Renee Miller's Blog, page 17

The Bright Side Is In Your Ass

I’m kidding. Well mostly. Maybe you do have brightness in your ass. I’ve never (and will never) look, so I don’t know. I just wanted to get your attention. Today I’m feeling like I want to make a pseudo-rant. It’s not angry, per say, but it’s irritated. Is that okay? I don’t really care. I’m going to do it anyway.

Those of you who know me only from my social media presence may believe I’m a happy and easy going person. Perhaps it seems I don’t get emotional about much and maybe you think everything’s just a big frigging joke to me. Okay, you’re partly right.

Maybe some of you see through the façade and realize I’m a total drama queen.

My mind goes constantly. I’m not saying I’m a genius. Jesus, I’m so far from that. I’m saying I’m constantly thinking. Sometimes it’s stupid shit, like what would happen if cockroaches became sentient beings? Or the earwigs. Yikes. Hate the earwigs. Creepy bastards. But sometimes it’s deep, thoughtful shit too like … I don’t have an example of that. Anyway, because of all of this thinking, my tendency to be irritated by minor, admittedly stupid things, and the voices in my head (that are not crazy voices) I experience so many emotions in any given hour; it’s really amazing I don’t spontaneously combust. I used to let it drive me batshit, but one day I decided it had to stop. Sure I pitch tantrums now and then. Ask the lovely people who claim to love me. They laugh at said tantrums regularly. But my episodes are short-lived and no one is usually harmed in the process.

I have to confess, the publishing industry turned me into an emotional nutcase pretty fast. God, everyone’s so dramatic and crazy around here. Why is she getting a movie deal? Her book is utter shit. Why are they even reading that smut? There shouldn’t even BE a porn genre. Self-publishing is for losers. Traditional/legacy publishing is for sheep. Agents are dicks. Agents are gods. Now repeat all of that over and over and over again. I got sucked right into the roller coaster and yes, I acted like a giant dick more than once.

It took a couple of years, but I finally found my happy place in this industry and in life. I just had to learn to laugh at myself (and sometimes at you). Sure, I get mad. Sure I rant about you guys and say nasty things about your ancestry, but I never do it online. And I usually don’t mean what I say about you.

Instead of getting all red-faced and scratchy, I try to find the funny in it all. Glass half-full and all that annoying shit you wish those tree-hugging, pot smoking freaks would just fuck off about. The thing is, life isn’t a permanent thing and there are so many people out there who are far worse off than we are. It seems like your world is going to shit and it’s never going to get better, but there are very few people who don’t feel the exact same thing at least once a week. Usually, we’re just being babies.

When my first daughter was born, I decided I couldn’t stand the sight of her father anymore. There were events and such that lead to this revelation, but we won’t get into that. Let’s just say I pitched a tantrum of sorts, and I called it quits. The next morning I was convinced I ruined my whole life and I’d never be happy again, because no one would ever love me and blah, blah, blah. Cue the tiny violin. Oh the months of tears and sleepless nights that followed should’ve won me some kind of award. I committed to my misery, man. It was epic and there was much snot.

But ending my marriage was the best decision I could’ve made for both of us. We moved on.

When I had my second daughter, Fate decided to show me what a truly whiny and pathetic bitch I was. Ken was born hearing impaired with holes in her heart and some possible neurological issues. She was sick most of the time; got meningitis and pretty much scared the fuck out of me on a daily basis for about two years.

And I re-learned how to start looking at the positives. First, hearing impaired is no big deal. Kids adapt and they are amazing at making the best out of what they’ve got. Holes in her heart closed, and she’s alive. So many people (and children) endure far worse. Also, the kid has a mouth on her like… never mind. She’s precious. I’m lucky to still have her.

Then in 2012 (as most of you know), I lost my dad. Saying I was a Daddy’s girl would be an understatement. That

man played a major role in who I am and how I live my life. When I lost him, I became so angry and depressed, and I felt so empty, it was really hard to maintain a happy face anywhere.

But I did it. Mostly. Okay, I know you guys endured some tearful bits and pieces. Sorry about that.

Losing my dad really slammed this whole “don’t sweat the small stuff” concept home for me. Life is hard. Publishing is hard. Being nice is hard. It’s all hard. Can you even believe I just wrote “hard” that many times? I know, right?

Anyway, dwelling on the negatives only makes life harder.

Social media is where I go to entertain, to promote my work and blow off steam. This morning I went to the Facebook and it was an angry and stressful place. Everywhere I looked it was either political or religious or just whiny and sad. If I have a chi, it is most certainly fucked by all the nasty on there. I was like, “Guys! Don’t bring your angry to Facebook. It’s not right.” And of course, they didn’t listen to me, because sadly, I don’t own the Facebook.

But how hard is it to just try to find the bright side? If you can’t find it, remember that if you were born in the 70′s to 80′s, you probably had a rat tail, a mullet, or a perm (or all three), so how can you ever take yourself too seriously? If you’re not old like me, well screw you.

My point (there’s always one eventually) is don’t let the vitriol loose in cyberspace where it will float around aimlessly until it finds a way to bite you right in the ball sack when you least expect it. Just leave it at home. (Should “ball sack” be one word? Hyphenated maybe? Bothers me.)

Personally, if I don’t make one person shoot coffee out their nose each day, then I’ve failed you all. I don’t cry about it, though. I just aim higher the next day.

WANT SOME CHEESE WITH YOUR WHINE?

 

 

No one likes a whiner. There. I said it. But we all have those moments where it just squeaks out, right? I whine. A lot. But I try not to do it publicly. Mostly because it’s like expressing emotion, and public emotion is gross. Let’s all agree on that.

In the publishing industry there are a ton of ups and downs. I guess “a ton” is kind of an understatement. This industry can be harsh, unfair and full of bullshittery. We’ve got a lot to whine about. It’s tempting to rant every day, all day about how unfair it all is. I mean, we have to work real jobs, take care of families, write, submit, query, and shower. It’s all gotta be done. Ranting is one thing. There’s an art to it, and it takes skill. Whining, though, is a quick way to lose…well…everybody. No one wants to hear it.

So, how do you avoid it? You watch for the signs. I’ve got a list. Don’t you worry your pretty little heads. If you catch yourself doing/thinking any of these things just stop. Take a breath. Grow up.

I’m over at DeadPixel’s blog again today. My discussion topic: Whiners. Crybabies. You know, annoying shit. Come join the discussion.

http://www.deadpixelpublications.com/1/post/2014/02/want-some-cheese-with-your-whine.html

Tagged: DeadPixel Publications, life, professionalism, whiners, writing

Want Some Quick Cash? Monster Porn May be the Answer

Want Some Quick Cash? Monster Porn May be the Answer

Hey folks, I’m over at DeadPixel’s blog again. We’re talking about porn. And this:

 

You know you’re curious.

Tagged: dinosaur sex, humor, porn, publishing, Sasquatches, writing

It’s Writing and Sharing Day, You Lucky Bastards

It’s not often I devote an entire day to writing and editing, but since I was up early (thank you asshole cat) and finished my “real” work before 8am, I claimed the rest of this fine Sunday for fiction.

You may remember me talking about LUSCIOUS, the second novel in my For the Love of Gods series. Well now it’s title is MENDACIOUS and I’m editing. Beta readers have done their thing and the suggestions all point to giving Sarah and Dionysus a bit more backstory. So I have, and I’m pretty damn happy with the result. I love you, Beta Readers. Don’t stop being awesome.

Anyway, one of the new scenes has Dionysus and Sarah meeting before Aphrodite and Eros decide to meddle and before Dionysus is sent to take over Thanatos’s job as Death.

I thought you guys would enjoy seeing their new first impressions of each other. Don’t worry, it’s a short scene. Enjoy.

 

Sarah didn’t know why she let herself get suckered into going to a bachelorette party. She barely knew Julie, who was the bride-to-be, or any of her other coworkers, all of whom were slipping money into G-string’s of three strange men and drinking frilly cocktails. In the room next door, the groom and his buddies were doing the same with a few female strippers.

“Loosen up, newbie.” Charlotte, her cubicle neighbor, patted Sarah a little too hard on the back. “It’s a party.”

Sarah smiled and sipped her drink. It didn’t taste awful, but it was far from delicious. “I’m fine. I just don’t know anyone very well.”

Charlotte nodded. “Too bad they won’t keep you on. You’re a better employee than Marla. She’s such a bitch.”

“Well she’s a bitch who had the job before me, and next week she’ll be back from maternity leave.”

“Still sucks. I liked you, even if you’re a little weird.”

Sarah smiled. Charlotte was one of those nosy, pushy, touchy, huggy types. She had to know everything and everyone, and she’d made Sarah one of her projects. Sarah couldn’t wait for Marla to return so she could move on to the next temp job, sans Charlotte.

The women squealed and Sarah turned. A tall man with a head full of mahogany curls had entered the room.

“Hey, do you smell grapes?” Charlotte asked. “Who is that? We only hired the cop strippers.”

“Maybe he’s with the hotel?” Sarah suggested.

“I hope he stays.” Charlotte’s voice was strange. She joined the other women at the door.

Sarah felt a sudden urge to follow, but sat on the uncomfortable chair instead.

“I thought this was a wedding party,” the man said over the women’s chatter. Was Julie rubbing his—oh, not good. He wound slim fingers into Julie’s brown hair. “And you’re the bride?”

Julie nodded. “It’s my bachelorette party. Bobby’s next door.”

“Why don’t we invite the groom and his friends over here?” He smiled and Sarah would have sworn the estrogen level in the room soared through the roof.

Bobby and his friends entered the room and things went from bad to very strange. Sarah picked up her purse, set down her drink, and attempted to inch toward the door.

“Leaving so soon?”

Damn. Sarah turned. Burgundy eyes stared down into hers. She looked for an excuse, but nothing came to mind. “Uh…yes.”

“You’ll miss all the fun.” He said.

“I always do.” She rushed past him and to the door. No one paid attention as she opened it and stepped into the hallway. Before she closed the door, Sarah took one last look, meeting the stranger’s burgundy eyes again. He raised a thin eyebrow. God, she knew better than to do that. Never look back. Never.

Julie moved in front of him. Where was her shirt? Sarah almost gasped as Julie, the sweetest, most in love woman she’d ever seen, sank to her knees in front of a man who was definitely not her fiancé.

She met the man’s eyes again. He put his hand to his ear and mouthed, “Call me.”

Sarah slammed the door. “Asshole.”

Tagged: beta readers, Dionysus, FLOG, Lucky, Luscious, Mendacious, sharing, writing

Writers and Research: The Truth

Writers work hard. Sometimes we even write every day. Most of that writing is completely worthless, but we write it and that’s all that matters. Non-writers imagine us hammering away at our craft.

While fiction writing is basically playing pretend and writing all the shit down, we have to use facts occasionally. This is when we must research. You might know writers who tell you about all the time they spend researching, and we do research, but it’s not quite as much work as we let you believe, because we can’t focus on real life things like facts for too long. Our brains are special, tender things, like delicate flowers.

Okay, that’s bullshit. The truth? Well I’ve compiled a guide to show you what we really do when we’re “researching.” We do actually look stuff up and we read a lot of things, but a day of researching typically includes about an hour of research and 7 hours of …other activities.

So here’s how it usually goes (Disclaimer: activities may vary slightly depending on genre, location, alcohol tolerance, and fondness for porn and such, but the amount of research remains pretty much the same. Those who claim otherwise are probably high.)

Go to Google.

http://everythingfunny.org/funny-fails/wtf-funny-google-search-fail/

Phew! That was exciting, right?

Type in the topic we’re researching. Side note: Yesterday I looked up the etymology of beaver, because curiosity forced me to do it. Did you know that the C-word is believed to originate with a street called “Gropecuntelane?”  Anyway, the results kept me occupied for hours. There are many words for vagina, which is a useful thing to know, because who wants to call it a warm sleeve or a moist cavern? There are people who find such metaphorical shit romantic. I am not one of those people. Anyway, here’s a link I found that shares some classy alternatives for all the pussies out there who are afraid to use the words vagina and penis. End side note.

Oh! Mail.

http://joshuakaiser.com/tag/email/

Check email. Ten minute jaunt through Cyberspace. (Sometimes longer, because it’s Cyberspace and it’s awwwwesome.) Side note: People who type “aweee” as a way to convey a long, drawn out “awe” are assholes. You’re trying to draw out the w sound, not the e. With the extra e’s you’d actually sound like an idiot. Not that either one is technically a word, nor should writers use them, but I just did, because I wanted to tell you all to stop adding the extra e’s and that’s the only way I could.  Every time you do it, a unicorn dies, and that sucks. End side note.

Okay, now we’re back to Google. No, not Google. Let’s get a real book this time. Shut down the computer.

Contemplate going to a library. Fuck it. Libraries smell like fart and old. Well, my library does. It’s not their fault. They keep a clean ship, but someone old is farting in there all the time. Anyway, find a book at home. Open book.

Scan a few pages.

Hungry. Is it lunch yet? No? Snack time then.  Commence sixty minutes searching cupboards. Eat crackers. Is that a bug or a burn mark? Oh well.

Back to book. Scan a page or two.

Fuck this shit.

Turn on the computer.

Scratch balls. (Even if we don’t have them.) Type in search words again. What is that speck that keeps convincing you it’s a period? Weird. Wipe computer screen with sleeve. Speck appears in new position. Lose interest in speck.

Read a few articles and such. Think about how it’s weird that Wiki has ALL THE INFORMATION, but it’s usually wrong. Leave Wiki and go somewhere “reliable.”

Make a couple of notes. Pick nose. (You know you do it.) Contemplate what to do with boogie. Wipe it on the cat.

Bored again. Go to the Facebook. Play Candy Crush or Farmville, or whatever. Don’t judge us. We’re THINKING, assholes. Some of us (Ahem, Christian) get sidetracked by porn. Not me, (not since the beavers anyway) but some of us. So just be happy we’re playing stupid games.

Realize procrastination is taking over research. Go back to Google.

Stare at the wall. It holds a secret. Someday, it’ll crack.

Head hurts thinking about walls and cracks.

Coffee or booze? Booze it is. Another 60 minutes in the kitchen trying to remember why we’re in the kitchen. Oh look, vodka!

Drink.

Think about how much easier it’d be to just make shit up instead of writing about real places and things. Decide making shit up is a fantastic idea.

http://www.lolshelf.com/page/8278

Go back to computer and write as though we know what we’re writing about knowing full well the research will have to be done during editing. But editing is another story full of crying and praying, snot and boogies and, of course, booze.

Tagged: google, humor, research, truth, vagina, writing

It’s Monday, And Mondays Suck, So Here’s Something to Read

So, I’m supposed to be working, but we’re having a snow day, so the kids are home and Kurt’s sleeping because he’s working nights, and you know how I roll. I’m writing a blog post instead.

What’s it about? Nothing really. I’m waiting for LUCKY’s edits, and I just send LUSCIOUS off to beta readers, and I should be writing articles or finishing OBAMANATION. Instead, I’m going to share a bit of what I’ve written with you. Why? Because I’m bored with this post already and I don’t want you all to get bored and run away. So, here’s a little sample of Obamanation.

 

Veronica stared at the line of cars stretching in front of her windshield. After about four or five, they blurred into shadows under the darkening sky. She and her best friend, Tammy, would have to shorten their annual shopping trip. Another reason for Tammy’s friend, Jessica, to bitch, something she’d become increasingly adept at the longer they stayed in the van.

She sighed. “Looks like we’re not making it across before dark.”

“Bastards probably went on break or something,” Jessica mumbled from the back seat. “Is it always like this?”

Veronica shook her head. “No. Sometimes we wait a bit, but the line never stops completely like this.”

 “What’s that?” Tammy leaned forward, pointing at the center of the windshield.

Veronica frowned. Several green vehicles moved along the left side of the road, stopping in a cluster a few feet away from Veronica’s van.

“Not sure.” Veronica squinted, but couldn’t make out the writing on the side of the first truck. “Looks like army trucks. That one at the back looks like a tank.”

“Why would they need a tank?”

Veronica shrugged. “Maybe they found someone with drugs or something. If it was big, the military might get involved. Maybe they caught a fugitive or a terrorist.”

“So they bring a tank?” Jessica asked. “Overkill much?”

“Those are American tanks,” Tammy said.

Not likely. Their government wouldn’t let an American tank across the border. “How can you tell?”

“On the side. Isn’t that an American flag?”

Veronica couldn’t see any flags. A group of soldiers stood around the tanks, but they didn’t move.

“Look,” Tammy pointed again. “People are getting out of their cars. Maybe one of us should go ask what’s happening.”

“I think we’re good right here.” Veronica’s gut twisted.

One of soldiers turned toward the line of cars. He lifted an air horn to his mouth. “Please remain in your vehicles. Failure to obey my instructions will result in arrest.”

Two cars ahead, a man leaned into his car, but didn’t get back in. He emerged with a cell phone. What was he doing? Unless he had a direct line to the Prime Minister, he wasn’t going to get the line moving.

“Everyone get back into your vehicles. This is your final warning.” The voice shouting orders at them sounded familiar, but Veronica couldn’t place where she’d heard it before.

“Buddy’s taking pictures.” Tammy said.

The man aimed the phone at air horn man, and then shifted to point it at the tanks.

“Maybe he’s sending them to a friend.” Veronica said.

Tammy snorted. “Or the local news.”  

A popping noise sounded in the distance.

Veronica’s breath caught in her chest. “What the hell?”

“Tell me I’m not hearing gunshots.” Jessica covered her face with her hands.

“Could be fireworks,” Veronica suggested. If someone was being a douchebag, Customs would arrest the idiot, not kill them. Maybe one of the people trying to cross had a gun, and they were doing the shooting.  

Screams joined the popping sounds. The man with the phone ducked behind his door, his arm still raised to take pictures.

The man with the air horn looked right at camera guy.

Veronica heart pounded. “Get in your car, stupid.”

“I hope he’s sending pictures to someone other than his wife.” Jessica said. “Maybe he’s someone important in the government, and they’ll come sort this shit out.”

Air horn man said something to the soldier beside him. The soldier nodded and raised a rifle.

“Oh shit,” Veronica slouched into her seat.

They fired a shot, and several more followed. She closed her eyes, expecting to feel a bullet in her body any second.

“Holy fuck,” Tammy cried. “They shot him. Veronica, turn the van around.”

“I can’t. There’s like thirty cars behind me.”

“But we have to get out of here. Go out the back?”

“Why? So we’ll make a better target?” Jessica asked. Her hands dug into Veronica’s headrest.

“Tammy’s right,” Veronica said. “We can’t just sit here and wait for our turn to die.”

“How can Americans come over to our side of the border and start shooting people anyway?” Tammy asked. “It’s ridiculous how nice our army is.”

“Maybe everyone at the front of the line is dead.” Jessica said. “Can’t defend nothing when you’re dead.”

Veronica didn’t understand what was happening, but held onto the desperate belief it was something simple and logical. They could be looking for a fugitive. The guy with the phone might not be an innocent bystander. The Canadian government wouldn’t stand for this unless the Americans were after someone dangerous.

“Maybe it’s an anti-terrorism thing,” she suggested.

Jessica snorted. “So why did they kill camera guy? The American’s aren’t usually so keen on keeping terrorist killing hush-hush.”

Veronica watched the man with the air horn. The soldiers fired on his order, so he had to be in charge. Between the hat, the green scarf covering his chin, and the big sunglasses, not an inch of his face showed. Something about him was familiar, though. He spoke to the men surrounding him, pointing ahead and then back in their direction. They nodded and started walking, and each took a position along the line of cars before raising their guns.

“Oh shit,” Veronica slouched in her seat. “Get down and stay down.”

“What are they doing?”

“Get down, Tammy.”

They cowered as low as they could, keeping their bodies below the dash. Shots started, followed by screams, and the glass shattered on top of them. Veronica’s nose was inches from Tammy’s. She looked into her friend’s terrified brown eyes and panic wrapped its icy fingers around her throat.

The guns and screams continued. Veronica risked a glance out the passenger window. The road ended in a culvert and a line of trees lay about twenty feet beyond. If the culvert was big enough, they could hide until the men with guns left.

“Tammy,” Veronica touched her hand. “We have to get out of here, but I need to know you can stay calm.”

“Calm? The fucking Americans are invading.”

“They’re not invading,” She hoped. “Something’s really wrong about this. Just because they have American flags on their shit doesn’t mean they’re real soldiers. It could be a small group of whackjobs out to make a name for themselves.”

“They’re American and they’re killing everyone.”

Veronica sighed. “Canadians have access to American flags too. Look, we’ll worry about who they are later. Right now, I’m going to get into the back and open the door. We’ll jump down and run to the ditch. To the right is a culvert. If it’s big enough, we can run through to the other side. If not, we’ll run to the trees when they’re far enough away for us to have a shot at making it.”

“Suicide mission,” Jessica said.

“Sitting here and letting them shoot us is a better option?”

“No. I’m just saying we’re not likely to make it five feet. But fuck it. Let’s do it anyway.”

            “Okay, Jess should go first.” Tammy said. “Then you, Veronica. I’ll go last. I just need a minute.”

            Veronica didn’t like the way Tammy’s voice faded as she spoke. She gripped the arm of her seat so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“I’m going.” Jessica crawled to the door and slid it open.

“Wait,” Veronica touched her arm. “Listen.”

The gunfire continued without pause.

“Okay, go.”

Jessica slid down to the ground and crouched beside the door. Veronica climbed over the console, trying to keep her head below the dash. Her heart raced, pounding painfully against her chest. When her hands touched the road beside the van, she took a deep breath.

“Come on, Tammy.”

“I can’t do it,” Tammy said.

Fucksakes. “You have to.”

“Tam, move your ass.” Jessica urged. “They’re going to kill you. Better to go down fighting.”

The shots sounded louder. Veronica stood to look through the door to the other side of the van, but saw nothing. She crouched low and crept to the front of the van. Two soldiers fired on the car in front of them. Scrambling back to Jessica, tears blurred her vision.

“Shit, we have to go now.” Veronica pleaded. “Tammy, come on honey, get out of the van.”

Jessica met Veronica’s gaze. “She’s not moving.”

“Tammy, stop being an idiot.” Veronica called.

“I can’t.”

A shadow covered the van and two shots rang out. Jessica gripped Veronica’s arm. The shadow hovered. Veronica heard footsteps. She crouched to the ground, pulling Jessica with her. Beneath the van she watched his boots walk the length of the vehicle. They passed, moving on to the next car.

“Jesus, this is bad.” Jessica said. “Is she—?”

“Tam?” Veronica whispered. Nothing. “Tammy, are you okay?”

Still nothing. She didn’t want to look inside, but they couldn’t leave Tammy there if she was still alive. Taking a breath, Veronica leaned into the van. Tammy lay across the console, blood pouring down her face.

“I think she’s dead,” Veronica’s throat ached as she stifled the urge to cry. She backed out of the van and leaned against the door. “Let’s wait till he’s a few cars down, and then run like a son of a bitch. Don’t look back. Got it?”

Jessica nodded.

Veronica’s legs itched to run, but she remained seated.

“They’re way past the culvert.” Jessica whispered. “Now?”

Veronica closed her eyes. “Yes. Go.”

The sounds of the world stopped and she saw nothing but the brown grass ahead of her, hearing only the sound of the wind in her ears. Somewhere outside her head, Veronica knew they probably shot at her, but she focused only on putting one foot in front of the other.

She realized Jessica was no longer in front of her, and fought the urge to look back. Veronica approached the culvert, realized it was covered, and veered to her right, toward the trees. Hopefully Jessica saw her change course, but she didn’t have time to worry about anything but escape, and kept going until she passed the tree line.

The sounds of the highway faded. Veronica’s lungs threatened to burst. Finally her legs refused to go further and she fell to her knees. Risking a look behind her, she almost cried. No Jessica. On the bright side, no one chased her either.

“Hello, what’s this now?” A male voice with a thick British accent said.

Veronica turned. Three men stood in front of her, but the darkening sky cast shadows over their faces. “Did you escape too?”

“From where love?”

“The border. They’re shooting everyone.”

“Who is?”

“The…I think it’s the Americans. They had American uniforms and trucks.”

“We came from the other direction. Shooting everyone you say?”

“Don’t tell me they’re invading the whole country.”

He laughed. “Not yet. Are you hurt? Come closer so we can make sure you’re okay. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

Veronica met his dark gaze and something in her gut tightened. He smiled.

What. The. Fuck.

“Ben, leave her alone.” The man beside him said. He crouched, and Veronica’s heart slowed its maddening pace. He looked her up and down, and she noticed his blue eyes had a hint of gold around the edges.

“Ben’s just being an asshole.” He smiled. “Ignore him. Did anyone else get away?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.” She didn’t see anyone else run, but surely someone had the same idea she did. “My friend was running with me, but I’ve lost her. I hope she made it. This is crazy.”

“Well, I don’t think you have anything to worry about now. They only want to keep you in the country. I doubt they’re invading yet.”

“You’re—you have an accent.” She slowly got to her feet. Southern. American. “You’re one of them.”

“And I’m stuck here, just like you. I have no idea why they’re shooting everyone.”

She stared at the British one. While she may have imagined the fangs, there was something weird about his skin. A shiver crept up her spine at the coldness in his dark eyes.

“Pretty.” The third man grunted as he lumbered forward, and Veronica turned her attention to his face. She wished she’d kept running.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“Rafe?” The British guy pointed at the corpse-like thing beside him. “He’s got a condition. Don’t get too close. Sometimes he bites.”

No worries there. Veronica didn’t plan to get close to any of them.

“I should go.” She said. “I’ll find a gas station or something and tell them what’s going on.”

“I doubt they’ll care,” Ben said.

“Of course they’ll care. People are dying.”

“The thing at the border is probably nothing compared to what’s happening everywhere else. Trust me, we’re not out here in the woods because we like nature.”

The corpse-like guy chuffed.

“So what do I do?”

“I suggest you keep running,” The handsome southern guy said. “Don’t stop for anything until you find a vehicle—not even a Good Samaritan. Try to get to the airport. They’ve probably taken them already, or grounded the planes, but it’s worth a shot. If you can get a flight, get as far from North America as you can. ”

“But…I don’t have my passport. I have to go home and check on my parents. My friends—their families need to know what happened.”

“How far is home?”

“A couple of hours by car,” She’d have to find a motel.

“Get a bus or a train then,” He said. “I’m not saying you have to leave the country, but if it’s possible, I recommend it.”

“I can’t just leave.”

“Fine, do what you have to do. If you come across anyone that looks funny, or like my friend here, just run. Don’t stop. Things are about to get real weird.”

“How do you guys know all of this?” They had to be in cahoots with the soldiers at the border. How else would they know things no one else did?

“Just go. Rafe’s kind of hungry and he’s got a thing for redheads.”

She looked at the sick man again. He licked his lips.

Veronica didn’t care to know what he meant. She ran from the men, hoping the trees would open onto a highway or at least a farm. Her phone was in the van, as well as her purse. Shit, she couldn’t even pay for a motel room.

She stumbled and fell to her knees. Her palms stung and she lowered her head. A lump formed in her throat, but Veronica forced it down. She would not cry. She risked a glance behind her. The trio was nothing more than shadows against the trees. But one of them writhed and twisted, shrinking toward the ground.

The sound of a wolf howling sent her to her feet. Veronica ran as fast as her tired legs would allow.

I’m so going to die.

Tagged: conspiracy, fiction, Mondays, Obamanation, procrastinating, zombies

Writer In Progress; Luscious, by Renee Miller

Reblogged from Darke Conteur:

[A day late, but I was kinda busy yesterday, sorry Renee. ~Darke~]

Another year has come and gone, and I am blessed to have so many wonderful authors give me the chance to show you some of their work. So much talent, so little time! For December's excerpt instalment, I managed to entice my good friend Renee Miller to give us a peek into LUSCIOUS, the sequel to her book LUCKY.

Read more… 1,971 more words

Come on over to Darke Conteur's blog and get a sneak peek at the sequel to LUCKY, which hasn't even made its way to beta readers yet. Yes, I'm quite frightened.

Resolutions and Such

Well, it’s December 31st, and all over my social media I’m seeing a shit ton of resolutions and optimistic, positive thoughts about all the things people are going to change or do in 2014. It’s nice and it’s good that it makes everyone feel good to wipe the slate clean for a new year, and to make goals to improve this or that, but until last year, I never did the resolution thing. And I’m not making goals this year either. Why? I don’t think changing any one thing will make your year better or worse. However, I do plan to make a promise to myself that is sort of like a resolution. I’ll explain.

2013 sucked ass for me in so many ways. I lost my dad at the end of 2012, after months of uncertainty, fear and sadness. I guess you could say 2012 sucked ass too. Yes. Yes it did. It’s been a ridiculously long period of ass sucking around here. But 2013 has also been awesome in many ways, and most of the good has been because of the suckishness. I published two books myself, and they’ve done well, although I’m not exactly raking in the sales. However, they helped me prove to myself that I can write something worth reading and I’m not wasting my time. I know I work hard at writing, and I know I can “technically” write a good story, but I was never sure whether I “really” had it. (It makes total sense in my head.) Self-publishing gave my ego the validation it needed to persevere in this writing thing. I’m telling you, if I hadn’t done it, I might have quite the publishing-go-round. I was dangling on the edge of giving up at this time last year and I wasn’t holding on as tightly as I had up to that point. Making the decision to ignore the fear and the many ways in which it might go horribly wrong, I published those books and surprised myself.

On top of that, a book I’d pulled out of my ass for NaNoWriMo was picked up by a small press. Before I finished the first draft of this book, a paranormal romance (something I avoided because I feared no one would take me seriously if I wrote paranormal romance) I’d already plotted that single book into a large series. Who knew just blowing off creative steam could generate success? I didn’t. I think the confidence I gained through publishing IN THE BONES & THE LEGEND OF JACKSON MURPHY, played a huge part in LUCKY’s success so far. Because I believed in myself and my writing, I took a chance and wrote what I enjoyed, not what I thought readers would read or other writers would respect. Small difference, but huge payoff for both me and my readers.

And this new fearless attitude brought other benefits. I met a ton of fantastic people this year, mostly because I swallowed my inner curmudgeon and put myself out there.  This includes the gang at DeadPixel, and many others. I’ve also made a decision that pained me more than I can possibly put in words. This pain stemmed from a fear of failure, or I guess more like the fear of everyone else knowing I’d failed. I (and Carlos) decided to let OFW go. As of tomorrow, it will no longer exist and this makes me sad. We had such hopes for this site for writers, but it’s just too hard to keep it going with only a handful of folks grinding the gears. However, it took up far too much time for me personally, and I promised myself I’d stop busting my ass for anything that doesn’t produce results. I hated thinking about it, and I resisted until I couldn’t do so any longer, because I really do feel like I’ve failed, but once the decision was made, a weight lifted and I have no regrets. I’m glad we did it, and I’m glad it’s over. Sure, it’s a failure, but what I learned is far more valuable than my cracked ego.

Anyway, my point is that on December 31, 2012, the only thing I cared about was getting through 2013. I didn’t think about what lay ahead, because I couldn’t imagine anything positive happening after saying goodbye to such a major influence in my life and a big chunk of my heart. During the many discussions I had with my dad while he was sick and while watching him slowly, reluctantly accepting that he had no time left, he said his only regret was in not doing the things he wanted to do, because he was either too afraid or thought he’d have time to do it later. I’m not talking traveling the world or doing something batshit like jumping from a plane. I’m talking about the little things that we all put aside because of family, responsibility or fear; the things we wish we could try or say or do, but we don’t because responsible adults don’t entertain whims, and besides, what if we fail? Dad wished he’d said “Fuck it” and done all of those things or rocked the boat now and then just to see what fell out.

So, the only resolution I made when he passed was to stop being afraid and to start doing what made me happy. It’s why I got the tattoo (which horrifies most folks who don’t understand the meaning behind it), and it’s why I sent the query for LUCKY in the wee hours, after Googling something and finding Crescent Moon Press’s site accidentally. I thought, “What the hell’s another rejection?” Nothing I’m not used to. After all, I promised that when fear paralyzed me, I’d force myself to do whatever it was I was afraid of anyway. Screw the “what ifs.”

And awesome happened.

I never made resolutions, because I felt they set you up for failure and disappointment. They do, but this isn’t a bad thing. Failing at something isn’t a negative if we learn from it, and failure moves us forward. Not trying at all gets us where? Resolutions are fantastic, but the problem is, we make the wrong resolutions. The only goal I plan to set for 2014 is to get through it with no regrets, as I did 2013. If I fail, I fail. No big deal. If someone disapproves, fuck them. It’s not their life.

So as you ring in your New Year, try to look back over your life instead of imagining the future. What’s holding you back? What’s keeping you stagnant? Responsibility? Guilt? What do you fear most? Why? What if you said fuck it?

You’ll never know what lies ahead unless you take the step away from the past. Quit promising to fix or change yourself or your life in ways that really do nothing to make you happy. Instead of a resolution to fix what’s wrong with you physically or socially,  or whatever pleases other people instead of yourself, make promise to yourself to be happy. It sounds pretty simple, but so hard to actually do. I’m not happy every day, and I struggle with guilt and fear, but I can say that although this has been the hardest year of my life, it’s also been the most amazing and fulfilling. And it’s because I said fuck it to all the fear and bullshit that used to keep me stagnant, and just made the effort to have a truly happy New Year.

Okay, there’s all the guru-ish nonsense you’ll get from me. Have you made any resolutions? Why or why not?

Tagged: fuck it, goals, happiness, New Year, resolutions, writing

Fiction Matters: Deep Thoughts

I know you’re all used to my humor and wit, and I try to keep things light here on the Edge, but occasionally, I have deep thoughts. Sometimes I even feel…ick…emotional, like when I hear people say things like “It’s just a book.”

And I’m all,

Okay, so some people don’t like reading. They don’t get why anyone would want to have to think in order to become lost in a make-believe world full of imagined people and creatures. I mean, what purpose could that possibly serve? Where’s the payoff? What can you possibly take from it that would improve you as a person?

I’ve been asked why I waste time writing fiction. Surely the effort involved would be better spent on something more meaningful than a book. What—like knitting? Pfft.

Maybe you don’t read books. Maybe you think if the book is good enough, they’ll make it into a movie. (We all know there’s a flaw in his thinking, don’t we.) Entertainment shouldn’t require any effort from you, and books force you to think. So you pass. But I’ve noticed a lot of the folks passing on books enjoy television and movies immensely. In the end, you are willing to “waste time” on a fictional world as long as it’s laid out for you so you can reap the benefits without utilizing any of your precious brain cells.

Hey, I’m not judging you. Fiction comes in many forms. It’s not that non-readers don’t enjoy fiction. They need it as much as the bookworms do. It’s not the reading that’s important. It’s the story. Non-readers want to experience a fantastic story, but without the work. That’s okay. Fiction is important not because of how it’s received, but for what it contains. Just as it’s wrong to judge someone for waiting for the book to be made into a movie, it’s kind of assholey to say that writing or reading fiction is a waste of time. At some point a film is nothing more than words on paper (or a screen). These words are then transformed into a movie by actors and directors and such. The fiction is still there. The story is still necessary. We. Need. Fiction.

“Wait—what?” you might say. “We don’t need fiction.”

Oh, but we do. Humans need the escape fiction provides, because it shifts the focus from the crappiness that sometimes overtakes our lives. It helps us remove ourselves, for at least a short time, from stressful situations. Fiction also serves as a window into ourselves, a way of finding out those things we can’t discover on our own. When we open our minds enough to take a journey with the author into a fantasy world, we open ourselves to a new personal perspective as well. We experience life from a point of view that is not our own and this helps us understand the emotions and actions of others.

But more important is the validation fiction provides. Everyone needs to feel good about themselves and we need to feel like someone gets us now and then. Ever read a book where the author seems to crawl right inside your head? No? You’re reading the wrong books, my friend. Consider your perfect hero or heroine. Identifying with a hero makes us feel good as human beings, even if it’s shortlived. Experiencing someone beating the odds and winning also gives us hope, even if we’re cynical and don’t believe in happy endings. Sometimes those tiny moments of hopefulness are the only things keeping the people around me alive.

If you’re not the hopeful type, fiction still has something to offer. Our lives might have a beginning and an ending, but there’s no clear story arc to guide our way. Life is just a series of scenes, a seemingly endless stream of teasers. Because it lacks structure, many of have no clue how to make sense of it. Sure, a good bender makes it all okay for a while, but we can’t be drunk all the time. (No. You can’t.) A well written piece of fiction (book or screenplay) has structure and helps our brains navigate the sea of emotions, events, actions and urges that everyone experiences, and guides us through them until we reach the end. When we step out of our little boat, we might say, “Hmm, I’ve never thought of it that way before.” or “I was right/wrong.” and we move on. Maybe you don’t consciously acknowledge these things, but as you read, your brain is making the connections.

Basically, fiction takes real life and divides it into small chunks that are easier to manage, and it gives us insight into just what the fuck we’re all doing here. It doesn’t show us the secret to surviving this shit show, but that’s because the truth about life is, no one gets out alive. Not much can be done about that, folks.

While we’re not heroes and we certainly don’t merit a standing ovation or a medal of honor, writers of fiction (screenplays or novels) are vital to society and to the human race in general. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not some giant ego walking around thinking I’m the shit and contribute something even remotely life altering to humanity, but as a writer, I don’t  think what I do is a waste of time either. It is through fiction that we can take life apart, piece by piece, and examine it without worrying that our efforts will bring it all crashing down. Fiction is actually more logical, more realistic, than real life because it has to make sense. Essentially, when we write fiction, we endeavor to make sense out of life. What’s pointless about that?

That is as deep as this girl gets, folks, and it only happens occasionally so soak it up.

What do you gain from reading fiction? What do you hope to achieve in writing it?

Canada Is Not All Snowballs and Unicorns (aka: Moose), But We Are Pretty Damn Nice

While it’s nice that you all think Canadians are nice and polite and non-violent, sometimes it gets a little exhausting living up to your expectations. And it irritates some of us that the rest of the world thinks we can’t be terrifying or even just a little creepy. Well, you know what? We can be crazy and violent. Batshit even. And we’ve got serial killers to prove it. As I created Carroll Albert, I researched a few Canadian whackjobs, and stumbled across a long history of bloodthirsty psychos. IN CANADA! But what’s really insane is some of them got away with their crimes (for a time) because our legal system was just too damn kind.

Of course, I couldn’t actually use any of my research in my books, because you guys would be all “Um… that totally would NEVER happen.” And I’d be all “Yeah, well it did. And we even let some of them go, because Canadians are nice like that.”

When I think of serial killers, I always think of Russell Williams, because he lived right here in the safe, quiet little town of Tweed, Ontario. I remember the panic surrounding the “Tweed Creeper” and my own realization that you can NEVER truly intruder-proof your home, which led to a lot of long nights and my dad giving me a two-way radio to sleep with, “just in case,” because he felt the police wouldn’t be nearly as effective as he would be should someone break into my home. Sigh. I miss my dad.

Anyway, the Russell Williams nightmare is too close to home, and it doesn’t show you how nice our legal system is, so we won’t go into those details. You can just Google his name and be shocked and disturbed on your own time. Let’s look at the batshit “Millionaire Pig Farmer’s” murder spree instead.

Robert Pickton was a wealthy pig farmer in British Columbia who murdered prostitutes for shits and giggles. (This is why most serial killers murder, because shits and giggles are like crazy-person crack. The loons can’t get enough shits and giggles.) No one’s sure how many women he killed, but estimates range between six and 50 (I know that’s a wide range, but they had to estimate because they couldn’t confirm every victim for obvious reasons). Pickton lured his victims back to his farm where he murdered them and cut up their bodies and fed them to his pigs. But that’s not the batshit part yet. Pickton didn’t just feed the bodies to his pigs. That’d be too predictable. He kept heads, hands and feet in refrigerators around the farm and mulched some of them in his wood chipper. IN HIS WOOD CHIPPER. But we’re still not at the batshit part. Investigators told the public they were “pretty sure” he mixed human remains in with unusable pig parts (intestines, blood, and bones) that were taken to a rendering plant in Vancouver, where they were used in things like lipstick, soap and shampoo. And you thought animal testing was the worst thing about your cosmetics. Now you might be slathering human bits all over your lips. This is why I never wear lipstick or gloss. What? Oh, yes. That’s pretty much the batshit part.

How did he get away with it for so long? Well, law enforcement at the time figured since the women going missing were prostitutes, they were all drug addicts that wandered off or died anonymously of overdoses. They even fired an investigator for suggesting they might be dealing with a serial killer. I know, right? But more disturbing is that one of Pickton’s victims managed to escape, and despite her accusations and multiple stab wounds, prosecutors dismissed the attempted murder charges against Pickton. Well everyone knows millionaires aren’t homicidal maniacs. Not Canadian millionaires anyway, eh. Wait…what? So how did they arrest him? Well, an employee came forward with testimony that led to an investigation, which revealed all his dirty deeds.

Best part of the hoopla surrounding his arrest: People naturally panicked at the possibility that they might have eaten pigs raised on human remains, but officials reassured us all that pork is “typically well-cooked,” so there’s no chance of catching any diseases from the murdered prostitutes…because the possibility of disease was the only reason one might panic. Not.

Perhaps the panic was due to the fact that no amount of cooking can erase the fact that you ATE human remains.

So the arrest of Pickton was preceded by a shit ton of idiocy, but at least Pickton was sentenced to a good long prison term. Enter, Karla Homolka and her serial killer psycho husband Paul Bernardo (AKA: The Scarborough Rapist). How does a nice young lady fall in love with a psycho? Well, Karla’s not a nice young lady. That’s how.

Imagine your fiancé told you he wanted to rape your younger sister. What would your reaction be? I’m going to assume that most of us would be preparing to castrate the motherfucker.

Not Karla. She helped him lure, drug and rape her own sister, and eventually caused the teenager’s death. Of course, you’d expect her to panic and go to the cops, or to at least leave Bernardo, but no. She decided it would be a fantastic idea to help him do it again. And again. Their rape and murder spree stopped only when they got caught in 1993. But wait, this isn’t the insane part. Despite a heap of evidence against both Karla and Paul, Canadian authorities gave her a plea bargain in exchange for her testimony against Bernardo. In the end, she served just 12 years. Now she’s free (released in 2005). Of course, she hightailed it out of Canada. So really, she could be anywhere. And she has children. Yikes.

But what about Paul? Well, Paul Bernardo is still in prison. So I guess there’s that.

The Canadian authorities completely lost their minds with the “nice” bullshit when they arrested Clifford Olson, who confessed to murdering 11 victims between the ages of 9 and 18 during the early 1980s. Olson agreed to confess to the murders and show the RCMP where the bodies of his victims were buried, and the authorities agreed to pay him $10,000 each for 10 of the victims (the eleventh would be a freebie). The payments (That’s $100,000) were put into a trust for his wife and son. Are you muttering something like “What. The. Fuck?” Well there’s more. Olson was sentenced to several concurrent life sentences, and in 2010 it was revealed he was receiving two federal government benefits from Canada.  It seems we just couldn’t stop paying this guy. This was terminated after everyone lost their shit about it, of course, because we’re all about avoiding confrontation too.

Okay, now that you’re thoroughly disgusted, let’s go enjoy the holidays. Head on over to Goodreads where you can win a copy of THE LEGEND OF JACKSON MURPHY and IN THE BONES. Winners will be announced on December 24th, because I love Christmas.  

Tagged: giveaways, In the Bones, law enforcement, serial killers, The Legend of Jackson Murphy, wtf