Embarrassment of Riches, Part II
Help a brother out, will you?
I am about to hunker down and Get’er Done on a new novel. I have ideas for twenty of those suckers, and, and, and
Which one do I pursue? Right now, I haven’t the foggiest. I’m not one of the writers who sit there, looking at the blinking cursor and go all mind-blank. Which little darling do I give my attention? They all call to me. I’ve bullied my ideas and cried and drank, and narrowed the field to four:
The Baby Dancers
I started this novel and I would love to finish it. I got distracted with a different novel in a different genre. Now, having purged that from my system, this book awaits.
The Baby Dancers is a YA Fantasy about two brothers embarking on a quest in a strange world to rescue their baby cousin from the powerful wizard who stole her. As they become familiar with the new world they find themselves in, they realize they may be fighting on the wrong side of an ancient war.
Dragonsong
I’ve thoroughly outlined this adult fantasy novel. It’s a hero quest. A mighty warrior, who derives her power from song, sings a love song at dawn at a lake, a lake she did not know was magical. The song awakens a dragon while the run-away magical energies sweep the warrior away to places unknown.
Now the dragon, which can shape change into a woman with fiery red hair at will, takes up the quest to find the warrior who sang to her. She travels with the warrior’s companions, alternately trying to figure out who she is, other than being a fearsome dragon, and why the love song the warrior sang haunts her dreams.
Mutant Alien Zombie Killing Cheerleaders from Utah
I kid you not, that’s the title! This fun, but dark, little romp centers on four teen girls who, on their way home from an away football game, witness multiple meteor strikes in the woods near their town. The meteors glow a strange red, except for one, which glows an eerie green.
They approach the green meteor, and it turns out not to be a meteor, but some type of automated technology. The robot seizes them and injects them with a strange substance, which gives them several abilities, and makes them immune to the Zombie Plague. This is a good thing, since the red meteors spread the Zombie Plague.
Being immune, while everyone else is not, makes for a terrible time for our heroines, as they face the trials and tribulations of a zombie apocalypse without knowing what to do to stop it.
Death by Decades
This grim mystery centers on a man who learns something very strange is going on when someone tries to kill him on his twentieth birthday. The man who tries to kill him looks exactly like the man who tried to kill him when he was ten. As his thirtieth birthday approaches, he learns that a man fitting the same description of the bad guy from the prior two murder attempts tried to break into the maternity ward when he was born.
Now the man is married, and his wife, a cop and certainly no mouse, doesn’t believe him. Our hero embarks on his quest to find answers. With his marriage on the rocks and his sanity being questioned, can he find the answers to this decade assassin and stop him once and for all?
Well, there you have the four book projects clamoring for my attention. The concept of “finishing what you started” somewhat eats at me to complete The Baby Dancers. But, as Kiersten pointed out several years ago, the manuscript is not going anywhere, so I should write to what calls to me.
This is my problem. They all do! Dragonsong is an epic hero quest and the characterization is very strong, and I love the story. Love it a lot. One of the main characters is the person I refer to in this post.
Mutant Alien Zombie Killing Cheerleaders from Utah is a dark romp of pure firearm goodness, with snappy dialog and mountains of relentless conflict. It’s a cross between Left for Dead and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Death by Decades is a dip in the noir pool, and interests me because it is so very dark, and would be quite the writing challenge.
So, help a brother out. What sounds good to you? Obviously, I am attracted to multiple genres. This does not help me. It’s an embarrassment of riches. I feel surrounded by four lovers, each beautiful and enticing in her own way, but the jig is up and they are making me pick amongst them.
Comment below!
The Heart of a Warrior Never Lies
The heart of a warrior never lies. It is a thing of purity, a deadly beauty more real than a thousand, thousand truths. The warrior, in her singular moment of honesty, is both everything and nothing. She is everything because she has broken down an entire conflict to a singular twinkling of violence.
She is nothing because she simply becomes an agent of choice. There is no right. There is no wrong. There is only choice, and her heart chooses for her. In the space between rational thought and instinct, between the familiar and the new, between skill and tenacity, lies the event horizon of truth.
This warrior hears her heart. The beating is more than life-blood; it is the affirmation of the gestalt of life. She listens to her heart not because she has to, but because it is all she can do. All that she is.
At this moment, this warrior is the most deadly. At this moment, nothing can match her.
At this moment, she is a goddess. All the other moments are nothing. She knows this to be true, because the heart of a warrior, a true warrior, never lies.
The Tale of Two Shorts
Short #1: Despite ending and starting a new contract (one which keeps me busy, busy, busy), I finished my short I’ve referenced in this post.
It took me two rewrites to get it to a point where I was happy. During the last, the story took on a bleak tone despite the Hero Protagonist being an upbeat, happy-go-lucky guy. Poor Arune. I actually feel bad.
Short stories do not come easily for me, but I can see their value as a way to improve my novel-writing. Hitting a limitation of 7,500 words really threw me for a loop and I agonized for hours over what to cut and what to leave. It’s much easier making a 110k novel a 100k novel than it is to make a 10k short a 7.5k short.
But I did it.
Now for those of you volunteering to read it and wondering what it isn’t in your mailbox, I want The Wife Unit to read it first. Mainly because she proofreads, mainly because, well, she’s The Wife Unit. There are some perks, yanno.
So expect it in yer box, soon. Thank you for your patience.
Short #2: I actually turned in another short, to a brand-spanky-new publication, and had a great conversation with the new editor. The short is an except from my novel Bunny Noir, but it stands alone as far as a short story.
The fun thing, though, before I submitted it, I took this chapter and made it dark. Dark and twisted. It was already a bit gloomy, but I felt compelled to bump it up a notch, and the result, I do believe, is delicious. If it passes muster, I can’t wait to see it in print. Who can resist Lesbian Alien Libertarian Gun Nut Fiction?
Man I love writing, love it a lot. Even when I was pulling my hair out, the end result was worth it.
Another Chance to Win an ARC of Paranormalcy
Here’s another chance to win an ARC (Advanced Reading Copy) of Paranormalcy by the plucky and talented Kiersten White.
Earthquake
At 5:20 AM I was awoken by an earthquake.
Since moving to the Pacific Northwest, I’ve been in many earthquakes. I have the dubious honor of falling down on the garage stairs during the Nisqually earthquake and bruising my wrist.
This small earthquake, however, was totally different than anything I have felt before. I could feel and hear the shock-wave approach. It was something like this:
(rattle) rattle - Rattle - RATTLE – BANG – RATTLE – Rattle – rattle (rattle)
The shock-wave moved very fast. Super fast. Faster than anything I have ever experienced.
I’ve come to the conclusion, I don’t like earthquakes.
image from City of Long Beach, CA
The Hack Writer Presents: Banana Bread Fueled Political Dreams
Literally.
So there I was dreaming last night after eating too much banana bread, see? I was at some office in a strip mall, and this woman handed me an invitation to the White House 2010 Christmas Party. I was like sweet, but then she was like “it’s a conditional invitation” and I was like
“Wait… what?”
“For the invitation to be valid, you have to take sensitivity training.”
“Oh, come on! I know I’m not a Democrat, but that’s…”
The woman interrupted me through her grin. “Nobody cares about that. No, this is because of your potty mouth. There are kids present at the first half of the party
and I was like WAT and she laughed then I was like doooooooh but took the invitation anyway and then
the dream morphs into a shopping trip to Home Depot with one of my female coworkers, trying to find some type of wipe that would remove permanent marker from a washer and dryer but she was wearing a poodle skirt but I think she forgot to put on a bra and then I was going to ask her if she forgot to wear panties too but then I remembered I needed to be sensitive for the children at the 2010 White House Christmas party so I didn’t say anything and then the cat woke me up.
The Hack Writer Presents: Gamer Talk
“Dude! Dude!”
“Dude?”
“Duuuuuudddee!”
“Dude!”
“Like, have you downloaded the new Mass Effect 2 DLC?”
“Dude, not yet. I’m still on the Dragon Age expansion.”
“Dude! Dude! You got a Fem Shep, right? Well get this, the new mission you wear a dress. And you get to keep it!“
“Word! Whoa. Still…”
“Dude! Wait, wait for it… the little black dress comes with shoes. High heels!”
“Dude! No way! Gee-Tee-Eff-Oh!”
“It’s awesome, Dude. You’re like ‘click-click-click’ walking around the Normandy!”
“Dude!”
“Dude!”
(high-five)
Actual conversation. Discuss.
Advice for the Dating Young Man
Universal Waffle Rule of Dating: feed a woman waffles and you are pretty much half-way into her pants.
Discuss.
Goals: Self-Defense
The singular goal for self-defense is to articulate to the felon that he has made a catastrophic error in the victim selection process, and then simply show him what you mean.
Plan accordingly. Sometimes you’ll need to show before you tell, but that’s his problem.
Ye ‘Ole Writing Check-in
My contract with one of my clients ends tomorrow, so I’m buried under a mound of work. MOUND I SAY.
In other news, I’m done with my short. The beginning is good. The middle is great in a “can’t believe I wrote such a heart-wrenching dark icky thing.” The ending sucks rocks. So, in between work and sleep and kids and wife and dog, I’m trying to edit that sucker. Dark icky thing, by the way, is a technical term.
Meanwhile, The Baby Dancers, my YA in progress, is calling my name. There is only so long I can ignore the goblin ninjas.
Goblin ninjas on fire.
I giggle every time I type that. Yes I do.
New Post in Adventures in Writing
Like the certainty of a hard disk crash after forgetting that your backup drive needed more space, you can find me every Wednesday at Adventures in Writing.
Today, I point people over to Do the Write Thing for Nashville!
New Post in Adventures in Writing
Like the certainty of the motorcycle cop giving you a speeding ticket (press hard, three copies), you can find me over at Adventures in Writing each Wednesday.
Today, I talk about the assertion “men don’t read” and why I think it’s a bunch of hooey. Hooey, by the way, is a technical term.
EMBRACE THE SUCK
I’m the eternal optimist. Watch as I turn a blog post about SUCK into a positive message!
I’ve surpassed my reading of woe-is-me on blog/Twitter/Facebook for the year, and it’s only May. I’ll blame the economy.
But I digress.
Tell me about the mistakes you’ve made, and not what you’ll do differently, but what you are doing differently.
Tell me something you’ve learned that’s helping you in your quest for publishing.
Tell me about your work in progress.
Tell me the joy you feel in writing.
Tell me about the cool book you’ve just read.
Tell me about your confidence in your ability to make magic with words.
Tell me about your literary heartbeat.
Don’t tell me you suck. I already know you suck. We all suck in our own little way. All of us, some more than others, certainly, but no one is immune to the suck.
Tell me a story.
Then, show me you’re a writer.
EMBRACE THE SUCK
I’m the eternal optimist. Watch as I turn a blog post about SUCK into a positive message!
I’ve surpassed my woe-is-me blog/Twitter/Facebook quota for the year, and it’s only May. I’ll blame the economy.
But I digress.
Tell me about the mistakes you’ve made, and not what you’ll do differently, but what you are doing differently.
Tell me something you’ve learned that’s helping you in your quest for publishing.
Tell me about your work in progress.
Tell me the joy you feel in writing.
Tell me about the cool book you’ve just finished.
Tell me about your confidence in your ability to make magic with words.
Tell me about your literary heartbeat.
Don’t tell me you suck. I already know you suck. We all suck in our own little way. All of us, some more than others, certainly, but no one is immune to the suck.
Tell me a story.
Then, show me you’re a writer.
Hack Writing, Sometimes I Miss It
While I’m no longer paid by the pound for tech writing, there are some things that I miss:
- I had an editor
- I had a proofreader
- I had fellow writers I worked with on a regular basis
Now, writing wasn’t my main function, but I did a lot of it. When I did it, though, it was done professionally. It’s nice having an editor. It’s nice having someone fact-check your work. It was also nice to write on assignment.
Creative writing is sometimes lonely. It’s more fun, for me, but damn it, I miss my editor. Miss her a lot. If I ever land a book deal, it will take all my effort and will not to kiss my editor’s feet.
On one hand, I wonder if having all these pros at my beck and call spoiled me. On the other, I did learn things like how to stick to deadlines and how the passive voice is the Tool of Satan.
Death of a Princess
Chapter 24, cont.
***
I look so elegant, in my formal dress. I finally look like a lady. Posed. Beautiful. Commanding. I am the Princess, after all. I even look regal. That’s what a princess does, isn’t it? Look regal at important social functions. My duty. It’s all I have left.
But I have been undone. My Love’s death is a knife wound right into my heart, and I can almost see the metaphorical life-blood slow leak out of me, leaving a shell. I am the shell that first returned home from the war, alone, without Mitchell, dark and empty.
This is such a lovely day for a funeral. The spring Floridian day is clear and warm, a small breeze blowing this way and that with hints of pine and flowers on the air.
We are in a meadow surrounded by a pine forest, in the middle of a newly constructed cobblestone parade ground. Hundreds of people, almost all of them military, more than I bothered counting, are crammed on the ground, in a circle around what looks disturbingly like a pyre. There she lies in her uniform, looking peaceful and tranquil, the black and blue Federation flag covering the lower part of her body. A smaller circle of unique cobblestone surrounds her dais, and they glow with silver light.
I can hear someone speaking about her, but the words, like my current perception of reality, are fuzzy. Some type of Military-religious mumbo-jumbo. I keep staring at her. There is something, there is, something is wrong.
Suddenly, I realize the person talking has stopped, and I’m standing right next to her. How did I get here? I can’t remember, and now everyone is staring at me.
She is serenely beautiful, and I stare at her, trying to figure out what is wrong. It’s not her uniform or her makeup, or her hairstyle. She is missing something.
Ah.
I draw my saber. It glistens in the afternoon sunlight.
Someone behind me gasps. I place my sword on her, the hilt underneath folded hands, the curve of the tip pointed towards her boots.
There, my Love. I’ve never used it, but it’s a good sword, and very, very, sharp, and beautiful. Like you. A warrior should not be without a good weapon in the afterlife. Go and battle evil in whatever lies beyond, my Love.
I kiss her cold lips and walk back to my place, feeling much better.
I am the Goddess of War, after all. Arming my subjects to serve me in the afterlife is my purview.
If I listen closely, I can hear the Princess crying. I ignore her. The Goddess of War has awoken. And she has no use for tears.
As the body on the pyre burns, the Princess screams, and is no more. Yet, strangely, as I look around, no one notices this is a funeral for two.
Reading Things Men Don’t Do
Have you ever watched a woman reading a book? I’m not talking in a stalker-like way, but just an observation?
If the book is particularly good, she will scrunch up her legs in that “I have my legs under me” way that women sit that is almost impossible for a man to replicate. I’ve tried. I think I hurt myself the last time I tried it.
When The Wife Unit gets going into a book, I’ll sometimes watch her because it’s one of the few times I can stare at her and she won’t notice. And she’s totally stare worthy.
I have it in my mind that the novels I write are “scrunch worthy.” I simply want more than engrossment, I’m after that feminine contortionist book sit.
There’s another effect I’m going for, the “I must finish this chapter before I pee” effect.
Not too sure that is woman specific. But I have observed several women bouncing in their chairs while reading a book, only to set it down and go running.
Scrunched legs and hold the pee. I’m a male novelist with ambition.
Bookish
Feeling very bookish. Think I will bolt a bookshelf to a wall and load that sucker up. My nightstand is drowning in books.
books books books books, books books books books, WONDERFUL BOOKS, books books, books books, books books, books books!
(sung to Monty Python’s spam chant)
