Renee Miller's Blog, page 11

12 Days of Stuff & Some Awkward Shit

Last week I tripped over mats at work. Fell on my face. Pinched a nerve in my back. Now I hobble like an old lady and pop painkillers like they’re fucking candy.

I hear you. You’re wondering how I managed to injure myself with a mat. Well… You see, I am:

So the point of telling you this, (aside from my attention whore tendency to need lots of sympathy) is I’ve had a few hours where I did nothing but fuck around on the Internet, and when you do that while mildly high, you get ideas.

I know, you’re totally enthralled right now. I can tell.

I’ve just finished pre-writing twelve—TWELVE—blog posts in preparation for a promotional/celebratory event I stupidly thought would be a fantastic idea. Jesus, how do all you organized people do this regularly? I want to toss my computer and get drunk.

Sigh.

Why am I abusing myself so? For you. And sort of for me. Because we all know it’s always at least a little about me.

 

Yes, I do love me some Dean Winchester. Let’s focus. For twelve days, from December 8th to 20th I’ll be giving away book goodies here on The Edge. I’m doing this because Christmas, but also to celebrate the launch of Sex, Transvestites, Angels and Assholes, the pre-launch of Muse (coming soon), and because I won the NaNoWriMo in nine days (Never a-fucking-gain).

But Renee, you’re saying, December 8th to 20th has 13 days. How is that… you suck at math.

I don’t suck at math, jerks. You see, from the 8th through 19th, I’ll be giving away books on this blog. Every day it’ll be something new and wonderful. On the 20th, we’ll be gathering on the Facebook (should you feel so inclined) and there will be a party-like thing happening, where I’ll be giving away MORE books. Why? Because I loves the Facebook parties.

I should add, these parties are usually adult, because no one behaves themselves, and there are a lot of sexual innuendos and profanity. So, there. Warning given.

Anyway, if you’re into winning things, then stay tuned. The first giveaway starts the morning of December 8th. I’ll be announcing the previous day’s winner in the following day’s post.  (For anyone who is confused: For example, on December 9th, I’ll announce December 8th’s winner. On the 10th, I’ll announce the 9th’s winner, and so on.)

Now, I’ve promised the children some Christmas tree decorating, so I guess I better do that.

I Win

This isn’t a real blog post. I’m not relaying any useful knowledge, nor am I offering anything entertaining. I’m going to annoy you, because this post is all about the gloating.

On November 9th, this girl reached 50,000 words in her NaNoWriMo project.

I know, right? I’m awesome.

So I’m just gonna gloat a little, because HOLY FUCK! Seriously.

Oh, I see you there with your scowly face. I know, it’s rude to brag and all that, because we’re supposed to be humble and shit. Well, I’m enjoying this while it lasts. This industry is fucking depressing most of the time, so…

Okay, I’m done. Shall I share an excerpt? Maybe once you see how shit-tastic it is, because this bitch needs some serious editing, you’ll hate me a little less. So here it is, a little bit of WHACKADOODLE. I’ll give you a little setup for this one. Homicide detective, Milo Smalls has been ordered by his boss to participate in a 30 day treatment program to curb some of his compulsions. As part of the program, Milo has to attend weekly group therapy meetings, which take place at the doctor’s house.

Oh, and the members of this group keep dying in weird, random ways.

And now, the excerpt:

“Charlie got his dick stuck in the drain pipe again.” Estella’s grand entrance was not what Milo would’ve expected. Ever.

“The drain pipe?” he asked.

“Yeah, he really likes that thing. Dick-fucker.” Ozzie said.

Milo had no reply. Yesterday the group had taken a break. They’d met tonight and Rochelle informed everyone that Estella and Charlie were making dinner. Milo didn’t plan to eat said dinner, because Charlie’s obsession with his dick didn’t fill Milo with a whole lot of trust. He had a hard enough time eating food prepared by others. He definitely wasn’t eating something made by someone how frequently rubbed his balls and then sniffed his fingers.

“So, where is this drain pipe and why is it Charlie’s favorite?” Milo finally asked.

Rochelle sighed. “There’s an old drain pipe in the kitchen next to the stove. I keep meaning to put a cap on it, but only remember when Charlie does things like this. We’ve had two months incident free. I kind of hoped we were past the drain pipe thing.”

“He’s put his dick in your pipe before?” The whole group was a shit show. Milo wished he could record half the conversations that took place during their sessions. Then Captain Cunt would see what he was talking about. Too bad Rochelle confiscated everyone’s phones before she let them in the living room.

“He’s put his dick in almost every hole in this house.” Nina said.

“Including yours.” Estella sniffed.

“Jealous?”

“Not really.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Because I want his nasty, dirty penis inside me after you’ve cried all over it?”

Nina laughed. “You had it in you before I had it in me.”

Fuck. They were like a big incestuous family. “Glad to know where Charlie’s dick has been. I swear, I’m amazed it’s still attached to his body.”

“Almost ripped it off once.” Nina said.

“Yeah, the disposal incident.” Buggy added. “Epic.”

Milo felt nauseous, and for some reason, his dick hurt.

“That was after he fucked Nina the crybaby,” Estella said. “Probably wanted to erase the evidence.”

“You’re a cunt.” Nina spat.

“You’re a whore. And what?”

“Enough ladies,” Rochelle massaged her temples. “Ozzie and Milo, would you go help Charlie?”

“Um… how about no.” Milo said. “I don’t do dicks in pipes. I don’t do dicks at all.”

“You don’t have to touch it,” Rochelle said. “Ozzie has done this before. You pull Charlie out after Ozzie oils him up.”

“Nope.”

“I’ll go,” Andy said.

Rochelle sighed. “Fine.”

Milo watched Ozzie and Andy leave the room, and then eyed Rochelle. “So, we’re going to pretend like Andy is still whispering, or are you going to explain his new-found voice to the rest of the class.”

“His date with Bernadette went well. He’s found a new lease on life.”

“Really?” Milo stared at the empty space where Ozzie and Andy had been. “So one good lay and he’s fixed?”

“No,” Rochelle glared. “They talked, he found someone he could trust, and that was a big part of Andy’s problem. He came to me the next day and said he no longer felt the need to whisper. Even if his relationship with Bernadette doesn’t pan out, I feel like the experience will be a positive one.”

“Okay,” Milo leaned back in his chair. “Let’s say I believe this fiction you’re weaving. And how does Bernadette feel about Andy?”

Rochelle sighed. “Well she hasn’t returned his calls. I’m sure she’s just busy, and as long as Andy’s happy, I don’t care. Can we move on?”

“Sure.” Milo examined his hands. “Is Estella finally cured too?”

“What do you mean?”

He wriggled his fingers.

“God,” Estella groaned. “Mittens.”

“No, Estella.” Rochelle said. “Maybe it’s time you learn to look at fingers.”

“I can’t.”

“If you don’t start at least trying to overcome your fears, you’ll have to commit yourself like we talked about. Clear?”

Estella nodded, her eyes closed. “Maybe we could do this more slowly, like a few seconds at a time. Milo has ridiculously long fingers. I can’t stand it.”

“Is that a problem?” Milo asked.

“She hates long fingers the most.” Nina explained.

“I don’t think my fingers are too long.” Milo examined his hand. “They’re pretty average sized. Besides, you seemed to like them just fine when—”

Rochelle’s stare stopped Milo mid-sentence.

“When…” he cleared his throat. “Every other time you’ve seen them.”

“Stop.” Estella cried. “Please.”

“Sorry.” Milo put his hands in his lap.

“I love long fingers.” Nina said.

“I bet you do, psycho.” Milo wasn’t going to encourage the nympho. He didn’t need that kind of complication in his life.

“Okay,” Rochelle stood. “The truth is, Estella, someone has taken the mittens. We don’t have a single one in the house.”

“Nina?” Milo said.

“What?” she winked.

“Did you take the mittens?” This place felt like a kindergarten classroom. Milo couldn’t wait for his time to be done so he could get as far away from this insanity as possible.

“Maybe I did.” Nina uncrossed her legs, opening her thighs wide enough for Milo to see that she wasn’t wearing any panties. “Wanna frisk me?”

“You didn’t put all the mittens in your snatch, did you?”

“Milo!” Rochelle gasped.

“What? She’s showing me her vagina and I’m not supposed to wonder? By the way, you should wax. Do you have any idea what lurks in all that hair?”

“Why don’t you stick a long finger in there and find out?” Nina opened her legs wider.

“For the love of God,” Milo said. “You need to get a handle on your freak show, Rochelle. It’s getting out of control.”

“Nina,” Rochelle said. “Did you take the mittens?”

“I did.”

“I know you didn’t put all of them in your vagina. Where are they?”

“I didn’t put any of them in there. I’m not stupid.”

“So, where are they?”

“I don’t remember.”

“She does so.” Estella’s eyes were still closed.

“I don’t.” Nina insisted. “When I hoard, everything goes blurry, and I don’t remember what it is I’ve done or where I’ve put things until I find them again.”

“I don’t know why you’d hide them in the first place,” Estella said.

“Because you need to deal with your shit, Stella.” Nina replied. “I mean, seriously. Of all of us, your issues are the worst. You bit off your own fingers, and let’s not forget what you did to Sha—”

“Enough, Nina.” Rochelle said.

Milo knew she was about to say Shamus. He kept his thoughts to himself and waited to see how this all played out.

“What?” Nina pouted. “She did… do that thing and he was just lucky the doctors could fix it. It’s time you made her take a test too. We all had to do it.”

“I think this is enough of a test.” Rochelle said.

“Yeah, I have had to sit in here with your fingers all around me forever. Can you please tell us where you hid them?” Estella’s eyes remained closed.

Milo was fascinated by her ridiculousness. Imagine, being afraid of fingers. Now gingers were one thing. Those fuckers were creepy. Fingers were just, fingers.

“I don’t remember what I did with them.” Nina said.

“I have to go home.” Estella stood, still blinding herself to the room. “Please take me home Rochelle.”

“No one’s going home. Milo, sit on your hands. You too, Nina.” Rochelle did the same. “Now, Estella, open your eyes.”

Estella opened one eye. When she saw that all three had hidden their fingers, she relaxed. “Thank you.”

“Now, we’re going to discuss Milo tonight.”

“Why me?”

“You’re only here for a few weeks. I think it’s important we address one of your issues before you go back to work.”

“Like?”

“Your fear of cats.”

Milo snorted. “I think not.”

“I could tell your boss you need more time.”

“Bitch.”

Rochelle smiled. “You’ll thank me later, Milo. Once Charlie and the oth—”

Rochelle’s words were drowned out by the sound of Charlie screaming.

… Ahh. I love this story.

Okay, done gloating. Back to writing.

Tagged: humor, NaNoWriMo, Whackadoodle, writing

NaNoWriMo Day 5: This is not as boring as you think

It is day 5 of National Novel Writing Month, and I’m almost at the half-way point. Today I reached 21,000 words in my project, which is currently titled, “Whackadoodle.”

Before you wander off in disgust at the awesome number of words I’ve written, let me explain why it’s not so amazing or wonderful.

I didn’t want to do NaNoWriMo this year. A friend guilted me into doing it, so she’d have a torture buddy, and then she fucked off and quit. But that’s not important. I never want to do it. Why? I am a freak show. I know this. When I start a new project, I’m careful not to let it consume me, because if I do, I will work on this project to the exclusion of all else. I’m talking EVERYTHING else. NaNoWriMo gives me permission to be a freak show. This is not a good thing.

In the weeks leading up to NaNoWriMo, I eat, sleep and breathe the project I’m going to write. I draw up extensive character outlines. I make notes on plot. I dream about the story. I rehearse the first lines in the shower. I have a chapter by chapter summary of at least the first half of the book ready to go. By November 1, I’m practically crawling out of my skin because I’m dying to start writing.

And then I dive in. By the first day of NaNoWriMo, the story is there, in my head, just waiting for me to put my hands on the keyboard.

And I type really fast.

So, it’s natural that my word counts are high. It’s natural that I’d hit 50K words well before November 30. My problem is, I want to keep doing it when December arrives.

It’s really hard to stop the freak show once I’ve let it out. And I have so many other projects “in progress” that I know I’ll finish before January, because I can’t control myself. And then I’ll have all these drafts…

All these fucking drafts.

Let’s remind ourselves how much I hate editing.

I’m not feeling any sympathy from you guys. I broke the damn sink because I’m not paying attention to anything outside my frigging brain right now.

Nothing?

Fine. I’ll just keep writing. You should too.

Oh, and Katrina, thanks for bailing. Your reward shall be having to read this shit show when I’m done.

Surviving NaNoWriMo: A Guide for Haters and Players

Don’t run away. I’m not going to try to convert any haters to the wondrous/ridiculous process that is National Novel Writing Month. For those of you living under rocks, NaNoWriMo (I really hate typing that) occurs every November. Participants have from November 1 through November 30 to write 50,000 words in a single novel. (No, you can’t add up words from multiple projects, because that’s not how it’s done.)

Why would anyone do that to themselves? It’s certainly not to complete a novel, because novels are generally longer than 50K words, and if you’re writing that quickly, it’s going to be at least a partial pile of shit when you’re done.

Actually, it’s not so bad. You only need to write about 1,666 words each day to bring you to your goal. That’s less than a chapter for some of us. However, the hoopla surrounding NaNoWriMo, and the way it focuses on quantity instead of quality, and possibly because anyone can do it (writer or not), has caused quite a divide between NaNoWrimo Haters and Players. I say, why can’t we all just get along?

Because we’re human. So let’s find some middle ground, shall we?

To all the NaNoWriMo Haters out there (and while I participate, I also hate from time to time), relax. Stop judging. You don’t have to participate, and if you take off the cranky pants or shut your hating mouth for a bit, no one’s going to make you participate. The people participating have a bazillion different reasons to do this insanity, and some of them are actually good. Not every NaNoWriMo player is doing it for the glory. (And if you think there’s glory, think again.) Some of us need a way to get our ass in a chair and establish a routine. NaNoWriMo works well for us. Others just want to have a little fun. Stop raining on our parades. Mind your business and worry about your own writing.

To all the NaNoWriMo Players out there, shut up about it. No one cares about your daily progress. If you want to share, NaNoWriMo has a site where you can do that. Everyone over there is just dying to hear how you’re doing so vomit your self-indulgent shit there and leave the rest of the Internet alone. Sure, you can share on social media, but just once a week at the most. Please. Otherwise, you asked for all the hate coming your way.

For the fence-sitters, let’s take a look at the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of NaNoWriMo and maybe you’ll pick a side.

It gets you writing. We love writing.

It also helps you make some new writing friends. Okay, for me, that’s not a deal maker. I don’t need new friends (though I love each and every new weirdo I find), but writing is a lonely endeavor and sometimes a bit of encouragement is all it takes to get someone up and going. NaNoWriMo has thousands of participants and these folks have a shit ton of support forums for those of you needing a couple of cheerleaders to keep you typing.

NaNoWriMo can be a good confidence booster too, because it gives you permission to write utter crap, which is what the first draft is all about. I really like when I tell my inner editor to go suck it. She’s a bitch.

However, if you don’t make the word count goal, it feels pretty awful. Yes, we’ve arrived at the bad part. You’re not a failure, but even if you manage to write 49,900 words, you feel like shit because you don’t get that stupid banner at the end. If you can handle failure, then this isn’t such a bad thing. If you can’t, well, I’ll just leave that with you.

And NaNoWriMo only lasts 30 days and for some of you, that’s the only time you write all year. You’ll never get “good” at something if you only do it occasionally. I’m not saying the yearly writers should quit. I’m saying don’t let NaNoWriMo be the only time you do it. Keep going. Otherwise, the haters are kind of right about you.

You don’t actually get a prize either. Just bragging rights. I know it says you “win” but there’s no trophy or cash payout. Just the satisfaction of being part of that small percentage of folks that actually make it to 50,000 words. It’s kind of anticlimactic, to be honest.

But I think the worst part of NaNoWriMo is that some of you don’t realize that you’re not done after November 30. That baby you hammered out is rough. Hell, it’s probably not even a full novel, because 50,000 words is not the standard length of a novel. I won’t get into the particulars of that right now. Let’s say it is a novel. As of November 30, what you’ve written is gross. It’s disgusting. It’s not fit for reading. DO NOT PUBLISH. DO NOT QUERY.

But people will query. People will publish. This is where I get the haters and their judgment. If you’re publishing a NaNoWriMo project immediately, I hate you too. Get some self-control, people. Edit that messed up piece of shit.

This reminds me of something else I hate about NaNoWriMo: It makes writing feel like work.

Oh yes, it should be work, but I live in a magical land where I like to enjoy writing when I’m doing it. Writing with a metaphorical axe hanging over my head is not fun at all. By the end of November, I loathe the sight of my laptop. I have to force myself to open the file and keep going. I’m sure I’m not alone in that feeling.

However, it’s a good wakeup call. We need to view our writing as work, because it’s hard to take it seriously otherwise. If you’re writing with the goal of publishing and selling your work to others, it’s important you handle the process professionally. So, yay NaNoWriMo for sucking all the joy out of it!

I’m kidding. Mostly.

Moving on.

Despite all those things I hate about NaNoWriMo, I still get excited about participating. I never said anything about me made sense. So, here are a few quick tips to “winning” NaNoWriMo without getting killed by haters:

Shut up. The first rule of NaNoWriMo is to avoid talking about it EVERYDAMNPLACEYOUGO.

No one cares. Accept this and you’ll be glad you did. No one cares what you’re doing or why. They only care that you take the trash out and remember to feed your children. Writing a novel? So is every other weirdo on the planet.

Outline it. When you outline, you can just write when November 1st arrives. Or don’t outline. I don’t care how you do this, to be honest.

Stay off Twitter.

Stay off Facebook

Netflix is the Devil’s instrument and IT WILL CRUSH YOU. Okay, so maybe it’ll just make it hard to meet your word count goals. Still, pretty suckish.

Wear a rubber band on your wrist or wherever else you feel pain intensely. If you’re tempted to tweet or whatever about your progress, or to turn on Netflix, snap that band. Put some spikes in it for extra effectiveness.

What you write will suck. NaNoWriMo projects are like rough drafts of rough drafts. Don’t be disheartened when you read it or a friend reads it and your brain flees out the back of your head to escape the awfulness.

NaNoWriMo only focuses on one element of the writing process: word count. It’s about quantity, not quality. But editing is your friend. It’s going to be okay. Quality will come after November 30.

Accept that people will judge you. Face it, a lot of “serious” authors hate NaNoWriMo, and for good reason. I mean, many of the participants are first time writers. Some only write during NaNoWriMo. Serious writers write every day. Every week. Every month. Etcetera. This is the spiel you’ll hear. Get used to it.

And keep in mind:

The success rate is only around 20%. That means most participants don’t make the goal of 50,000 words in a month. Just tossing that out there.

Finally, have fun. It’s just a thing on the Internet that we do because, why not? Enjoy it and stop taking yourself so seriously.

And one more thing:

Sex, Transvestites, Angels, and Assholes, the sequel to Sex, Peanuts, Fangs, and Fur, is almost ready. I’m hoping for a Halloween publication. Excited!! Cover reveal in the next few days.

Okay, that is all.

Tagged: authors, haters, humor, NaNoWriMo, writing

You Should Be Ashamed Of Yourselves

 

I recently took a quiz on Facebook, where the title of said quiz said no one would be willing to admitting to read books on this list.

On the list was Mein Kempf, The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, Flowers in the Attic, the Twilight Series, Fifty Shades of Grey, several Danielle Steel titles, and a few celebrity memoirs/autobiographies. I’ve read all of these books and many more on the list. I never considered them shameful. I never thought I shouldn’t enjoy them (although I really hated some of them). Each of these books taught me something about life or myself, so I viewed my reading them as a good thing, even if I felt the hours invested might have been better spent in a book I knew I’d love.

Never be ashamed of what you’ve read, even if it’s the most awful drivel you’ve ever set eyes on. Don’t be ashamed if it made your brain bleed and your inner good taste monkey vomit. Reading awesome books is good. Reading bad books is also good. Reading is good. Period.

Instead, you should be ashamed of all the books you haven’t read for no other reason than you being an asshole. Yeah. I said it. If you’ve avoided a book because it’s written by a woman, shame on you. Misogynist prick. The same goes for you over there, not reading any books written by men. You’re an idiot who deserves to live a life full of cat litter and loneliness. If you’ve avoided books because of their genre, or their theme, or because the author is of a religion or political ideology that conflicts with your own, go stand in the corner. You’re a twat.

You’ll never evolve as a writer or a person if you don’t explore all the things you disagree with or don’t like. Me? I read Twilight, and hated it, but kind of liked The Host. I made it through most of Fifty Shades of Grey, and learned that readers enjoy the story more than the technique, because they aren’t the judgmental assholes that most writers are. I’ve read Danielle Steele and Steven King and Joe Nobody. I avoided science fiction for a ridiculously long time (because I thought it just wasn’t my thing) before I realized these writers have a shit ton of imagination and talent. I’ve read erotica, porn, horror, romance, all of it. I don’t like all of it. I don’t like all of the authors I’ve read. I don’t like feeling anything smushy or sparkly, but I still read smushy, sparkly stories. I don’t like preachy folks, but I’ve read Christian fiction (and liked some of it).

My point is I don’t like a lot of things. If I based my reading choices on my biases, I’d run out of shit to read, because a lot of things irritate me. So, don’t be ashamed if you read something regretful.

Be ashamed for believing romance is only for desperate or lonely girls.

Be ashamed for thinking sci-fi is for boys and/or nerds.

Be ashamed for considering literary fiction a genre only over-educated, self-righteous douchebags would read.

Be ashamed for dismissing fantasy as children’s fiction.

Be ashamed for leaving horror for the sickos.

Be ashamed for letting Grandpa read the westerns.

Be ashamed for assuming historical fiction is boring or unimaginative.

Be ashamed for letting your biases limit the vast world of fiction available to you.

Be proud of ignoring your inner asshole and reading something you believe you’ll hate, because you might find something new to love.

What I’m saying is if you only read about the things you like or the themes you believe in, you’ll never grow into the awesome writer and/or person you could be.

And that, dear asshole, would be such a waste.

Tagged: bias, books, reading, shame, writing

I’m Awesome and I’m Awful

Authors seem so confident, don’t we? Buy my book! You’ll love it. Promise. Why? Because it’s awesome and wonderful and all that good shit that makes you happy.

The truth is while many of us confidently proclaim our work worth reading, we’re not so sure of all of that. We’re usually terrified you’re going to hate what we’ve written, and in my opinion, anyone who isn’t convinced their work sucks at least a little bit might be a tad too arrogant for their own good. It’s okay to love yourself and your work, but if you love it so much you can’t smell the stink…

My feelings about my ability to write well change almost hourly and I’m pretty sure I’m not a rarity among writers. I love what I’ve written as I write it, but hate it as I revise. I think maybe I’ve struck gold with a particular book as I click “Publish” and then I’m convinced it’s a monumental clusterfuck of awful when it sits there reviewless for any length of time. Reviews, by the way, kill me, but let’s move on.

I know I write well. I know I have cool ideas. I know I’ve worked damn hard to learn what makes a good book and what makes good storytelling. I know characters. I know dialogue. I know tension and pacing. I know. I know. I know.

I don’t know if I should’ve waited before publishing this book. I don’t know if I’ve learned enough to ask people to pay for my work. I don’t know if I’ve caught all of the typos. I don’t know if anyone cares. I don’t know how they couldn’t. I don’t know if the idea is so cool after all, because I don’t know if what I’ve written is still relevant to readers. I don’t know if what I love to read is going to be something a reader will enjoy. I don’t know anything.

But I know some things.

I don’t think I suck, but I might.

I. Might. Suck.

Sigh.

This is sad, right? Are you all “God, I was in a good mood, Renee. Now I want to cut myself or jump off something really high.” Yeah, I’m depressing myself too. Let’s look at the happy side of all of this.

Writers are full of self-doubt. We’re rejected regularly, after all. Shaky self-esteem is hard to avoid. However, we are more confident and resilient than the average non-writing Joe. If we weren’t, we’d never share a single word. We’d stop publishing after the first negative review instead of jumping back on the mean old horse that bucked us into the shit bog over there. This constant flip-flopping between believing we’re the best of all the things and self-loathing/second-guessing/self-doubt is a good thing for us. When we love our writing, or start to believe we’re so awesome we could shit, we stop trying to be better. Our writing stops improving. Our stories become less original, the characters less engaging.

If we know there’s room for improvement, the sky’s the limit. Right? Of course.

So, don’t feel sorry for your writer friend when he’s wallowing in his awfulness. Don’t worry about those tears or that empty bottle of bourbon (those pills might be a problem, so take those away from him). Maybe worry about the dead cat hanging in the yard… that’s probably a bad sign. But if there are no dead bodies, leave him alone. He’ll be okay in a while.

While writers are confident in our ability most days, we embrace the moments where we wonder what the hell we were thinking when we published a single page of our writing. We savor them. We roll around in the tortuous feelings of inadequacy and misery,  until they have crept into our pores, saturated our psyches, because we know these feelings will push us toward greatness. These feelings force us to learn something mindfuckingly amazing about ourselves or our writing. For me, those dark moments are the days I study an author I admire so I can learn a new skill or refine an existing one. Those are also the days I edit. When I hate myself, I do some damn fine rewrites.

 

 

 

Tagged: advice, authors, confidence, ego, self-publishing, writing

Small Town Life

The Tweed gossip mill has been churning so hard lately I think I see smoke drifting from its wheels. Someone said something and someone else got mad and someone else told someone else and that someone went back to the original someone, but the story changed slightly, so the first someone is pissed at the second someone, and new someones got involved, and now everyone’s all “Oooh… there’s gonna be a beating…”

Just kidding. We don’t beat people all willy nilly up here. But watching it unfold reminds me of all the little things that bother me about this place.

Living in a small town is kind of like living in a bubble. It’s close, tight even, and you can’t help but notice everything that happens. Everyone knows you, or has heard of you, and whatever you say or do can come back to haunt you whenever the universe deems it time to bite you in the ass. Now, I’m not knocking small towns. Not entirely anyway. The air is clean! No traffic! Everyone knows your name… wait, that’s not a “pro.” But you can walk to every destination, and oh my shit, the people are sooooo friendly!

Most of them are friendly.

Some are friendly.

We have good intentions?

I’ve lived in a small town my whole life. It’s my fault I’m still here. I chose to stay, because as much as I hate it sometimes, I would miss this shit hole. I’d miss the people and the dependability of it all. However, if you don’t understand small town politics, or if you dare to step outside the established social rules, you could dig yourself a hole of awful so deep, you’ll never be able to climb out. Small towns NEVER forget.

Think of small town life like high school. They’re both full of cliques. Sure, city folk deal with this too, but in a small town, you’re in a fish bowl environment, so you can’t avoid these assholes. And social media has made the world of a small town girl even smaller. If you don’t hear about it at the post office or the local coffee shop, you can be sure to read it on Facebook or Twitter.

Wonderful.

I graduated high school with most of the kids I met on the first day of kindergarten. My children have the same teachers I had in school, and their classmates are the offspring of my classmates. A new person in town is a fucking monumental event. Who are they? Where are they from? Are they on crack? Probably a murderer. All outsiders are fucked up. We know this. Let’s get him before he can get us.

*meets new person on the street*

“Hi,” big smiles. “So you bought the old Cassidy place.”

“Um… I did?”

“Yeah,” smiles maniacally. “You got kids?”

“Two.”

*probably little fucking criminal assholes*

“Me too.”

“Oh? How old are they?”

Blah, blah, blah.

“Well, have a nice day.”

*Smiling all the way to BFF’s house where you will share your weird meeting with the newb.*

That new family has an advantage over the rest of us. They have a clean slate. However, they also have a huge mountain to climb if they ever want to fit in. First, all the locals are discussing them, but rarely talking TO them. We’re buzzing about, deciding whether or not we’ll talk to them or try to befriend them. We’re making up stories to fill their empty slate, and then we wait to see which one sticks. We watch others. See who they gravitate toward. I mean, if they decide to be friends with the breeders or the barfly who never seems to go to work, well we want no part of that. On the other hand, if they end up pals with that stuck-up bunch at the top of the town hierarchy, well they obviously think they’re too good for us. Fucking pretentious snobs. They’re what’s wrong with everything. Privileged bunch of pricks.

Just kidding. (Or am I?)

Anyway…

The new family will walk a tightrope they’re not aware they’re on. The choices they make, the people they’re nice to, and even the clothes they wear will determine their place in town for as long as they remain, which is usually forever. Let’s face it: Once in, you usually don’t get out.

Still, the new family has it better than some of the natives do. No one knows their story, so they can make shit up. For the rest of us, your last name can make you, or break you. For example, in school, your older siblings can fuck you over big time. Whatever they did will haunt you. Teacher calls your name, asks if you know so-and-so, you say “Yeah, he’s my brother,” and there you go. Fucked. Your reputation begins where your asshole brother left off. If you don’t have siblings, consider what your mother and father might have done to ruin your good name. Even your loser cousin can leave a stain on your name.

It’s the same when you grow up. Your reputation in a small down depends largely on your family. If they’re dicks, you’re a dick. Nope. No fighting it. It simply is. A small town is like an annoying elephant, never forgetting shit. Ever.

Don’t know what you’re doing? Someone else does and they’ll tell you. They’ll tell everyone.

You don’t like everyone all up in your business. No one does. But for the love of Christ, don’t EVER voice an unpopular opinion. Are you stupid? Your opinion is only valuable if the majority says it is. You will be able to determine this by listening to the local gossip. Figure out which way the vote is swinging. If no one is parroting what you’re thinking, you keep your goddamn mouth closed. You hear me?

And let’s not forget the weird factor. Every small town has a strangeness that is unique to its residents. What is it? Well, it’s not always definable. The combined quirks of the town’s residents often give a small town a sort of “Deliverance” meets “Twilight Zone” meets “Twin Peaks” feel.

Or is that just Tweed?

Don’t get me wrong. I love my small town. I love the community, the reliability (ain’t nobody coming in without us knowing about it), and the way that we all come together like family when tragedy occurs. It’s also full of rich, unique characters and storylines that are valuable to writer types.

So, I guess I don’t hate it. I resent the superficiality of our politics, and the predictability of some of my neighbors is annoying, but I think my small town life has given more than it’s taken from me. I mean without it, I might not have been driven to write, and I know you’re all grateful for that. (winky face)

Tagged: life, small towns, tweed, writing

Shits, Giggles and Book Launches

As some of you know, about a month ago, I released Bayou Baby and Nefarious (book 3 in my For the Love of Gods series), but didn’t do the bells and whistles stuff I usually do with a launch. Actually, I released Lascivious (book 2 of For the Love of Gods) in April with minimal hoopla as well. So, on Sunday, August 2, I’ll throw some glitter around for a virtual launch party. Join me and a few friends on the Facebook to win freebies and (hopefully) be entertained.

My book launches usually lean toward the adult side (if you can call us adults, I suppose), so… yeah. Warning: There will be profanity and inappropriate sexual innuendos.

 

I’ll also be giving away ebooks by other DeadPixel authors as well, so if my romance, horror, humor, paranormal themes aren’t your thing, there will be lots of opportunities to get your hands on books that are.

Okay, so obligatory promotional post is done.

Why not do a publishing update for inquiring minds? Sure. So, I just finished typing “The End” on the second book in the Fangs and Fur series, tentatively titled “Sex, Transvestites, Angels, and Assholes.” I think it’s way funnier than the first, but I’m biased, so we shall see. I’ve also started final edits on the fourth book in the For the Love of Gods series, but it has no title. I mean, I’ve slapped “Ominous” on there, but I’m not sure I like it. I’ll keep you posted on that one.

I’m starting Fangs and Fur’s third installment this week, after I tweak the outline, and I’ve been puttering away at two new projects as well. The first will be horror/thriller, not sure if it’s dark enough for horror, but like everything else, we’ll see, and the second is a twisted fairy tale novel that takes all of my favorite fairy tale characters and fucks them over. In my mind it’s very dark, but (you guessed it) we shall see if you agree.

So now you’re updated. Stop by the launch party on Sunday at noon, and enjoy the shits and giggles.

Tagged: books, DeadPixel Publications, facebook launch, freebies, promotion, publishing

Buckle Up, We’re Going Inside My Head

I’m asked frequently how I come up with my characters, stories, situations, etc. My answer is usually, “Oh, you know, stuff.” Because I can’t explain it very well. It’s just there. The ideas form for various reasons, and the characters just appear. The things they do just happen. I have no logical explanation. It just is what it is. There is a constant movie playing in my head. Sometimes the actors change, and sometimes the plot changes, but it’s there. The voices, the colors, and the sounds play on a loop. Sometimes I sit down and let them out. Most of the time I have to record and save them for later and hope like hell they don’t get deleted by my faulty brain.

I had a discussion with friends recently, where we talked about our “process” and then we moved on to unsupportive spouses and family. I’m lucky, because my loved ones are supportive of my writing. Sure, my spouse wishes I’d clean a toilet now and then, but he’s not jealous of the time it takes me away from him, and he wants to see me succeed. Of course, he’d love to see some cold hard cash rolling in as a result of these things I keep publishing, but he gets that I love what I do and he would never take that away from me.

But not all spouses, family members or friends look at the bigger picture. They see you, their loved one, depressed about rejections. They see you spending hours at a project that returns almost zero rewards (to the outside world at least) and sometimes they get a little jealous. Why would you want to spend hour after hour in front of a computer screen, hating yourself and what you’ve written, instead of spending it with them?

Perhaps if everyone who isn’t a writer understood what goes on inside the mind of an author, they’d be more supportive, because they might get the hard work and dedication it requires. So, I’m going to let you all inside my head. Maybe it’ll help your loved ones see that you’re not hopeless (or at least not as hopeless as that Miller chick). Buckle up. A couple of hours inside my head is about to begin:

*happy humming*

I’m going to write all the shit today. Totally going to write it. All of it… I’m gonna be all…

*stares at screen*

Maybe I’ll just look at what I wrote yesterday first. Get the juices flowing again. God, I hate that word. Juices… juice… juicy… ju-see… moist. Hate moist more. Mo-iiii-sss-t.

*shudder*

Twitter…

Poor E.L. James. People are dicks.

Then I again, I wonder how she got where she is. Depressing. If that’s what readers want, then I’m up shit creek without my paddle and stuff. I’d never even try to paddle a boat in the first place. Definitely not through a creek of shit. Stupid saying. Stupid people.

*back to blank page*

I should write something about a writer who loses her mind. Has that been done before? Hmm. Yeah, it has. Something else. Someone else loses their mind and kills people. Or maybe not. Maybe someone just loses it and ends up spiralling out of control until he or she dies.

No. That’s dumb. I’m dumb. Well, not dumb. I’m procrastinating. Never get anywhere if I keep doing this.

What if I never become famous? Fame is overrated anyway, so I don’t care. I just want the money—no, the fans. I want the fans. Okay, I do want to be famous. Not stalker-killer-fan famous, but at least fifty to a hundred Amazon reviews famous.

For every book. Yeah…

Oh, right. Reading yesterday’s work. This is good. Well, it’s not fantastic, but it doesn’t suck. Well, okay, that part sucks.

*deleting*

I could use it later, though. It might work in that other book.

*clicks curly arrow thing*

No, I should just delete it.

*deleting again*

Now that line is brilliant. I should share that on Facebook… but it doesn’t make sense without the whole paragraph.

*copies paragraph and pastes into Facebook status*

*Stares at status update.*

No, it kind of sucks now. Forget it.

*deletes Facebook status*

Candy Crush.

No. I’m writing today. I’m doing it. Forget Facebook. Forget all the things. Just write. Something. Anything.

*drifts into daydream*

It’s dark in here, Mommy. Why aren’t there any lights? I’m so cold and alone. You can’t write about a kidnapped child. Too cliché.

*reset film*

Dangerous, sexy, god man. Mmm. What’s he doing? Nothing but being sexy. He’s useless to me. I’ll save him for the shower.

*reset film*

Dark warehouse. Guy is… cutting something… no he’s… not a guy. A girl! He’s a woman. Cutting something. Cutting… why are they always cutting? Why can’t they do something more interesting?

I’m ridiculous. No one will read that stuff. It’s already been done. I could put a secret plot in there, or weirdness, everyone likes weirdness… maybe some kinky sex… wish I’d thought of an abusive sex god boyfriend like E.L. James did. I’d have to kill him off, though. No one likes an abusive boyfriend, even if he is good in bed. Not that Christian Grey was good in bed. Maybe he was, but evidence suggests he was just mean and bossy. Although, orgasms on command. Awesome…

I see why she is where she is. It’s like an epiphany. Still depressing.

I’m wasting time. No more reading. Just writing. I am a professional for crying out loud.

*scrolls to bottom of document*

I’m going to write a scene. Just one scene. Then I’ll wash the dishes. Or watch Netflix. I love Netflix.

Yeah… so this guy is going down. Not literally down. He’s going down in the bad way. But how? I can’t believe I didn’t outline this shit better. I’m terrible at this. If anyone finds out how truly awful I am at writing…

*heart flutter*

*email bleeps*

Oh! An email!

Crap. Just Amazon suggestions. Sigh. Back to writing.

*types a line, then deletes it and types another*

Oh, that’s good. It’s passable.

*types a few more lines. Idea appears.*

Better jot that down for later, because I’ll forget it.

*makes note and continues typing*

I’ve written20,000 words already. Why is a simple 500-word scene so hard? I hate this book. Hate it. Haaaate. Ugh. I’m so pathetic. And hungry. Wonder if there are any Pop Tarts left.

*email bleeps again*

Oh! Another email.

It’s from the agent I queried when I was twelve. Wow, he got back to me fast.

I don’t want to open it. But I have to or I won’t know. He’ll reject. They always reject. This one might not, though. All answers are a no unless you… what was that quote? I don’t know. Fuck it.

*clicks email*

“I’m sorry but….”

Sigh. Another rejection to add to my sad pile. I’m just going to do this one on my own anyway. I don’t know why I always send queries. It’s like… stupid.

*dies a little inside*

I better cheer up before anyone sees me wallowing in silliness. It’s just a rejection. Not personal.

Not. Personal.

Hate that agent. Must remember to unfollow him on Twitter. That’ll show him. Cocky little prick.

But back to writing.

Why did I put that guy there? If he’s going to be there, then he can’t be where I need him for the next scene. I’m going to have to fix that. Later. I’ll make a note for now. No time to stop. The juices are flowing.

*giggle*

Juices.

*hour of silent typing*

I need to read this before I do anymore. It’s probably not even usable. God, it’s like, I can’t even wipe my own ass some days.

*reads scene*

Wow. That doesn’t suck. I deserve a reward. Netflix. Then maybe more writing, because I’m on a roll. This is going to be the best book yet. The BEST. I’m so awesome.

*goes to investigate Pop Tart situation*

Yeah. Authors are terrified, self-indulgent, masochists, but we’re also optimists. How twisty is that?

The next time the important people in your life make you feel like you’re wasting your time with this writing thing, or they question why you beat yourself up so much, try this. Let them inside your head. Be honest about why you do it and how important their support is to you. If they don’t try to understand or continue to make you feel bad about it, then ask yourself why you’ve given them the honorable title of “important,” because they certainly haven’t earned it.

Tagged: humor, publishing, rejection, writing

The Cult of Renee: Now Accepting New Minions

All of the most successful authors have a cult-like following of readers. I want this. Since it rarely happens naturally, I’ve researched what it would take to just start my own cult. It’s pretty simple actually. I’ve scribbled down a few simple steps and I really think we can make this happen.

Pick your bullshit belief system.

Basically, you can build a cult around anything. Meatballs, pizza, God, not God, yourself (which would also be “not God”, unless there’s something you haven’t told me), or a celebrity. My cult will believe in me, because if they don’t believe in me, why would they buy my books? Exactly.

Choose a leader.

If you don’t choose yourself, get the fuck out of here. You don’t deserve your own cult.

Write your commandments.

Also known as rules your group has to follow. Don’t worry about sounding bossy. Cult followers love that shit. Rule them, damn it!

I’ve already compiled a rough draft of my cult’s commandments. Of course, these will change depending on several factors, such as mood, day of the week, level of alcohol in my system, etc.

You may covet the neighbor’s wife. Just don’t bang her. You have to live next door to these people for crying out loud. A little common sense goes a long way.
Thou shalt not murder, unless thou has a damn good reason. And if thou gets caught, don’t come crying to me. You’re on your own, you murdering idiot.
Thou shalt not utter the word “moist.” ‘Tis forbidden. Always.
Never waste bacon and never use bacon’s name in vain.
Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you. *winky face* Unless they’re assholes. It’s okay to be mean to assholes.
Pants shall not be worn, as they are the devil’s work.
Thou shalt not love other authors before me. You can read them, just don’t love them.
Monday is the Sabbath, because the Cult of Renee is done being Monday’s bitch.
Coffee is sacred. Thou shalt not ingest that instant crap, or the crap without caffeine. Both are sacrilege and should not exist.
Thou shall eat poutine at least thrice weekly, because it’s delicious.

Write “The Book”

Every cult needs a body of work to read, quote, snuggle up to. As a writer, this is something I look forward to. My very own “bible.” It shall be vague, yet deep. Profound even. No one will truly understand the Book of Renee, nor should they.

Choose a motto.

Every cult has a slogan of some kind. What’s yours gonna be? For the Cult of Renee, I’m thinking something like, “Fuck it.”

Build a Hierarchy

Minions are easy to find, but you need a couple of henchmen with the authority to act in your name. This ensures none of your minions—I mean readers, wanders away from the flock. This means you need a couple of cult members who are aware that you are not the literary messiah, but who believe you “might” be with a little work. I already have my henchmen selected.

Recruit

You need minions, as I said. You and a couple of your friends meeting every Saturday does not make a cult. It’s a couple of losers meeting every Saturday. You need folks who love you so fervently, they’d die for you. But don’t be that kind of cult. Mass suicide is never the answer. To recruit, you’ll need to your minions potential followers as the most special damn folks on the planet. Spoil them. Love them. Give them a few free books here and there. Never insult or berate them (Unless they speak against you. In that case, burn the motherfuckers down.). Sexual favors should be given out sparingly, because obviously, but only use them as a reward. Also, be prepared to punish naughty members. (giggle) If you want them to preach to the world about your awesomeness, your cult members must either love you, or fear you. Keep in mind, though, that honey attracts flies or something. You know what I mean.

Act Cultish

If you don’t all dress the same, talk the same, and do weird shit like lay flat on the ground every time someone says “frittata,” no one will take you seriously. So you have to figure out which cult quirks will work for you. For example, Hugh Howey’s minions find a way to mention Hugh Howey in every conversation. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. And E.L. James minions build a secret torture room and become wet and swoony at arrogant, abusive behavior. Stephen King’s flock… what do they do anyway? I don’t know, but I bet it’s weird as fuck.

Also, cults have an elitist energy, like “If you aren’t one of us, you’re no one.” So, start treating anyone who doesn’t join your cult like shit on the bottom of your shoe. Don’t explain why. Ruins the fun.

Give them a piece of you.

Not literally, because that’s gross. Maybe you could give out tiny statues of yourself. Or playing cards. Or even just a t-shirt. Your followers need to be able to carry a piece of you around in order to feel closer to you. This closeness fosters loyalty and all that fun stuff. I know, they have your books, but with digital and stuff, it’s not as simple as that anymore.

Oh! I’m getting a Renee bobble-head.

So, what are you waiting for? Sign up in the comments.

Tagged: authors, cult of Renee, humor, promotion