In a Locked Room

The New Year

Sat, 02 Jan 2010 06:12:40 GMT

The first day of 2010. (Well technically, its the second as I type this but I haven't gone to bed yet, so I am still counting this as day one).

This year I have very simple resolutions.

- I want to laugh more. I used to be better at this, letting the things go, seeing the humor in the absurd things that happen everyday. I want to get back to that. Serious is always serious and waiting for you, but funny is a thing of the moment. And I want to be in that moment.

- I want to be grateful for everything that is going right. This sort of feeds into the first point. In general my life is full of blessings, my family, my friends, my life and while rough stuff happens so does magic and my focus is going to be on that.

Thank you for being a part of my life. 2009 was rough, for so many of us for so many different reasons, but we made it. Thank you. And in celebration of that here is another music clip that sums up my feeling about the past and the future:

May the new year bring you love, joy, and peace. (((Hugs)))

The arghh part of my brain

Tue, 29 Dec 2009 20:00:48 GMT

I'm in the final third of a story, and it has reached the slog and throw portion of the show. I hate the story, I hate the characters, I hate the ideas, and I just wish somehow I was at the end.

Right now its me, verbs, nouns, and a couple of overused adjectives just trying to get the structure of this beast down on page. And I know there is a good story here. Somewhere under all the crap I'm throwing down is this idea that keeps coming back and haunting me. I just need to find it. And that can only happen when I finish it.

This is the part where I wish I could press the fast forward button. Stupid chronological event life.

To the person

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 16:57:15 GMT

Who sent me a Christmas box from Popcorn Factory, thank you. It was delicious and devoured, in that order. Unfortunately there was no identification of who sent it, so I'm hoping it's someone who reads this blog.

ETA: Found, and thank you again!

Just move the mountain one thimble at a time

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 03:42:01 GMT

I always know I've reached the end of a project when I have the uncontrollable desire to clean.

Now to be clear I am neither a neat freak nor a slob. I generally like things to be sanitary (ie dishes washed, clean bathroom, floors vacuumed, clothes washed), but I don't mind random piles of stuff in my living space. I'm talking about things like mail, and clean clothes that need to be put away, or books, or sofa blankets or groceries that don't need to be refrigerated).

But when big giant ugly projects come along, I go into survival mode. Anything that can be delayed is delayed. If I don't wear those clothes for work, they go in a separate dirty clothes pile that gets ignored. Dishes get stacked and lets not talk about the bathroom.

Well last week the project started to wind down. This week after a few hiccups (read 12 hour days) it looks like its finally done. So I took off this Friday. I thought I was going to relax, maybe brew a cup of tea, read a book, stare out windows, and generally live the life of the dilettante I have always dreamed about. Ah, to be useless for just one week.

But once I rubbed the sleep from my eyes all I could see was mess. And that part of my brain i had been ignoring for months (the still shrill voice of "Clean for god's sake clean") came shrieking out of its cell and took over. Four hours later and a clean kitchen, three loads of laundry, and mail sorted and dealt with, the dust has finally started to settle. My back aches and my arms are sore, but man if I can't stop grinning at seeing the floor again.

First Snow

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 17:26:55 GMT

It's the first snow of the season here and I love it. So far its not sticking to the roads but coating everything else in that blanket of white and cold. It feels so strange that its winter.

This fall has been one long breath of work, day in day out, that I hardly time to notice the season passing me by. Now that project is done and I look up and its December.

Oh there's still clean up work to do, and I am sure there will be one-off tasks, but the bulk of the job is complete. And this is the first weekend since September that I don't have to work.

Its so weird. I have been waiting for this moment to come since August. The end of crazy work hours at the job, and now its finally here, and I can start doing things again. Like writing, and other hobbies, and maybe even skiing. I love snow.

Over the next few days after my brain comes back I'll be able to come up with lists of things long left open. Hell, I have a short story that has been begging me to write it since August, with a theme that I love beyond all reasonable comprehension.

But right now I am going to sit here, by the window, and watch the snow come down. Hope you are having a good weekend wherever you are.

Poetry committed

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 20:02:04 GMT

Avert the eyes;) All joking aside I had this alliteration raging in my brain and this came out with a little revision. Funny enough it captures a lot of what I am feeling about life right now.

Linger, moment, upon my lips
Fall past my tongue in the passion
Which refutes all soundless glory

I am a feather tossed
Buffetted, wind torn, world
Worn, worn, worn down
till nothing but bones gleam

Their milky sheen,
bright, lingering
Foundation

Light streams through my fingers, I can see the stars

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 18:35:31 GMT

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed with reading, like its become more of an addiction than a hobby. I mean my TBR pile could take out my kitten with one well aimed topple (45 and counting). And sometimes it feels like I am going through the motions, just letting the words filter pass, and not really letting myself fall into the story like I used to be able to do. You know the sensation, that moment where you are in the author's created world. All the other concerns slip away, and the only thing that matters is the story pattern unfolding before you.

This year, though, I have read many wonderful books (Their Eyes Were Watching God, The Sorrows of Young Wether) that swept me away. And one has even been moved into my pantheon of top five (The Garden Party and Other Stories by Katherine Mansfield, I still can't write about that yet).

But sometimes its the story that catches you off guard is the one you love the most.

I just finished reading the short story collection, The Fisherman of the Inland Sea by Ursula K Le Guin. I love Le Guin's writing. Even when it doesn't push my reading buttons it's still soothing to read, like listening to a master composition. And most of those stories in this collection were great, the stone parable was particularly harrowing and beautiful along with the Keryastion, I didn't feel that overwhelming tug until I got to the final trio of stories about the churten effect.

The churten effect is the ability to move instantly from one place to another. It's like teleportation but there are complications that make beautiful tension as only Le Guin can do. The first two in the trio thrilled me with this exploration of objectivity and what it means to have experienced something. But the last story, The Fisherman of the Inland Sea, took me to that place where things from the story connect to things in myself, and both are cast in a different light that illuminates things I was never were able to understand fully, nor contain without words before this story reflected me.

One of Le Guin's powers as a writer is that she has the best endings. Not in the sense of plot reversal, or any other trickery nonsense, but in the way she snaps all the plot threads taut and suddenly you see the true pattern of the story within the final paragraph. Its amazing.

I think it would be a mistake to try to summarize the plot of Fisherman. Like most of Le Guin's stories, what lays between the words on the pages is as important as what is there.

What I will say is what it evoked for me. I found myself turning over in my mind one of its themes: the dilemma of returning to past places/peoples.

I had a childhood where I felt like nothing ever really changed, Same faces, same tasks, and that same time frame of summer that stretched on for forever. Part of my family is from Florida and during the summer months, I would go and visit them, traipsing all over the state.

In particular, there was a camp I went to in Lake Wales, a small orange grove town south of Orlando. Most people think of Florida as beach, and maybe Everglades since CSI Miami came on (okay so they did one good thing). But there are tons of different ecosystems. And in Lake Wales they have what's called the Highland Scrub.

Highland scrub forest are as different from North East forests as you can imagine. In place of those tall silver and green cathedral shadows that hang silence over you, you have swaying bent golden brown dappled shade. These aren't called forest but things like oak hammocks and pine seeps and it just feels different.

Well I went to that camp for over a decade, from a kid camper to camp counselor, and by the time I left, I could walk through those woods with my eyes closed. I knew where the palm tree roots jumped out of the ground, and how the path down by the dining hall curved sharp and down to the left before it rounded the lake. And when you had a full moon night, if you went down to the third lake and turned up into the deer trail, there was a crooked wood tree with a branch curved just right for you to sit in its bend and stare straight over the lake, to where the moonlight danced over the waves and the white sands gleamed as if they were the road to under the hill itself.

But things change.

Lake Wales had three hurricanes hit it in 2004. And then there was great flood in 2005 of the whole camp. I remember walking back onto property and not recognizing the tree line. It was as if a giant came down and knocked it all to pieces. It was strange to walk those paths, it was almost I was seeing them with two sets of eyes, the path as it is and the path as it was. One had branches overhead with spanish moss brushing my face and scrub jays flitting from tree to tree, screeching at me as I disturbed their turf. The other just had a hot sun beating down on my face, and scraggly palmetto bushes on either side, with a few wild grapevines here and there for consolation.

It drove home something I had known for a while. The past is a territory you only ever visit in your mind. Sometimes places still look the same, but they're not, you're not the same person. But does that mean you still don't have a connection to them?

Fisherman tackles these questions. Its as if Le Guin had been there beside me, feeling the exact same thing and trying to make sense out of it. The story is in a way about how these pasts are an integral part of us, how we can't deny that, and if we do, if we try to leave it behind, we in a sense are no longer ourselves (done brilliantly of course through the time travel trope of two people in the same time and the need to be one).

The thing that struck me the most about Le Guin's approach was the hope that vibrated off the page. Yes, things change, and we take turns in life that run far from the path we used to travel on, but its still possible to take a part with you. And you can return, not to what was, but what is. You have a place in the here and now, and that does not lessen or greaten the past that lays inside your soul.

It is the reconciliation, the AND instead of the OR, that I find so uplifting and true. And that is why I continue to read.

In which I studiously avoid work

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 22:18:38 GMT

And decide to write a lj post instead.

This is going to be a rant. Full on rage, I cannot breathe but for to spew these words out on the page, can you not see what blazes in front of us all, type of rant.

Yes, I know, strong words. And what has merited this wrath? CSI: New York.

If you love this show, or merely enjoy it as cotton candy for the mind (ooh pretty color, why are fingers sticky, where did it go, now I feel sick) please stop reading. My father used to love to watch this show, not for the plot or any other reason then all the cool gadgets and whatnot, but after I exploded one day watching it last week with him, he says he can't watch it the same way.

I do not feel sorry in the least. This and shows like it deserve to have all their tapes sealed away in stainless steel containers and sunk to the bottom of the Marinas Trench, with one tiny pin prick hole so that slowly, oh so slowly they turn into the mush they already figuratively are.

Why, you might be asking?

It took me a while to get to this point. When the original CSI came on, I liked it. It had edgy plots, pushed the envelope of what could be shown on tv, and most importantly took geeks and placed them front and center. They made science sexy, and still kept it real science (okay that might be stretching it, but they came close most weeks).

Fast forward a couple of years, and CSI starts riding on its laurels. The writers phone it in for the faithful legions that still show up every week for their cotton candy. But they had a decent foundation to start with, so even sloppy writing worked (witness Grissom being interesting despite crap writing).

So what did they do next?

They made spin-offs, which lacked both the original foundation and good writing. Honestly, CSI Miami is horrific. Really, it is. I could go into Horatio Caine and how he makes me want to burn every pair of sunglasses I have ever seen. But overbearing authoritarian figures with god complexes is not the focus of this "Hate CSI" issue.

No, because while I loathe those type of people, I will admit that they can do some good. No, what set off my final button was an episode on CSI: NY. Basic plot: A hip hop dancer is killed and girlfriend was present but hit over the head and can't remember a darn thing.

Not the best nor worst mystery set up. Honestly though, I could do without the deus ex machina amnesia route, ie. at any moment the girl could remember everything and make all the work of the protagonist pointless. But we have already established this is CSI, where kindagarteners are given dialogue magnets and a giant metal wall to write the scripts.

Swallowing that bitter pill, we move to the actual execution of said cheestastic plot. And what stuck out to me was the scene betweem strong in charge lady and strong in charge man, where sic man tells sic woman that the sick girlfriend might be waking up and is in critical condition at the hospital. Sic woman's response?

She is going to rush over to the hospital so that as soon as the girlfiriend opens her eyes, sic woman can pump her for information. Yes that's right. It doesn't matter that the said woman has suffered significant head trauma on top of losing her love. No, she is a cog in the machine of plot that is CSI: NY, and therefore we are perfectly justified to treat her as a thing and not a person. Why does she need recovery time, she should be available for us whenever we want, no matter what, because that's what the plot demands.

And this is what enrages me. I hate this attitude in real life. People are not treated like people, they are assets, they are tools for someone's else aggrandizement. I have worked for bosses like this, worked with coworkers like this, and have had subordinates pull this on me.

Somehow they disconnect the moral wire in their brain, the empathy, and do exactly as they wish. Damn the consequences to the person because they are not me. They are not real. Only I am real.

That's it, right there. The supreme selfishness hidden in the societally acceptable overachiever mentality bullshit that people pull all the time.

Oh the writers know its wrong, treating people as plot pieces. So we get something like this: Slot A moves over to tab B, tab B causes dramatic moment, and Slot A has pan shot of fear and trembling to induce audience pity.

But its not real pity because pity has to be induced by the real fear that there but for the grace of God could I go, that there is another human being suffering. We were trained NOT to see this other person as a human being worthy to live. So instead of real pity that lodges in our chest, we are given this sentimental nonsense bullshit and the dramatic scene falls flat, even with the accompanying sad music.

I hate shows that blatantly manipulate the audience's emotions. And the layering on the latest murmuring songwriters to add depth? Not working. They couldn't find even if they were swimming over the Marinas trench.

For those wondering, yes sic woman and man solve the mystery and there is the obligatory scene where the girlfirend tries to make sense of her life. But since we haven't been led to see her as anything else but the role she played, this scene fails too, and the whole story unravels. Insert stupid closing montage, end show.

I guess I run into this mentality too much in everyday life, that to see it propagated in entertainment is too much. It needs to stop. Otherwise we will get more of these damaged idiots making life hell for everyone else and justifying it because they see themselves as the hero in these shows. Do Not Want.

Fevre Dreams

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 01:56:52 GMT

So right now I'm sick. Not sick in the sense of curled up on a bed wishing the nyquil would kick in so I can forget this painful mortal coil, but more like everything feels heavy, lifting my foot, lifting my hand, lifting my head. Even trying to string together sentences feels like swimming through jello.

Its a very weird experience, a dream while awake, you know?

And while its a drag to feel this way, it is giving me a chance to stop and think about things. About where my life is, where I want it to go, and what is most important for me.

In some ways, I have felt stuck for years in a place that just wasn't quite right for me. Of course being an adult means that you shoulder on, and being alive means that you try to find ways to make it bearable, and being human means you wonder if there isn't something better, and being mule stubborn obstinate means that you just don't give up on finding out if its better somewhere else.

I was just talking last night to a dear person about life and whatnot, and how for the first time in a long time I feel like I'm no longer in an untenable position. That things are working, that I am able to become the person I want to be. This was in direct relation to my job. And I do feel blessed. After five years of fighting through the Goldilocks dilemma of all the possible combinations (too much work but interesting, too little work but oh soo dull, and oh crap Bears are standing over me and their teeth are way too sharp) I've finally landed in a place that gives me space.

I think thats all people like me need. Yes, recognition is great, and challenging work is wonderful, but simple respect for the fact that I am more than what I can produce for you to use, that I have things I want to do that nothing to do with a bottom line or timesheets or productivity, and most certainly not efficiency, well thats a wonderful feeling.

Some days I wake up and wonder if this is really my life. Am I the one who is getting on the train, not having to drive through horrible traffic?Am I the one who works with wonderful (weird but wonderful) people who actually believe in work life balance? Am I the one who now has energy to do things on the weekend?

I just hope I don't wake up if it is. I don't think I could back. I have been strong but I need time, time to let the cracks heal from the past five years from all the things that crashed against me.

That said, I have found one of the most beautiful songs in the world and I want to share it with you. It starts slow but wait for the 1:12 mark. Then feel it. That space of about 45 seconds in the song where it just lifts off from the earth, the power and the majesty and the sorrow and the hope and longing, always the longing for the better. This is what I want, my life to be the swoop and rise of the beat in this song. I hope you are having a wonderful night wherever you are.

Hurry, wait for me

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 17:55:41 GMT

*clears throat* So yes, its been a little bit again. Sorry, my work has entered into the one busy season, so thats pretty much where I have been. That and laying on the couch in my pjs, munching cereal and watching some pointless and pointed television (I know, its rotting my brain, it will make it more tasty for the zombies).

But enough about that. Lets talk writing shall we? So, as you know I have the new novel that I have been working on, the bfghbb. While I adore that nickname, the time has come for this project to have a grown-up name (so that it can be put on cover letters and resumes and future employers will not raise an eyebrow). Anyhoo, titles and me are not the best of friends. For a while I was going to call it "The Ones with No Names" which while nice and semi-accurate, I'm not sure anyone else would get as all the characters do have names, even if they are assumed.

So today, I had a realization of one of the main themes in this story and now I have about two or three takes on it. Which one do you like:

In the Shadow of Ruin
In Ruin's Shadow
That Which Grows in the Shadows of Ruin
That Which Grows in Ruin's Shadow

Because a meme is a meme

Thu, 17 Sep 2009 02:39:16 GMT

Feeling like a sheep today so I shall follow the meme Its that time again for the first line, or in my case first paragraph, of open stories I'd love to finish. So without further adieu:

Novel:

From the bfghbb, a dark glory novel about a real metropolis and the lives of eight people who live, die and try to save it:

I tell you the truth.

It’s never the first kill that makes you a killer. You still have a chance to never murder again. No, its the second death that destroys your soul. You watch him slide up your blade, see his eyes roll back into his head, hear his last gasps between your swaying feet. You know you should feel revulsion at what you’ve done. But you feel nothing.

Novella:

The collaboration with ljgeoff that is two hard revisions away from submission. Current title being "Count the Stars" and is all about Golden Age skiffy hero who just happens to be an accountant and a hardened construction worker who saves the day who happens to be a woman. Yes, we are messing with tropes and loving every moment of it:

The blast of air slammed against his face. The space station had a certain odor; old socks, yesterday’s meatloaf, and gear oil. But this smell was different, one he’d never forgotten. Burning metal. Gwylim Priddy clawed past the open hatch, down along the bulkhead and stopped in the passageway, waiting. Another brush of air carried the acrid taint. Leaping forward through the twisted ways of the station, one thought echoed in his mind. It was happening, again.

Short Stories:

The Glamorous Life, title, concept, and character arc completely and unabashedly stolen from the Stephen Sondheim song of the same title. The farther I get into the story, the more the little things change. I have a feeling there will be a title change on this one too, once Amandor agrees to give up the Sondheim choice. He is picky little bastard:

My name is Amandor Retaliax Cyrenean the Third. It is meant to be said like that. One clear break between each word to allow the minions, that's what mother calls them, those minions to understand exactly who they are dealing with. We are not, like most who walk the streets of this world, from a undistinguished family tree.

Next up is the first empath story I came up with called "I Hate the Night" (and as you might have guessed, I hate coming up with titles). Its also a background piece for the next novel I'm going to tackle, The Ever Mind Project. Its a sharp story, and something tells me that this one is not going to have anything resembling a happy ending:

I hate the night. I hate the way I sit, staring out the windows watching lights flicker on and off around me. I hate that behind me is my bed, covers thrown open to only one side. I hate that I’m alone.

And finally a short story that while in draft, needs major structural revision to make work. I still love the tone on this piece, I just need to commit to finishing it and sending it out. It probably would make a great halloween story somewhere:

Oh diary, where do I begin?

The first thing you must know is that I, Evelyn Dilay, never imagined I’d be caught up in such a situation. Second you must believe is that I’ve never held faith with the supernatural. Certain stories were told to me by my nanny at a young and some might say impressionable age, but they were discarded with toy prats and tiny burping dolls, never to be picked up much less thought about again. But the third and final thing you must see is that despite all my best efforts, I cannot deny what has happened to me.

Now they're laid out there for everyone to see. Not sure how many of these will get done before the next work monsoon hits in about 13 days (not that anyone is counting or anything) but its a start.

A Tale of Two Chapter Openings

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 03:08:07 GMT

This is going to be another post about my process. As you know Bob, these post go way into depth about the minutia of my brain, which some people enjoy and other people would rather have toothpicks shoved into their eyes than be forced to read it. Its below the cut for the interested parties.

Okay, so here is the thing. Right now I am working on the bfghbb (goodness I love that acronym, but anyways) and last January I wrote the first three chapters in a sudden rush of inspiration. Then everything ground to a halt. Something was wrong, and I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew that if I kept writing the story wouldn't work.

I know, I'm contravening conventional writing wisdom here and I don't care. These are my stories and I know how they have to be written.

And I have ignored that feeling in the past once. It resulted in me getting 60k worth of words that went nowhere even though it was supposed to be the kickass final half of a duology. I haven't been able to touch that project since the winter of 2006. So I trust that feeling now.

After letting the bfghbb stew for a couple of months, I opened up the file again in July. I still liked what I saw there, what was trying to happen in the story, and so I started to mess around with the text.

And halfway through Chapter One I was able to see why I had stopped.

See my general process is to write in stages. First stage is to capture the right "feel" of a piece, feel being tone, emotional weight, and texture of the text. Once I get the feel then I move onto characterization, why is the character demanding this tone. After characterization comes plot, why is the character doing what they are doing. Finally is setting, where everything is happening.

But really that is a simplification. Because by getting the tone right, I am also creating the setting. It's all happening at the same time. I find that I usually get the feeling to the final level first before any of the others, its my natural strength. The others are an exercise of going back through the tone and pulling them up through the cracks. And the wheel turns and the bucket is full and the fire begs for another log. You know the deal.

So in going back, I realized that while I had enough of the tone, all the other things that make a story happen were missing. And while I don't need them as fully fleshed out as tone, I do need them there. I need the specific, concrete bricks of character, of plot, of backstory, of setting, of theme so that I can continue to build the story. Otherwise the sweeping wave of emotion will collapse under its own weight before its reaches shore.

Let me show you an example of what I mean. Here is the original opening to Chapter Three:

Some meetings are fucking boring. People natter on and on as your bladder ties itself in knots, and just about when you start to see piss trenches in every corner of the room, they open up the issue for general discussion. Security is supposed to be the silent eyes, ears, hands; supposed to meld with the walls and make sure whoever pressed the most gold into your palm is safe, or at risk depending on the day. Sometimes the pointless back and forth of it made Covey want to forget about this silly side business. He didn’t need the extra money anymore. And he certainly didn’t need the hassle.

But when the Wild Lords call a convocation in the middle of the night with a bag of gold is dropped on your doorstep before you can even state your price? Sometimes its just better to go along. So Covey shifted from one leg to the other, and grimaced at Eran across the room. The man nodded in agreement and let his eyes fade back into the complacent awareness you only perfected after years of waiting for disaster to come.

Covey tried to follow suit, but dammit if the same thought didn’t break through his calm over and over again. What if the disaster had already happened? Rumor was the riots raged in the outer sectors. Sure, central Mosrovia hadn’t had ole flame and fist trash them yet, but that’s only because it was central Mosrovia. And while he had dreams that one day he might be able to pay the exorbitant bribe to move his operation within those central walls, that wasn’t going to happen if everything he owned went up in smoke. Again.

Lord Atrox slammed his fist down on the table. “Enough. One of my men was killed by yours, Lord Tamaran. Everyone there saw the colors. Can you hope to deny that you owe me a blood debt?” Of course, Covey probably should have been moving his hand to his knife just like the rest of Tamaran’s guards were doing, but really? It was Lord Atrox. Young and impetuous and with pride enough for thirty men.

Lord Tamaran knew better. At least that’s what Covey told himself as he shifted to his other foot, and tried not to see that walls moving forward. Waiting, waiting, waiting for the response from Lord Tamaran.
(end snippet)

You can see there is definitely a character voice there, and an overarching tone of arch to the piece, but it stills feel over there, not here, sitting down next to you, telling you the story.

So I have been busy rewriting that piece and here what's happened:

Meetings are fucking boring. People natter on and on as your bladder ties itself in knots and just when you start to see piss trenches in every corner of the room, they open up the issue for general comment. Powers preserve us. Of course as guards we’re supposed to be the silent eyes, ears, and hands, supposed to meld into the walls and make sure whoever pressed the most coin into our palm is safe, at risk, or both depending on the day.

Sometimes the back and forth of it all crosses my eyes. “Covey”, I say to myself, “why worry about this silly side business? You don’t need the coin any more than you want the hassle.”

But when an emissary of Wild Lord Tamaran drops a bag of coin on your doorstep at midnight before you can state a ridiculous price? Sometimes it’s better to just go along. So there I stood at some broken hour of early morning, shifting from one leg to the other and grimacing at Eran across the room. I hated him and the way he fit into the wall like another fucking pillar in the row. Even his nod of agreement blended in with the mural motif behind his shoulder.

His eyes, though, never faded from that complacent alert. It’s something you perfect with years of waiting for the disaster to hit.

I tried to follow his lead, but dammit, I couldn’t. And it was all that crier’s fault. What was she thinking, running through the streets screaming that a blood had been murdered in Center Mosrovia? That helped no one. No, her words jammed one thought into my brain that still echoed around that empty space. What if disaster had already struck? What if everything was crumbling around us as we stood here debating the finer points of Blood law? Cheery, I know, I’m famous for it.

So much so that when I had first entered the waiting room, the other guards shut up. But I had heard them, nameless one and two, murmuring that their second cousin of a whoreson had heard that the outer sectors were sprouting riots. Sure, Center Mosrovia hadn’t had the ole flame and fist trash them yet, but that’s only because it was Center Mosrovia. You have to understand, I have dreams, dreams that one day I might be able to move my operations inside the Center’s walls. But that wasn’t going to happen if everything went up in smoke. Again.

Lord Atrox slammed his fist down on the table. “Enough. My man was murdered by yours, Lord Tamaran. Everyone saw his colors and his knife that ended up across Vamal’s throat. Do you deny me my blood debt?” I probably should have been moving my hand to my own long knife like the rest of Tamaran’s guards were doing, but really? It was Lord Atrox. Young and impetuous and with pride enough for thirty men. He’d insult a mongrel for shitting upwind.

Lord Tamaran knew better. At least that’s what I told myself as I shifted to my other foot, and doing my best to ignore those guards breaking from the walls, moving forward. Waiting, waiting, waiting for the response from Lord Tamaran.
(end snippet)

You can see, I've begun to add the specific about the character, about the world, about the plot, about why this action, in this place, at this time, is so important not only to those in the room but to Mosrovia as a whole. Because everything is teetering on the words of these Wild Lords. And of course, this still needs even more work, but the rough form is there, and that form is more than enough for me to use to keep going forward.

Its weird too, because I know by the time I reach the middle, I will probably have to come back and do this exercise all over again, honing the beginning even more to support the story that will come after.

So if you hear me over here complaining about specificity, or the necessity of placeholders, now you'll know. Its just me, trying to weave gold from the straw in my head.

Another drive by of randomness took out Schnetady

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 01:49:01 GMT

Labor Day weekend was wonderful and I actually feel ready to go back to work tomorrow. I know, weird. Anyways while my mind is getting ready for the awesomeness that is going to be Glee's premiere this week (insert fannish yelp of joy here) I figured it's time to share five random things:

1) I found the easiest receipe of my life this weekend and the meal it makes is yummy. Here is the link, because a recipe isn't real until its shared:
http://www.recipezaar.com/Crock-Pot-Chicken-W-Black-Beans-and-Cream-Cheeseyum-89204

I made some rolls to go with it, and I would even suggest a bed of rice too. Walking through the house today and smelling this was wonderful. Which brings me to point #2

2) Yay its fall!!! It feels like forever since last year's fall, and I for one can't tell you how excited I am about the weather change. I love crisp mornings and cool evenings and those rainy days when you can just throw something in the crock pot and curl up with your laptop and a cup of tea and enjoy the grey and green world outside. Perfection.

3) I am absolutely addicted to Katy Perry's song "Waking up in Vegas". I have no idea why, I mean her other singles were decent but never pushed my earworm button like this song. I catch myself singing it in the shower, on the elevator and even on the streets of Chinatown as I'm rushing to the office building. Sharing is caring:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t7YFAP4myMw&feature=fvw

4) I think (500) days of Summer might be my favorite movie of the year so far. Have seen it twice and have to say it is still made of amazing. The only other contender I can see taking that crown is Whip It (trailer here:http://www.apple.com/trailers/fox_searchlight/whipit/) which comes out in October. What can I say, I have a weak spot for spunky smart girls and Ellen Page is all that and some mac and cheese;)

5) Wow that was a lot of linkage going on above. So I will keep this one clean. I am still working on Chapter 2 of bfghbb (or for those of you just tuning in, Big Fat Giant Heavy Baby Book (yes, BFG was my favorite Roald Dahl book growing up)) but I think its almost done. Or at least to a spot where I can move on.

And that's pretty much that. Have a great week everybody:D

Sticking to the plan

Tue, 01 Sep 2009 18:40:45 GMT

And the subtitle to this post: How my brain wants to drive me absolutely crazy.

For those of you keeping score at home, I am currently at work on my fourth novel. Novel one being the classic amalgam of every fantasy novel I read and loved, novel two being the "I'm so clever look at how many plot threads I have" and yet still had no plot, and novel three being the good but just not good enough novel. (still slightly bitter about novel three), I have moved onto novel four.

I have had the idea for this novel for about four years now (very nascent idea came to me summer of 2005 that grew into a novel acorn). Over the course of that time I finished novel two, revised novel two, and finished novel three, all the while reading background books and keeping notes of cool bits about this story.

So you would think when I sat down at the computer last fall that this story would tumble out of my brain fully formed onto the page. Ah were that fortune was so kind. I have written since last November approxiamately 8k worth of words on this novel. 8k.

Now to be fair, from the months of January through June I wasn't doing much of anything due to massive job problems. And July I basically took off and didn't have a real thought for the whole month.

So that 8k represents about three months worth of dedicated effort.

But man August, hot sticky sweaty August, stank. I spent the entire month revising one chapter.In fact, I am still revising the same chapter now in September. It is chapter two for the curious, and the first time I wrote it, I fell in love with it. It was perfect, it had panache and creativity and did some fascinating things in extraordinary ways. Fast forward to August, and its like looking through a foggy window. I can sort of see the shape of what its supposed to be but I'm not even in the room yet, much less propping my feet on the shaggy ottoman.

And so I have been reading a line, adding a word, taking another word out, revising a phrase for clarity, revising a phrase for character tone, revising a phrase for cultural background depth, revising a phrase for lyrical weight. And by the time I finish I have a completely different sentence that is great, but makes everything that flows after need to be changed to fit. So I rinse and repeat.

And sometimes I even have to go back to fix something above to make it line up with the new found awesome ore in a later paragraph. I am about two pages from the end (of a four page chapter). And all I want to do is just rush to the end and move on.

But I know, oh how I know that I have to get this right. That this painful process of going through and embedding all this depth in the first few chapters is what enables me to soar through the middle chapters and nail the ending. Hell in the first thousand words of this chapter I already know the exact arc of this character, the fate of a minor character, two major plot points that will come later and their impact on her, and backstory of the City that had no idea how I was going to get across.

All this to say, the revision is going nice. But brain, could you please send me the middle soon. Kthxbai!

things that shimmer in the shades of awesome

Fri, 28 Aug 2009 19:07:18 GMT

Stephen Sondheim is a genius.

I mean it.

I know I am like four decades behind the rest of the world on this one, but seriously people, Stephen Sondheim is a genius and I will tell you why.

But first I have to say that not only is he a genius, but he is one I can enjoy. I know that sounds so shallow and whatnot, but really not everything awesome appeals to me. To be sure I can recognize the skill and talent that produced it, but there are some genius works that don't move me the way it does other people. A lot of classic science fiction novels is that way for me (excepting Dune which is like oxygen to the lungs of my soul). Reading those stories I just shake my head at the amount of talent that flowed down onto the page but they leave me cold. Sondheim, however, reaches into me so far that I can hardly contain it.

In a DVD extra with him, the interviewer introduced him as a man who wrote with emotional depth, structural complexity, and elegant truth. That statement sent shivers down my spine. Its an exact distillation of everything I want to do with my writing. To move through this morass of life and capture the layers upon layers that make a person act, think, believe the things they do and show how life is not a chronological forward motion, but endless loops and squiggles of memory and moments and more memory and I want to do it in a way that makes a readers brain just lean back and sigh.

I feel foolish that it has taken me this long to find Sondheim. I had heard his name of course, always bandied about in that New York respectful hush (not so much with quiet but with the depth). But I had been disappointed so many times before with recommendations, esp in musical theatre. So I just nodded politely and moved away, even after someone compared one of my short stories (Night of a Thousand Dreams) to him.

But life is random and fortunate (sometimes). About two weeks ago I was flipping through and stopped on this musical number that made me laugh out loud at both the word play and the truth. Oh hell the clip can do this better than me:

And I laughed and laughed and yet it was true. Those were conversations I had seen, real conversations in art, but somehow more real, brighter, deeper, more revealing. So I kept watching, not knowing what this play was. And then. And then this song came along:

And I sat there, on the sofa with tears streaming down my face. You have to understand I don't cry. I ran out of my tears at the age of fifteen. But that was me on that stage, or what I could have become but for grace. All of it. Oh sure other people have written the jaded, acid-tongued, quick quip friend. But they were shallow stereotypes that never captured the aching that resonates at the soul of these types of people. The truth that they are idealists, idealists who live in a world that is broken and they can't see how to make it right again, who have been hurt too many times, and yet still help in the small ways they know how, and allow others to deliberately misconstrue them to let the others get by.

I was sold at this point. Whoever had written this was a genius. That song is just fucking amazing. But it didn't end there. No, there was one more song, and it blew the roof off the play:

As my brain slowly came back together. I heard them say the name Stephen Sondheim. And I couldn't stop shaking my head. The play, as you seen from the clips, is Company. And this rendition with Raul Esparza, is brilliant. Really. Now that I have watched the DVD four times (I know, I'm obsessive, I embrace it), I find something new in the way they execute all the layers of meanings, like who gets to play instruments, and what they play, and when they play it.

This has become part of my cultural heart, taking up on the shelf next to Herbert's Dune, Woolf's The Waves, and Kay's Tigana as a touchstone of what art is capable of doing for crazy people like me. I think thats one of the most important functions of art (if it can have function at all) to show you are not alone, and others have walked this path before you and survived. You can live. There is a place for you in this fucked up beautiful world.

And that's the best thing I can say about Sondheim.

P.S. Sorry about not lj cutting this. Explorer is being a pain and I will try again home, sorry f-listers.

dusts cobwebs

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 00:26:56 GMT

Wow so right. It has been two months since I last posted. Life has gotten, to say the very least, a little crazy. But this time its in a good way. The new job is doing something interesting and challenging with cool people. Sorry about the vagueness, they made it clear that we should be careful what we say in print and I am just being careful.

But really something has bugged me all day and I just have to share. Why do stores make button fly pants look so tempting on the rack? Every time I see them, my brain goes "Awesome!", even though the small Polish grandmother voice in the back of my head is screaming what a gigantic pain in the kisser they are to wear.

"Oh no", I say back. "It can't be that bad."

Then the next week at work I am stuck in a bathroom stall, cursing under my breath while I try to get the damn thing to close. Yeah. Button fly, beautiful concept, horrible execution.

I've been away, but now I'm back

Wed, 08 Jul 2009 01:59:49 GMT

I have so many blog post ideas jostling around in my head right now. About what it means that someone is a bestseller, the economy of plot movements, why I need to do more than just write.

But first an update. So the first part of the last week was a nightmare as it was the final three days on the job. You would think that having put my two week notice in and knowing that it was almost over this would have made things easier but you would be wrong. Because I am crazy and part masochistic, I was determined not to leave things open, so I stayed late and worked. And my boss basically treated me like a used kleenex on my last day. Which again, not unexpected, but after staying till 7:30 the night before working on a project for him, I had thought (foolish me) that at least we would part amicably.

The second half of the week, however, made up for the first in a major way. I got an invitation to go up to Nova Scotia to visit with friends, and before you could blink, I was out traversing the Canadian countryside. The entire time I was there it was beautifully overcast, that shade of grey that just makes you want to wear warm sweaters and sip at soups and cradle hot cocoa mugs in your hands. And man is Nova Scotia beautiful. Here are some of the pictures I took while I was up there.

I took this because I just couldn't believe how clear the water was. This was a tidal pool right outside a traditional fishing town called Peggy's Cove

This is a shot of Peggy's Cove wharf area, exactly what you would imagine it to be.

This was the trail head of a park called The Ovens.

And one more shot along the Ovens trail. This was actually one side of a cave opening where miners used to dock when the Gold Rush hit back in the 1800s.

Right now it feels as if things are finally starting to settle in. I have the start date for my new job and time to catch up on a thousand things I have been meaning to do. Its just so nice to have space to breath. Its been nearly five years since the last time I could honestly say that I wasn't overwhelmed with everything. Now I know in a month that will get thrown out the window again with the learning curve of the new job, but for right now, it feels greats.

The Moment I Exhaled

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 01:46:07 GMT

I have been writing this post in my mind all this week. It started Monday when I put in my two weeks notice. And every day since then I have wanted to share the good news here. But it never seemed the right moment.

But today, today it finally sunk in. I am done with this job. This hell job that had made the last six months of my life nothing more than gritted teeth and clenched hands and whispered "not one more day"s is in the past tense. After next Wednesday I will never have to see my ex-boss again (ex-boss, ex, ex, ex, ex).

Of course there is always that sense of melancholy that comes with leaving. I made friends there, and I feel sorry for the people I leave behind. I've told them to get out; the warning signs are all there but I don't know if they will. Change is hard, and its so easy to get up in the morning and do what you did the day before and not even stop and think about how much this is killing you on the inside. Yeah.

The overall feeling that rushes through me is relief. Its like I have been holding my breath for six months, praying that this is not what my life would be, and now I can see more than just the tunnel in front of me. So much more. I know its seems silly to be this worked up about leaving a job, but its been hard couple of years. There haven't been a lot of breaks since '05, and sometimes I forgot that things can work out all right, that I don't have to break myself just to maintain normal. Tonight I'm exhaling, deep long exhalations that remind me of why I smiled, why I wanted to write and travel and be places and live, just live and enjoy this beautiful world.

I know the new job will not be perfect. But cutting two hours out of my commute a day, and removing a verbally abusive boss is a step in the right direction. And me being me, of course I have a song that I have been playing nonstop since I found out that I had the new job offer:

boosting signal

Fri, 12 Jun 2009 00:16:24 GMT

We are wordsmiths and we know the power of patterns, the power of words repeated in ways that form something more than just themselves. So you might have heard that Catherynne Valente, yuki_onna , is in trouble. You might have figured that it was due to this shit economy and you'd be right. But let me repeat it, here, now, if you can help, please do.

Her words are rare and wondrous. I can't, no, I won't think about a world in which those words go silent. I could go on about how her stories have convinced me that there is a place for me in this world, that there are stories beyond the ones I felt burying my soul, ones that could be about the word and what it meant at the same time. And how emotion and sound and being alive could connect in one glorious story arc. But that doesn't change the fact that she needs our help. So if you were ever curious about Valente, click the link below. And thank you, even if you just read this and pass it along, thank you. Because its all about signal boosting.

Help Catherynne M. Valente
adoptingcat

There is not enough love in the world . . .

Thu, 11 Jun 2009 03:49:14 GMT

for how I feel about So You Think You Can Dance. I love this show, love it with a deep, abiding passion that bypasses the rational part of my brain and flows straight to the center where I end up jumping up and down and shouting, Yes, Yes, Yes!!!

I endured watching the stupid try-outs and the always outrageous and unpredictable Las Vegas week, all for the awesome of performance nights.

Because that's what the show about. Its two dancers, a genius choreographer, a song, a stage, and an audience making art. Motherfucking, goddamn, in your face, mind-blowing, soul-altering, spirit-moving, smile-making, tears-flowing, groovetastic art. No apologies for beauty brought to you.

So many times art has to stop and say, "Hey, I'm important, please pay attention." But on this show its unfettered. Why be timid when with a swipe of an arm you can shatter someone's breath, with a twirl of cloth you can evoke a memory, an emotion, an experience, and pull them into a story. Their story.

I love writing. I love the art form of writing. But I do not think for one moment we have the market cornered on art. Oh no, all I have to do is watch this show, and it makes my body ache in longing to do what they are doing, to be that something more, to reach down inside of me and rip up my soul through my body out my arms, my legs, my hands, my fingers, my feet, my toes, my eyes, to make you feel what I feel. Hope, sorrow, whimsy, precision. All of this is captured in the quality of movement. The ripple of muscle against bone, against the tension of gravity against the need for the human soul to soar.

These dancers set flight. And this is the best season yet. Honestly, out of the ten couples only two failed to capture my attention. Out of the other eight, two just made me want to leap off the sofa and embrace what they held out to me, shining.

The first was a jazz piece by Tyce Di'Oria (who I normally find not so enthralling). It was a composition that on the surface was this smooth sheen. But man, what the dancers brought to this forward slick roll and stop and tumble rent my heart. That openness that comes with the first look (his face sliding slack and wide and open), that captured knowing between two souls that this could be something (her leaning into him for the first time and he standing there for her), something fantastic as they reach across the stage and over the emotional boundaries that we put up and around ourselves. It brought back so much to me, and overlaid those memories with this sepia of a 1960s feel, early 1960s when button up shirts were still around, and gee-whiz, and one foot up kissing, and there was hope in the air under street lights that made full leaved trees glow. Man.

The second is so far from the first on the spectrum of dance conversation, its almost laughable. The cheeky post-modern with a heart-rending center dance was choreographed by my second favorite Wade Robson, who shall we say is Genius! (Okay time for truth. Mia Michaels is and shall always be my fave, and I know that makes me predictable butt I do not even care, because you know what? When Mia choreographs something she squeezes blood out of every fucking step. I respect that level of craft and perfection. Always will.) Anyhoo, back to Wade. He did a contemporary piece tonight based on two crash test dummies. One who has been through hundreds of car crashes, and one who has just been introduced to the plant.

But underneath, underneath in the subtext where all the true things lie, was the message of how to live through the pain, how to live like you don't hurt, that this is the only way to really make it through life. And sometimes you just need someone else to show you how, and there is no shame in hoping that this time, this time its going to be different. That all those times when you stapled yourself back together, ignoring the limp, made it possible to find the person you could be broken with. Wow.

That's why I love this show. That's why I will rewind and rewatch a performance once, twice, three times. Its why I still go back and watch this piece by Mia Michaels from two years ago.

Because its art. Its breathing, its living. No excuses. No fear. Feel it and soar.

It Came and Stole My Breath Away

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 02:00:43 GMT

I had hoped that in reading "About Writing" by Samuel Delany, I would be able to unlock his fiction. Which of course begs the question where and how I have failed before, and why I feel the need to continue to overcome this failing. But that is not what this post is about.

No, I just finished reading Empire Star, and now I am quietly trying to piece my brain back together. Because, and this is a thing that is still gel inside my mind, Delany is a master of structure. Well, he is a master of a heck of a lot more than just structure. But its the structure of this piece that just takes my breath away.

I love circularity, and I love it when plots dip in upon themselves to draw out their deeper resonances. And I am just beginning to get an understanding of patterns and rhythms and the things that you cannot put your finger on but make the story just so much more than the words on the page. And then I read this perfect nugget of story. Empire Star.

Gah. It makes the structure of my novel look like crayon scribblings on the back of a postcard. But now I've read it and its ringing in my brain. Here's hoping something comes out of that clanging;)

Da Wiscon Post

Thu, 28 May 2009 03:07:17 GMT

I really wanted another day to dig around in my thoughts and try to find the bigger patterns of the weekend. But the memories are starting to fade, and nothing is perfect, so here's my Wiscon experience:

The thing I kept saying to enggirl all weekend was how overwhelming it was to be there. The things I value: words, writing, reading, thinking about things, taking time to understand, listening to others, aren't applauded in every day life for me (I so wish). Out of my department at work I am the only one who has read a novel in the past year. Yes. That. Sometimes I just feel so strange, and alone, and tiny, because no one else seems to understand how important these things are, these things that pull me in and won't let me go.

Going to Wiscon was looking up and seeing that I was not the only one. I will never forget the look of joy on enggirl 's face at Valente/Tucker concert Friday night, when the sheer power of the words hit us both. I will admit when Cathrynne Valente read the Gaselli prose poem I teared up. The words, those beautiful words, being shared in that space, it was like breathing, drinking, hearing. I could have sat there all night.

Or going to the dealer's room with julia_reynolds and watching her pick up three more books even though she had bought some earlier that weekend. Because I do that, and I thought I was the only one who couldn't stop with just one more book, even if my tbr pile is teetering. Or just watching hermetic work a room like only he can, discussing issues far and wide with a sensitivity and depth that takes my breath away. Or ljgeoff stopping me in mid-thought with the way she melds science and story and psychology into this unified vision. Or therinth with her warmth, inviting and wise and giving the newbies the best con advice ever (get sleep!). Or Margaret Ronald hugging me and giving me the courage to go back to writing the novel of my heart.

Realizing that these are my tribe, these are my people and not only that, but that they want to spend time with me . . . it was and still is overwhelming for me. Who am I that these people made of win would even bother to talk to?

There are many more things I wanted to capture in this blog post, like the hilarious one liners from julia_reynolds , Madge's hair (The Hair, as it was referred to all weekend long), Anthony's way of appearing to say the exact right thing at the right time, the discussion I had about being allies and what I learned there, or how fear kept me in check from reaching out to the hundreds of awesome people that had come to Wiscon. Or even how my tribe helped me overcome it twice (I was hugged by Valente and Tucker, LA!).

But really, here is the most important thing I learned. I need other people; I can't survive alone. I have been out in the cold for years, and walking into Wiscon was like walking into home. Warm, open, and comforting. Was it perfect? No, but it was more than enough. I am recharged and ready to face the mess that is my professional life, and start setting priorities for the things that really matter. Like words, writing, reading, thinking about things, taking time to understand, and listening to others.

All I have to say is: Wiscon 34!

Still Ruminating, but Shiny Thing

Wed, 27 May 2009 17:40:25 GMT

Still ruminanting on Wiscon. I can feel the blog post forming in the back of my brain, but its not done yet.

Yet, I have a shiny thing to share. Query letters are not my thing (oh so not my thing), and I usually wait until I finish a novel before I try to write one. But my new novel, yes the bfghbb, just coaslesced in my brain last night. Its not traditional, and I'm not sure I'll use it, but it does capture some of the feel of the piece.

This is the story of a city. This is the story of a city begging for one more gasp. This is the story of a city sprouting between the cracks of devastation that came before. This is the story of a city weaving her way through a present gone mad. This is the story of eight souls sheltered within her arms. This is the story of how they live, how they die, and how the city beneath their feet, above their heads, in their hearts, leads them to a place they've never been. This is a story of their city. Mosrovia.

Whisper it, cry it, scream it. But come with me to her western gates. She longs to meet you.

Not sure if I'll use it but it's something, right?

Home again, home again

Tue, 26 May 2009 00:51:13 GMT

Wow, and wow. So I just attended my first ever sff con, and so glad I did. There's a lot that went down, and I wish I could make my brain work and slap it all down here, but apparently I am still processing (I know, mr. overthinky is overthinking). Suffice it to say, I am happy I went, I am happy to be home, and I miss everyone already.

Being free

Wed, 20 May 2009 17:56:53 GMT

I just read something that just completely changed the way I look at poetry. I find with writing books that its like this. There can be whole chapters that don't effect you at all, and then you run across one sentence that just unlocks this part of your brain that you never knew existed.

Said book is called "The Triggering Town" by Richard Hugo, and its about writing poetry (thanks julia_reynolds for loaning it to me!!!). The line, and I'm paraphrasing, you don't have to follow the subject you introduce first in the poem. And yes, I know, its simple and a nice sound byte. But man, you don't know how many times I have abandoned poems because the excitement in my brain about the subject peetered out after the first three lines. Go team epiphany!

(And one day till Wiscon madness!!!!)