S.L. Viehl's Blog, page 155

Classic PBW Post #4: Bookmarks from Hell

Ten Things You Probably Shouldn't Put on Your Promo Bookmarks

1. Are you such a dumbass that you can't remember what page you were on? Buy my book, you won't be able to put it down!

2. Hey, you slob wannabe unpublished losers: get this novel and see how a real writer does it.

3. I mailed this to you. I now know where you live. Post a five-star glowing review of this amazing book on Amazon.com by midnight tomorrow night, or I'm coming over and kicking your ass.

4. If you don't buy this novel, I'll kill myself. I mean it. I have Tylenol and wine, and I'm not afraid to mix them.

5. Sure, buy my book. I only get forty-two cents out of it, but no big deal. Not like I can afford a decent cup of coffee with that, but like you care. So I can't quit my horrible day job, and get caught up on my alimony payments, not with this big forty-two freaking cents you're handing me here. Not your problem, though. Yep, I'm probably gonna lose my job, and not be able to find another one, and then try to make it as a full-time writer, and eat canned beans, and then starve when they run out, and die alone at my keyboard, and be buried in Potter's Field while my publisher makes millions off memorial reprints. But no, don't you worry about me. You, you've got pages to mark, right?

6. This bookmark has been treated with an invisible, untraceable deadly poison that enters your system through the skin. Want the antidote? It's printed somewhere in my book.

7. Totally Rare, Awesome, Collectible bookmark!!!! Limited edition, numbered, certificate of authenticity on back!!!! Nominated for the Bookmark Hall of Fame!!!! Voted Best Bookmark of 2006 by the National Society of Widget Makers!!!! [Decorative imitation gold-plated bookmark wall holder available for separate purchase on my website.]

8. Want to know how hot my book is? Rub yourself with this bookmark. You know where. Come on, baby.

9. You have to help me. I'm trapped in a lousy contract and the only way they'll let me go is if I pay back the advance they gave me. Which I used to pay for my poor dying mother's bunion operation. So please, I'm begging you, please buy this book. Only you can set me free!

10. You're too stupid to understand my novel -- everyone is -- but buy it anyway. It'll impress your girlfriend way more than you do.

(Originally posted on 6/29/06)

Classic PBW Post #3: Publishing 911

Operator: Publishing 911, what's your emergency?

Reader: Yes, this book I've been reading has, you know, something really bad in it.

Operator: What is the bad thing, ma'am?

Reader: I can't say that over the phone. But it's really, really bad.

Operator: I need to know what the bad thing is, ma'am, or I can't help you.

Reader: Can't you just take my word for it and send the police to arrest the author?

Operator: No, ma'am, I can't do that.

Reader: Well, that's not fair.

Operator: You're free to destroy the book at your convenience, ma'am.

Reader: I can't, I need to turn in the book at the used book store to get credit for it.

Operator: Then do what everyone else does and post an anonymous review on Amazon.com. (switches lines) Publishing 911, what's your emergency?

Author: (sniffling) A reader just sent me a hateful e-mail and I read it and now I'm so upset that I can't write.

Operator: Was the e-mail accurate, sir?

Author: No, of course not. My book is wonderful. I'm a genius. This reader is a jealous idiot who's trying to make a name for himself by destroying my career.

Operator: Then why can't you write, sir?

Author: (lowers voice) What if I'm wrong? What if my book sucks? What if everyone in publishing is laughing at me right now?

Operator: I'm not laughing at you, sir.

Author: (eagerly) Did you read my book?

Operator: Sir, you need to delete the e-mail, block the reader from your mail account, and recite your writing mantra.

Author: But I don't have a writing mantra.

Operator: Repeat after me: "I am powerful. I am purposeful. I am published."

Author: I'm pathetic, aren't I?

Operator: That's not part of the writing mantra, sir. Please recite what I told you fifty times and stop reading e-mail for the rest of the day. (switches lines) Publishing 911, what's your emergency?

Reviewer: (whining) There's this writer who hates me. I read his blog every day. He says terrible things and I know he's talking about me.

Operator: Does the writer name you in his blog, ma'am?

Reviewer: Not exactly.

Operator: Has he ever mentioned your name once in his blog, ma'am?

Reviewer: You don't understand. He won't name me because then I'd have proof of what he does.

Operator: Does the writer ever link to you, or quote you?

Reviewer: No. Okay, look, he pretends like I don't exist. But I know he hates me. I can feel it.

Operator: Have you ever had any direct contact with the writer?

Reviewer: Well, I've read and reviewed every book he's ever written.

Operator: He doesn't hate you, ma'am. He doesn't know you. Stop reading his blog and read someone else. (switches lines) Publishing 911, what's your emergency?

Author: I've just seen my new cover art and it's horrible.

Operator: How horrible is it, ma'am?

Author: Do you remember that book that came out in January with bright metallic glow-in-the-dark pink albino Robin Hood on the cover?

Operator: (winces) Yes, ma'am.

Author: Worse than that.

Operator: I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's highly unlikely.

Author: (furiously) Don't you dare tell me it's not as bad as I think, because I swear to God I will come down there and kick your ass.

Operator: Calm down, ma'am. What color is the cover art?

Author: Green. Lurid Green.

Operator: Everyone is going green these days, you know. (flips through calendar) And St. Patrick's Day is coming up. You could do some clever tie-in promo and turn this tragedy to your advantage.

Author: Can't you just send the police to arrest my editor?

Operator: No, ma'am, I can't do that.

Author: Damn.

Operator: (tentatively) I can transfer your call over to the That Can't Be My Cover support and recovery group for cover-traumatized authors. The writer with the albino Robin Hood cover runs it, and she has complimentary chocolate-covered Valium at every meeting.

Author: Really? I thought she killed herself. Okay, transfer me over.

Operator: Thank you, please hold. (transfers call, switches lines.) Publishing 911, what's your emergency?

Reader: Hi, it's me again. I'm ready to tell you what the bad thing in the book was.

Operator: Go ahead, ma'am.

Reader: (whispers) Gee. Ay. Why. Es. Eee. Ex.

Operator: I don't understand you, ma'am.

Reader: (dismayed) I can't actually say it. I'm spelling it for you. Can't you spell?

Operator: No, ma'am, that's not part of my job requirement. (switches lines) Publishing 911, what's your emergency?

Reader: (angrily) I wrote a letter of complaint to this terrible author about his lousy book and he didn't answer and then he blocked me from his mail account.

Operator: (sighs) Have you recited your reader mantra today, sir?

Reader: Authors write for me. Authors must please me. Authors tremble in fear before me.

Operator: I think you'll be fine, sir.

Reader: But I have to tell this author much, much more about how much his book sucks.

Operator: Then do what everyone else does and post an anonymous review on Amazon.com, and get all your friends to vote that it was helpful and it will end up as the first review on the page.

Reader: That's not good enough. Can't you send the police to arrest the author?

Operator: No, sir, I can't do that. Have a nice day.

(Originally posted on 3/5/09)

Classic PBW Post #2: The RITA Drinking Game

Yes, it's that time of year again, ladies. Time to play the RITA Drinking Game.

To play this game you need only three things: some romance writer or reader buddies, a computer (to visit some romance blogs) and something to drink. Here at PBW we usually take sips of Maalox or Mylanta, but Crystal Light, Diet Dr. Pepper or designer bottled water also work (If you want to get tanked, we recommend you wait for the Stoker Drinking Game, which starts next month.)

Don't be shy about shrieking DRINK! if everyone else is busy bitching at each other. Whoever yells DRINK! first does not have to take a sip (unless they're thirsty or their tummy is starting to turn.)

One Sip:

The word mediocre is used at least once in the blog post (two sips if mediocre and boring are used in the same sentence.

Someone asks in comments what RITA stands for.

Someone in comments explains what RITA stands for.

Any commenter, including the author of the post, says something nasty but ends it with lol to remove the sting.

A member of RWA defends the awards.

Reference is made to how none of the nominees are bestsellers.

The scoring is questioned.

The scoring is explained.

The RITA judges are defamed.

The RITA judges are defended.

A nominee makes a sweet, semi-gushy comment on what an honor it is to be nominated (two sips if she says she doesn't expect to win.)

The name of the Golden Heart award is invoked.

The name of a popular author who is a member of RWA but didn't enter the contest is mentioned.

Two sips:

A list of authors who got "robbed" is offered up.

Someone mentions that e-book authors aren't permitted to enter because they don't meet the criteria.

A commenter theorizes that all of the erotica authors are now boycotting the contest.

A commenter theorizes that all of the Harlequin Blaze authors are now boycotting the contest.

What is and what isn't a romance is hotly contested.

The HEA ending is mentioned as a determining factor.

A member of RWA defends the judges while explaining the scoring and how important the award is for up and coming authors.

A non-member of RWA points out how useless the award is.

A reader states the RITA award does not influence their purchasing choices in the slightest.

Reviews of nominated books are mentioned or linked to.

The name of a former Miss America contestant/historical romance writer is invoked.

The name of a a Ph.D. student in cultural anthropology/historical romance writer is invoked.

The writing skills of past RITA winners are derided.

Three sips:

Someone offers up a realistic-sounding conspiracy theory involving writer org politics.

M/M romances are mentioned.

The words "popularity contest" are used in the post or in comments.

A fangirl makes a tearful protest over her object of affection, who entered the contest but was not chosen for the nom list.

The fangirl's author shows up to tearfully thank her for her words, which will inspire her to keep going on.

A reviewer states how meaningless RITA is to them (four sips if they've run at least two to four posts on their blog about the award.)

A nominee for the 2009 RITA shows up to defend the awards (four sips if she appears on more than one blog.)

Someone who actually judged the RITA books comments on the experience and how fair she tried to be.

Someone mentions how everyone's tastes differ.

One Big Gulp:

The names PBW or Lynn Viehl are referenced.

Please feel free to add your sip-taking requirements in comments.

(Originally posted on 3/08/09)

Classic PBW Post #1: The Last Samurai Agent

"Ms. Hartlace," Janey said over the intercom. "There's an agent who would like to speak to you."

Senior Editor Agatha Hartlace chewed the last piece of her doughnut and swallowed before she punched the reply button. "Tell whoever it is that I'm not in today."

After a pause, Janey said, "Uh, Ms. Hartlace, he's standing right here with his assistant. In my cubicle." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "He's carrying, like, swords."

Takamori, of course. Only he would have the nerve to show up without an appointment. "That's why I said to tell him come in." Agatha switched off the intercom, turned off The Young and the Restless feed on her computer, and brushed away the powdered sugar that had fallen on the front of her blouse. "Idiot temp."

Takamori entered the office and came to stand before Agatha's desk. His gleaming black hair was pulled back in a perfect chomage. He wore navy blue kamishimo and hakama over his black kimono, and two swords and a dagger thrust through the left side of his black silk obi. Agatha smelled cherry blossom and oiled steel as he offered her a shallow bow.

"Takamori, what a nice surprise." Agatha shuffled a stack of rejection form letters that needed rubber-stamping. "How are you?"

He folded his hands inside the wide ends of his sleeves and regarded her without expression. A petite woman in a pink kimono embroidered with white cranes stepped out from behind him and bowed.

"I am Natsu," the woman said. "I will translate what my master says into English for you."

"Okay." Agatha found it highly annoying that Takamori understood English perfectly but refused to speak it. "What can I do for you and your boss today?"

Several minutes of silence passed.

He was just trying to psyche her out; Agatha knew that. But he never blinked, and she wasn't sure he was even breathing. "Or should I say, what can I do for your client?"

Takamori uttered a long string of sharp syllables.

"My master says that the perfect manuscript is a rare thing," Natsu translated. "He says that you could spend your life looking for one, and it would not be a wasted life."

Agatha forced a smile. "He should talk to my mother sometime."

Takamori spoke again, with Natsu translating almost simultaneously. "My master says that his writer is an honorable author, with talent as endless as the stars. His writer wishes to write more novels for the House of Penguins, and offered you three most perfect proposals."

Takamori took a folded a contract from his sleeve, dropped it like a used tissue on the edge of her desk, and grunted.

Natsu gestured to the contract. "And you sent him this?"

"I did?" Agatha picked up the contract and skimmed the top page. "Oh, right, the one for the next three books. We're very pleased with how the last one sold." She checked through it. "Seems in order." She glanced up. "What's the problem?"

Natsu looked at Takamori, who drew his katana.

Agatha put down the contract. "Whatever it is, I'm sure we can work it out."

Takamori drove the tip of the katana into the worn carpet and drew his wakizashi sword.

"I don't understand," Agatha babbled, staring at the razor-sharp edge. "I thought our contract offer was very generous--"

Takamori placed the shorter sword across his palms and offered it to Agatha.

"As my master has no Kaishaku-nin," Natsu said, "he would be honored and grateful if you would behead him after he disembowels himself."

"Mr. Takamori!" Agatha jumped to her feet and backed away. "Natsu, tell him that there is no reason to commit hari-kari over an unsigned contract."

"Seppuku," Natsu corrected gently as Takamori placed the shorter sword on the desk. "For ninety years, the samurai of my master's agency have protected and fought for their writers. My master is the last, and now . . . he cannot stand the shame of defeat."

"This is a very nice offer," Agatha said firmly, and faced the samurai. "Takamori, I know you understand me. You also know how hard things are for the publishing industry now. Your author should feel grateful to have the work."

Takamori opened his upper garments and slipped out of them until he was naked to the waist. He dropped down and tucked his sleeves under his knees.

"Why is he doing that?" Agatha demanded.

"To prevent himself from falling backwards," Natsu said as Takamori removed a long dagger and contemplated it. "A samurai agent should die falling forward."

"Tell Mr. Takamori--"

Natsu gestured as Takamori took the hilt of the dagger in both hands. "If you would please stand behind my master, Miss Hartlace? You must cut off his head as soon as he slices open his stomach."

"Wait," Agatha begged as she saw him invert the dagger. "I know we can work this out. It's the advance, isn't it? I could do a little better for him. Maybe . . . two thousand more on signing?"

The tip of the dagger stopped an inch from Takamori's navel. The agent did not look at her.

"Three thousand," Agatha said, and gasped as he drew back the dagger for the final thrust. "Five thousand!"

"Ten thousand would restore my master's honor," Natsu said as Takamori closed his eyes.

"Seven. It's the best I can do. I swear."

Time crystallized as Takamori breathed in deeply. Agatha didn't exhale until she saw him lower the dagger and mutter something.

"My master says his writer will be displeased with him," Natsu said, her black eyes filled with delicate sorrow. "But he believes he can persuade him to accept such terms. You will issue a revised contract by Friday?" When she nodded, Takamori rose to his feet, sheathed his dagger and swords in his obi, and bowed.

Natsu did the same. "We are most humbly grateful for your understanding and generosity, Miss Hartlace."

"You're welcome. Have a nice day." She watched the pair leave her office as silently as they had entered before she collapsed in her chair. She groped, found the intercom button, and pressed it. "Janey?"

"Yes, Ms. Hartlace?"

"Get legal to issue a new contract for Takamori's author. Increase the advance on signing by seven thousand." Agatha opened a desk drawer and took out a roll of TUMs. "Then call that ninja agent I was not supposed to see at two and reschedule. I'm taking the rest of the day off."

(Originally posted 1/21/07)

Road Trip

I'm unplugging and heading out of town today on a road trip to one of my favorite places on the planet. I will not be answering e-mail or looking at a computer if I can help it, and to give me a little vacation from the blog I've lined up some blast-from-the-past posts to entertain you during my absence. If you leave a comment while I'm gone it may not show up for a few days, but no worries, I'll jump on them as soon as we get back.

As to where I'm headed, here's a hint:



I hope to have more neat images to post on the photoblog when I return. See you next week.

Fortune's Whims

My guy and I are very fond of Chinese take-out, especially on nights when we're on our own for dinner and one or both of us are frazzled by some project that has run into overtime. Last night it was changing belts and pulleys on a neighbor's lawnmower (his project) and sorting through an editor's comments on a manuscript (mine.)

The nice lady at our favorite takeout place always includes fortune cookies with our order, and of course we have to crack them open and compare them. Sometimes they're hilarious (my daughter once got one that read Eat more Chinese food!) but most of the time they have something seriously wise to impart. The fortunes also heavily favor my guy, who nearly always gets one that is positive, uplifting and/or rosy about his future. Like this one from last night:



Beautiful, isn't it? Could anyone ask for a better fortune? I don't think so. And since my guy tends to have a particularly charmed life through which he sails with nary a ripple at the bow, it's also fitting. He does have pretty much everything he needs (he says a couple of million would be nice) and he doesn't worry about much of anything at all.

Then there's the sort of fortune that I usually receive:



Mine aren't depressing, exactly, but they generally insist on me doing something to better my situation: Think. Change. Grow. Try hard. Try Harder. Now this one, which advises me to Hang In No Matter What if I want to achieve my goals.

I admit, after I compared our fortunes I got a little grumpy. Where was my No Worries cosmic reassurance? I have to work harder while my man gets to kick back and not trouble himself over anything? How is that fair?

You might think the same thing when you next walk into a bookstore and see that nice table of hardcover novels. You know, those glitzy BSLers with the amazing cover art and endless marketing for which the authors were probably paid more advance money than you'll gross in the next ten years. Or maybe you'll spot that towering bookdump chock full of some lucky slob's platinum debut, like the one with the novel "everyone is talking about" which is currently in the front of every single book store where I shop.

At such times all that good fortune belonging to someone else can be feel like a slap in the face. Your face, as you've slaved away for five, ten, even twenty years at your craft and have never been granted such good fortune. You may be a better writer than most of those BSLers or Madam Bookdump. So what do you do? Get mad and see red, burn up with jealousy? Go home and curl up in your bed and cry over the sheer lousiness of your fortune?

There are books that will tell you how to handle being forever on the downside of the whims of fortune. Off the top of my head, the usual methods are to use some form of positive reinforcement combined with a negativity reducer to brush it off, like telling yourself "it's not my turn right now." These are mostly decent ways to help you cope, I think, as long as you are realistic: you may never get a turn.

Feeling that twinge of jealousy, envy and other the other negative emotions so often invoked by the whims of fortune is natural -- to a point. Every time I meet another woman who is over six feet tall, for example, I'm going to turn a little green. I can't help it; I've always wanted to be tall. Not just tall, either; really tall. I have a brother who is six-five, and whom I've envied forever. When I was younger I used to give myself blisters and backaches by walking in four inch heels; this to project an illusion that I wasn't such a shrimp. Eventually I figured out that no shoe in the world will ever change the fact that I am the shortest person in my family.

If given the chance, would I actually persuade the Height Fairy to give me that extra ten inches? I'd be terribly tempted, but I like to think I'd say no. I have a friend who is six foot two, you see, and from her experiences in life I know exactly how hard it is to shop for clothes, date, and deal with shorter men (many of whom unsurprisingly intensely dislike women taller than them.) Also, she's told me countless times she wishes she were shorter, and that she envies me for being so petite.

While I've spent my entire life being short, I've also learned that it does have some advantages. I never have to duck to avoid smacking my head into anything. I can rest my cheek against my guy's heart without crouching or standing on tiptoe (I also fit perfectly against his side.) And like most short gals who sew, I can flawlessly alter the hem on any garment in under five minutes.

Jealousy over the dazzling good fortunes of others has a lot to do with our own insecurities and self-esteem issues. If you're unhappy with yourself or your situation in life you're likely prone to regular and serious episodes of envy. So instead of stomping around muttering Must be nice under your breath every time someone else wins big at the Wheel of Fortune, you might turn your back on them and focus on yourself.

You can start by making some lists. Of what you do have, what makes you happy? Of what you can do, how can you improve? I know you have dreams, what are you doing about them? Once you've worked it all out, choose to do something about one item on your list every week. In fact, if you channel all that negative energy from envy into making things better for you and your loved ones, you'll be too busy to worry about what you haven't got.

This isn't a fixer method. Your fortune probably won't change, and you will likely never make millions or become the next Madam Bookdump. What you'll be doing is inviting into your life that elusive thing that no amount of money, fame or success can give anyone: happiness.

Fortune dotes on very few souls, and believe or not that's a good thing. The outrageous variety of success does not build character as often as it destroys it. It also paints an enormous bullseye on the recipient; one that anyone having a bad day, month, year or life is going to aim for with all their ire. I don't envy that in the slightest, and neither should you.

Five Minutes

Imagine you're out walking, as I was this morning, and like me you see a flash of sparkling white on the ground:



It might be a scrap of paper; it might be a bug. Your impulse may be to step on it, but you'll find out more if you take a minute to have a closer look:



You make out the tiny legs, the elegant curve of wings. A ghostly little butterfly or moth, you think, solving the mystery in another sixty seconds. But there's still more to discover. To do this, you have have to step out of the light and look at it again, even closer, from different angles:



Now you've wasted three minutes, but you can see the shadows as well as the light. If you're captivated, as I was, you'll move in closer, and see details you might not have noticed on your first or second glance. Another two minutes may pass before you'll realize the reason the little critter was sparkling, and how beautiful he is, this thing you might have passed by or stepped on or ignored.

Look at him again. This tiny thing not only brought wonder and delight to my day, he also solved a major dilemma I've been having with a story. All because I took five minutes to stop and marvel.

There are entire universes of such creatures out there, tiny things that flit by you on a daily basis. To truly see them and all their hidden glories requires only a bit of curiosity and a few minutes of your time, but isn't it worth it?

Unhook Me Ten

Ten Things That May Indicate You've Written a McOpener

McBriefing: The lengthy line of dialogue you employ as your opener thoughtfully includes everything Bob and the reader need to know, thus rendering the first three chapters entirely unnecessary.

McDisneyish: You begin a story that could not be considered a fairytale by anyone, even crazy people, with any cutesy variation of Once upon a time . . .

McEuw: The analogy that kicks off your story compares a character to something highly unpleasant and uncomplimentary to them; this so everyone will have it straight from the start who the bad guy is.

McHiHowAreYa: You don't bother to write a first line at all but instead begin with a self-introducing character who sounds like they're standing at the podium during the meeting of any twelve-step program, i.e.: My name is Yada Yada, and I am a . . .

McInterruptus: You start at the promising midpoint of an intimate moment between characters, which on page two will come to a screeching halt due to a tragic accident, discovery by vengeful parent or spouse, or the arrival of the authorities to arrest (erroneously, of course) one of the lovers.

McLocal on the 8s: You've delivered a beautifully written, artfully descriptive, wholly lyrical narrative of that most riveting element of all stories, the current weather conditions.

McRambler: Your first line natters on and on like your Grandma Rosemary after she's had a few highballs at the family Thanksgiving reunion; it finally stutters to a stop somewhere in the last paragraph on the third or fourth page of your story. Bonus McPoints: As a kick of your heels at convention, you don't end your first line with a period.

McRIP: Someone expires in the first paragraph under strange circumstances, by a bizarre method or without any explanation at all. Bonus McPoints: deceased character will be the most interesting member of your cast.

McSlapdown: Assured that all authors are superior beings who must never apologize, explain or have any sort of congress with the great unwashed masses, you cleverly craft your first line to poorly veil your contempt for your reader, their beliefs, their politics, their life situation, or all of the above.

McWhattheheck?: While your first line contains several words in a foreign language, takes up at least one paragraph and possesses flawless iambic pentameter, no one, not even you, is quite sure exactly what it describes.

Inspired By

Mental Floss has an article here about ten famous literary characters who were or who may have been based on real people. Creating fictional clones of real people is a time-honored writing tradition; it's one of the subversive ways writers make characters more realistic.

When I want to use living people as character inspiration I usually make conglomeration personality constructs, or build my character based on two or three different souls I know. Cherijo and Duncan from the StarDoc books are two examples of this; both are based on several real people I've worked with or folks I've admired from afar.

My favorite repository for character ideas is antiquity and folklore; I love loosely basing characters on historic figures and then embellishing them with how I imagine they'd be. Robin of Locksley is one character I adapted from legends; I've always wanted to write my version of Robin Hood, and finally got the chance with the Darkyn series. You can conglomerate such inspirations as well. Lucan from Dark Need is based on two of my favorite historic figures (heavily shaken and stirred, I might add.) I've also borrowed from history's mysteries for character inspiration. Matthias from my novel Shadowlight was based on a very cool mystery man; he and some of the details of his backstory were directly inspired by Ötzi the Iceman.

Some things to consider when you base characters on real people:

Is the person providing your character inspiration likely to read the story? If so, consider their reaction. Your Great Aunt Mildred may be the perfect model for your antagonist, but after she reads herself in your story will she ever speak to you again?

If the real life person might be offended, consider using a harmless reference versus making them a character in the story. I used to name inanimate objects like starships and cocktails after other writers; I've also paid homage to my writer friends by having my characters mention their books.

When you are going to write a real-life person into your story, be true to them. My dad was a tremendous influence on me throughout my life, and before he passed away I took the chance to write him into my novel Dreamveil as himself, changing only his name. I was also careful to show him as he really was (in the kitchen, all business) so every time you read a scene in that book in which Lonzo appears, that's really my dad on the page.

Hide your character inspirations like Easter eggs in the story. This requires a little deviousness on your part, but it can be done, especially if you use the real life person as a very minor character, mention them in passing in dialogue, or otherwise hide them in plain sight. To date only one sharp-eyed reader found one of my Easter egg characters, but he was right on the money, probably because we both deeply admired the same person.

From my POV it's an honor to be used as a character inspiration (and I have been Tuckerized more than once by other writers.) It's also a little disconcerting to find yourself in a story without any warning, so you might consider letting your inspiration know in advance. Just so they don't freak out. Also, if you want to borrow a real life person's unusual first name or surname for one of your characters, it's probably best (and courteous) to first ask permission.

Have you ever based one of your characters on a real-life person? How did you handle it? Let us know in comments.

(Link for the Mental Floss article found over at The Presurfer.)

Sub Ops

I spotted a couple of new anthology listings over at Ralan.com that I thought I'd pass along:

Bete Noire magazine has an open call for their second annual anthology For all Eternity ~ Tales of the Seven Deadly Sins: "We will be looking for stroies base on ONE of the following sins: Envy, Greed, Gluttonly, Lust, Pride, Sloth, and Wrath. We're sorry, but for the concept we're going for here we are not accepting poetry, reprints or artwork for this anthology. Our guidelines are simple. All stories MUST be based on ONE and ONLY ONE sin. Since we are accepting only seven stories for this project our acceptable word count has changed." Length: 3-6K (firm); Payment: "1 cent a word US, plus one copy." Electronic submission only, see guidelines for more details. Deadline: "July 31st or until filled."

The Future Fire has an open call for their We See a Different Frontier anthology, and would like submissions of: "...new speculative fiction stories in which the viewpoint is that of the colonized, not the invader. We want to see stories that remind us that neither readers nor writers are a homogeneous club of white, male, Christian, hetero, cis, monoglot anglophone, able-bodied Westerners. We want the cultures, languages and literatures of colonized peoples and recombocultural individuals to be heard, not to show the White Man learning the error of his ways, or Anglos defending the world from colonizing extraterrestrials. We want stories that neither exoticize nor culturally appropriate the non-western settings and characters in them." Length: 3-6K, Payment: "$0.05 per word, with a minimum payment of $50, plus the possibility of royalties if sales are good enough." On reprints: "We are unlikely to be interested in reprints unless they were published only in a market that is not well-known to an anglo-american SF audience, but in any case please query before sending a reprint, explaining when and where the story has appeared before." Electronic submissions only, see guidelines for more details. Deadline: midnight GMT, September 14th, 2012.

Also, for our writer pals on the other side of the planet: The city of Rockingham (located in Western Australia) is holding a short fiction contest, details here. From what I can make out you write a story to fit the theme of an image provided on the submission form; entry length is 1-3½k, and there is no fee involved. They have a number of nice cash prizes and gifts for the winners, although they don't want to see any reprints or electronic submissions. Do check out the guidelines for more details. Deadline for this one is October 12th, 2012.