Yours Alone
The last page.
The panic, the emptiness, the loss of control feeling as a novel goes from me to we. These feelings continue. They go on and on.
Why?
The root of this anxiety is not fear.
The root is not the possibility of rejection.
The root is not swimming in fate’s sea of circumstance .
These feelings come from ownership.
The work is yours alone. Everything that happens after the last page is yours alone. Everything that comes next is by will and by permission.
The novel is the ultimate rebellion against collectivism, even if it rallies for that.
Such a rebellion comes at a price.
Own it.

Ah, Health!
I haz it back!
I spent most of the weekend in the Blah Zone. As soon as Monday, and work, rolled around, I felt fine.
(grumble)
Man Cold, Part III
I am a healthy person. Really. Minus the allergies to dust mites and pollen, It’s spooky how healthy I am.
Once a year, however, I get a cold. It’s been 13 months since my last one.
Yes, 9.3 readers, I have a man cold.
Bleh.
A Careful Literary Seduction
Oh, to be seduced by a book.
The story goes deep within
To caress the heart
To turn the page
That fevered art
A literary sin
Careful now
Careful now
A story just like that
That’s a good story
Just like that
More please
More please
Always more please
Seduced today
Tomorrow starts anew
Careful now
But not too careful!

Ah, a Holiday of Family, Books and the Pacific Northwest
A few days off for moi, so naturally, I’ve jumped into my ever-growing pile of books while enjoying the company of my wonderful family.
The hidden gem so far has been Initiate from The Unfinished Song series by Tara Maya.
What I was expecting: girly fluffy stuff beneath the girly cover.
What I got: epic fantasy with a distinctive and mesmerizing voice and rich world-building.
I feel the need to review this book. More later.
I’ve also come across the rare book that I had to put down. It had several instances of bad guy play. “He clicked a bullet into the chamber.” Really? Clicked a bullet?
HEAD-DESK.
There’s just no excuse for this folks, none. Even if you don’t live in the US, there are many US writers that can help you with proper firearm portrayal. I could not move past it.
But, Ms. Maya made me forget about that nasty book, she did.
All I need now is some space opera and my reading weekend will be complete.
It Was a Dark and Stormy Blog
Literally!
I know most of my 10.3 readers snarf my vapid, but occasionally entertaining posts via a RSS reader. Nevertheless, I was feeling a stormy thematic churning in my writer brain, and adjusted my blog accordingly. I even used a photo service for the background graphic.
Lock up your daughters, I’ve gone technical!
Love,
Anthony
Wrong?
I have way too much fun writing. Even when it hurts, when the emotional intensity of if all is overwhelming.
Does that mean I am a literary bottom? A masochistic wordsmith? Is it the endorphin-like rush of putting the words I want to put on paper and watching a story come alive? Am I a story junkie?
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m doing it wrong.
Little Girl Gone
The laughter of three children running amok in the yard drew Paul outside.
The day was warm, a Pacific Northwest day of mountain forest hues against a bright and perfect blue sky. He should already have been outside.
The three children were as different as different could be. The oldest was a young man, really, to call him a child was simply an admission that Paul wanted him to stop growing so fast. He flicked the frisbee quick and hard out of self-defense rather than any feelings of superiority.
The middle child was tall and lanky, but clearly caught between older boy and young man. Here, he was running his inner boy for all he was worth, as if recognizing that in a eye-blink he would be dancing with girls on Friday nights.
The youngest, though, she was pure girl. She wore a dress, some yellow cotton thing that if she twirled around in place, it would flair out. On the porch, Paul noticed her white tights left in an afterthought on top of her sandals. She was making up for her short stature with the application of a butterfly net. Her shrieks of laughter and that wonderful little girl grin declared to all that she thought herself a clever child. She waved the net like a weapon, as if contemplating smacking an offending brother with it when she missed.
Paul stood and watched, the sunlight warming his face. He should join them but he simply stood and basked in it all. It was beautiful.
Beep beep.
Suddenly the sky grew dark. Clouds didn’t roll in, it was as if they sun had never been up. It wasn’t even a black sky, it was the absence of everything including color.
Beep beep.
The two boys disappeared.
The little girl dropped her net. She looked around confused.
Paul strode to her. Big steps, and he snatched the little girl in his arms.
Beep beep.
“No, Daddy, no,” she whispered, “please.”
“Hold on to me. Hold on to me. Hold on.”
Beep beep.
“I wanted to live,” she said, “I would have loved this.”‘
The little girl looked in to his eyes, hers a mirror of his own.
Beep beep.
“I would have loved you,” she said, and then was gone. It was a lingering fade. It seemed to go on forever.
Paul woke up.
He turned off the alarm clock.
In the dim, he looked over at the feminine lump snuggled under the covers. She was facing away. Paul was suddenly glad of that. Her face would simply be the older version of what never was.
He got up. The house was quiet.
He checked in on his two sleeping boys. He stared at his oldest, burning in the memory of his real face. His child face. His boy look.
Paul left for work.
He avoided the coffee shop where older girls served coffee. He did not want to see any girls today. Instead, he stopped at the gas station and made his own coffee.
Driving, he squinted at the rising sun. He should put on his sunglasses, but he didn’t.
He wanted to feel and see the sky as it really was. It was beautiful, really.
But it was also a reminder, that sky.
A reminder that some little girls, were never meant to be.

Zoneage
I am deep in writing zone. I love that zone. It’s one of the best things in the world.
The Blog Harem Needs Feeding
As my decreased post count shows, I’m increasingly not a big fan of talking about myself on my blog. Mainly because I do that everywhere else, ha, ha, ha. Or maybe not so ha, ha, ha.
However, my blog harem is kind of vicious. They have things like knives and fangs. Sometimes both. And lately, I think they have been traveling in pairs. So, here is a writing update:
Work continues on my Secret Squirrel Contemporary YA Book Project(TM), and the novel is 3/4ths done. The book continues to take an emotional toll on me, and the fine height of irony would be if it never sold. Because I am metaphorically bleeding for it.
Also, I have a legitimate fear that the first woman to read this book beyond my Super-Duper Secret Squirrel Alpha Reader (not you), is just going to kill me for being an emotionally manipulative bastard.
Beyond that, creative work on short stories continues, mainly as a defense mechanism for Secret Squirrel Contemporary YA Book Project(TM).
Now I know what you are thinking. You are thinking how did the Blog Harem come to be, Anthony?
I have no idea.
Really.

Never Let a Pixie See You Sweat
Hearken ye over to Wandering Dancing Pixie, in which my guest post goes all nerdy about… pixies!

The True Flow of Dignity
Dignity is not about self-confidence, nor is it composure and certainly not how one behaves in public.
Dignity is choice, and not the choices we make, but simply our ability to do so.
To remove choice from an individual is to belittle them and demean them. This is immoral. It strips them of their dignity. An undignified act is an act born in the lost of freedom.
When one carries themselves with dignity, one is holding true that the answer to the choice presented may have been right or it may have been wrong, but it was, at the core, made without direct or subversive force.
To strip a person of their dignity is an act of force. To strip it from a group of people is tyranny. Both are dishonorable, and the righteous oppose both with equal measure.
My Laptop Died
Sorry for going dark, my 9.3 readers. My laptop died. It’s not just a simple laptop, either–it’s specifically configured for security access to various places.
So when I got a new laptop, I had to install all the work applications back on it.
Then restore my backup files.
Then I had to encrypt the hard drive.
Then I had to install all the certificates.
Then I had to have helpdesk install the rest of the certificates because I am a dork and couldn’t figure it out.
Then I had to like, yanno, WORK. Because my client gives me money and then expects me to, like, produce results. SHEESH.
It’s a great new laptop, though. Very fast. Screen bright. And, it kinda looks sexy.
I’ve gotten everything under control now. I think it’s time for a book review of a smoking hot sci-fi book, no?
Love ya. Mean it.
Swimming with Sharks
Ha!
| Are you ready to submit a query to the Shark? |
| 100% (6 out of 6 Questions Correct) |
Fun quizzes, surveys & blog quizzes by |
And the Winner of the Book Giveaway Is:
Time to give away a brand-new copy of The Pericles Commission by Gary Corby!
Using random.org

Which on my spreadsheet of comments:

That makes the winner Cyndi! Cyndi, I sent you mail. Please reply and I will ship your book tomorrow! Congratulations!
The Memory of Scent
(repost from 2008)
The house smells so wonderful.
My penchant for Scrooge-like feelings during the holiday season has slowly been replaced by warm memories of my children’s joy for the season. For young boys, yes, Christmas is a lot about presents. If you are a good parent, if you could overcome the bombastic rampant commercialism, there is an underlying simplicity about the season that can pull at the heart like no other time.
This morning Thing Two came in while I was getting dressed, wanting to know if we could go get Thing One’s Christmas present tonight. How cute is that? I’ll tell you how cute it is, it is a bit of the ultra-cuteness.
Yes there are the presents. But then there is the smell of the tree. The gingerbread house. The decorating. The Christmas cookies. The story of Christmas. Grandpa and Nanna. Daddy’s Christmas Day roast. Santa. The music. The warm fireplace and the happy dog.
Long after those presents are gone, the memories of our close family during this time will linger on. One day my sons will be walking in one of the great national forests around here, and after the morning rain, smell the fresh scent of grand firs. And it will smell like Christmas.
And that will be magical, always magical, even in the dead of summer, it will be Christmas magic.
One Day Left to Win The Pericles Commission by Gary Corby!
Click on over and leave a comment. It’s that easy!

Wife Unit Christmas Poll

Dear 9.3 Readers,
The Wife Unit was very specific this year. She wanted a spinning wheel. Not just any spinning wheel, but a certain make and model. Since a spinning wheel is a handy thing that can pay for itself, and the fact that she wanted it, I of course, great hubby that I am, got her the spinning wheel that she wanted.
So far, so good.
Except, the wheel was shipped from Spokane and arrived the very next day that I ordered it.
My plan is to wrap that sucker and stick it under the tree.
The Wife Unit, of course, thinks this is spousal snarkitude and wants to use the wheel now.
Thus, I leave the entire question of the Spinning Wheel Christmas Question entirely in your hands! Vote below. Voting closes December 2nd.
War with Self
The human condition is to socially relate to others, yet we recognize that in order to master socialization, one must find the center to self and live there without fear.
This duality of the human nature is a war. It is a war for independence against the war for socialization. This is true balance, the yin and the yang. Honor and integrity are internal concepts, while justice and righteousness are external. All must exist on equal footing.
In any true conflict, there are winners and there are losers, but sometimes victory comes from the unexpected and defeat is all too predictable. Just as one must find the center and dwell within, the path to that place is not a singular journey.
The path to true independence, then, comes from choice. Not the choices we make on our own, but whom we welcome on our journey, and those we recognize as subversive influences.
It is always choice, and without it we may achieve socialization, but only to avoid self-progress. The wrong choices are merely strays off the path.
The absence of choice is a loss and a war with self.









