R. Cooper's Blog, page 13
October 24, 2012
pretty things
My friend sinjah drew some lovely sketches of Isabel from "Let There Be Light" (which were with some other sketches so I didn't know if she wanted me to show them) and then today I saw these and thought of her.
steampunk-inspired dresses
Someday there needs to be a scene where Isabel gets to be competent and badass. She hits my competence kink hard. *gasp* She should be like Coulson!
steampunk-inspired dresses
Someday there needs to be a scene where Isabel gets to be competent and badass. She hits my competence kink hard. *gasp* She should be like Coulson!
October 22, 2012
bei mir bist du shon (means you're grand!)
I had a sudden realization last night that Nathaniel and Tim would be awesome in a random alternate version of themselves set in an Old West like the one in Destry Rides Again. And they may or may not still be werewolves, I haven't decided. But the best thing is that in the universe with Beings living with people, this is actually somewhat possible. Tim would be Marlene Dietrich's Frenchie character and Nathaniel would be Destry. (Oh, right, no one knows who they are. Well Nathaniel and Tim are frustrated werewolves in love. Only they don't know they are in love yet. Well, Tim doesn't. Nathaniel gets it, poor baby. They do not live in the Old West, but sometimes these things pop up in my brain...)
On to other things, expect me to nag all of you for the next month or so, about giving to your local food bank or finding your local food bank to give to them, be it with money or actual gifts of food. But I will try to make the nagging easier to bear with little gifts of my own.
Such as this snippet from my upcoming "A Boy and His Dragon":
Arthur had been sent to the bathroom to wash up, which was a small half-bath just down from the kitchen by the laundry room and a side door that probably led outside to the detached garage. The bathroom had a dwindling supply of toilet paper but plenty of issues of National Geographic with address labels still stuck to them. The room was also as dusty as the rest of the house, although it consistently smelled of the lemon verbena in the hand soap.
He made a note to use the change that Bertie had never asked for to buy more toilet paper, since that seemed safer than poking around the rest of the house looking for a supply closet. He had to admit that he didn’t know enough about dragons to know how complete their physical changes were when they shifted to human. It was possible Bertie didn’t use his own bathrooms and so wouldn’t know he was low on toilet paper. It wasn’t something Arthur wanted to ask about, exactly, but he did want to know. Maybe not about that so much as how human Bertie’s body was, not that he had a way to ask that wouldn’t give away the reason for his interest.
He ought to stop thinking that way in any case. It wasn’t going to happen. Arthur had admittedly attracted a fairy once, but it wasn’t like anyone had been beating down his door since then. The few looks of interest thrown his way hadn’t lasted once they’d realized he’d have no time for them.
He had time now, he realized suddenly while looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and drying his face. But he instantly pushed the thought aside because it wasn’t going to happen. He sighed as he headed back out to the kitchen.
The kitchen was empty. Arthur took a moment anyway before making sure he looked composed before he went searching for his employer. Bertie was in the main room, leaning against the couch with a large bowl of fruit resting on the table behind it. He had a bunch of red grapes in his hand. Of course he did. And of course he was eating them one at a time and licking his lips after each one.
Arthur approached carefully, stifling his second sigh because he should have been comforted to see a dragon eating fruit and not people. Comforted, not turned on.
There was a pomegranate in the bowl, surprising him, but he left it where it was, not wanting to make a mess over a rug he couldn’t afford to replace. He avoided the bananas too, no way could he take Bertie’s response to those right now. He chose more grapes and tried not to push too many in his mouth at once when he realized they were seedless.
“God.” It slipped out with the first bite, breathless and edgy. It had been a long time since he’d had fresh fruit. He really shouldn’t be making noises over some grapes but they were so good. He popped a few more into his mouth before he forced himself to slow down and eat properly, then he looked over.
“Poor hungry Arthur.” Bertie breathed the words without looking at him. He was glaring at the fireplace as though annoyed to find no fire burning inside. “If you won’t feed yourself you’ll force me to do it.” When Arthur stopped chewing, Bertie glanced over at him. His eyes, though still full and black, lacked their usual glitter. “Humans are so….” He gestured as if starting to understand something that he didn’t feel like explaining. “Fragile.”
Arthur’s eyebrows drew together. He wasn’t fragile. He knew how the world worked better than Bertie did, he was willing to bet on it. The world with money and magic was a lot different than the world without it.
“While we’re on the subject,” Bertie spoke as though he’d read Arthur’s protest before he could voice it. “There are guest rooms here, Arthur, as well as this couch which is very comfortable. You are welcome to stay if you find yourself here late. I’ve seen what you call transportation.” He turned up his nose at the very thought of Arthur’s bicycle. “Riding a bicycle isn’t very safe at night even with those reflective lights.”
Arthur bit his tongue before he could point out that he delivered food all over town on that bike, at night, in the rain, on busy streets. He had a feeling that the less Bertie knew about his other remaining job, the better.
“My bike keeps me in shape.” It was an invitation for Bertie to look him up and down, and Bertie did not waste the opportunity. Arthur fought not to shiver as those eyes took their time traveling from his shoes to his face as if Bertie was imagining what was hidden by Arthur’s clothing. Arthur didn’t think of himself as that strong, he was too little for that, but he could ride up hills other delivery boys couldn’t manage and could carry most heavy loads without losing his breath.
He closed his hands under Bertie’s stare and saw Bertie’s eyes go back to his forearms. Bertie exhaled and then his lips curved up. Arthur went on quickly before Bertie could say anything about what he thought of Arthur’s shape.
“I’ll be fine, really. There’s no need to….” The word worry stuck in Arthur’s throat. His eyes burned for a moment. “You barely know me,” he whispered then tossed his head and looked at his feet when Bertie turned back around to say something. This wasn’t a normal job, but Arthur didn’t deserve that, not with part of his intent in coming here so… dishonest. “I’ve looked after myself for a long time.”
“Not bloody well enough.” It was the most British Bertie had ever seemed. He sounded like an old colonel. “Now eat.”
Arthur put another grape in his mouth before putting the remains of the bunch down. There were tiny oranges too. He put two aside to take home later and then discovered almonds under the fruit. He should have asked whether or not Bertie was a vegetarian dragon or why he got so much fruit, but he didn’t. He crunched almonds and then ate a few more grapes. He wouldn’t say he felt better when he was done, but his stomach didn’t feel nearly so tight, and the heat of the room didn’t seem as overwhelming.
Bertie watched him, though whenever Arthur glanced back at him the dragon would slide his attention back to his cold fireplace. After a couple of missed glances, he coughed and put his arm up along the back of the couch.
“It pains me to say it, but maybe you ought to go home for the day, Arthur.”
Bits of almond stuck in Arthur’s throat. He swallowed them all, not without pain.
“You’re sending me away? I can work harder.” He came around the table to stand in front of the couch only to freeze when he received Bertie’s full attention. He immediately turned to all the books, all his piles, his plans. He hadn’t done nearly enough.
“Arthur.” Bertie’s lips were parted, just a little. “You can always stay.”
“Then why?” Arthur changed his mind after his asked. First he was told to stay and eat and now he was being sent home. He didn’t want to go, Bertie hadn’t even seen a fraction of what he was capable of yet.
His own desperation to impress wasn’t nearly as confusing as his sudden need to stay. His paycheck hadn’t even been his first thought.
“Do you want me to go?” He didn’t like how quiet his voice got or the puzzled look Bertie shot him, as if he honestly didn’t know how to answer Arthur’s question.
“Of course not,” he rumbled, sounding more like himself as a lizard than as a man. “I simply thought… perhaps… you were overwrought.”
“Overwrought?” Arthur repeated the Victorian-sounding word in disbelief.
“Exhausted?” Bertie changed it quickly. “Weak with hunger?”
“Oh.” Arthur’s breath rushed out of him. Bertie had been worried. His earlier thought returned and hit him, hard. “You were worried about me?” He stopped himself from asking more. “Oh,” he said instead. “I just… I just need a break. I don’t need to go home.”
“That’s a relief.” Bertie drummed his fingers along the back of the couch and Arthur caught a whiff of acrid smoke. “You have no idea how irritating it is going against your instincts, even for a little while.”
“I have an idea,” Arthur defended himself without thinking, remembering the fantasies he’d had about Bertie talking to him in that fire-and-smoke voice while he pressed Arthur facedown to the couch cushions and fucked him the way Arthur was begging him to. Then he blinked, because that last comment hadn’t made any sense. “Wait, what?”
Bertie turned away, his nose up in the air as if Arthur wasn’t worth an explanation, or as if he thought Arthur wouldn’t understand one. The warmth in Arthur’s stomach vanished.
“We really are speaking a different language. Beings,” he muttered under his breath. He wanted to flop down onto the couch, but he couldn’t with Bertie there and wouldn’t have anyway because that couch was made from a velvet so fine that just touching it once had made him sigh.
Bertie turned back to stare at him and raised one eyebrow, which meant he’d heard that remark. Arthur hurried forward only to stop once he was a foot from the couch. Bertie’s gaze stayed on him and though his pose was relaxed, like some kind of emperor, a few grapes still in his lap as he lounged, the very air around him seemed hot and still.
Whenever the air had been that hot and still, Arthur’s mother had used to call it earthquake weather, which Arthur had never understood. Not as a child anyway, though he was getting it now. At this exact moment, he suddenly understood how the potential for a disaster could be felt in the air. It was almost as if the house itself was watching him.
“I’m sorry. I don’t… I haven’t read your books yet.” Actually, the two he’d gotten from the library didn’t seem to be about dragons at all and what he’d looked at on the library computers hadn’t said much. The information on trolls and werewolves and demons was far more complete. He supposed they were a bigger threat and had had to be studied more. Dragons… no one knew for sure how to classify them, lucky protectors or fearsome beasts. Maybe both. “I don’t know about dragons. Are you… typical?”
“Are you typical for a human?” Bertie idly picked up the grapes and dropped them onto the table behind him without looking to see where they fell. Arthur couldn’t read his expression and tell if he was angry or disappointed or teasing him again.
“That…. I know there’s no such thing as typical.” He’d never tripped over his words so much but he’d never meant to hurt anyone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk, it’s just that I’ve never meant anyone like you.”
There was no change in Bertie’s face, but something in his posture seemed to ease. He melted back into the velvety cushions. The air around them no longer seemed to portend disaster, but Arthur wasn’t breathing any easier yet.
“Do you mean someone who doesn’t like watching a person suffer needlessly?” Bertie sat up just for a moment to twist around and flick open the silver chest and so he could take a cigarette. “That is sad, Arthur.”
Donate nag nag nag
On to other things, expect me to nag all of you for the next month or so, about giving to your local food bank or finding your local food bank to give to them, be it with money or actual gifts of food. But I will try to make the nagging easier to bear with little gifts of my own.
Such as this snippet from my upcoming "A Boy and His Dragon":
Arthur had been sent to the bathroom to wash up, which was a small half-bath just down from the kitchen by the laundry room and a side door that probably led outside to the detached garage. The bathroom had a dwindling supply of toilet paper but plenty of issues of National Geographic with address labels still stuck to them. The room was also as dusty as the rest of the house, although it consistently smelled of the lemon verbena in the hand soap.
He made a note to use the change that Bertie had never asked for to buy more toilet paper, since that seemed safer than poking around the rest of the house looking for a supply closet. He had to admit that he didn’t know enough about dragons to know how complete their physical changes were when they shifted to human. It was possible Bertie didn’t use his own bathrooms and so wouldn’t know he was low on toilet paper. It wasn’t something Arthur wanted to ask about, exactly, but he did want to know. Maybe not about that so much as how human Bertie’s body was, not that he had a way to ask that wouldn’t give away the reason for his interest.
He ought to stop thinking that way in any case. It wasn’t going to happen. Arthur had admittedly attracted a fairy once, but it wasn’t like anyone had been beating down his door since then. The few looks of interest thrown his way hadn’t lasted once they’d realized he’d have no time for them.
He had time now, he realized suddenly while looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and drying his face. But he instantly pushed the thought aside because it wasn’t going to happen. He sighed as he headed back out to the kitchen.
The kitchen was empty. Arthur took a moment anyway before making sure he looked composed before he went searching for his employer. Bertie was in the main room, leaning against the couch with a large bowl of fruit resting on the table behind it. He had a bunch of red grapes in his hand. Of course he did. And of course he was eating them one at a time and licking his lips after each one.
Arthur approached carefully, stifling his second sigh because he should have been comforted to see a dragon eating fruit and not people. Comforted, not turned on.
There was a pomegranate in the bowl, surprising him, but he left it where it was, not wanting to make a mess over a rug he couldn’t afford to replace. He avoided the bananas too, no way could he take Bertie’s response to those right now. He chose more grapes and tried not to push too many in his mouth at once when he realized they were seedless.
“God.” It slipped out with the first bite, breathless and edgy. It had been a long time since he’d had fresh fruit. He really shouldn’t be making noises over some grapes but they were so good. He popped a few more into his mouth before he forced himself to slow down and eat properly, then he looked over.
“Poor hungry Arthur.” Bertie breathed the words without looking at him. He was glaring at the fireplace as though annoyed to find no fire burning inside. “If you won’t feed yourself you’ll force me to do it.” When Arthur stopped chewing, Bertie glanced over at him. His eyes, though still full and black, lacked their usual glitter. “Humans are so….” He gestured as if starting to understand something that he didn’t feel like explaining. “Fragile.”
Arthur’s eyebrows drew together. He wasn’t fragile. He knew how the world worked better than Bertie did, he was willing to bet on it. The world with money and magic was a lot different than the world without it.
“While we’re on the subject,” Bertie spoke as though he’d read Arthur’s protest before he could voice it. “There are guest rooms here, Arthur, as well as this couch which is very comfortable. You are welcome to stay if you find yourself here late. I’ve seen what you call transportation.” He turned up his nose at the very thought of Arthur’s bicycle. “Riding a bicycle isn’t very safe at night even with those reflective lights.”
Arthur bit his tongue before he could point out that he delivered food all over town on that bike, at night, in the rain, on busy streets. He had a feeling that the less Bertie knew about his other remaining job, the better.
“My bike keeps me in shape.” It was an invitation for Bertie to look him up and down, and Bertie did not waste the opportunity. Arthur fought not to shiver as those eyes took their time traveling from his shoes to his face as if Bertie was imagining what was hidden by Arthur’s clothing. Arthur didn’t think of himself as that strong, he was too little for that, but he could ride up hills other delivery boys couldn’t manage and could carry most heavy loads without losing his breath.
He closed his hands under Bertie’s stare and saw Bertie’s eyes go back to his forearms. Bertie exhaled and then his lips curved up. Arthur went on quickly before Bertie could say anything about what he thought of Arthur’s shape.
“I’ll be fine, really. There’s no need to….” The word worry stuck in Arthur’s throat. His eyes burned for a moment. “You barely know me,” he whispered then tossed his head and looked at his feet when Bertie turned back around to say something. This wasn’t a normal job, but Arthur didn’t deserve that, not with part of his intent in coming here so… dishonest. “I’ve looked after myself for a long time.”
“Not bloody well enough.” It was the most British Bertie had ever seemed. He sounded like an old colonel. “Now eat.”
Arthur put another grape in his mouth before putting the remains of the bunch down. There were tiny oranges too. He put two aside to take home later and then discovered almonds under the fruit. He should have asked whether or not Bertie was a vegetarian dragon or why he got so much fruit, but he didn’t. He crunched almonds and then ate a few more grapes. He wouldn’t say he felt better when he was done, but his stomach didn’t feel nearly so tight, and the heat of the room didn’t seem as overwhelming.
Bertie watched him, though whenever Arthur glanced back at him the dragon would slide his attention back to his cold fireplace. After a couple of missed glances, he coughed and put his arm up along the back of the couch.
“It pains me to say it, but maybe you ought to go home for the day, Arthur.”
Bits of almond stuck in Arthur’s throat. He swallowed them all, not without pain.
“You’re sending me away? I can work harder.” He came around the table to stand in front of the couch only to freeze when he received Bertie’s full attention. He immediately turned to all the books, all his piles, his plans. He hadn’t done nearly enough.
“Arthur.” Bertie’s lips were parted, just a little. “You can always stay.”
“Then why?” Arthur changed his mind after his asked. First he was told to stay and eat and now he was being sent home. He didn’t want to go, Bertie hadn’t even seen a fraction of what he was capable of yet.
His own desperation to impress wasn’t nearly as confusing as his sudden need to stay. His paycheck hadn’t even been his first thought.
“Do you want me to go?” He didn’t like how quiet his voice got or the puzzled look Bertie shot him, as if he honestly didn’t know how to answer Arthur’s question.
“Of course not,” he rumbled, sounding more like himself as a lizard than as a man. “I simply thought… perhaps… you were overwrought.”
“Overwrought?” Arthur repeated the Victorian-sounding word in disbelief.
“Exhausted?” Bertie changed it quickly. “Weak with hunger?”
“Oh.” Arthur’s breath rushed out of him. Bertie had been worried. His earlier thought returned and hit him, hard. “You were worried about me?” He stopped himself from asking more. “Oh,” he said instead. “I just… I just need a break. I don’t need to go home.”
“That’s a relief.” Bertie drummed his fingers along the back of the couch and Arthur caught a whiff of acrid smoke. “You have no idea how irritating it is going against your instincts, even for a little while.”
“I have an idea,” Arthur defended himself without thinking, remembering the fantasies he’d had about Bertie talking to him in that fire-and-smoke voice while he pressed Arthur facedown to the couch cushions and fucked him the way Arthur was begging him to. Then he blinked, because that last comment hadn’t made any sense. “Wait, what?”
Bertie turned away, his nose up in the air as if Arthur wasn’t worth an explanation, or as if he thought Arthur wouldn’t understand one. The warmth in Arthur’s stomach vanished.
“We really are speaking a different language. Beings,” he muttered under his breath. He wanted to flop down onto the couch, but he couldn’t with Bertie there and wouldn’t have anyway because that couch was made from a velvet so fine that just touching it once had made him sigh.
Bertie turned back to stare at him and raised one eyebrow, which meant he’d heard that remark. Arthur hurried forward only to stop once he was a foot from the couch. Bertie’s gaze stayed on him and though his pose was relaxed, like some kind of emperor, a few grapes still in his lap as he lounged, the very air around him seemed hot and still.
Whenever the air had been that hot and still, Arthur’s mother had used to call it earthquake weather, which Arthur had never understood. Not as a child anyway, though he was getting it now. At this exact moment, he suddenly understood how the potential for a disaster could be felt in the air. It was almost as if the house itself was watching him.
“I’m sorry. I don’t… I haven’t read your books yet.” Actually, the two he’d gotten from the library didn’t seem to be about dragons at all and what he’d looked at on the library computers hadn’t said much. The information on trolls and werewolves and demons was far more complete. He supposed they were a bigger threat and had had to be studied more. Dragons… no one knew for sure how to classify them, lucky protectors or fearsome beasts. Maybe both. “I don’t know about dragons. Are you… typical?”
“Are you typical for a human?” Bertie idly picked up the grapes and dropped them onto the table behind him without looking to see where they fell. Arthur couldn’t read his expression and tell if he was angry or disappointed or teasing him again.
“That…. I know there’s no such thing as typical.” He’d never tripped over his words so much but he’d never meant to hurt anyone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk, it’s just that I’ve never meant anyone like you.”
There was no change in Bertie’s face, but something in his posture seemed to ease. He melted back into the velvety cushions. The air around them no longer seemed to portend disaster, but Arthur wasn’t breathing any easier yet.
“Do you mean someone who doesn’t like watching a person suffer needlessly?” Bertie sat up just for a moment to twist around and flick open the silver chest and so he could take a cigarette. “That is sad, Arthur.”
Donate nag nag nag
October 17, 2012
nope. i'm all sarcasm and pointy edges.
Current story a total mess but oh my goodness, but I just have to squee at the boys making sandwiches while looking-not-looking at each other. hee!
More later!
Squee!
More later!
Squee!
October 15, 2012
I self-published something!!!!
And self-publishing is a bitch, let me tell you. There is a reason people want others to do all that work for them. Whew!
(Yeah, mine could be fancier, but I was doing it as an experiment and there is only so much formatting a person can take.
Under the Bridge
Description: Grad night is supposed to be a night of carefree celebration before growing up and leaving childhood behind, but after graduation Chris is spending his night wandering streets alone with a black eye and a split lip. Beat up yet again for being out and proud, he is contemplating how glad he'll be to leave his childhood, and this town, behind, when he stumbles across the town's other outcast, his childhood best friend, Nick. Chris hasn't spoken to Nick in years. When Nick was thirteen his family moved away, and when they came back to town a year later, Chris had a new stepfather, a new set of bruises, and no interest in being friends with Chris or anyone else. He's spent high school getting into trouble and breaking hearts while Chris has been getting ready for college. On the surface they couldn't be more different, but it isn't long before Chris starts to see that Nick is just as scared and lonely as he is, and just as used to pain.
They only have the one night, Nick is leaving town in the morning and Chris is heading off to school, and Chris knows before he accepts the drink that Nick offers that Nick will break his heart too. The knowledge is as terrifying as his approaching adulthood, but not nearly as terrifying--and intoxicating--as the realization that he can break Nick's heart in return. They both know that accepting that it will hurt never makes it hurt any less, but being together might make the pain--and the future--easier to face.
The cover is by paraxdisexpink, who is so, so awesome to me. :):):)
I was going to donate the first month's profits to Second Harvest, but Smashwords pays quarterly so it wouldn't be in time for Thanksgiving. (Also I doubt it would make that much money.) Instead I might do that serial story idea thing, if people tell me what story they would like to see in that form the most. Or I could just beg people to donate.
(Yeah, mine could be fancier, but I was doing it as an experiment and there is only so much formatting a person can take.
Under the Bridge
Description: Grad night is supposed to be a night of carefree celebration before growing up and leaving childhood behind, but after graduation Chris is spending his night wandering streets alone with a black eye and a split lip. Beat up yet again for being out and proud, he is contemplating how glad he'll be to leave his childhood, and this town, behind, when he stumbles across the town's other outcast, his childhood best friend, Nick. Chris hasn't spoken to Nick in years. When Nick was thirteen his family moved away, and when they came back to town a year later, Chris had a new stepfather, a new set of bruises, and no interest in being friends with Chris or anyone else. He's spent high school getting into trouble and breaking hearts while Chris has been getting ready for college. On the surface they couldn't be more different, but it isn't long before Chris starts to see that Nick is just as scared and lonely as he is, and just as used to pain.
They only have the one night, Nick is leaving town in the morning and Chris is heading off to school, and Chris knows before he accepts the drink that Nick offers that Nick will break his heart too. The knowledge is as terrifying as his approaching adulthood, but not nearly as terrifying--and intoxicating--as the realization that he can break Nick's heart in return. They both know that accepting that it will hurt never makes it hurt any less, but being together might make the pain--and the future--easier to face.
The cover is by paraxdisexpink, who is so, so awesome to me. :):):)
I was going to donate the first month's profits to Second Harvest, but Smashwords pays quarterly so it wouldn't be in time for Thanksgiving. (Also I doubt it would make that much money.) Instead I might do that serial story idea thing, if people tell me what story they would like to see in that form the most. Or I could just beg people to donate.
October 1, 2012
oh what a shame that you came here with someone
I have been going through... things... so I apologize for not being around much. The fun part of being crazy is that I get to say things like that and y'all have to be understanding about it. But yeah, life, seriously. (When you are playing "I am a rock" by Simon & Garfunkel over and over again it's maybe time to emerge from your fortress deep and mighty). I am working on being a person again, just in time for the holidays.
In writing news I finally got something from Dreamspinner about A Boy and His Dragon. I assume if I'm just getting the cover specs sheet about the artwork that it won't be coming out until January at least. But I don't have a definite date yet so bear with me.
Meanwhile, I should reformat that short story I did a while back and hopefully get it up on Smashwords soon. And I still want to do something for the food bank Second Harvest for Thanksgiving. I don't know what would raise the most money. I was thinking of maybe writing something in small sections and posting a new section every time someone donates to Second Harvest (even a dollar) or takes a picture of themselves putting cans or boxes of food into a donation bin at their local grocery store. You know, holding your story hostage until people get fed. Something?
I really need that secretary my third grade teacher said I would need in life now. Plz. I also need to channel my inner Will and go dancing. I haven't in over a year and that is just wrong. If only I had friends...
Ah well. STORIES. Let me think of some.
In writing news I finally got something from Dreamspinner about A Boy and His Dragon. I assume if I'm just getting the cover specs sheet about the artwork that it won't be coming out until January at least. But I don't have a definite date yet so bear with me.
Meanwhile, I should reformat that short story I did a while back and hopefully get it up on Smashwords soon. And I still want to do something for the food bank Second Harvest for Thanksgiving. I don't know what would raise the most money. I was thinking of maybe writing something in small sections and posting a new section every time someone donates to Second Harvest (even a dollar) or takes a picture of themselves putting cans or boxes of food into a donation bin at their local grocery store. You know, holding your story hostage until people get fed. Something?
I really need that secretary my third grade teacher said I would need in life now. Plz. I also need to channel my inner Will and go dancing. I haven't in over a year and that is just wrong. If only I had friends...
Ah well. STORIES. Let me think of some.
September 21, 2012
this will most likely make sense to none of you
Honestly I have so much denial that I am the writer who is constantly surprised when my characters are me. I mean, obviously they are parts of me, but it’s never the parts I think they are. Like being such an unmedicated pain in the ass all the time with anxiety and depression and losing most everyone around me because of it, driving them away maybe (or slightly on purpose), with the general feeling that it’s for the best because I am such a pain in the ass, which all creates this twisted feedback loop of feeling unworthy and becoming more convinced that they wouldn’t want to hang out with me anyway because of this unworthiness. All exacerbated by the fact that I really can’t blame people for pulling away, to be fair. After all, everyone has their own drama and you have to take care of you first, right?
Except then there is a strength in me because I have been through all this, I have lived with it, and I am still here, I made it through. Others see that strength and want it to protect them. And I love them and I want to belong so most of the time I don’t mind lending my strength to others, because it feels good and it makes me feel great and strong and worthy. … Until the times when I need my strength for me again but I find it all used up.
Then there’s the rage. The anger that comes with depression, believe it or not, and from the deep dark places inside that don’t care about being fair. Things weren’t fair for me, why do I have to be fair for others? The part that just wants someone to make it better, or at least to have a thing of its very own that understands, and accepts, and loves. … And then not let go because that part is a jealous, possessive bastard.
The higher, nobler characters, they are me too of course. Scarred survivors in love with genius and scared, confused youngsters struggling to adapt to a changing world. Flirty, sparkly dorks and honest, devoted innocents. But those characters are never as much of me as the messed up, lonely hearts, and they never seem to speak to people as much either. People admire them, lust after them, love them, but it’s the jerks and the crazies that makes them read me. I never understood that either, at least not as much as I am starting to now. I am blind to obvious things, what can I say?
(Note: While that post kind of went, er, darker and more insightful than I’d intended, I really did mean it in a 'I feel you guys' kind of way. And then it didn’t do that at all. Writer fail! Though I suppose it works out well that I never realize I’m writing me until it’s all over. Stops the self-consciousness. Something.)
Except then there is a strength in me because I have been through all this, I have lived with it, and I am still here, I made it through. Others see that strength and want it to protect them. And I love them and I want to belong so most of the time I don’t mind lending my strength to others, because it feels good and it makes me feel great and strong and worthy. … Until the times when I need my strength for me again but I find it all used up.
Then there’s the rage. The anger that comes with depression, believe it or not, and from the deep dark places inside that don’t care about being fair. Things weren’t fair for me, why do I have to be fair for others? The part that just wants someone to make it better, or at least to have a thing of its very own that understands, and accepts, and loves. … And then not let go because that part is a jealous, possessive bastard.
The higher, nobler characters, they are me too of course. Scarred survivors in love with genius and scared, confused youngsters struggling to adapt to a changing world. Flirty, sparkly dorks and honest, devoted innocents. But those characters are never as much of me as the messed up, lonely hearts, and they never seem to speak to people as much either. People admire them, lust after them, love them, but it’s the jerks and the crazies that makes them read me. I never understood that either, at least not as much as I am starting to now. I am blind to obvious things, what can I say?
(Note: While that post kind of went, er, darker and more insightful than I’d intended, I really did mean it in a 'I feel you guys' kind of way. And then it didn’t do that at all. Writer fail! Though I suppose it works out well that I never realize I’m writing me until it’s all over. Stops the self-consciousness. Something.)
September 10, 2012
see what's on the slab
Writing is slow going these days. I'm having trouble concentrating. It's happening, but it's happening veeeeerrrrry slooooowwwwlllly. Ergh.
In other news, Kittie is playing around with ideas and making covers for me so I can continue my experiment in self-publishing short stories. (I really don't think I'd have the patience to publish anything longer. It's a serious pain in the ass.)
Also I am thinking of possibly doing something short and Will and Charlie-related and somehow connecting it to donations to Second Harvest, which is a big food bank. But I really would need to get motivated for that. (Brain! Why are you so difficult sometimes?)
Hmm and Bertie and Arthur haven't even gone to the editing stage yet. That makes me nervous for some reason.
Um, um, here, have this gif of actors being adorable and face-smushy that coffeebuddha gave me. It makes me happy. (So happy I want to rub my face on it!)
In other news, Kittie is playing around with ideas and making covers for me so I can continue my experiment in self-publishing short stories. (I really don't think I'd have the patience to publish anything longer. It's a serious pain in the ass.)
Also I am thinking of possibly doing something short and Will and Charlie-related and somehow connecting it to donations to Second Harvest, which is a big food bank. But I really would need to get motivated for that. (Brain! Why are you so difficult sometimes?)
Hmm and Bertie and Arthur haven't even gone to the editing stage yet. That makes me nervous for some reason.
Um, um, here, have this gif of actors being adorable and face-smushy that coffeebuddha gave me. It makes me happy. (So happy I want to rub my face on it!)
August 29, 2012
yay! stuff is happening
I wish I could draw so I could properly illustrate how a very big, very badass alpha wolf sheriff is trailing after a scrawny little dork of a werewolf and practically howling, "LET ME LOVE YOU!" at him.
Also, and not really related to the first part except for existing in the same universe, so I find the name Albert Greenleaf kind of adorable and I almost want to make him part elf, which isn't really relevant except that he is all confused and stupid crazy about Graham who doesn't even notice him, but Graham just smells so *good* and why won't he look up from his books to notice Albert's pining? Why?
Also, and not really related to the first part except for existing in the same universe, so I find the name Albert Greenleaf kind of adorable and I almost want to make him part elf, which isn't really relevant except that he is all confused and stupid crazy about Graham who doesn't even notice him, but Graham just smells so *good* and why won't he look up from his books to notice Albert's pining? Why?
August 22, 2012
Because Will has the ass to pull those off (of).
Dlasta sent me this picture.
Charlie Underroos!
Let’s not even pretend that Will wouldn’t wear these for Charlie all the time. He’d own them in like every color. He’d clean house in these and just these. Charlie would get picture texts all day with ass shots in them and the “charlie” just visible.
Charlie Underroos!
Let’s not even pretend that Will wouldn’t wear these for Charlie all the time. He’d own them in like every color. He’d clean house in these and just these. Charlie would get picture texts all day with ass shots in them and the “charlie” just visible.
August 13, 2012
The haps:
I have a short story out in Dreamspinner's anthology that comes out, oh yeah, oops, *today*. I fail to advertise things. Idk. There's roommates with feeeeelings and kittens with stumpy tails and risotto. Just so you know. I can discuss the other stories in the anthology when I get my copy. :)
I finally got up the courage to reopen the files I was formatting to put up on Smashwords. ("My Man Godric" as a free story and another new short "Under the Bridge" as a cheap experiment in the whole self-publishing thing) only to discover that Word was a dickbag and erased all the formatting. Or hid it, I am not sure. But seeing my hard work gone made me disinclined to continue for the day. I did however, finally email Smashwords about cover artists. Because I want stuff to look as professional as possible even if these are going to be free/cheap downloads. I haven't done anything with this information yet however, because I am poor and I must choose to spend my money wisely, and also this shit is hard, yo.
I see now why only the truly determined would self-publish because I like having people make these kinds of calls for me. Dammit I just need the title on a cover. It doesn't have to be fancy!
Once that is finally, ever?, settled, I can worry about formatting again. And if that goes well, we will see how this goes. (All those people who nicely asked me for ways to download my free stories... well I am trying here. I need an assistant. Why don't I have one? Oh right.)
And hey, in better news, I STARTED WRITING SOMETHING NEW TODAY!!! Woo hoo!!! I hope it continues to inspire me.
I finally got up the courage to reopen the files I was formatting to put up on Smashwords. ("My Man Godric" as a free story and another new short "Under the Bridge" as a cheap experiment in the whole self-publishing thing) only to discover that Word was a dickbag and erased all the formatting. Or hid it, I am not sure. But seeing my hard work gone made me disinclined to continue for the day. I did however, finally email Smashwords about cover artists. Because I want stuff to look as professional as possible even if these are going to be free/cheap downloads. I haven't done anything with this information yet however, because I am poor and I must choose to spend my money wisely, and also this shit is hard, yo.
I see now why only the truly determined would self-publish because I like having people make these kinds of calls for me. Dammit I just need the title on a cover. It doesn't have to be fancy!
Once that is finally, ever?, settled, I can worry about formatting again. And if that goes well, we will see how this goes. (All those people who nicely asked me for ways to download my free stories... well I am trying here. I need an assistant. Why don't I have one? Oh right.)
And hey, in better news, I STARTED WRITING SOMETHING NEW TODAY!!! Woo hoo!!! I hope it continues to inspire me.
