BLOG HIJACKING! or, Harley May Takes Over

Hi Simon’s blog readers. My name is Harley May and I’m a writer, humorist, wife, and mom.

Simon and I have been bloggy/Twitter friends for a while now, and anyone that meets him would say he’s a nice guy. He is. [Ed.: I am not. I’m a snarky, alcoholic bastard , and don’t you forget it.] I was sick one time and he sent me a sonnet to cheer me up. [Ed.: I deny this, vociferously.] He always comes up with these clever #WriterWednesday and #FollowFriday mentions for me on Twitter. [Ed.: Okay, that part’s true.] He’s one of the few people who knows I’m not really a snarky mean lady WHO REALIZES HOW DEADLY I AM AND COWERS AT THE SIGHT OF MY FACE. Simon has a healthy fear of me (most people should). He reads my stuff when I ask him to. [Ed.: Also true.]

Me? I don’t write Simon sonnets. I hardly ever do the #FollowFriday or #WriterWednesday mentions. I pee on his writing. And now I’ve locked him in the closet and commandeered his blog. Try to ignore the banging on the door. He’s got plenty of air in there and I gave him a snack earlier. He’s fine. [Ed.: My definition of “snack” involves vodka. You did not give me vodka. I am NOT fine!]

Ahem. I’m here for a reason—a purpose. I’m here to tell you that I won something: a great something, a grand something. I won an ARC of Sean Ferrell’s Numb. I reviewed it on my blog and have some copies to give away (one of them is signed). The giveaway involves the following photos. They are my re-enactments of three scenes from the book.

   Man on Fire. Not like the Denzel Washington flick. Duh.

  Lion. Eating someone. Ouch.

(Ed.:  I don’t recommend putting a nail in your foot, Harley. Srsly.)

I don’t think you realize how long I’ve looked for a book my entire family can enjoy. I tried to pull out Crime and Punishment early on, but my children are not fond of Fyodor Dostoyevsky. I suppose Russian Literature isn’t for everyone. We moved on to other classics: Frankenstein, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Wuthering Heights . . . no go. We looked at some more modern pieces—Margaret Atwood’s A Handmaid’s Tale did not make them squee in the slightest.

The day I received Numb in the mail my oldest came to me and looked at the cover.

“Did you get a new book?” he asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“That guy’s pants are ripped.”

“They are.”

“He has a scratch on his leg.”

“He does.”

“Does he get into a fight with a lion or a kitten or something?”

I looked at my son. Maybe he needed to read a story about an amnesiac man who can’t feel any pain. Maybe that would be the ticket to bringing our literary minds together. “I don’t know,” I told him. “Let’s find out.”

He could not put the book down.

* * * * *

*kicks down closet door*

*stumbles into empty living room filled with fading scent of Boucheron*

*sits down at open laptop*

*notices Harley helped herself to the wine rack*

*swills wine from bottle*

*curses*

*reads guest post*

*curses*

*yells*

“YOU FORGOT TO MENTION THE RULES, HARLEY! HOW THE HELL ARE PEOPLE SUPPOSED TO ENTER IF YOU DON’T TELL THEM THE RU—”

* * * * *

Sorry about that. I forgot to mention the rules. Silly me. Simon’s back in the closet. [Ed.: Oh, you just HAD to go for the easy joke, didn’t you. AND STILL NO VODKA!] So if you want to enter the contest for an ARC of Numb (one is signed), you have to come and read my announcement here, because I really don’t want to type all that out again. Even cut-and-pasting seems like too much effort right now.

Excuse me. I need more wine.

* * * * *

*yells*

“THIS TIME LET ME OUT OF THE CLOSET BEFORE YOU GO. OH, STOP LAUGHING. THAT JOKE IS SO TIRED!*

*bangs on closet door*

“HARLEY?”

*bangs again*

“YOU’RE NOT IN THE WINE RACK AGAIN, ARE YOU?”

*listens*

“Dammit.”

Winners winners we haz winners!

Okay, writer-friends, my contest-o’-very-minor-epicness is now closed, and I’ve performed the mind-numbingly onerous task of arranging all the entries in a spreadsheet and letting randomizer.org pick two numbers. I mean, seriously. It hurt my brain. (It didn’t. My brain’s pretty robust. I think it has calluses.)

And I must say, it’s kind of nice to run a contest where I don’t actually have to do any judging or anything. The most work I’ll have to do is wrap the prizes and go to the post office and then reward myself with a cold brewski. This is good.

Mmm… beer. 

Although it’s funny… as I was tallying up the entries, I realized that I never included a space in the form for people to enter their blog addresses, if they were going to blog about the contest. I mean, it’s not as though I’d wander around checking up on you or anything. Who has that kind of time? It’d just be nice to include linkies to the winners’ blogs, is all.

BUT . . . all such issues were sidestepped when Randomizer.org picked two people whose blog addresses I already know, and one person who I already know blogged about the contest. And soooo . . . I give you the results!

WOOT! 193 and 246 won! Er…

FIRST PRIZE WINNER

The first prize of Writer’s Market 2010 goes to… *drum roll* *presenter fiddles with envelope* *pause for dramatic effect*

Matthew Rush

*huzzahs resound* *balloons drop from ceiling* *Danica Patrick sprays Champagne everywhere in slow motion like in the GoDaddy commercials* (Um… that scenario took a turn somewhere. Sorry about that.)

Email me your mailing address, Matt, and I’ll drop your prize in the mail post-haste. (Get it? Post… post haste… *snarf*)

And then the …

SECOND PRIZE WINNER

Second prize of Endangered Words, by Simon Hertnon, goes to… *drum roll* *ah, screw it, I’m not pausing for dramatic effect this time*

Zoe Courtman

*huzzahs resound* *balloons drop from ceiling* *Danica Patrick sprays champagne everywhere* (What? Again? Geez, brain, wouldja stop doing that?)

Zoe? Same deal for you. I need your mailing address. Get it to me.  Stat. And stuff. Or maybe I’ll just email you and ask for it, yeah? Yeah.

* * * * *

A HUGE thank you to every one of the 63 intrepid souls who entered my contest. I couldn’t have done it without you! (Okay, I could, but it would have been much less fun.) You all rawk harder than granite! You’re cooler than Antarctica! You’re niftier than the 1950s! You make me giddier than a tween girl seated between Robert Pattinson and Taylor Lautner on a transatlantic flight!

I’m stopping now. This is getting odd.

Do it like Nickelback, punks

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who like Nickelback, and those who have a smidgen of class. I like Nickelback. You, dear readers, probably have a smidgen of class, so I’ll go ahead and assume you don’t care for Nickelback. Even so, I say you can learn from them. How? Well, any way you slice it, the band’s a helluva success. When you can sell out an arena, you’ve kind of made it as a performer, yes? Yes.

Sooo you want me to explain that title, I take it. Right. Let’s take a look at Nickelback’s breakout album, shall we? Silver Side Up was a balls-out, straight ahead rock grind that sold half a bajillion copies and put the band on the map. The album came out back when CDs were still the music format of choice, so straight-through listens were the norm. Thus, the choice of opening songs really did make a difference. And yes, I’m making another rock music-writing analogy. It’s what I do. Here goes.

The album opens with Never Again. Yes I will subject you to it:

Now, even if you didn’t like the song, you can at least admit that it's an attention-getter. The music is pretty straightforward—standard rock drum beat, simple (but rockin’) guitar hook, blah, blah, yawn. But then you have the lyrics:

He’s drunk again—it’s time to fight.

She must have done something wrong tonight.

Wait… what? This is a song about domestic violence? Chad Kroeger has a social conscience? Well, maybe. But he certainly knows how to get your attention. Aaannnd then he raises the stakes:

I hear her scream from down the hall.

Amazing she can even talk at all.

She cries to me, “Go back to bed.”

I’m terrified that she’ll wind up …

dead at his hands.

She’s just a woman!

Never again!

So now we have a child involved in the story (and make no mistake, there’s a story being told here). You can see, can’t you, how the situation progresses? I think you can. And of course, at the end of the song, when the lady pops a cap in the abusive son-of-a-bitch, we get a lovely sense of justice. A story in under 4-1/2 minutes, writer-friends.

This, then, is how the album opens. After that, we go right into How You Remind Me, and I’m sure everyone remembers how DAMN much radio play that got when it first came out. Understandable, that, since it’s hella catchy and fun to scream along with in the car. That song tells a different story, and I’m not going to bother unpacking it, but my point is, that’s a pretty solid one-two punch to open an album. First, grab attention, then follow with what turned out to be Billboard’s #1 single of the year for 2002.

And now you’re saying, “THE WRITING WHAT ABOUT THE WRITING GET TO THE ANALOGY ALREADY YOU LONG WINDED BAG OF TOOLS!” Okay, fine. I hear you.

Back in the CD era, a band had only so much grace before people would stop listening. If an album didn’t start big and hit hard, chances were a band would lose audience and never catch even a whiff of the top 40. It’s the same thing with your books, writer-friends.

Take a look at your opening chapter. What does it do? How hard does it hit? Is there conflict on the first page? The second? How long does the reader have to wait for the hook? Today’s reading public doesn't have much patience for the “I was born in a small tenement in an unfashionable corner of the Bronx” style of openings.

This does NOT, of course, mean that you have to blow stuff up on page 1. Your conflict can be internal, implied, or absent so conspicuously that we just KNOW the sh*t’s going to hit the fan before too long. Either way, you’re going to want to engage the reader as soon as you possibly can. That’s the business we’re in, writer-friends—we’re here to entertain and engage and perhaps make people feel something now and then.

I happen to think there’s plenty to learn from successful artists of all stripes. Feel free to hate on Nickelback, but go look at the musicians you love, and see if you can’t figure out why their music moves you. Figure it out, and bring it to your writing. It can only make you better.

And getting better at this craft, writer-friends, is what it’s all about. Even if it takes listening to Nickelback to get there.

HAPPY BLOGOVERSARY, REJECTIONIST (Also: The Necessity of the Form Rejection)

I’M TEMPTED TO WRITE THIS POST IN ALL CAPS IN HONOR OF THE REJECTIONIST, BUT I THINK THAT WOULD BE A TAD ANNOYING, EH WHAT? I SHALL DESIST NOW.

Phew. I don’t think I could’ve pulled that off anyway—it was starting to hurt my throat.

Anyway, Le R. has been bloggity-blogging around the ol’ blogosphere for a year now. I know, right? It seems as though she’s been around forever, doesn’t it? Well, maybe it just seems that way to me, since I only discovered her last October? Yah, perhaps.  And as a gesture of happiness and appreciation, she’s hosting a CELEBRATORY REJECTIONIST ANNIVERSARY UNCONTEST. Basically, we write her an essay, everyone linky-links in her comments section today, everyone’s happy, and maybe she’ll send some stuff to 5 lucky random participants. Whatevs. I just like The Rejectionist. I’ll play along.

SO, in order to play along, I must write an essay on the following topic: What Form Rejection Means To Me. Should I write this in the style of The Rejectionist herself? Yes. Yes, I should (try, anyway).

What Form Rejection Means to Me Our Lovely Author-Friends.

Form rejections, dear author-friends with faces glued to the screens of your laptops and desktops and fancypants iPhones and whatnot, are  proof that the publishing industry loves you and wants you to be happy. (WE APOLOGIZE MOST PROFUSELY TO BEN FRANKLIN FOR MISUSE OF HIS QUOTE ABOUT BEER. WE COULD NOT HELP OURSELVES.) Yes, the megalithic colossus that is publishing has, through long trial and many an error, discovered the best way to keep agents and editors and author-friends and assorted hangers-on happy. That way is, yea verily, THE FORM REJECTION.

Worry not, dear ones. We shall elucidate, and in the form of a question. How do you think “Steve” and The Rejectionist would feel if they had to write personalized rejections for every query that came in? Let us say, for the sake of example, that in the Inbox one morning, Le R. discovered another query for a novel about YET ANOTHER SUPERPOWERED UBER-RICH PLAYBOY PARANORMAL WHO INEXPLICABLY DECIDES TO FART AROUND IN HIGH SCHOOL FOR THE OH SAY 300TH TIME IN HIS PRETERNATURALLY LONG LIFE!!! How do you think Le R. would feel at this point? How would “Steve” feel? (We would ask how Cretinous would feel, but we do not care about Cretinous’s feelings.)

In case you did not guess the answer, we will tell you that Le R. would feel VERY, VERY CRANKY. And making Le R. cranky first thing in the morning is not a good thing, author-friends. It leads to poor choices like rejecting the next 16 queries on principle alone and possibly breaking into the secret stash of scotch taped underneath the desk before 9:30 am which (you may be surprised to find) would be a record even for us and MAYBE JUST MAYBE writing a PLEASE GOD DON’T SEND ANY MORE OF THIS GODAWFUL CRAP IT IS MAKING US BATSHIT WE SWEARS TO YOU post on our blog.

Do you see how not having the comfort of a form rejection to fall back on can lead to bad things, author-friends? Do you see? Now just multiply The Rejectionist’s woe and angst by an entire industry, and you have an idea of why the form rejection is your friend in disguise (albeit—and yes we do realize this—a very disappointing disguise). The form reject allows us to do our jobs without resorting to things like murder and cannibalism and such on a daily basis.

Anyway, you would not appreciate being on the receiving end of an IF YOU EVER SEND US YOUR SPECTACULARLY CRAPTACIOUS WORK AGAIN, YOU IRREDEEMABLE SPECK, WE SHALL HUNT YOU DOWN AND FORCE YOU TO EAT EVERY ONE OF YOUR 175,000 WORDS JUST SEE IF WE DON’T letter, would you? No, you would not.

So you see, the form rejection, while potentially evil (though not on the same level as General Kael, per se), is a necessary evil. It preserves our precious sanity, and that of our esteemed colleagues in the publishing industry. Our sanity is crucial to the ushering into the world of your precious, darling manuscripts, yes? Yes.

Now if you will excuse us, we must plan our wardrobe for the morrow. We think it will include leggings. And perhaps a Racism Is For Asshats t-shirt.

~~~~~

Aaannnd one more time, folks (say it with me): HAPPY BLOGOVERSARY, REJECTIONIST. YOU MAKE US JUBILANT WITH YOUR IRREPRESSIBLE HATRED FOR SUCK IN ITS MANY AND VARIOUS MANUSCRIPT FORMS! NEVER CHANGE YOU DARLING HUMAN BEING YOU.

Announcing: The SHTMCIHHAHTGSA Contest!

Well, would you look at that!? I haz passed 400 bloggie-follower-friend-type people on my li’l ol’ corner of teh tinterwebs! This is momentous. This is inspiring. This is, quite possibly, life changing. I believe a celebration is in order. Maybe involving vodka.

You guys are so cute. I want to hug you and call you George. 

But, now I think of it, maybe you’d all like to get in on the celebration too, yes?

*waits*

*listens*

Ah, good. I thought so. Right, then.

Now, I know I said I wasn’t going to run another contest until I hit 500 followers, and I’m not. Leastways, not a contest you have to actually do much of anything for. When I hit 500, I’ll mos def do some kind of flashy fiction thing again. But for 400? Meh. I’m not into making any particular effort. So, then, I shall run a contest-o’-very-minor-epicness. To wit, I announce the:

Simon Has Too Much Crap In His House And Has To Give Some Away (SHTMCIHHAHTGSA) Contest!

See, the conversation the other night went something like this:

Darling Wife (hereafter referred to as DW): Are you going to read that writer’s book you got?

Me: Which one?

DW: The big one. The… *looks* …Writer’s Market one.

Me: Oh. Yeah. I guess.

DW: Really?

Me: Er… maybe?

DW: Does it need to stay on top of the bookcase, then?

Me: I guess not.

DW: Are you ever going to use it?

Me: Er… maybe?

DW: Why wouldn’t you use it?

Me: *blabs on about how the information in it might not be current by the time I’m ready to query and anyway online resources are available to help with agent finding and such and okay maybe I won’t really read it after all so… yes.*

DW: Can we get rid of it, then? Give it away?

Me: Huh. *thinks* Oh! I am coming up on 400 blog followers. I could run a contest! Totes!

DW: Totes? *mystified*

Me: Don’t worry about it. But yes! I’ll give the book away! I might even have other books I could give away! OOH!

DW: Well, make sure you tell everyone it was my idea.

Me: Oh, I will. Totes.

DW: Totes? *mystified again*

Me: Don’t worry about it.

And thus it went. (I may have paraphrased some of that. Or made some up. It’s pretty close to what happened, though.)

So that’s it. I’m giving away a copy of the 2010 Writer’s Market.

Also, because I think it’s just a lovely little book, and because every writer should know the meaning of words like lalochezia and caliginous, I’m giving away my copy of Endangered Words, by Simon Hertnon.

And all you have to do, writer-friends, is fill out the little form thingy raht there below. That’s it. Of course, you could tweet about it, or mention the contest on your blog, for a few additional entries. That too. And then I’ll let Random.org pick the winners, say, on July 27th? Does that work for everyone? Good. Okay, then. Off you go and enter.

And don’t say I never did nothin’ for you.

~~~~~

Everything I know about writing I learned from Zombieland

Right, okay, well, not everything I know about writing came from Zombieland (since I only saw it last night, and have managed to muddle my way through this whole writing business thus far). But I did find some fun and nifty storytelling tips in the flick I thought I might point out to my loyal, dedicated, ever-so-slightly deranged* writer-friends. I’m going to go a bit spoilery here, though, so if you haven’t seen the movie and want to, you may want to skip this post and go read my archives. Like maybe the one about Deutsch for Entertainment or something.

Anyhoo, because I know writers love bullet points—and I’m no exception to this—I’ll bullet-pointify the writing tips for you. I’m nice like that. Here goes. Grab a pen (which now I apparently can’t say without linking to @thmafi): you might want to write these down. Or, y’know, just, like, cut-‘n’-paste, or something. Yes.

Zombieland Writing Tips

• Make your character want something – This is a classic piece of writing advice, borne out by that great Vonnegut quote (the one about making your character want a glass of water, not the one about semicolons being transvestite hermaphrodites . . . go look those up if you want). You may not find out what each character wants right up front, but they have to be taking actions for a reason. Even if it’s one that doesn’t make immediate sense, it has to make sense to the character.

Examples:

1. Tallahassee wants a Twinkie, and will drive over an army of zombies to get one.
2. Columbus wants to find his family. Also, he wants to get laid.
3. Wichita wants to take care of her sister.
4. Little Rock wants to go to Pacific Playland. 

• Elegant repetition is your friend – Not in the boring way, in which you feel like you have to beat your reader over the head with information over and over and maybe over again, but in the sense that little details you drop into the narrative early on can come back and make wonderful little appearances later, when the stakes are higher and the details will strike a chord with the reader/viewer.

Examples:

1. The part where Tallahassee teaches Little Rock how to shoot accurately by exhaling slowly as you pull the trigger. When one bullet is all that stands between the ladies and becoming a zombie snack, she remembers the tip and makes the crucial shot.
2. Rule #2: Double Tap (i.e. one shot to put ‘em down, one more to make sure they stay down). This one crops up again and again in the flick, and just keeps getting funnier. Repetition can be used for humor too. Repetition can be used for humor too. 

• Memorable characters are built in layers – There’s a trick to creating characters people remember, and it doesn’t consist in infodumping height-weight-eye-color-willowy-blonde stuff on the first page. You have to work harder than that. Characters are created with every choice you make about them, and grow over time as we find out more about their pasts, hopes, dreams, quirks, and foibles. They’re built up bit by bit, layer by layer, and if we do it well enough, well, now we’ve got someone our readers will think of as real, perhaps as an old friend, someone they’d like to hang out with, or at least admire from afar.

Examples:

1. Tallahassee starts out as a cranky, violent SOB. Then he turns into a cranky, violent, wisecracking SOB. Then we find out he’s obsessed with Twinkies. Then we find out he’s angry at the zombies for killing his dog. Then we find out he’s very, very good at killing zombies. Then we find out that big trucks and automatic weapons make him happy. Then we find out that Bill Murray is his favorite actor of all time. Then—and this is the kick in the nuts—we find out that it wasn’t his dog he was talking about earlier on, that he misses so much, it was his son. Booyah! Now he’s everything we already knew him to be, but with heart. There’s a character I can get behind.
2. I can’t top that one. I’m just putting a second item for the sake of completeness.

~~~~~

Okay, did you get all that? Good. Also, if you don’t mind campy blood, guts, gore, and black humor, you should watch Zombieland. It’s got its flaws, but it’s still pretty much made of win. And it’s got Woody Harrelson. And Emma Stone. And zombies. Yup.

Enjoy!

*I was kind of kidding about the deranged part. You might not be. Although you're writers, so in all likelihood you are a little bit skewed. Just sayin'.

The Devil in the Details

I’m in full world-building mode, writer-friends. That’s right: since Urban Fantasy now seems to be my genre, I have all kinds of things to decide upon in order to satisfy my overly-logical, left-brained, engineering-degree mind. Things like (and this is by no means an exhaustive list):

• Do vampires like sushi?
• Do they take their martinis shaken or stirred?
• Would vampires that stay up all day be accused of burning the noon oil?
• Is vampire pee red?
• To sparkle, or not to sparkle? That is the question.
• Is yoga an appropriate hobby for vampires?
• If, hypothetically-speaking, my MC decided to smoke in order to make a counter-cultural statement, would he choose Newports, Camels, or Cloves?
• Are vampires affected by weed?
• Do they occasionally feel the urge to run away to the Pacific Northwest and re-enroll in high school again for the fiftieth time in order to meet chicks?

Like this guy. The creep. 

I think you get my point.

But there’s something that happens every time I decide on some trait I want my vampires to have: I need to rethink my opening scene. See, since my MC is in the business of eliminating vampires, he can reasonably be expected to know most of the information I’m dreaming up about them—know your enemy, and all that. So his mental state going into a confrontation with two of them is going to be different based on this new information, and I need to account for that in the fiction.

And then some part of me pipes up, and is all, “But, duuude! I like our opening scene! It’s cool, and has violence, and hot vampire chicks, and fingernails peeling on asphalt and everything! What more do you want from it? Leave it be!”

And then I’m all, “STFU, whiny part of my imagination.If I’m going to write UF, it’s going to damn well make sense and be internally consistent. Anyway, every one of these changes deepens the intensity of the scene and raises the stakes for the opening, so it’s all good. Now go drink a beer or something and leave me alone to write.”

And then the whiny part of my imagination goes off to drink a beer, because really, since when did any part of my imagination need to be asked twice to booze?

Okay, yes, I’m indulging in some silliness here. But my point is that in putting some real thought into how this world I’m creating operates, I’m shedding new light on the scenes I’ve already written, and seeing ways to mold and shape the narrative to maintain a cohesive, believable story. If I drop a factoid into my created world, it sends little ripples of information through my previously-written sections. I need to track this, and account for it in my characters’ actions and reactions.

Aaannnd it’s right about now that I realize how serious this novel-writing business is. In order to make this story work, and work well, I’m going to need every ounce of my brainpower and creative juice. *sigh*

I demand a lot of myself, friends. Hopefully this will result in something very, very cool on the far side.

I’ll keep you posted.

P.S. The more I work on this novel, the more I realize what a crap-ton of respect my bloggie friends who’ve completed novels deserve. Y’all . . . you seriously rock. My hat’s off to you.

P.P.S. There’s no possible way I can post a picture of Robert Pattinson without counteracting it in some way. So here we go: my favorite vampire of all time.

  Er . . . hai, Selene.

My right brain wants to beat up my left brain.

Okay, you know how the left brain is all analytical and logical and sequentially-thinking and stuff, right? And the right brain is all intuitive and aesthetic and likes to wear Birkenstocks and tie-dyed shirts, yes? Well, my right brain is about to swear off pacifism and put a fist in my left brain’s eye. Figuratively speaking, of course. I’m not actually schizophrenic. Neither am I!

You may be wondering why I say this right now. Well, I’ll tell you.

So I’m writing this Urban Fantasy novel, and—as UF things go—I need to have rules for my vampires and such to follow: how blessed items affect them, what it feels like to be stabbed with a consecrated weapon, how many times a day they have to go to the bathroom, and all that. And, since my MC is a vampire (unwillingly, I might add), I was kind of thinking he could use his arsenal of weaponry from his vampire-hunting past to go wreak vengeance on the vampires who’re responsible for his current predicament.

Yeah. And then the two halves of my brain got in an argument.

Right Brain: Dude! He should totally get a priest friend to bless some new blades for him since he lost the last ones in an epic fight!

Left Brain: Great idea, idiot.

Right Brain: Who are you calling an idiot?

Left Brain: Why would a vampire even be using blessed blades? They’re not supposed to be able to touch consecrated things.

Right Brain: &*%^#$!!!

Left Brain: HAHAHAA!

Right Brain: Wait, what if he wore gloves? Yeah! He can wear gloves! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Left Brain.

Left Brain: Yeah, except your vampires can smell holy things from, like, a mile away, so it’s not as if our MC can infiltrate the vampire HQ all sekrit-like if he’s carrying those nifty hallowed scimitars. Dumbass.

Right Brain: I hate you, Left Brain.

Left Brain: STFU, Right Brain. This novel would suck if I weren’t around to keep track of all these logical details.

Right Brain: &*%^#$!!!

Left Brain: HAHAHAA!

So now my badass vampire-hunter-turned-vampire MC has to find a different way to kill vampire nasties. Which means I have to find a different way for him to kill vampire nasties.

I hate you, Left Brain.

Left Brain: HAHAHAA!

So I hear that Barry Lyga rocks….

I confess, I’ve never read anything by Barry Lyga. I’m putting that out there right at the beginning of the post, since I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. It’s all about the honesty here on the ol’ blog, writer-friends. *cough*

That said, I have a hankering to win one of the prizes in the Barry Lyga Rocks Contest that Carol, Sara, and Alexandra are running right now, and, at the risk of appearing self-serving (I am), I’m going to go ahead and post an open letter to Mr. Lyga in hopes of garnering extra entries in the lovely ladies’ contest.

In related news, I may have become a fan of open letters. (I had such fun with my letter to comic book heroines, after all. And anyway, I always did like Fat Cyclist’s open letters, back in the day, so there we go.)

~~~~~

Dear Barry Lyga,

I would like to thank you for writing Archvillain. I thank you because I’ve long harbored a secret desire to become an archvillain, and you, good sir, have done me the great favor of writing a manual for my chosen career. Just when I was thinking it was about time to make the first moves down the path of villainy, you come out with a book that promises to guide me every step of the way. Thank you!

Now, I know what NOT to do as an evil overlord, but, quite frankly, I’ve been a bit stymied as to how to take the first steps along the path to evil world domination. (I’d do naked world domination, but I worry about what people will think of my birthmark*, and anyway, Hart’s already set that plan in motion, and I wouldn’t want to be unoriginal.) So (if you’re still following me after that parenthetical), I’m really looking forward to winning and reading Archvillain. I think it’s just what I need to get me started on the path toward subjugating 84% of the world’s population (the other 16% have no marketable skills, and are useless to me [they’re elected politicians]).

I worry, though, about what the disgruntled minority will think of you once I secure supreme rulership of the world. After all, the man who got me started on my ascendant trajectory may well become reviled by millions (I don’t plan on being a particularly benevolent dictator). Therefore I would like to offer you a luxury suite in my sekrit lair, free of charge. It’s the least I can do, sir, for your invaluable assistance. I promise you’ll have an ocean view, and as much vodka as you can drink. (Or some other alcohol, if you prefer, although… why?)

In conclusion, Mr. Lyga, I would like to again extend my profuse thanks for writing the manual that will propel me to international notoriety. You will always have a special place in my frozen and stony heart.

Sincerely,

Simon “The Terrible” Larter

P.S. Archvillain IS a manual for archvillainy, right? I’m going to be SO embarrassed if it’s not.

P.P.S. If it’s not actually a manual for archvillainy, do feel free to disregard this letter. Clearly I’m not serious in the least. No. Most definitely not. Nope.

P.P.P.S. But if it IS a manual, the offer of the luxury suite still stands.

*Okay, I have a birthmark, yes, but it’s really rather innocuous, and is located on my inner arm, as opposed to on my ass, which is where I assume you assumed it was when I professed embarrassment about it. You’re a bit weird, you know that?

Make Tiny Changes to Earth

Yes, writer-friends, it’s time for another music post. I can’t help myself, you see. Sometimes they just have to happen, and tonight is one of those nights. This one’s brought to you courtesy of Frightened Rabbit, a Scottish indie rock band my brother turned me on to last year.

Frightened Rabbit and I have history, you know. The night I discovered their The Midnight Organ Fight album, I was utterly floored, just straight flattened by the magnificence of it. Some nights are like that. And if there was one song that more than any other captured my soul it was this one. See what you think.

My God, writer-friends! I don’t know if that does the same thing to you as it does to me, but I can’t watch that video without tearing up, I swear to you.

The music’s beautiful, yes: it’s simple, catchy, has a great hook, chord changes that just work. But it’s the lyrics that turn me inside out:

When it’s all gone, something carries on.

And it’s not morbid at all, just that nature’s had enough of you.

When my blood stops, someone else’s will not.

When my head rolls off, someone else’s will turn.

While I’m alive, I’ll make tiny changes to earth.

And that’s it, friends. Right there in the last line. It’s a paean to living, to making a difference. And by God if we’re not making a difference on Earth what the hell are we doing here?

I confess, the video chokes me up because it’s an exquisite reminder of what Scott Hutchison is singing about. The children are the ones whose blood will keep flowing when yours and mine stop; when we molder and turn to dust, there will yet be youth and beauty and hope in the world. If that isn’t heart-rending and humbling I don’t know what is.

Tonight my wife and I drove the children a mile or two to the nearby riverfront and sat watching the sun set over the Delaware. The older two wandered up and down the geometric concrete blocks that hold back the creek during high tide, bending now and then for stones to throw into the water, and my wife and I sat with Tiny Girl, enjoying the breeze from the west. I lay on my back, sat my baby daughter on my chest and stared at the cerulean sky.

And it was there, in that moment—looking at a precious, two-toothed smile, watching the sun and wind flick gossamer strands of blonde hair, hearing my children scuffing on the stones, the plop of gravel in the stream—that I saw the tiny changes I’ve made to the earth.

Sometimes there is no room in my chest for feelings of that magnitude.

And so I bring it back to writing. You don’t need to have children to make tiny changes to earth—your words will suffice. Words, too, have the capacity for life, for reaching people, for altering things. You’ve read stories, I know, that shocked you into immobility with their beauty. You’ve read stories that made you smile when you felt filled with shards of glass. You’ve empathized, wept, laughed, exulted, and felt something because of stories. And you want to do the same for others.

Perhaps someday yours will be the stories that make changes to another human being’s heart. And through them, you may change the earth, one tiny word at a time.

Write on, my friends.