpenOffice... I’m format agnostic) document you check your e-mail and maybe respond to comments on your blog from yesterday that came in while you were asleep and then swing by Google Reader to see what your favorite bloggers hav to say today and you read their blogs and giggle or cry or snort coffee through your nose onto your keyboard and have to clean it up and then you have to comment to tell whomever just made you irrigate your sinuses with caffeine that they just made you irrigate your sinuses with caffeine and then you realize it’s time for the kids to get up or for you to shower or get ready for work and weren’t you supposed to be writing for the last 45 minutes? Yeah.

Hmm….

I think I’ll have more ruminations on this issue in another post, but suffice it to say that the whole balance between writing, reading, social media, and real life thing that we all have to strike? I ain’t striking it. Methinks there’re some adjustimifications needing to be made in the ol’ writing life, writer-friends.

But enough cogitation for today. I’m off to shower and get ready for work, since the time I could’ve spent writing I spent blogging about what I do with the time I could’ve spent writing. Anyone else have any thoughts on balance? How are you all managing? Or are you?

Awesomeness: One of my Many Issues

Okay, maybe awesomeness isn’t an issue, per se, and I’m really not all that awesome, all told (though Roxy said in my comment section that I’m a victim of my own awesomeness with all these awards, and I thought that was an awfully nice thing of her to say), but this post does have some significant shades of awesome to it, so I’ll keep that as a working title. Aaannnd that was a long first sentence. On we go, then!

First, some maintenance issues, of the announcement variety:

1. Tahereh H. Mafi is still running her “bestie-story” contest, but it ends today. Do I have to say anything other than $100 Amazon gift card and Agent/Rejectionist critiques to pique your interest? I thought not. Go enter with  your flashy fiction.
2. Zoe Courtman is running a 100 followers contest, in which she gives away a gold-lamé flash drive (shiny!) and interviews the winner on her blog. All you have to do is leave a fun and interesting interview question in her comment section. What are you waiting for?

~~~~~

 Right. On to bidness. This one’s also in the awards acceptance vein, but with a difference. Today’s muchas gracias goes out to Courtney Barr, the Southern Princess, and is for two reasons. First, she gave me the Sunshine Comment award. Um… yeah. It has yellow wellies, and she did it to poke fun at me, after all these metro awards I’ve been accepting. But I’ve forgiven her already. Why? Well, because of this little piece of liquid awesome:

 Lookit, y’all! It’s my very own award! Courtney created it just for me and my lonesome! How. Effin. Cool. Is. That? (And if you look closely, you’ll see that the book upon which the beer is resting is Hemingway’s The Torrents of Spring. Papa would approve of this, I’m quite certain.) Courtney, you did me a solid on this one, fo sho! (Credit goes to Lola for reminding me of that phrase.)

I’m sure you understand my responsibility as the inaugural recipient of this award. First, I must profusely and enthusiastically thank Courtney for creating it in my honor. So: thank you Courtney, profusely!!! (The two additional exclamation points indicate enthusiasm, fyi.) Second, I simply must pass it along to my male blogger friends, as an antidote for things like the Sugar Doll award, and also to a few of my long-time bloggie friends, just for being my long-time bloggie friends. This list’ll be a tiny bit long, so please bear with me as I distribute the award-love.

~~~~~

Men Who Deserve an Award With Beer In It

D. L. Hammons at Cruising Altitude, because he actually did just get the Sugar Doll Award from Lola.

Jon Paul at Where Sky Meets Ground

Matt Delman at Free the Princess

Jeffrey Beesler at Jeffrey Beesler's World of the Scribe

Don Pizarro at Warm Fuzzy Freudian Slippers (how great a blog title is that, incidentally?)

Roland Yeomans at Writing in the Crosshairs

Alex Cavanaugh at, er… Alex J. Cavanaugh

Juan at Juan of Words (for consistently and eloquently challenging my view of immigration)

Jay Eckert at Jay Eckert’s Sharpened Pen (who just finished the first draft of his novel—W00T!)

Jamey Stegmaier at, er (again)… Jamey Stegmaier.com

Davin Malasarn and Scott Bailey at The Literary Lab (you can each have the award, gents… no need to share.)

And any other dudes I may have forgotten, and who want this award, feel free to take it, cuz I’m tellin’ you what, manly blog awards are in hella short supply around the blogosphere!

~~~~~

Lady Blog-friends Who Deserve an Award, Period

Carolina Valdez Miller, who deserves this because she gave me my first blog award ever, and I probably haven’t thanked her enough yet. She’s a fantastic writer, excellent critiquer, laugh-out-loud funny gal, and nicer’n most people have any right to be. She deserves every ounce of her impending success.

Laurel Garver, one of my real-life critique partners, to whom I’ve linked a ludicrous number of times already, but who I know enjoys a good beer. You have no idea how hard she’s working to get her first novel polished for submissions, and if ever anyone needed a virtual beer in honor of that, it’s  her.

Nicole Ducleroir, whose comments on the fiction I post are consistently encouraging, and who did me the lovely favor of critiquing my French usage and cultural assumptions in my most recently completed short story. Because of her, the story’s better than I could have made it on my own. Thank you!

It amuses me to pass this award on to Michelle Davidson Argyle, because she doesn’t even drink. She’s been a blog-friend for, like, ever, though, and has also critiqued my fiction for me (very well, I might add). Her personal blog’s gone dark, but she’s still around at The Literary Lab, for which I’m quite glad.

Harley May, that complex and contradictory gal, needs this award, because it’s rare for me not to snort-laugh when I read her blog or tweets. But behind all that snark is a dedicated writer and mother, and a genuinely sweet person. Don’t tell her I told you that, though. I don’t want her to think I’m ruining her rep.

Mercedes Yardley just keeps beating the pants off me in our #NovelChallenge. Granted, we’ve renegotiated the terms of the challenge so I’m allowed to write flash fiction and short stories, but she still seems to keep smacking me down on an almost weekly basis. It’s hard to resent it, though, since she does so with humor and grace, and if I can help her get a difficult memoir written with our challenge, I’ll consider it an honor.

~~~~~

Whoo! Told you it’d take a while. My fingers hurt now.

By the way,  writer-friends, I just want to say before I sign off for the day that I appreciate each and every one of you who swings by my blog to read, comment, stalk, whatever. I’m not the greatest at returning follow-favors, and I’m prone to fits of terrifying stupidity at times, so when you all overlook that and read my logorrhea anyway, I can’t help but be grateful. Thank you, writer-friends. Truly.

And on that note, I bid you a fond adieu. A demain! *bows with a flourish*

Fails of Epic Proportions (and a tiny bit of awesomeness)

So… this creativity workshop that Merrilee is running. I have to have been the worst participant on record this week. I mean, really. I was supposed to do things like:

• Get up at 5:30 every day and write 200 words before I had my morning coffee.
• Stay off Facebook and Twitter and drink no alcoholic beverages until I’d written 300 more words in the evening.
• Attempt a science fiction story.

Instead I:

• Went out for Happy Hour (yes, it’s capitalized, and no, it’s not just one hour) with a friend on Monday.
• Installed fiberglass insulation in my attic.
• Bought myself a new 1.75L bottle of Sobieski vodka to store in my freezer.
• Accepted blog awards. Then a few more blog awards.
• Wrote bugger-all on the sci-fi story (though I did have an idea worth exploring).

Okay, when I say bugger-all, I mean I wrote about 200 words of it. Yeah. I was just that dedicated this week. I’m calling this a Workshop Fail, and one of Epic Proportions (those capitalizations are also totally appropriate, btw).

But y’know what was fun about this week? The story idea I had that didn’t fit into the workshop goals. I even wrote about 500 words of it, and I gotta tell ya, writer-friends, I haven’t been this stoked about a story since my Paris story ate its way out of my brain. Just read this first sentence and tell me it isn’t gold:

One Thursday at 3:47 in the afternoon, Bill McCardle decided to get drunk for the first time in his life, on account of the fact he’d come home from work early to find Elder Jim’s car in his driveway and Elder Jim himself in the kitchen with his face buried in Bill’s wife’s cleavage.

It only gets better from there, too. I’m already amused at the turns Bill’s life is going to take once he sits down at the bar. Sometimes I love being a writer of fiction. *sigh*

Anyhow, maybe this next week will be the one during which I’ll meet my workshop goals. Urban fantasy is the next genre I’m planning on tackling, and damn if I don’t want to write some vampires or werewolves or angels or something, just to prove I can. We’ll see how things shake out.

So to all my writer-friends, I say, “Happy weekend, and have a wonderful writing-week.” Perhaps next Sunday I’ll have a FTW post for y’all. Here’s hoping!

Prevarication: One of my Many Issues

Yeah, I know. I got a lot of issues. What’s it to you? I suppose I’m just highlighting several of them in my blog titles these last few days, for <redacted> and giggles. My point? Uh… I don’t have one. I guess I should get on with accepting awards. *cough*

And, incidentally, I thought I was almost out from under my awards burden, but then, today (which will be yesterday by the time you read this), both Laurel and Stina gave me awards! Really, ladies? Really? I mean, I’m grateful as a geriatric with free Cialis samples, but more awards? *sigh* Well, here goes, then…

Stina gave me the Blogger Buddy Award. It has flowers. And hummingbirds. Nevertheless, I will thank her profusely, because it’s lovely of her to think of me, and she said I was funny, which compliment covers a multitude of sins, so I think we’re cool. (But hummingbirds?) Oh, and you should check out her blog. Not only does she talk about nifty writerly stuff like commas (and who doesn’t love commas?), but she offers up photography tips too. Multitalented gal, no?

Then Laurel, one of my long-suffering CPs and co-founder of our crit  group, decided she’d give me the Sweet Blog Award. Uh… yeah. She knew fine well what she was doing with this one. I think this kind of clinches it for me: there’s a conspiracy among lady bloggers to get me to admit to being metro. Well, forget it, ladies! I like power tools and Hemingway and straight vodka and the occasional manicure so I’m totally not metro! Ahem. Anyhow, thanks to Laurel for thinking of me. And though I’ve linked to her about a quadrillion times, I should mention that she’s an excellent editor, close reader, and that her blog is probably fifteen times more helpful to the aspiring writer than mine, by virtue of the simple fact that she’s not a moron, and I am. Go visit her if you haven’t already.

And the final entry in the awards category is the It’s Like We’re Soulmates Award, from Wendy over at W.M. Morrell. I’m supposed to totally make some shiznit up about the fellow bloggers to whom I’m passing this award, and normally I’d be all over the shiznit-making-up bandwagon, but boy, am I getting tired! I will actually pass this on to a few bloggie friends, but I think I’ll save that little bit of creativity for another day, since if I’m going to make stuff up about people, I prefer to be at peak form for it. I’ll just say thank you to Wendy for the award. (And I totally won’t mention her habit of cleaning her ears with popsicle sticks instead of Q-tips. Neither will I mention the fact that she sleeps hanging upside down like a bat. You just don’t need to know that stuff about her.)

And in the FINAL bit of blog-bling thanks, I’ll say a quick mercy buckets* to Amalia at Good To Begin Well, Better To End Well, who regretfully tagged me with that “Five Things” meme. As always, I’ll change the rules to amuse myself and also make things easier on me. So…

Question 1 - Where were you five years ago?

In a maximum security prison deep under Death Valley. I only escaped by digging a three-mile long tunnel with a toothpick. Don’t ask where I hid the toothpick to keep it from the guards. Just don’t.

Question 2 - Where would you like to be in five years?

Preferably not in a maximum security prison deep under Death Valley. Though, come to think of it, a bit of notoriety might help sell my books, and if they gave me the same cell again, I could totally just use the tunnel I already dug to get out. I might have to think about this some more.

Question 3 - What is on your to-do list today?

Commit a high-profile, yet essentially victimless crime in order to create buzz for my yet-to-be-completed novel. Publishing houses love celebrity authors, and I could totes take advantage of a media-frenzy trial and turn it into a platform to sell my fiction. If  I don’t get this done today, maybe I’ll save it for the weekend.

Question 4 - What snacks do you enjoy?

We evil geniuses (genii, for the grammatically inclined) don’t snack, unless it’s to chew on the lamentations of our enemies and sip the tears of their widows. But if pressed, I’d say mozzarella sticks are a pretty awesomesauce snack.

Question 5 - What five things would you do if you were a billionaire?

This is a silly question. I’m already a billionaire. But if I had a couple more billion, I’d likely buy, cajole, threaten, and bribe my way to supreme leadership of the developed world. Then I’d call for mozzarella sticks and vodka, and party like it’s 1999.

~~~~~

Right. Anyone else have any questions? ;)

Laziness: One of my Many Issues

Yes, indeedy, writer-friends—there’s more. More awards, I mean. Also, more issues, but you’re not here to read about my multitudinous faults and foibles are you? (Are you? Sometimes I wonder….) Anyway, I’ve a few more thank yous to say, and some stuff to make up in answer to questions people asked me, and I should get on that, ‘cause my posts always run long.

First up is Harley D. Palmer, from Labotomy of a Writer, who passed me the Butterfly Award. Now, I’ve already received this one before, and it makes me wonder if there’s a blogospheric lady conspiracy to out me as metro or something. I mean, these blog awards in shades of pastel, with butterflies and kittehs and stuff on them… aren’t there any with power tools and liquor bottles on them? No, in all seriousness, thanks, Harley, dear, for thinking of me. For those of you who don’t know her, go visit her blog, wouldja? She’s a writer, yes, but she also dabbles quite effectively in graphic design… anyone need book cover art?

Next is Mireyah, from over at Where Plot Bunnies Roam. She passed on the Life is Good Award (rainbows… *sigh*), and demanded that I answer a bunch of questions to go along with it. It’s fine. Who doesn’t love being solipsistic now and then? Oh, and go visit Mireyah, too. She’s annoyingly good at writing for one so young. Then again, if it weren’t for bloggie friends like her, I wouldn’t know words like awesomesauce, so maybe I’ll keep her around….

1. Favorite Drink?

Does anyone really need to ask me this, ever? Oh, fine. Vodka is my favorite drink, followed by a good single malt scotch, followed by IPAs so hoppy they’re like swilling pine-needle-grapefruit compotes. Water and coffee are nice too.

2. Favorite research subject?

Anything and everything related to the sciences (except actuarial ones… zzz…) and writing.

3. Homecooking (good or not), Fast Food, or Nice Restaurant?

I know it’s a shocker, but I can cook, beyond the usual Kraft Mac-‘n’-Cheese. Yup. So it’s either home cooking or nice restaurant for me. Mostly the former, ‘cause have you ever tried to take three kids under the age of 5 to a nice restaurant? Yeah.

4. First thing you check when you get online: twitter, facebook, blog or email?

E-mail. Which is usually filled with updates from blogs, Twitter, and Facebook. Go figure.

5. If you could be a Pirate, a Ninja, a Cyborg, or a Bob Icon, which would you be? 

Ninja. Death from the shadows, fools. (The chuckling might give me away right before I deal the deathblow, though. I have trouble controlling my evil cackles at times.)

6. Cats or dogs? Or both?

Love the kittehs, but they make me itch. Dogs are awesome, but only if they’re my brother’s Border Collie. So… neither.

7. Silver or Gold?

White gold. I’m still hoping I’ll be sucked into a Chronicles of Thomas Covenant adventure with my white gold wedding band. Hasn’t happened yet, but you never know….

8. What is an essential item before leaving the house?

The iPod nano, chock-full of awesomesauce symphonic metal, hard rock, and classical music. Yes, I’m contradictory. Deal.

9. Music or silence while writing--and if music, what kind?

Used to be silence, but I’ve learned to write with music, and I love it. What kind depends on the kind of scene. Dirty, nasty scenes deserve Nine Inch Nails. Sweeter ones might get Snow Patrol. Violent ones get Pantera. Quiet ones get classical piano music.

10. Favorite mythological creature?

Pegasus. Three words: death from above. (See also ninja.)

~~~~~

Aannnd I’m spent. I actually have one more award and one tagging to take care of tomorrow, so—lucky you!—I’ll do one more of these fluff-laden posts before returning to my usual sturm und drang. Again, the buck is stopping here, ‘cuz I’m too lazy to pass these on.

I’m off to pluck my eyebrows and moisturize. If anyone wants me later, I’ll be at the salon getting a facial.

Hoarding: One of my Many Issues

I’ve been doing it again, writer-friends. I’ve received a bunchload of awards these past weeks (months?), and, as usual, I sat on them until the right phase of the moon came around. (Or was it until Mercury went into retrograde? I forget.) Okay, I may have let a couple moon-cycles go by since I got the first one of these, but whatevs—let’s not split hairs, huh? Point being, I’m long overdue to say public thank yous for these awards, so let’s go on and do that, shall we?

Nicole Ducleroir, from One Significant Moment at a Time, passed on the Blogger BFF Award to me, and I think I got warm fuzzies. A BFF? Me? That kind of love is almost enough to rescue me from incipient alcoholism. Needless to say, I celebrated the award by pouring myself a stiff drink. But thank you, Nicole! You’re simply lovely, and a wonderful commenter. Those of you who don’t know her, go read her blog, like, now, ‘cause how many other people do you know who’ve been kidnapped by African rebels and lived to tell about it?

And then there’s the Awesomesauce Award. I confess, as soon as I saw this one making the rounds, I coveted it. ‘Cause, y’know, it’s awesomesauce! And—funnily enough for a writer with great respect for language and correct spelling and grammar—I’m mightily amused by these ‘net-isms that litter teh tinterwebs like glitter in a pre-school art class. Anyhoo, this little gem was passed on to me by not one, but three lovely ladies:

• E. Elle at The Writer’s Funhouse. This gal’s got a fun, breezy, engaging style about her, and occasionally lets her characters hijack her blog to talk about themselves. Of course, following her may mean she’ll use something you say in one of her stories one day, so just make sure you only ever say nice things to/about her.
• Rebecca at Sonshine Thoughts. She’s got a wonderful sense of humor, and if you don’t snort-laugh at her Retail Wednesday posts, I label you humor deficient. Or, possibly, you’ve never worked in retail. Is there anyone who hasn’t worked in retail? Didn’t we all start out with that crappy, min.-wage job in our junior year of high school? (Or 5th form/year, for my friends back home.) I’m getting distracted again. Just visit Rebecca before I ramble any more.
• Mia, at My Literary Jam and Toast. I like Mia for a few reasons. First, she’s Scottish, which I find automatically endearing. Second, she’s a dedicated stalker, and I can respect that. Third, she’s always talking tripe about how everyone else’s blogfest entries are so much better than hers and how she’s been pwnd, but really, her writing is quite enjoyable, and almost always shows a spark of understated humor. (Which, incidentally, is rather in contrast with the energetically-transmitted humor of her blog posts.) Go visit her. Nowish.

Whoo, boy, I get wordy in these awards posts, don’t I? I’ll have to finish the thank yous tomorrow, methinks. But not before I say thank you to…

Dawn Hullender, at Dawn Hullender’s Southern Musings. She gifted me not only with the Lovely Blog Award, but also the Prolific Blogger Award. How nice is she? She’s a book reviewer, novelist, and, as she puts it, a generally sassy Southern belle. (Does anyone else think of Scarlett O’Hara when they think of sassy Southern belles? Just me? Also, I just like the consonance of “sassy Southern.” Maybe I’m a poet and don’t know it. I should stop being parenthetical and get back to the thanks, shouldn’t I?) Anyway, swing on by to see what Dawn’s been doing lately. She’s got three manuscripts out in fulls at publishing houses, so clearly she’s been doing something right. Go see her so you can say you knew her when….

Aaannnd since I’m not the rule-following type, I’m not passing these on. I say I’m not the rule-following type  because really I’m just too lazy to write anymore today, and in order to pass the awards on, I’d have to write more and link more and blog-hop more and leave announcements and stuff and who has time to do all that after the third mimosa of the morning? So just take the award if you want it, and use it with my blessing. Consider it a token of my appreciation for stopping by and reading my randomness every now and then.

‘Til next time, writer-friends. Don’t do anything I wouldn’ t do, y’hear? (Actually, do. I’d be so proud.)

Late Entry: The Flirt-Fest Blogfest

I’m such a joiner. (No, not a woodworker who specializes in putting pieces of wood together in creative ways. Why do you people have to be so literal?) I wasn’t going to sign up for the Flirt-Fest Blogfest, since I usually write new stuff for these things. But lo and behold, I recalled I had kind of a flirty scene in a story I wrote last year. Win!

I won’t bother with the preamble or the postamble or any inbetweenambles. I’ll just post the excerpt for your reading enjoyment, then hop over to do the late sign-up thing at the Critique This WIP site. Onward!

~~~~~

One Saturday morning, Jason was herding the girls into the minivan for a trip to the beach. Jennifer was standing by the fence smoking and watching her Westie sniff around the lawn furniture. “Day trip?” she asked.

“Yup,” Jason said. “Just a quickie to the beach.” He shut the door and turned. Jennifer was wearing sweats and an oversized t-shirt, and her hair was piled in a loose bun. Several locks had escaped to blow across her cheeks in the light morning breeze. “Have you gone yet this summer?”

“Nah. I’m a homebody. Plus”—she shrugged and shivered a little—“I don’t like getting sand in my bikini.”

Jason smiled. “Where’s your sense of fun?” He glanced over his shoulder, then banged his palm on the window behind him to quiet the girls. “Emily! Stop poking your sister with that shovel!” Jennifer laughed. “Where’s Mara today?” he asked when he looked back.

“At her dad’s. He gets her one weekend every other month.” She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, then frowned and reached up to pull out the bun. Blonde cascaded over her shoulders. She combed it with her fingers, then collected it in her customary ponytail once again. Jason could smell the soft fruitiness of her conditioner, mixed with the acrid heat of cigarette smoke.

“You’re on your own this weekend?” he said. “You should come with us then.” He peered into the back of the van, where the cooler and towels were packed tight. “It’s a bit of a squeeze, but we could fit you. You’ll just have to double up on one of the seats.”

“Or I could sit on Trish’s lap.”

Jason cleared his throat. “Or she could drive.” Jennifer took a long drag and looked at him. She had a half-smile on her lips as she turned her head to exhale. He grinned and raised one eyebrow.

“Maybe next time,” she said. “Nice of you to offer.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement.

As he pulled the van out of the driveway and turned onto the main road, Jason thought that he and Jennifer understood one another quite well now.

Fails, Epic Fails, and Minor Successes

Sunday, writer-friends, is the day for me, as part of Merrilee’s creativity workshop, to ruminate and reminisce about the past week, and how I meet my writing goals. You may have guessed from the title of the post that I didn’t quite make them all.

What did I do well, then? I did manage to start my short story in the fantasy genre. I quite liked how the characters began to take shape as I wrote, how the ideas for the climactic battle became more concrete and specific as I discovered whom I was writing about and their various talents. The story’s far from finished, but I’m excited to return to it when I’ve the time. Minor success.

I also found that it’s possible to crank out 200 words before my morning coffee, but that it’s a painful process, filled with typos and terrible prose. However, since I’m using Write or Die, and if  I stop to think or edit or rewrite too much, it’ll eat my words, I don’t have the luxury of lingering over thorny passages. The upshot? I’ve discovered I can write 200 words in 10 minutes when there’s a reward at the end for me. Minor success, there, too.

What wasn’t so good? I only managed to write in the morning three of five weekdays. In the evenings, I usually added another 300 or so words, but then a local industry trade show hit, and I was stuck schmoozing instead of writing. On a positive note, I got to eat out at the best Japanese restaurant in town on someone else’s dime. W00T! Saketinis FTW! (I’m classifying the week’s wordcount as a Fail, though. *sigh*)

Oh, and that getting up at 5:30 to write thing? I knew it was ambitious when I set that goal, but I’ve done that before. But that was back before baby #3 was born, when both older children were sleeping through the night. Right now, tiny person likes to wake up once or twice between midnight and morning, and guess who gets to collect her from the crib for the night nurse. Yeah. So the 5:30 waking goal? EPIC FAIL!

 Epic Fail: Sooo close, yet so far….

Right. That said, the next week should be interesting. I’ll either start the urban fantasy or the sci-fi story, and I’ve ideas for each. We’ll see which one captures my imagination when I sit down tomorrow morning. If I can start the week strong, the momentum might just carry me through to the end of the short story. I need a win, baby. Wish me luck!

Sonnet Smackdowns and Sobieski Odes

As most of you know, I’m a sucker for writing challenges. Apparently I’m not the only one. See, back when I first outed myself as an iambic-pentameter-capable fellow (on Iambic Pentameter Monday, naturally), I had no idea where it would lead. Well, a couple days later,  Ms. Embee (M. Bail, who can be found over at Musings of a Would-be Writer as well as the Critique This WIP blog) thought it might be fun to challenge me (in my own comment section, no less!) to write sonnets on the subject of vodka and symphonic metal chicks. Okay, then.

Well, as a result of that, I challenged her right back, to write sonnets on the subjects of golf, beer, and old farts. She took that ball and ran with it, turning it into an 8-sonnet sequence that is actually an honest-to-goodness, snarktastic story. Go find out what she did with it here. I was amused. :)

So, fine. I’m posting this a day later than originally intended, but never let it be said that I didn’t rise to a challenge. Here we go, baby!

~~~~~

Scene-Setting Sonnet

So, some weeks back, I posted metered verse—

Iambic version of my no-kiss scene.

I think I did quite well; ‘twas not the worst

Thing that I’ve done—I even kept it clean!

But then—what’s this?—another challenge here?

You want a sonnet sequence? Well, why not?

But, ah, good lady, let us make it clear:

These things have strings attached, you know. Eh, what?

So, Margaret, dear, shall we go head to head?

You want some sonnets? Well, then so do I.

My topics: vodka, hot rock chicks, you said?

Yours: golf carts, old farts, beer. Yeah, you know why.

Now onward! Sonnets for the win, I say.

You challenged me, good lady—now let’s play.

 

Ode to Vodka

Ah, vodka: how I love thee, lovely drink.

I wish I’d known you sooner. Yes, ‘tis true.

The time I wasted drinking beer, I think,

Might have been better spent sipping on you.

Ambrosial liquor, clear as mountain spring;

Staple of cocktails, simple to exotic.

Though, really, what’s this fresh, new-fangled thing

With all those flavors, quirky and quixotic?

No, give it to me neat, or over ice—

Don’t sully such perfection with a mix.

Straight from the freezer? Ah, so very nice:

The perfect way to get my vodka fix.

O king of cocktails, vodka, prince of booze,

‘Tis you, my friend: the drink I’ll always choose.

 

Sonnet for Sobieski

Ah, Sobieski, noblest of them all--

Thou sweet elixir, legacy of kings.

O, wodka Polska, wondrous alcohol,

Belovèd for the marv’lous joy it brings.

Where others claim the crown with gimmicks bold—

Endorsements by celebrity du jour—

Thou needst not shame thyself with such fool’s gold;

Thy rule comes honestly, with flavor pure.

Thy taste: a soft and citrus-lacèd draft,

With notes of grassy grain ‘neath summer sky.

Thy texture: smooth as silk, yet dry—such craft!—

The jaded palate sure to satisfy.

Among the ranks of vodka’s royalty,

Thou stand, Sobieski, most assuredly.

 

Symphonic Metal Sonnet

Symphonic metal: guitar-crashing-chords,

With driving bass-beats, doubled drums below.

The smooth, supporting keyboard points towards

Soft-soaring vocals, lovely lyric glow.

What is it ‘bout this music that my ear

So pleases? Can its secret yet be found?

Adrenaline-infused, whene’er I hear

Those rocking rhythms—beats that shake the ground.

‘Tis not just metal—no, ‘tis not, you see,

For straight guitar-drum-bass is not the same.

The keyboard: yes, ‘tis that—it has to be;

Its complex chords symphonic, hence the name.

Yes, this intriguing music has my heart—

The whole more than the sum of every part.

 

Which Lead Singer?

Ah, Unsun caught me with The Other Side,

With Aya’s knee-high boots and long, blonde hair.

Lacuna Coil’s Cristina? Though I’ve tried,

I’m Spellbound by the lady’s face so fair.

But Halestorm? Words just simply can’t express

How hot their lyrics—I Get Off? Just… damn!

And sweet Simone of Epica—oh, yes,

I’m smitten by your flame-red locks, I am.

And yet, of all these lovely ladies, one

Stands out like shaft of sun through April Rain.

She’s auburn-tressèd, throaty-voicèd—none

Can match her: Charlotte Wessels of Delain.

So why does this gal all the others beat?

Quite simple: she responded to my tweet.

~~~~~

And there we go. I won’t say it wasn’t a little work to put these together—the Sobieski one especially took me a while to get right. But they do what I want them to.

Anyone else up for a sonnet challenge? ;)

Glam’s Short Story Contest Reminder

Here’s a quickie for you, folks, just in case you were going through contest withdrawal in the wake of The Most Epic Contest in the History of the Blogosphere, Evar (results here). The lovely Lady Glamis (Michelle Davidson Argyle) of The Literary Lab is still running her short story contest through her Innocent Flower blog.

The details of the contest are here, but for your convenience, I’ll reproduce the pertinents:

1. Deadline for entries is June 1st.
2. Any genre, any word count up to 7,500 words.
3. Entries to be emailed to annie.louden(at)gmail.com.
4. Winners announced June 30th.

Each of the top three stories will be published on Glam’s blog, and will receive a full critique. The other prizes are:

• First: A $50 gift card to wherever, OR a full novel critique.
• Second: A $25 gift card OR a partial critique (30 pages).
• Third: A $10 Amazon gift card.

There we have it, writer-friends. If you’ve got a short story kicking around that hasn’t been submitted or published yet, why not send it on over? I speak from experience here when I say Michelle’s critiques are very good.

What are you waiting for, friends? A written invitation? This is it. Go enter. :)

And the winners are…

Ah, yes.  The contest. I should be giving stuff away now, right? Yup, I should.

And is now a good time for me to say I’m VERY happy that I’m leaving the winners up to fate and fickle fortune (and Randomizer.org)? ‘Cause I am. I wouldn’t want the job of judging all that juicy flash fiction. If I weren’t already a light shade of pink, I’d’ve been tickled that color by all the iambic and anapestic odes, and the many strange and wonderful ways people involved me in their fiction.

(As a side note, in the flash fiction entries, I was killed twice,  stalked three times, drank vodka many times, and almost got eaten by the Query Shark, all of which amused me no end.)

While we’re on that subject, I did say I’d reward each and every person who wrote me something, and I stand by that. Of course, since I’m not made of money, I’ll offer you flash-fictionistas (and metered-poetry-istas) your choice of:

• A personalized sonnet or anapestic tetrameter ode, and/or
• A book you like from my personal collection.

Here’s the linkie-list of intrepid souls who wooed and amused me with their creative methods of making me look good, dead, creepy, and strange. Check them out:

• Summer (from …And This Time, Concentrate!)
• Tina Lynn (from Sweet Niblets)
• Ann Marie (from Greece….)
• Jess (from Jest Kept Secret)
• Rebecca (from Sonshine Thoughts)
• Margaret (from Musings of a Would-be Writer)
• Lisa (from Paranormal Point of View)
• Sarah (from The Wit and Wisdom of Another Sarah)
• Mia (from My Literary Jam and Toast)
• Karen (from, erm… Twitter)
• Jenn (from Face Time)
• Tahereh (from Grab a Pen)
• Donna (from Donna Hole)

Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for! (Okay, well, the moment the 27 lovely entrants to my contest have been waiting for. On the edge of their collective seats, with bated collective breath, on collective tenterhooks, and all that.) I tallied the entries in Excel, then let Randomizer.org do the dirty work for me, and here’s what we got:



Yay! So numbers 46, 53, 75, 222, and 263, do contact me and tell me what your prize preference is. This was fun! Let’s do it again sometime.

…

Oh, okay. You want actual names. Fine. The scintillating and intelligent folk who correspond with those numbers are (in numerical order, and not preferential order, because I appreciate everyone equally and would never play favorites [unless, say, Scarlett Johansson had entered my contest, in which case I might have been forced to play favorites, just a little… you understand, of course]):

• Roxy (from A Woman’s Write)
• Dawn (from It’s in the Book)
• Ann Marie (from Greece….)
• Karen (from Twitter, again)
• Rebecca (from Sonshine Thoughts)

You ladies are, without a doubt, made of win. You get your pick from the full prize pack of:

• Sobieski vodka and swag
• Personalized flash fiction
• Personalized sonnet
• Critiques or line-edits (15 pages)
• A book of your choice
• $25 book certificate (Amazon, Powells, etc.)
• Your name used for a supporting character in a published novel (this may take a while, though)

And y'know what? Since sonnets are pretty easy for me, I’ll throw in a sonnet with any of the other prizes. Consider it a freebie. I’ll write an ode to you in iambic pentameter. Unless you’d prefer anapestic tetrameter, in which case you can have it. ‘Cause you’re a winner.

Thus endeth, writer-friends, the most epic contest in the history of the blogosphere, evar. I’m a little sad about that. But I’m thrilled to bits to give a way prizes, so it’s all good. And if you select the vodka as a prize, don’t worry if it arrives pre-opened, with a little sip taken from it. All Sobieski bottles come that way from the factory.

THANKS SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO ENTERED YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME AND I DON’T DESERVE YOU OKAY MAYBE I DO BUT STILL THAT DOESNT’ LESSEN YOUR AWESOMENESS AND YOU SHOULD ALL GIVE YOURSELVES A PAT ON THE BACK AND HAVE A DRINK ON ME TONIGHT YOU CAN SEND THE BILL TO JANET REID SHE WON’T MIND AT ALL!!!

Fin.

P.S. Whoops! Sorry, Rebecca! I forgot your name in the list of grand prize winners. *facepalm* You are now added to the list. :)

The (Creative) Week in Review

As part of the creativity workshop I’m participating, in, we’re to post an analysis of our week’s work on Sundays. Now, I’m not a “follow the rules” guy, per se, but I think this isn’t a bad discipline to foster. Something about the public nature of sharing goals, then analyzing how one fared in accomplishing them, seems to provide that little bit of extra motivation—and as you know, writer-friends, motivation is occasionally hard to come by, so every little bit helps.

I posted my overall goals for the workshop on Tuesday, and, as I perused the goals of the other participants, I realized mine left a little to be desired. Not the stories I wanted to write—those are fine, and I’m kind of excited about the genre fiction series. But, as Merrilee said in her post on goal-setting, goals are SMA (specific, measurable, achievable), and I hadn’t set much for myself in the way of measurables.

To wit, here’re some of the things I’m going to shoot for as specific goals during this coming week.

Main Goal: Write a short story in the fantasy genre—the idea at hand (which I think is pretty nifty) revolves around dragonslaying, and things going terribly, horribly wrong. I love when things go horribly wrong for my characters…. >:)

Daily Word Count Goal: 500

How To: Some things I want to do in order to get me through this story by week’s end are:

• Use Write or Die whenever I’m working on new words for this story. (I did buy the desktop edition, after all.)
• Get up at 5:30 and write 200 words before I drink my coffee. (Talk about motivation!)
• Get at least 300 new words written in the evening before indulging in the alcoholic beverage of choice. (See the drastic steps I’m taking? I must be serious.)
• Stay off Twitter until I have 500 words, minimum, for the day. (This does not apply during normal business hours, since Twitter is a sanity-saver during stultifying, report-filled days.)

If I can stick to this, I should be able to crank out a 3,000 word story this week. I may also get totally into the writing, and crank out more than 500 in a day. I’m hoping, anyway.

So there we go. My week in review, and goals for the week to come. If you see me mucking about on Twitter, friends, do feel free to excoriate me and tell me I’m a lazy, procrastinating bastard. Sometimes I need that.

And now I’m off to make my characters very, very miserable. BWAHAHAHAHAAaaaaahahahaaaaa….

Bad Girl Blogfest: Poor Choices

Yes indeedy, writer-friends. It’s here. The much-anticipated Bad Girl Blogfest, hosted by Andy over at The Write Runner blog. Why is it much anticipated? Well, DUH! Who doesn’t like a femme fatale? Ladies love ‘em ‘cause (presumably) they’re empowered and dangerous and women like to feel empowered and dangerous, even if only vicariously. (I’m totally not stereotyping here for comedic effect. Nope. Not at all.) And men love ‘em because…uh…well…hm. We just love ‘em, okay? Let’s leave it at that.

Anyhoo, y’all may have read the end of this story, back on Monday when I posted it as part of Lilah’s Last Line Blogfest. Well, here’s what happened to get Sean and Ana to that seedy motel.

Oh, and when you’re done reading, be sure to swing back by Andy’s blog to surf through some of the other entries. I can pretty much guarantee it’ll be fun. And possibly empowering. And maybe even a little dangerous. *cough*

Here we go, people! (Apologies in advance for the length. It just happened that way.)

~~~~~

Poor Choices

Hector’s boot on his neck—this was the third time now—was starting to make Sean wonder whether Ana was really worth the trouble after all. They’d been together barely two months, and already four ex-boyfriends had threatened to kill him. Granted, the first three had been all bluster—a few hard words and a quick fist to the throat had taken care of them. Hector, though . . . now he might actually mean business. The fact he opened negotiations with a pistol whip was a fair indication of that.

“Why you run ‘round with a gringo, chica?” Hector was saying.

Even with his chin tucked and neck muscles flexed to quivering, Sean’s air was being cut off—Ana’s answer was lost beneath the rushing in his ears as his vision dimmed. Then the pressure lifted, and breath flooded back in great, gasping gulps. Sean rolled onto his side, coughed, spat a mouthful of the bile that had risen in his throat.

Hector bent down, tapped him on the forehead with the gun barrel. “Don’t pass out, homes,” he said. “You don’ wan’ ruin my fun, do you?”

“Fuck you,” Sean managed before Hector’s foot embedded itself in his stomach.

More coughing, rolling around, spitting. Sean’s skull ached where the butt of the pistol had landed.

“Hector, you stupid bastard!”

Ana’s voice. Sean stopped hugging the asphalt long enough to glance up. She was standing with her hands on hips, spike-heeled boots planted shoulder-width apart, glaring up at Hector as if she could run him off through sheer force of will. “Let him be, Hector. Go home.”

“That what you want, Ana? Me to go home?” He took a step closer to her. “You gon’ come wi’ me?”

Ana spat. “You got nothin’ for me no more, Hector. I tol’ you that months ago.”

Another step, and Hector was towering over her. He whipped a hand up, grabbed a fistful of her hair.

“Ow . . . fuck! Let go my hair!” She kicked out with one pointed toe, but Hector twisted away so that it glanced off his thigh. He laughed.

“You still got that fire, chica. Gringo like it?”

Sean pushed himself to a kneeling position. Every movement made his head throb, but the anger made it easier to ignore the pain. He gritted his teeth and stood, then turned to face Hector.

“Who said you could get up, rulacho?”

Hector had spun Ana around, holding her against him with one forearm across her neck. She scratched at his arm with hooked fingers, her breath coming in short gasps.

“Can’t fight if you can’t breathe, chica.” He grinned and bent to lick her cheek.

Sean felt his fists curl. He took an involuntary step forward.

“Ah-ah….” Hector raised the gun in his free hand. “You don’ wan’ get shot, gringo.”

“Bastard,” Sean said through clenched teeth. “Put the gun down.”

“And ruin my fun? No, señor.” He stroked Ana’s face with the pistol point. “Been a while since I made little Ana squirm.”

He traced the gun barrel down Ana’s jaw, her neck, over the smooth swell of her breast. The gunmetal glinted in the parking lot lights as Hector moved his hand lower, trailing across Ana’s stomach—bare beneath the tight halter top—to slide the gun beneath the waistband of her jeans. The snake tattoo at her hip looked poised, fang-mouthed, to strike at Hector’s wrist.

“You like a big gun down there, hey?” He nipped at her ear. Sean took another step forward.

The whine of the bullet streaking past his ear merged with the crack of the pistol—a single sound, stopping Sean in his tracks. The gun was pointed at his head now, Hector’s face flat behind the gleam of cold steel and the black, deadly eye at the end of the barrel.

“One more step, cabrón. One more, and you’re done.”

Sean felt a cold prickle across his shoulders, fear worming in his gut for the first time. He glanced at Ana. Her lips were skinned back from her teeth, one hand clenched on Hector’s forearm, her chest heaving as she fought for air. Her other hand was sliding into her jean pocket . . . fingers moving, clutching, reappearing . . . sparkle of steel in the streetlights . . . .

“AHH!”

Hector stumbled backward. Ana twisted out from under the suddenly-loosened arm and spun to face him, knife poised to strike again. A sudden, instinctual surge slammed down Sean’s spine, propelling him forward before his mind registered the movement.

The air sharpened like cut crystal. Light limned the edges of things as Sean exploded into motion—the reddened blade in Ana’s hand, the smooth arc of her lips, the furrow carved into Hector’s cheek just below his eye, the bubbles of blood crimsoning his cheek, the slow movement of the pistol toward Ana’s chest.

Sean felt his feet leave the ground, saw Hector’s bloodied face grow large before the impact shivered his shoulders and the asphalt rushed to meet him once again. He scrabbled for the gun, clamping his hands around Hector’s wrist, smashing it against the ground once, twice. He heard the clatter of metal as the pistol skidded on the blacktop.

Hector’s elbow thudded against Sean’s forehead. Stars sparked behind his eyes, and he let go of Hector’s wrist, reared back. Sight returned in time for him to duck a flailing fist. Hector twisted on the ground, trying to squirm free. Sean lashed out, raining blows on Hector’s chest, his neck, his head. He snapped forward, slamming an elbow into Hector’s temple. Blood began to pool on the ground.

“Get up, Sean,” Ana said.

He looked up to find her a couple paces away, the gun in her hands, barrel aimed at Hector’s head. Her grip was rock-solid; the point of the gun didn’t waver a millimeter.

“Get up,” she said again.

Sean levered himself up and stood. Hector coughed and spat blood onto the pavement.

“Step back, baby.”

“Ana—”

“I said step back.”

Sean took a slow step away. “What’re you doing, babe?”

“Hector,” she said.

He looked up, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

“I tol’ you last time you hit me, you don’ get another chance.”

“What you gon’ do, chica? Shoot me?” He spoke through mashed lips.

“Sí.”

The bullet sent chips of asphalt flying behind Hector’s head. He choked, staring at Ana with wide eyes as blood spurted from the hole in his throat. Sean stared in shock as Hector clasped one hand to his neck, feet scuffing the pavement as he writhed on the ground. Red leaked between his fingers and from the ragged exit wound.

Sean took a half-step forward, then stopped. Hector’s movements slowed, weakening. The spreading pool beneath him crept glistening along cracks in the asphalt. A siren swelled in the distance.

“God, Ana!” Sean’s voice returned. He looked up.

She stood very still, the gun at her side, her face expressionless.

“Ana!”

She blinked, slanted her eyes sideways at him.

“Babe, we gotta go!”

Hector shuddered, exhaling a sputtering breath, and it was done. The approaching siren cut the silence like shards of glass.

Ana paused for the space of one heartbeat . . . two . . . then spun and sprinted for the street. Sean spared a glance for Hector’s corpse before following her, his feet pounding the pavement in Ana’s wake.

* * * * *

In a run-down motel on the other side of town, Sean turned the squeaking faucets on full-blast and let the shower run clear before stepping into the spray. The steaming water blasted his shoulders, his chest, his back, ran in rivulets down his arms and over his hands to swirl, pink-laced, against the stained tiles of the shower floor. He breathed deep through his nose, the iron-rich, old-pipe scent of the water mixing with the diminishing odor of his own sweat. Hector’s bleeding corpse flashed in freeze-frame images behind his eyes. Sean gritted his teeth and watched the bloodied water disappear into the drain.

The curtain hissed aside, and Ana stepped into the shower. Sean shuffled back to make room, blinking through the streaming moisture on his face. She stepped close, the water spattering against her slim body, and slipped her arms around Sean’s neck.

She pressed her flesh to his, head tilted back to gaze up at him—her eyes were inscrutable, pools of midnight black. Her dark hair curled, dampening, at the base of her throat. The pink tip of her tongue flicked her lips.

Then her mouth was on his, and Sean tasted her tongue, the salt curve of her neck, the metallic tang of dirty water on her breast. She was smooth against him, and the steam from the shower rose around them like absolution as they moved together, hungry for release and a brief, blinding moment of forgetting. Their gasps rang against the cracked tiles as the water cascaded down, over them, between them, swirling in the eye of the drain.

Ana’s skin was scalding. Her fingernails raked Sean’s shoulders as she cried out, clamping her thighs against him. And then he was there too, muscles tensed, head back, feeling Ana’s teeth on his neck, nothing in his mind but convulsive pleasure and their commingled scents.

But all too soon, thought returned, and with it the inescapable images of blood pooled black on asphalt, twitching limbs and ragged breaths, and final, irrevocable stillness. Sean pressed his mouth to hers, their lips sliding together, but did not close his eyes. Neither did Ana, and in the blurred blackness of her irises he saw mirrored his own fear, his confusion, and the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again.

Time’s a-wastin’…

Just wanted to remind you, writer-friends, that The Most Epic Contest in the History of the Blogosphere EVAR is ending this Saturday. Click the linky for details if you don’t already know ‘em, and tell your friends and family and probably your pastor/priest/imam/yogi too, ‘cause you know he/she would enjoy my blog.

And in that vein, may I remind you of one of the possible prizes? I mean, you get to pick from the prize pool—books, critiques, sonnets, flash-fiction dedicated to you, and (of course) vodka. Sobieski vodka, to be precise.

I have no idea what this says, but I’m suddenly craving vodka. At 7 am. Now THAT’S effective advertising.

What are you waiting for? Enter, people! Oh, and if you’ve sent me a poem or flash fiction, but haven’t yet filled out the form? Please do! I’m relying on that form to keep me organized, y’know. You don’t want to trust my sieve of a memory, do you?

Ciao!

Let your readers do the work

Now, it occurred to me, writer-friends, that in the excerpt I posted on Monday, I didn’t once describe Sean or Ana, really, other than stating that Ana has dark hair, black eyes, and a slim body. Don’t expect me to tell you much more on Friday when I post the rest of the story, either, because, quite frankly, I don’t often linger on physical details unless I think they’re important. That said, I’m willing to bet that you, dear readers, formed at least a loose mental image of the characters, and that was enough. Am I right?

Okay, so perhaps I was thinking of the gal pictured below when I wrote it. Add some tattoos, maybe a couple small scars on her face, and she’s the titular bad girl. (And “titular,” fyi, is not intended as a veiled reference to her anatomy. Get your minds out of the gutter, people.)

Penelope Cruz. Bad Girl. Needs spanking.

And for the ladies among my readership, I was thinking of Sean as looking a bit like the fellow below. You’re welcome. Don’t say I never did nuthin’ for ya.

Daniel Craig. Find your own damn pics of him topless, cuz I’m not providing ‘em.

Anyway, regardless of what I thought they looked like, you brought your own images to the table, didn’t you? Maybe it wasn’t Penelope Cruz, but Angelina Jolie, or Salma Hayek, or Gina Gershon. Maybe it wasn’t Daniel Craig, but Sam Worthington, Colin Farrell, or Brad Pitt (but please, dear God, please don’t tell me you were picturing Robert Pattinson…that’d make me a little sad). But, writer-friends, you see my point, yes?

Some people seem to like painting their characters in minute detail; I prefer broad strokes. Some people like describing the landscape and scenery in exhaustive detail; I prefer choosing a few resonant images and layering them for effect. Neither way is better, just different. I have my techniques, others have theirs, and it’s all good.

My point is, however, that you as writers can trust your readers. They will provide the details for you if you allow them. They’ll create mental images of your characters whether you want them to or not. They’ll create details of scene in their heads that you might not have anticipated, but work for them. We don’t have to do everything, writer-friends!

Isn’t that nice? Isn’t that a little bit liberating? We can focus on just telling the story, elucidating our characters’ internal worlds, their conflicts, their dramas, their follies and foibles, and let the readers bring their own preferences and predilections to our work.

Sure, describe if you wish. Tell us about the Tudor mansion or the towering brownstone, or the mole on her lip or the scar across his left shoulder, if these are the things that matter to you and make the fiction richer. But, for the love of Virginia, choose the telling details. Make the descriptions work for you, give them depth beyond just scenery-painting, make the details matter to your characters.

Your readers will do the rest. Trust them.

~~~~~

Oh, and by the way, folks, there’s only a few days left to enter The Most Epic Contest in the History of the Blogosphere EVAR. You know you don’t want to miss it. Plus, you don’t have to do anything other than fill out a form. Unless you want to, that is.

What are you waiting for? Enter, people! The vodka’s on me this time.

Creativity Workshop: Goals, Baby

You all know Merrilee, right? Of course you do—she took one of the grand prizes in the contest Carol and I ran to celebrate the 100 follower milestone. Anyway, she’s decided to offer a 14 week creativity workshop for her fellow writers, and I, being a glutton for punishment, signed up for it. I say glutton for punishment because part of the workshop is committing to write a story a week for 12 weeks, with some thematic linkage between at least some of the stories. This, writer-friends, is rather a challenge.

I’m no stranger to writing challenges, of course. I’ve had that thing going with Mercedes for a while now, and she’s beaten me more weeks than not (which makes me a tiny bit cranky at myself), and I’ve already completed an iambic pentameter challenge, and have a sonnet sequence challenge in the works. (Hi, Margaret!) However, 12 stories in 12 weeks is quite a task, writer-friends. We’ll see how I do.

I mention this for two reasons today. First, Merrilee has graciously allowed the lovely Carolina Valdez Miller and I to argue about the nature of creativity in the opening guest post of her workshop. Do swing by Merrilee’s blog and watch me lose the argument, would you? (In I side note, I don’t recommend trying to match wits with Carol. It’s difficult. She’s like an argument ninja. Srsly.)

Also, as part of the workshop, we’re to formulate some of our goals for the next few months and post them on our blogs so that our loyal readers can cheer us on, or (as is more likely to be the case with my readers) mercilessly mock us when we fail to meet them. Yeah.

So here are the goals I’m setting for myself. And bear in mind these are supposed to stretch me in my writing, and hopefully teach me something about how to tap into my creativity without resorting to hallucinogens or too much vodka.

Creativity Workshop Goals

1. Explore genre fiction writing.
• I haven’t seriously attempted genre fiction since high school, writer-friends. It’s about time I gave it a shot with my newfound passion for writing, no? I plan on writing one story each in the following genres:
• Fantasy
• Science-fiction/Speculative-fiction
• Urban Fantasy (I might even write a vampire story… MWAHAHAAA…)
• Horror
2. Explore the backstory of my novel.
• I’m at an impasse with my novel at the moment, people, and I think I need to know more about who these characters are, how they met, their history, etc. I think some short stories using these characters would help to elucidate their past, and guide their future. The stories will be arranged to explore the past relationships between the:
• MC and his wife
• MC and the antagonist
• MC and his male friends
• MC and his writing
3. Explore other racial settings in my fiction.
• While my characters are often fairly generic in my head, I haven’t yet tried to write a full short story from the perspective of anyone other than a white man. This needs to change. I want to at least try writing from the perspective of:
• An African-American man
• A Japanese man

At the end of this workshop, I should have 12 stories, of (I’m sure) wildly varying quality. But I’ll have 12 stories I can ruthlessly edit and perhaps submit to journals once they’re polished enough.

Good God, but it’s going to be a lot of work!

Bring it.

Disturbing Trends and Last Lines

Writer-friends, I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in my writing, recently. (Hence the title. You may have guessed that already, though.) See, I’m kind of a flash fic specialist, right? I’ve had a great deal of fun crafting little fictional gems in 1000 words or less. But recently, I’ve been edging upward with the word count, and I’m not sure what to make of it.

I thought my Murder Scene Blogfest entry was an anomaly, at 1,435 words. That’s longish, but I figured if I’m going to kill someone, I may as well take the time to do it right. So I wrote a short story instead of flash fiction.

Now, this wouldn’t bug me, except that my entry for the upcoming Bad Girl Blogfest, which I just finished tonight, has turned out to be about 1,600 words. This is worrisome. Am I losing my flash fiction mojo? Have I been hanging around with too many novelists in the blogosphere? What’s up with that?

You see my dilemma here.

But I’m sure I’ll work this out. Don’t worry for me, writer-friends—I’ll make my way. If I’m trending toward longer fiction, I’ll roll with it. Hey, if I can sell longer fiction, I’ll make more money, right? Right. Flash fiction’s not all that lucrative, even at 7c a word (and if you get that kind of pay, let me know where you did, ‘cause that’s a hell of a going rate).

And speaking of blogfests (which we kind of were, anyway), Lilah’s Last Line Blogfest was this past Saturday. I feel a bit bad for not posting anything for this, since she asked me nicely a couple times, and the few entries I managed to read were great, so I decided I’d post a late entry. And in keeping with the theme, I figure I may as well post the ending to my Bad Girl Blogfest story. You’ll have to check back on May 7th to read the beginning of it. (Yes, I’m a tease. Deal. You know you like it.)

So, without further ado, I give you the end of Poor Choices. (Rating: R. Status: Draft. Critiques: Welcome.)

~~~~~

In a run-down motel on the other side of town, Sean turned the squeaking faucets on full-blast and let the shower run clear before stepping into the spray. The steaming water blasted his shoulders, his chest, his back, and he let it run in rivulets down his arms and over his hands to swirl, pink-laced, against the stained tiles of the shower floor. He breathed deep through his nose, the iron-rich, old-pipe scent of the water mixing with the diminishing odor of his own sweat. Hector’s bleeding corpse flashed in freeze-frame images behind his eyes. Sean gritted his teeth and watched the bloodied water disappear into the drain.

The curtain hissed aside, and Ana stepped into the shower. Sean shuffled back to make room, blinking through the streaming moisture on his face. She stepped close, the water spattering against her slim body, and slipped her arms around Sean’s neck.

She pressed her flesh to his, head tilted back to gaze up at him—her eyes were inscrutable, pools of midnight black. Her dark hair curled, dampening, at the base of her throat. The pink tip of her tongue flicked her lips.

Then her mouth was on his, and Sean tasted her tongue, the salt curve of her neck, the metallic tang of dirty water on her breast. She was smooth against him, and the steam from the shower rose around them like absolution as they moved together, hungry for release and a brief, blinding moment of forgetting. Their gasps rang against the cracked tiles as the water cascaded down, over them, between them, swirling in the eye of the drain.

Ana’s skin was scalding. Her fingernails raked Sean’s shoulders as she cried out, clamping her thighs against him. And then he was there too, muscles tensed, head back, feeling Ana’s teeth on his neck, nothing in his mind but convulsive pleasure and their commingled scents.

But all too soon, thought returned, and with it the inescapable images of blood pooled black on asphalt, twitching limbs and ragged breaths, and final, irrevocable stillness. Sean pressed his mouth to hers, their lips sliding together, but did not close his eyes. Neither did Ana, and in the blurred blackness of her irises he saw mirrored his own fear, his confusion, and the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again.