Zoe E. Whitten's Blog, page 87

alt.dev.modder.S-Doll

Instructions for producing a Child Doll from a Sensu-Doll

By Patrick McDermott (Formerly a senior software engineer with Borin Labs)

Having lost my daughter Collette in an accident many years ago, I admit I did not choose the most healthy method to vent my grief. But after the 2015 highway accident that rolled a school bus and killed 15 other students along with my daughter, I had no release from my regrets.

I began my project simply wanting to sculpt a child's toy into an approximation of Collette, like a living statue, but made cheaply. However, the robotic toys use a hard rubber compound which is hard to reshape. These rubber faces are not mounted to the plasteel frame, and so "bone structure" plays no part in shaping their faces either. Finally, all I could do to give her a voice was record clips of my daughter from old home videos. Which made a toy that looked kind of like Collette, and that spouted 20-30 phrases according to stimulus. This was a pale shadow of what I felt I needed, which is why I began looking at modifying a Sensu-Doll.

I must warn you, the kinds of modifications I'm proposing are not easy. Plasteel is nearly as hard as steel, but about 15 times lighter. The exterior looks vaguely like dark grey styrofoam, but to cut though this without damage, you'll need a class 6 laser saw. Then to repair it, you'll need a liquid plasteel kit, probably the two bottle version so it's easy to mix and sets in approximately 20 minutes.

Another caveat: I have attached a cutting model for the body skin, allowing you to first remove the silicon shell with the least number of cuts, and I've included diagrams and charts for where to cut off excess skin without damaging any of the coolant tubes. (The excess is stored inside pockets cut into the plasteel limbs.) But I have offered no guidelines for making a face, as I do not wish for people to attempt to duplicate my daughter, obviously. However, I have included two very small images for comparison so you can get an idea of how I went from the Asian Annie model to my android daughter Collette. This means you will have to be a modder of considerable skill to carve up your doll's face without cutting coolant tubes or facial motor mount points.

One more time, with feeling: this is not a task for amateurs. If you screw this up, you're out $30,000-$40,000 for a scarred, ugly doll. And if you do that, DO NOT write to me asking how to fix it. I don't work for Sensu-Doll, and if you violate your warranty by modding your doll, Sensu-Doll is going to make you pay through the nose to make your doll right again.

And don't think I haven't already had a hundred requests for tech support over cut coolant tubes. "Oh, it's just a little request"? Then just take that "little request" to Sensu-Doll and see how much the technician wants to repair the damage. And you want me to work for free. Sorry, buddy, but I'm retired. I don't work for anyone anymore.

With those dire warnings out of the way, click the next link to see the comparisons from the original 5'3" Asian Annie to my 4'8" Collette…

NEXT

Why I love Twitter…

For today's random ramble, I want to talk about the things I love about Twitter. I've been there two years as of March, and as my 56K in tweets show, I have yet to get tired of the place. Of all the social sites, it's the one I log into daily and use just to hang out and chat with most often.

On Facebook, LinkedIn, and Google+, I check in at different times of the day, read the streams and comment where a status message catches my eye. But then I close the window and go do something else. On the other hand, I open Tweetdeck right as soon as I get off my couch, and I don't close it until I'm ready to drop at night.

There's a lot to love there, but the main thing I love is, I talk to everyone. I might be talking to a 13-year old dance student in Haiti, or to a pro writer in the US who I've read and admired their work, or to a uni student over in Scotland. I might be talking to another bored housewife in Alaska, or to a university professor in Australia. Every day, I meet new people and engage in a dozen random conversations. And many times, my eyes are opened to new experiences, new points of view.

I LOVE debates on Twitter, and I can't say that about any other social platform, online or not. At times, it's still frustrating because of the 140 character limit creating misunderstandings. But, if you say "No, let me clarify," and you need four tweets to do it, most everyone will let you finish the clarification so they can debate better. And so long as you extend the same courtesy, a lot of people CAN be civil in debates. If only we could teach the politicians to use Twitter and debate like this.

And when I say debate, I mean a civil discourse of opposing views. I RARELY agree with people online, and yet, debating on Twitter isn't as aggravating as debating on forums. In recent weeks, I've held online debates with Zoe Winters about weight training and fitness goals for women, and with Evelyn Lafont over readers. In the end, I didn't convince them, and they didn't convince me. But none of us walked away grumbling about each other. We just agreed to disagree and moved on to other topics.

Twitter is a source of news, and often hubby comes to tell me about something he's seen on a blog, and I'm like, "Lover, that news is three days old. Here's the update." I'm able to stay on top of major world events, and for smaller local events, my followers all provide a steady stream of links to their local news outlets. I'm so tuned into the pulse of the world that by the time I finish breakfast, I've read two newspapers' worth of information. And not all of this is Twitter, but the tweets do point me to the right resources.

But most importantly, Twitter gives me a place to vent without feeling like I'm being judged for it. I have bad days, and my followers get that. Every time I think maybe I went too far with my last rant, I check my followers to see no one has left. They just know I'm liable to rant, and they let me go. Sometimes when I express guilt for ranting too much, my followers say "No, keep going! This is entertaining!" Which I suppose could be taken in a bad way too…nah.

There's another bennie, the "I do that too" phenomena. When I do something stupid, I get on Twitter and admit it. Then about a minute later, someone says "Ha! I do that too!" And yeah, it's still a stupid mistake. But it doesn't sting as bad because I know other people do it too. There's a comfort in solidarity, even with that unity comes from everyone having the same kind of bollocks.

It lets me connect with other fans of my favorite addictions. I can gab with gamers about the latest releases, compare notes with comic fans, and squee with fellow Teen Wolf fans. (And, by the way, I am turning into a serious Teen Wolf fangirl. I really cannot get enough of this show.)

Making a long story short, which I usually fail at, Twitter is the kind of social site where I WANT to socialize. I've heard it's said that you shouldn't make your social streams all about selling stuff, and I have no fears that I'm doing that. I did, for a little while. But then I checked my stats online and discovered that I was self promoting in 2% of my tweets. The other 98% of the time, I'm socializing with others. I share news, RT links to other writers' stuff, crack dirty jokes; whatever tickles my fancy. It's like being in a chat room, but with a much bigger group of people to chat at.

With other social sites, I see the point and try to keep up with them. But Twitter isn't an obligation like the other social sites. It is, to me, the best development of the Internet in the last decade because it lets all of us connect and share information without boundaries. It's is a library, a social center, and a gaming hub. (Lots of people do RPG chats, actually playing games via Twitter.) It's a way to meet new people and explore new ideas without leaving my comfy chair.

Twitter is the best of all worlds, and even if it doesn't help me move books, it has so many positive benefits that I consider it an indispensable part of my days. Now, if only it could download coffee and bagels, it would be perfect.

Houston

My mood is poor when the shaking flight settles down in Houston, but my face at least matches the other eight passengers on this thirteen seat flight. But once we land, everyone smiles, so I do too, just to keep up the act for the sake of everyone else.

Once I get outside, my smile drops, but I force myself not to scowl. That will make hailing a cab harder.

But it turns out, I don't need to. One is waiting for me, the driver leaned against the door while he scans the crowd for a fare.

He sees me, already straightening up when he realizes I'm walking to his cab. He opens the back door for me and asks, "What's the address?"

I say, "Motel 6 on 9005 Airport Boulevard. It's not a long trip."

The cabbie nods and shuts my door, pulling open the front door to slip into the driver's seat.

I look out the window and think, This was home.

It's a strange slow ride through heavy traffic. I feel the world is familiar and alien at the same time. I've been down this street a thousand times, riding back from the airport with clients from all over the world. Every one of them ends up at the same address, and almost always in the same room.

The cab pulls into a parking space, and I look in the distance, to a beige block of a building, a discreet design for a "gentlemen's club," which is in turn a polite euphemism for "titty bar."

I get out of the cab and pay my fare, and I wave off the cabbie as he starts to reach for a change bag. "Keep the rest."

"Thank you, sir. Have a nice day."

I nod, but think, No, I don't think so.

If I've guessed the right location, my day is about to get really ugly.

I walk into the office, overcome by a wave of nostalgia. The same thought I had at the airport returns: This was home.

Only here, it evokes an ache of regret, though there's no definite reason for it. I don't miss my mother, or my father. I don't even miss the nice clients I brought here.

It bothers me what I could be missing, but I push the thought aside and approach the old woman behind the counter.

"Hi, I think I might have a room reserved, but I'm not sure," I say. "I was supposed to have room 109?"

The clerk leans over the counter to pull a keyboard out from a stack of loose papers. She puts on a pair of half frame reading lenses. "Name?"

I have to think on this. Mom is wanted by the cops, and she isn't likely to use the family name and set off red flags.

"Holmes?" I say, sounding uncertain.

"Yep, you've got it paid for until Sunday." The clerk gets up to retrieve the key for me, still talking. "After that, I need you to come in before eleven to sign up for another day."

"I'm sure I'll be ready to go by then," I say, then fake a smile. "Thanks."

"Sure," the clerk says, waving me off.

Her head is already bowing to read whatever report she was reviewing before I arrived.

Will Alice be in the room? Will my mother be there?

When I open the door, the room is empty.

No, it's not really empty. It's full of the scent of my mother. More than that, the room is full of ghosts, full of old memories that have the power to overwhelm me. The room is full of nostalgia, and now I recognize the source.

I miss my life here with Heather.

I shouldn't. I should see what we did as abuse just as surely as when my parents had sex with me. It should be considered abuse because we were made to do these things even if we wanted to do something else.

But I do miss Heather. I miss her touch, her scent. I miss her body curled against mine each night. I remember watching her bright grey eyes, always watching me when we were made to work together. And I don't care if it damns me, but I miss being inside her, being connected to her in the most intimate way possible.

I miss her smile, her musical laughter whenever she acted like a clown to cheer me up. I remember her scolding me, "You're too serious, Peter. You have to lighten up or normal girls won't like you."

Lost in this flood of memories, I close the door and move to the bed to sit down.

An hour passes with only the sound of my breathing to keep me company. The phone rings, and I get up and keep my pace relaxed. I make it to the phone at the end of the second ring and pick it up.

After six years, how should I greet this woman?

I say, "Hello."

"I'm proud of you, Son," my mother says. Her voice is low and sultry, and the first words out of her mouth send a shiver down my back. "You remembered your place in the world, and you came alone. Alice is grateful for that."

I close my eyes and swallow the wolf. "Is she with you?"

"She is. Shall I make her speak for you?"

I'm not falling for that. "You don't need to. I believe you. That's why I came alone."

"I know, Son, and I'm dying to see you again. But before I can tell you where I am, I'm going to need you to smash that cell phone in your pocket. Can you do that for momma?"

I pull the phone from my pocket and throw it at the counter. It explodes on contact, and some of the pieces fly back up to pelt my face.

I don't flinch. I don't even feel it.

"Very good. No arguments, no threats of revenge. I was worried the humans might have trained a backbone into you, but thank goodness, I was wrong."

I have to bite my lips, and even then I cannot suppress a low growl.

"Oh, listen to you," my mother coos, and then laughs. "I remember when I was your age and first getting in touch with my inner bitch."

I bite until my lips are enflamed and the skin is stretched to the point of tearing.

I take a long breath. "I have only one concern, Mother. You can do whatever you want to me. I will go wherever you want, and I will do whatever you say. For that matter, I will do whoever you say. But by tonight, all I want is for Alice to be flying back home . If you can give me this one thing, you can have whatever you want."

There is a long silence, and for every second that passes without an answer, my heart thumps harder.

Mother asks, "Or else?"

"Or else what?"

"Well, what would you do if Alice couldn't go home? What if I decided to keep her here with us? Then you could have her. True, you'd have to share her with other clients." Mother smacks her lips, a sound of disapproval. "Though, she's kind of old. Not much demand for girls like her once they reach puberty. That's why I got rid of your sister. She wasn't profitable anymore."

I say nothing.

"No?" Mother asks. "No, you don't want Alice to work for me, but you won't threaten me. Oh, dear, dear, dear. You've fallen in love with Alice, haven't you?"

I start to pant. "Mother, please. Just tell me where to go."

"No." Her voice is flat as a knife blade, and it carries just as wicked an edge. "You might still be thinking of fighting with me. I know you want to. That's why you asked your little androgynous friend how to change."

In the background, I hear whimpers. It's Alice, and she's humming objections, pleading with my mother though her mouth is gagged.

"Just to put you in your place, I'm going to have another little nibble."

"God, no. Mother—"

Alice screams, and I have to pull the phone away from my ear.

But it has the opposite effect of what she intended. My hand tenses around the phone, and as soon as Alice's voice fades, I put the receiver back to my ear.

My mother is panting heavily, but it soon turns into a throaty laugh. "Oh, Son, I don't know if I can let her live. She's delicious."

I say nothing.

"Are you still there?"

"Tell me where to go, please. I've destroyed the phone. I've avoided the police, even the FBI. But if you kill Alice, you have nothing to hold me here. I won't go back to my foster family and put them in danger. I'll just wander off in the woods and go feral. Then when you find me, I won't have any reason to play nice."

"Mmmm, now that's more like it. I can respect terms like that. So, I want you to get out of that motel and walk to our safehouse. Do you remember where that is?"

"Yes. But if I have to walk all the way—"

"It will be well past midnight by the time you arrive, and by then, I'm sure your temper will have cooled. Oh, and Son, come straight away. Don't dally about making phone calls to your friends in Dallas."

The line clicks. I put down the phone, pick up my bag, and head out the door.

Stats, and stuff…

Okay, remember how I said the leg swelling problem was rare? Well Sunday, I had a small relapse, resulting in slightly swollen, tingly, but not quite useless legs. Meaning, I could still walk on them, sort of. I swayed like I'd been drinking, but I stopped drinking booze on Saturday. Nevertheless, I ran myself into every single door handle in our apartment.

So Monday I was depressed, and it was probably the worst day to check my traffic stats again. But I'm a masochist, so I checked. And the numbers say that I'm the victim of someone else's good marketing. See, the highest traffic I get, every day, is from my review of Natural Reader 9. Not because of anything I've done, though.

Look at it this way: NR's ad people spend money on banners everywhere. They have a budget to cast a wide net and find that 2% of the population that actually looks at banner ads. So every day, people run a search for Natural Reader, no version number. The company has since moved on to 10 or maybe even 11, but not typing a version number also makes my article stay relevant forever because I used the brand name over and over in my review.

So a lot of my high traffic days that I thought were loads of people coming to look at a promo were in fact only here for a one-time visit. And that's the flaw with me writing product reviews as a method of getting traffic. A person coming to read my review of NR9 isn't interested in buying a book, or an ebook. They're interested in NR, and what my take on it was. Once they finish that review, they leave.

(To be clear, this is totally coolio with me. The flaw in my plan was my fault, and no, I'm not going to delete the review. Apparently, some people like to read it. Can't really bitch about that.)

So, feeling very defeated, I went to the couch for a long lie down and sulk, and I spun my little hamster wheel as fast as it could go. Which eventually inspired me to come up with an experiment.

I updated the Peter portal with a blurb, and then I added another book excerpt. While I posted links to the promos in my usual places, I DM'd a number of people and asked them to RT the link to the Peter portal. The idea for the experiment was to see if my efforts at seeding promotions could affect traffic enough to compete with the NR review.

And… it didn't. Though many people RT'ed like I asked, this did not result in any extra traffic coming to the page. The same is true of the promos I placed on the social networks. It's not just my imagination that I'm shouting into a void. I really am doing it. So while a few people (3-4 per day, taking the NR traffic into account properly) came to my site from the main page and saw the promos, the vast majority still arrived directly on the only review they're interested in seeing. No one else bothered clicking on the links, no matter which network the promos went out on.

I may be a word guru with a prolific work rate, but I'm an abject failure at promotions. The thing is, how do I compete with the folks at NR and overcome this hurdle? They have a big budget, and their product is always visible. So people search for their product by name. But without a larger working budget, I don't see how I can compete and get more people to search for Peter the Wolf.

Banners didn't work for me. Forums don't work for me. Socials sites are a nice place to meet and gab at other writers, but a lousy way to meet readers. I'm not able to get that many reviewers into my stuff, and those I do get end up being not enough to tip the balance of interest for the causal readers.

If marketing is all about making enough impressions to get someone to look at a product, my problem is, all the impressions I generate are ignored. I've built no brand for my name, so nobody runs that many search engine queries for me. None of my books have had any long-term exposure, and with only 2-3 reviews per book, it's not enough to change the balance.

I just know someone is looking to quote mine this post, so let me be clear. It's not that people are reading my books and not responding to them. The people who read my stuff and give me a chance usually DO respond. Not always in the way I was hoping, but there is a reaction. Yes, without me prompting for it.

The problem isn't that I'm failing to put out my message online. The problem is, the group around me in my social circles ARE NOT a market of readers. They're all other writers, and they all have stuff they need to sell. There's no incentive for most of them to talk up my stuff when they could be talking up their stuff instead.That's not their fault, nor are my slow sales their problem. At this point, we may be in similar boats, so in that case, they're going to be even more focused on trying to move their own stuff out.

You might think I'd try some rally of the writers, and say how we need to support each other. No. What I'm saying is, this social networking thing is a false idol when it comes to sales precisely because my message is NEVER going to the people I want to target. My message is only going to other sellers, and never to buyers. It's no wonder I'm shouting into the void. I'm talking to the wrong crowd. But, I don't know how to reach the right crowd.

I'm not being pessimistic or whiny, and I'm avoiding cussing even mildly so that maybe this ramble will give someone pause. But while the gurus keep spouting the same "Five things to ensure you get more RTs", I can tell you, I've done all five, and unless I poke people with sticks via DM, my sharing and RTing other peoples' stuff has not affected the number of "organic" retweets and shared links that I get during my promotions.

You can run a twitter stats program on my user name and see the truth. I RT and share other peoples' stuff more than I promote myself. Most software classifies my account as a socializer, because I talk to all kinds of people, and yes, I follow what they're talking about to stay a part of their conversations.

But all of that good social etiquette just means I have a lot of followers. It does not mean I have found an audience of readers, nor does it mean I've found an army of fans willing to share my stuff. And, even with more "inorganic RT's" factored into the promotion equation, the additional impressions DO NOT convert to additional traffic.

Which is why I'm declaring social sites a complete marketing failure. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't plan to quit any of the sites I'm on…okay, maybe Facebook if Google+ works out, but probably not them either. The social sites do let me gab with random people. They let me make friends with writers I might never have known otherwise. I can actually be friends with pro writers I admire, even though I've never met them in real life. And that's pretty cool, and I'm not knocking it.

I'm just not accomplishing the one goal that I arrived with. People told me, "Zoe, go over to this site. It's a great place to meet readers." There's not one social site I'm a member of where that was not a bold-faced lie. Even on Goodreads, where in theory I ought to find at least a few readers, my friends list is full of writers.

Andrew has suggested that I start a mailing list, but I really, really hate this idea. Why? Because we played that game before, and no one signed up for the list. If no one knows I exist, there's no point in having an empty list.

I've compared this problem to the revolving credit dilemma, which is: I need good credit to get good credit, but I can't have any credit because I don't have any credit. Only, as Becka pointed out in comments, it's actually easier to find a credit score than it is to find an audience.

I'm not calling this your problem or ranting at you about how it's unfair. I hope y'all can see that. I'm outlining a problem that I don't see a way to move past. To get readers on the social networks, I need them to look for me. Because there's no way for me to target readers on any social site. Which is weird, because I should be able to tell Facebook: "Find every person with reading, dark fantasy, and werewolves in their likes," and voila, instant audience. Instead, you're only allowed to search for people by name. If you don't already know them, you can't look for them. So telling writers "This is a great way to meet readers" is a lie. Social sites are only a great way to meet your peers.

So, having painted myself into a corner, I remain baffled about how to re-sight my aim someplace where I'd actually be reaching readers. The only options I can see are targeted ads on the social sites, but I'm wary about investing much into a glorified banner ad if it's going to result in the same stats that I got out of Project Wonderful.

The problem really is that simple. Before I can worry about reader reactions or reviews, I still have to let people know those books exist. Virtually no one does. So, how do I fix that?

I honestly don't know…

Click…

Being grounded sucks. I think I'd prefer taking licks, since it's over with in a few seconds, and then I get on with whatever it was I wanted to do. But being grounded, I'm stuck really thinking about what I've done.

The problem with that parental theory is, I'm not thinking, Oh, I shouldn't have been at the party. I'm thinking, I shouldn't have taken that picture. But I shouldn't have passed it around at school either.

And that's probably not the right sentiment that David and Kathy want me to focus on, but it is still true. It was just stupid, and it was asking to be caught. So, was this my desperate cry for help? Cause if it is, it didn't work.

Worse than being grounded, everyone at school is pissed at me. No, I mean everyone. Even the chess club won't let me sit with them now, and those nerds weren't even at the party!

No, I've been labeled a snitch, the lowest form of pond scum in the high school food chain.

And the worst part is, my folks even took my books. So I can't slip away in some fantasy story to pass the time either.

If it weren't for Alice, I think I'd go crazy.

She's right on time too. But with the weather turning chilly, she sneaks into my room and I shut the window.

The only flaw with this plan is that Alice and I spend much less time talking when she's laying on my bed than when she's sitting on the roof. We have to be quiet in the house or risk getting caught, and our usual routine of reading from the same book is also out with all my books packed away for now.

Oh, thank God. She's brought cards tonight…oh, but Magic cards. Yeah, I can do this. It's better than nothing, which I've been doing a lot of lately.

As is typical, Alice wipes the walls with me and my deck. I quietly insist that her deck was stacked and mine had all the crap cards. So we swap decks, and she wipes the walls with me and the other deck too.

For Alice, this game has become a second addiction to compete with gymnastics. I get the gist of it, but she loves studying all of the cards, and she's got books on strategies, counter strategies, and artifacts tables. She plays by tournament rules, and she knows them by heart.

Frankly, it's a little scary to see her obsess like this. But I suppose I can't say anything, given my particular obsession.

After gloating with a whispered "Mwa ha ha," Alice puts the cards away in their boxes and then slips them into her purse. She sets it aside on the nightstand and scoots closer toward me. It's easy to guess what she wants just by her expression, so I lean over to kiss her.

Alice presses her body to mine, and her hand moves to my hip, pulling gently. She rolls on her back, and I roll with her. Even being fully clothed, this connection with her is enough to set my body on fire.

I'm not alone feeling this way. Alice pants underneath me, writhing to make more friction between our bodies. Her hands clamp over my hips, pulling me down and forward with urgent directness.

I'm intoxicated by her, drunk from her kisses and high from the scent of her body. But it seems my senses are also sharper in ways that wouldn't be possible with drugs.

For instance, I can hear the bed creaking with our every move, or the high wind whispering through the dying leaves outside. But there's a also weird click that I can't identify. I'm so into Alice that I ignore it. But I hear it again, and then again. It's at the window, whatever it is.

Leaning away from Alice, I look toward the window and catch the briefest glimpse of a receding shoulder clad in black clothing.

I'm off the bed like a shot, already at the window before Alice can whisper, "What's wrong?"

I open the window and lean outside, but I don't see anyone. I'm not convinced that I'm just seeing things, so I get out and move swiftly to the front of the house. At the end of the block, I see someone running under a streetlamp. They're wearing a black hoodie sweatshirt, black pants and black combat boots. From the frame, I can tell it's a woman. Some woman was on our roof, watching Alice and me.

But what really rattles me is the camera dangling from a strap around the woman's wrist.

It's the camera that makes me jump off the roof. I hit the ground and tumble to absorb my impact, and I'm running as soon as my feet are underneath me.

Suddenly, the wolf takes over, only too happy to give chase. I'm too scared to think rationally anyway, so I give myself over to my animal side.

My face tightens in a grin of absolute madness, like I'm thrilled to be hunting someone.

The woman ducks into the woods, into my woods.

The wolf thinks, That's perfect.

But my prey does something I can't. I'm still hundreds of yards away, so distance may be a bit tricky for me to guesstimate. But the woman leaps over the brick wall that surrounds the neighboring gated community, and that's at least ten feet.

Impossible, I think. But she sure isn't on the same side of the wall with me anymore, is she?

I stop at the wall, panting as I look up. Yep, it's ten feet and topped with barbed wire wrapped loosely in razor wire. Whoever lives here doesn't want company.

But that's beside the point. I saw that woman jump this like it was a track hurdle.

 

Lunar fever

I don't bother undressing for bed, but I don't really sleep much. Every dream becomes a nightmare of me changing into the wolf in public, and then I'm attacked by rams, or by bulls. There's no escape, never even the hint of a way to leave these hideous mobs.

I wake up with a full panic attack, but this time it's much worse. It feels like my skin is trying to split along my spine, along the backs of my arms and legs.

I roll out of bed fast, but it's still dark, still the middle of the night. I go to the window and look up at the full moon.

My chest itches, and I start to scratch at it. But this just makes the itch worse. I rake my nails over my chest so hard that I'm risking breaking the skin, and the itch spreads.

I look down at the rows of red marks, and I think, What am I doing?

I go to the bathroom and use alcohol and toilet paper to swab the area. The skin around the claw marks is pink and covered in bumps, like some kind of heat rash.

Except the house isn't that warm. Okay, the central heating is on, but not hot enough to give me heat rash.

And yet, I feel really hot, like I'm standing under direct sunlight on the hottest day of the year. Even as I'm trying to deny it, beads of sweat are forming all over my chest and shoulders.

I push down my sweatpants and underwear, and then I go to the tub to start a cold shower.

I step inside and steel myself before I slip under the stream of ice water, and then I yelp.

It's not a normal human sound, not my voice at all. I sound like a wounded dog.

No, like a wounded wolf.

There's a knock on the door. "Peter?" David calls, and then opens the door.

"Go away," I say, and there's a growl in my voice that shouldn't be there.

David peers around the curtain. "Peter? What are you doing?"

"Um…breaking the fever, I think."

David shuts off the shower, but when he goes to grab my arm, he yanks it back. "Kathy! Call the paramedics! Peter's boiling water!"

That last words don't compute, so I look down and see steam rising off my body. Holy crap, I'm almost dry, and he just shut off the shower five seconds ago.

Kathy doesn't understand either, so she asks, "He's what?"

"He's running a fever! Just call them now, damn it!"

Oh hell, this is bad if David is cussing.

David turns the shower back on, and then says, "Just stay awake, and we'll get you to the hospital. Don't panic, okay?"

"Same goes for you," I say.

I don't like the gravel sound that's been added to my voice. That growl sets my teeth on edge. It's like my wolf is really trying to take over and leap out of me somehow.

The paramedics arrive, and at first they don't look like they believe David's claims, but as soon as he shuts off the water, they're converted into true believers when I start steaming up the bathroom. While I pull on soaking wet clothes in the tub, one of the paramedics has me put a thermometer in my mouth.

I try not to look at the numbers, but when I notice how I'm at four digits, I have to check.

Uh-oh. I'm at 104.6 and still climbing. I close my eyes. I don't want to know how bad this is.

The thermometer beeps, and the paramedic grabs it fast.

I open my eyes to look at him, and he's shaking his head. The color is draining from his face, and his mouth flaps open.

His partner, who has a clipboard of my vital statistics notices and asks, "What's the reading?"

"The thermometer has to be broken."

"What's the reading?" the other paramedic asks again.

"It says he's running 112.3, but—

"What?" The paramedic rises from a crouch and crosses the bathroom to grab the thermometer. "No, that's impossible. I'll grab the backup unit from the back."

When they get back and try again, the numbers aren't the same. No, now they're higher. I'm running a fever of 112.8, which I now know for a fact is biologically impossible, because neither man will stop shouting it as they usher me to the back of the ambulance.

I feel like my skin is shredding under their rough grips, except every touch is ginger and frantic, like I'm a delicate object made of ash and the slightest squeeze can make my shell crumble.

The wolf is going crazy in the back of my head, but something prevents him from speaking to me. All he does now is snarl, snap and bay. Then he yelps in pain, like I'm killing him.

The ride to the hospital becomes a blur, and I hear a woman shout, "We're losing him!"

She sounds really scared.

I wonder when she got in the ambulance? Both of my paramedics were men, weren't they? I'm no longer sure. I'm not sure how I got into the ambulance either. My memory is getting as hazy as my senses, and the wolf is writhing in agony.

I think we're dying.

I'm dropped into an ice bath, and the world comes back to my senses with shocking clarity. I thrash against the awful cold, and the wolf is all barks and yelps inside my head.

Someone shouts, "Ow! Bastard bit me!"

Someone else shouts, "Get his arm! He's—unh!"

I shove a bulky nurse out of my way, and then I'm out of the bath and on the floor. I sink and crouch over with one hand on the floor, the other drawn back in a fist.

My voice is a low warning growl, the closest I can get to forming words. But my warning should be clear to the medical staff: the next person to touch me is going to get a broken nose or a fat lip.

Something stings my neck, and even as I spin to attack the nurse, my vision is getting cloudy at the edges.

The clouds roll over my vision, but it doesn't matter. By then all I can see is the white tile floor rushing up at me.

A crosspost on ebook pricing

To put this post in context, I was on the Shocklines forum, and the topic of high-priced ebooks came up. A few people mentioned in the thread about opting to use 0.99 cent prices for their ebooks on the grounds that they are unknowns. So, my post was both addressing the linked article about high ebook prices from big publishers, and my thoughts on 0.99 cent pricing. And after I hit post, I reread it and thought, I need to share this on my blog. I MUST SHARE THIS WITH THE WORLD. No, really, I even tweeted words to the same effect. So, here is my cross-posted thoughts on ebook pricing.

I agree when the books start moving past the price of the paperback. If Joe A. Writer puts out an epic novel of 200K in words, I don't think he should charge only 0.99 for it if he self-publishes, and if he goes through a publisher, they certainly can't afford to sell books at the bottom of the pricing scale. There is some initial success that one can find in using a 0.99 cent price, but it doesn't lead to reviews. So even if the books temporarily rise in the sales ranks, there's no correlating rise in the "buzz" factor. But I think the 0.99 cent price is better used as a temporary gimmick, and not as a long term price policy.

Also, people are more forgiving of price than some others are claiming. There is a small and vocal group of folks who think that every book should be 0.99 cents just like songs on iTunes. But they are not the full market, and they represent only a tiny niche of the ebooks markets. The vast majority of readers I've engaged don't mind paying $4.99 for an ebook, or even $6.99. But they feel that if the mass market paperback is $10.99, then they should get a slight discount for not buying all that paper. So if the print book is $10.99, they want to pay less than $7.99. And this is a reasonable expectation, in my opinion.

I've seen some back catalog books from King going for as high as $35 on Mobipocket, and I learned from other readers that those files are direct OCR scans with no editing whatsoever. So they did no work on the new ebook, no editing whatsoever, and added no cover. But they feel this error-laden, coverless book is worth more than a hard cover copy. This isn't just insane. It jumps to fucking plaid.

Since most of my stuff is self-pubbed, I price according to word counts. A short story or novelette is 0.99, while my larger novels sell for $3.99 or $4.99. I'm still getting sales at this price range, although I admit Smashwords is not as huge a market as Amazon. But I'm still able to convince folks to try out Smashwords, and once I get them into my storefront, my prices don't cause sticker shock and send them running away.

So again, I think the 0.99 price point is good for putting work on sale, or for getting early sales as a new author. But after you've tapped that smaller vein for a little while, it runs dry, and then there's no harm in raising your prices so that you make more per sale. To put this in perspective, my recent sales have been slower because I'm only listed in one market. BUT, my current Smashwords balance is $134, and I first had to climb out of a debt for ISBN numbers totaling -$79. (I'm still not sure how to feel about having "credit" with Smashwords. Now it feels like it might be a good thing. But when I was in the red for three months, it didn't feel so nice.) So yeah, I think there's something to be said for raising prices during slow sales, not gouging them until it's impossible to turn a profit. It won't result in more people talking up the books, so in my opinion, the price has a very limited range of use to self-pubbed writers, and it's worthless to publishers.

The gym tour

My day crawled up to this moment, but now looking back, I can't recall anything. Did I do my homework? I open my notebook. Yes, this looks like my handwriting, and this is my homework due tomorrow. Here's my algebra assignment, my history assignment, my—wait, this is a blank page except for the assignment in pencil at the top: English – short essay, 800 words, open topic.

Open Topic. Great. My mind is now an open blank, much like the page.

I flip past the blank page, fearing there will be more. But here's my geology assignment, and my computer literacy worksheet is tucked into the front flap with answers penciled in. Aside from English I'm—

There's a knock on the door and I turn around to smile at Judy as she leans into my room.

She smiles back and says "You didn't hear Jean knocking?"

I blink at her, and then get up fast. Gah, my brain is fried.

"See you later!" I say as I rush past her.

Jean waves to me and then starts walking before I shut the door. When I catch up, he says, "Peter, can I ask you something?"

"Sure," I say, shoving my hands in my hip pockets.

"Last night, I couldn't help but notice how your foster parents were really fast to jump to conclusions."

"Oh." I offer a strained smile. "You timed your visit badly. I'd just finished explaining my parents to them."

"I see." After another three steps, Jean stops. "Peter, I want to trust you, but—"

"I'm not interested in Alice as a girlfriend," I say, and then smile more sincerely. "Really, I had to explain to my foster sister last night that this isn't even a crush. I'm just a fan of her work…or her practice, or something. But really, aside from watching her compete, I'm not looking to spend more time with her."

"Er…" Jean still looks uncomfortable.

I frown. "You don't believe me?"

"I do, but it's just that Alice has said she would like to spend more time with you."

"Oh," I say. I should say something else, but this is a surprise. The first thing I can think is, I wonder if she thinks I'm cute.

Jean says, "I thought you realized that when I came over to invite you to come to Austin."

I shake my head. "No, I just…I thought you were just inviting me cause I wanted to see one of the competitions."

"You do, don't you?"

I nod quickly. "I really do. I'm going to miss this one, but maybe the next time you go to Austin I can tag along after I got a job to cover my own room. And anyway, you'll be filming the whole event."

"Eh, not all of it. It's almost two days long, but I will try to get more of Alice's competitors and some of the guy's events so you can see what their routines are like."

I'm disappointed that I won't be able to see the whole thing, but at this point even extra highlights from the other events sounds cool to me. "Sure, that will work."

We get into the car. Alice is already in the front seat, so I open the rear door of the older model brown Buick and slip into the back seat.

Alice twists around and loops her arms over the headrest. She props her chin on the top and beams a sunny smile. "Are you excited?"

"Yep," I agree, returning her smile. "I haven't been able to think of anything else all day."

"I know what you mean," Alice says. "I get that way—"

"Alice, turn around and put on your seat belt," Jean says.

She does as she's told, but then continues on as if she'd never been interrupted. "Every meet, my attention span is all focused on what's coming. I turn into a robot for all my classes and chores. I still do them, but I don't remember doing them."

I laugh at this. "That's exactly what I did today. I had to check to see if I'd done my homework. I did most of mine, but I somehow skipped English. It's an open essay, so I'll make something up after I finish the tour and can get my head clear."

The trip to Wilkes-Barre doesn't take long, and I divide that time listening to Alice—replying with "uh-huh" where appropriate—and watching the world blur by outside.

At the gym I meet John, and for the first time, I see him with a smile. He's giving the free tour, so for once the grim look is gone. But at the back of my mind, I know that this will be the only time I see him smile if I pony up the cash to join the gym. Then I'll just be someone else to glare at when I screw up.

I find this to be acceptable already.

Meeting John in person, I also learn he's just as short and compact as his brother, although he's definitely the more muscular of the two. He's got wide shoulders and a wide chest and back that narrows down to a tiny waist and non-existent hips. I have no idea what his legs look like, as he favors baggy jeans that hide the tops of his grey denim high-top sneakers.

I get a tour of the guy's side of the gym, which includes more than just the equipment for their events. There's some workout equipment in the front corner, but no one is using it right now.

Then there's a pommel horse, and there is a guy of twenty or so working on it. He's swinging his legs in wide circles over the top, his upper body swaying as he alternately releases the right or left handle to bring his legs around.

My arms hurt just watching him. But if I want to do this stuff, my arms are going to have to deal with it. This is confirmed again on the next two parts of our tour, the still rings and parallel bars. In fact a lot of men's gymnastics looks to me like tests of upper body strength, stamina and flexibility, rather than examinations of grace or expression of form. We end the tour with the high bar, where I'm forced to change my mind.

This is incredible. The same guy who was working the pommel house is now working the high bar like a seasoned pro. He swings around the bar so fast he's blurring, and then he shoots up and out, standing straight as he turns two long looping backflips. He tucks his legs to his body for a third faster flip and I'm sure he's going to crash into the mat like a cannonball. He's got to be dropping too fast to make a proper landing.

My heart almost explodes when he sticks the landing.

Yes. I want to do this. No, I need to do it. I don't care if I can compete, and I don't care about the Olympics. But I'm trembling with excitement, and I really want to jump in and start learning right now.

John knows he's got himself a sucker, because he says, "Why don't we go back to the office, and I'll get you some paperwork to show to your parents?"

I don't bother explaining that I don't have real parents. I just nod and follow him. He could have led me anywhere, even convinced me to start signing forms.

Instead he hands me a manila packet, and then takes another out to pull out the forms and explain them.

"First of all, you'll need the membership application, and an initial sign-up fee of five hundred dollars," John says.

My heart sinks into my stomach. "How much are the monthly fees?"

"We don't collect monthly fees. Dues are paid every six months, a lump fee of seven hundred and fifty."

Now I can't hide a frown. "So I have to have twelve-fifty for the first six months?"

"Possibly, but when you apply, you still have to pass the entrance tests." John appraises my body with a once over glance and adds, "You're in good shape, so I don't think that should be a problem."

"I've been working out at a gym already," I say. "But I'm not sure I can afford this, even with a job and help from my foster parents."

John nods, and his mouth presses into a thoughtful line. "Well…" He looks out the office window for a minute, and I'm not sure if I should say something or just excuse myself. But then he turns around and regards me with a curious look.

"Let's say you can't afford the difference. Would you be willing to work here, say cleaning up as a janitor on the nights after you train?"

I nod without thinking about the work itself. I'm just thinking that there's a chance for me to break into this exciting new world.

So we go over the rest of the forms, many of which I may not need if I'm not competing. But on the insurance form, John points out that while it is optional, I wouldn't be allowed to compete without getting insurance.

Then the tour is over and Jean takes me home without Alice. I don't even miss her in the car until we're in front of my house. Then I look up and note the empty seat, and I wonder if I should have stuck around to watch her train.

In the house, I set out the paperwork, and I explain the fees. I don't bother saying how bad I want this, and I won't beg. If they say no, begging isn't going to help.

David looks over the forms, then up at me. "If you get a part-time job to help, I think we can cover the rest, even for the cost of insurance."

I dive at my foster parents, although I'm shocked at my impulsive leap even as I'm flying over the coffee table. I must look like a professional wrestler doing a double clothesline as my arms connect with Kathy and David.

Surprised by my "glomp attack" they fall back on the couch, and our combined momentum carries the whole couch over onto its back. I thump my forehead on the back of the couch, and then I feel really stupid.

 

Bar Blog: Agent Orange Tamed

Success is mine! As you may recall, I made up a drink recipe called Agent Orange, and it was admittedly a bit too strong. In my original post, I speculated that the alcohole content could be cut by switching bitter red aperitif for a bitter red soda.

Well this weekend, I mixed several batches and can confirm that the drink is now less potent and allows you to drink a few without killing yourself with alcohol poisoning. Even better, Hubby drank this recipe and offered his approval. Hubby dislikes his cocktails to be too sweet, but there's enough of a bitter red orange taste in this for him to forgive the sweetness.

To make one 14 oz drink you need a few ice cubes, lemon juice, raspberry syrup, tonic, 1 oz of dark rum (I used Pampero Anniversario) and one 10 oz bottle of apertif soda. (Aperol Soda, Campari Soda, AperX Soda, San Bitter, or even a generic will work.)

Add ice and rum to the glass, then add the bitter soda. Squirt in a bit of lemon juice, add a teaspoon of raspberry syrup, and fill the rest of the glass with tonic. This drink is cool and refreshing, and makes a great cocktail before dinner with some cheese and salami or other smoked meats.

I'm relieved that the lighter version worked, because the original recipe WAS tasty. The problem was, by the third sip, I was so drunk that my tongue had gone numb. Then all I could taste was sweet. And I had to bow out before finishing one glass. So…a little too powerful. But this new recipe shouldn't be quite as intimidating, and it should work for those of you who liked mojitos and my chino and absinthe mixer.

No telling when I'll come up with a new recipe, but there you go, Agent Orange, now in a more tame and realistic form.

Another random Sunday thingie…

So on Twitter, I saw a link to this LJ article by Nick Mamatas. This writer he's highlighting apparently feels his book was doomed by Racefail '09. If you don't know what that is, a discussion came up that the fantasy genre had failed to embrace racial diversity and was, in fact, mighty white. Which is true. (And is still true, BTW. And saying "more POC need to write" is ignoring that white writers fail to represent ANY racial diversity in their fantasy writing. Good guys are white, and bad guys have dark skin, even if sometimes that skin is green or grey.)

But what is not true are this guy's claims that the discussion, and one article in particular, doomed the sales of his one book.

Now at this point, you'd think I couldn't call out other writers for crazy breakdowns. After all, I have a bout of blog crazy about once a month. But the thing is, you never see me make claims that anyone is holding me down or keeping me from the market. Sure, I'd like to see more reader involvement, but that's actually a separate issue to my problems with marketing, promotions, and market targeting. All these issues are my problems to sort out. I will come to y'all and ask for ideas, and when you come up with something that sounds worth a shot, I'm going to try and use what you give me. If it doesn't work, it doesn't mean your idea was bad. It just means I didn't use it for best effect.

The number one cause for my lack of success is me. No one else. I don't blame readers who read the blurbs and walk away. Either the story wasn't for them, or I didn't make a good enough blurb. There is no option C where this turns into the readers holding me down. At least, there isn't in my book. In the books of other crazy writers, this is a valid excuse for a lack of success.

What I'm saying is, yes, I get frustrated with my efforts. But even if I rant and ramble about my issues, I hope y'all understand that I don't blame you for your lack of interest. If I can't hook you on the pitch, that's my fault.

In conclusion, I want to say how there are some good people writing to me about promotion ideas for Peter the Wolf. I had Tara volunteer to take on typo duty for another critique before I go into final proofing session. Because of her, there's going to be a LOT less problems with the book.

I really could not keep going without people like Tara, Tanya, Wendy, Widdershins, Becka, Preston, and Andrew. Their support has pulled me out of depressions and kept me going. They've offered help and support in so many different ways.

Yeah, I'd love to have more success and recognition, but that still requires that I stumble across the right ad pitched to the right people. I'm not there yet. But the fans I have now are awesome people, and I want y'all to understand: if my stuff flops, it's my fault, not yours. I may rant a lot, but I'm never going to shift blame that belongs on my shoulders. I love you people too much to pull a dick move like that. (And, for clarity, this is also true of the readers who feel I'm "entitled" by asking for help. Maybe you talk smack about me, but it's hardly holding me down for you to voice your opinions.)

Right…off to do my workout. See you tonight with my new best friend, Agent Orange.