Renee Miller's Blog, page 38

Casting Your Novel

I've been working on a couple of new projects lately and characterization has had me pulling my hair out. Why? Because although I've got the major players down, one particular story uses a rather large cast and honestly, I am struggling with writing them all so that they're believable. The other story, well the characters are almost too real and it's causing me problems with the plot. You see, I have a killer plot, but the characters don't all fit neatly. So do I take some of them out and replace them? Interesting idea, except that in order for the rest of the cast to work, I need some of these characters. I'll figure it out. I just need to play with them a little more. I also have two unwritten stories with completely developed casts of characters which I should probably just write, but I hate starting something and not finishing it. Ugh. It's not a nice place inside my head. It's loud, dark, and somewhat frightening. This is why I'm yet again writing a post about characterization.



How much thought do you put into your characters before writing? Do you just write and let them carry you through the story? Do you build them first, detailing everything right down to the blackened toenail on their right foot? Really, there is no wrong way to develop a character, but you do have to develop them. Why? Because they have to be believable and dynamic. To have both of those things, in my opinion, you have to put some thought into it. Now I don't mean writing out character sketches and such. Goodness, I never do that. But I do let them marinate in my mind, invade my sleep, and talk to me for a long time before I begin to write. That is still developing, just not in the anal, organized way that my brain is incapable of doing.



I usually have my characters before I have the story. I can hear the character's voice, see their face, and feel their emotions long before I have a story to go with them. I rarely write this stuff down. I don't know why. I suppose by the time I find the right story for them, I've listened to them and dreamt about them so often that it's like writing about my best friend, or myself. For example, Wade Bowen in Dirty Truths (don't worry, some day hopefully in the not so distant future, you will all know Wade) was in my head for years. When I decided to write this story, I knew instantly Wade would star in it. The only problem was that I didn't have a female lead. So I had to sit down and decide what kind of woman would fall for a guy with not only a killer body, but a killer's mind. Yes, Wade is far from lily white. He's more of a grey shade. Just the way I like my heroes.



I imagine most writers have the story before the character, which makes sense to me. But when I try to do it that way, my characters don't feel real to me and in the end, the story feels forced. I hate that.



In Once Bitten (don't worry, I'm retitling this very soon) I have a family of vampires. This family frolicked through my dreams for months before I committed their 'souls' to paper. What did I have before I began? Let me go through the cast that wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote their damn story.



First there's Aedon, the spoiled Prince who always gets his way. Gabriel, the tortured soul who wouldn't trade immortality for anything but struggles with the constant battle between his instinct and his conscience...until destiny steps in and settles the argument. Corbyn the deliciously handsome hunk of vampire whose hard candy shell hides a soft, creamy center. Olivia, the sex kitten who can't seem to remain faithful but is one of the most loyal friends you'll ever meet. Jacob and Oren, twin souls without a drop of humanity left between them. Malcolm the powerful elder who tires of existing but remains because of his devotion to William, a golden Adonis, who we later find is much more than a pretty face. Jeremy...well, I'll let you learn more about Jeremy later. His soul is blacker than anyone ever imagined. And Natalie, a small town girl turned big city stripper who falls for Gabriel and is unwillingly sucked into the little family. These are the characters that plagued me for months. Originally I wrote an outline for a much older story with an entirely different cast of characters. It was supposed to be the story detailing Gabriel's life until his change. But once I began writing, everything felt stilted--wrong, until I realized that I was starting at the wrong place. I needed to begin at the middle and work my way backward and forward.



Now, reading that over it sounds as though my characters dictate the story. Let me clarify: they are characters, not real people holding a gun to my head. I control my story, not them. If something doesn't fit, it's gone. If they don't contribute to the story, they're set aside for a different story. To be honest, it drives me nuts when I hear writers saying that their characters refuse to cooperate and the story just won't end because of it or they've completely veered off the original outline because their characters had different ideas.



No, writer. The characters are not calling the shots. You are. Don't you think it makes more sense that your innate writing ability said that your outline is shit and you must go this way to make it work? Give yourself some credit. Characters are nothing without you and their success or failure within the story is either because of your brilliance or your stupidity. Whichever. Just let's keep it real.



I also think that characterization is as important as plot. In fact, I'll overlook plot issues if the writer has created characters that practically jump off the page. Not major plot issues, but minor ones. Hell, I'll even overlook purple prose because of memorable characters. And we all know how much I hate fluffy flowery writing. Actually, many of my favorite characters have been in Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles. I don't even recall a lot of the plots but I remember nearly every detail of her characters. Stephen King is another whose characters stay with me long after I've forgotten the story. There are others, but I won't bore you with my slightly dark reading list.



Now that I've rambled for a sufficient amount of time, I'm going to throw it to you guys. How do you build your characters? Do you find it easy or is it something you struggle with? Are you one of those people who believe the characters run the show? Why? Help me to understand this phenomenon.

The Question is Not Why but Rather, Why Not?

Holy neglecting the blog, Batman! Ten days?! It's been ten days since I've visited my blog and my happy place? (Note to newbs: That would be the handsome hunk of hotness in the upper left corner.) I'm a terrible blogger. Pull up your socks, Renee! These people come here to be entertained...or something and you are seriously falling behind. Give them something to keep them from doing what they should be doing. I'm so embarrassed to know you. Ugh.



Well, I don't know about you, but that's about as much self abuse as I can muster. Really, I've been busy doing writerly things. Articles about things you don't care about, more articles about publishing and writing, and a new venture that I will tell you about in January. So y'all come back, ya hear!



And that's about as much silliness as I can muster too. It's time for business. I really do have something worth writing about: The perfect novel. Is there such a thing?



When I first asked myself this question, my immediate response was, "Pfft! The perfect novel? No such animal." But since then Mr. Google and I have searched the huge abyss of information that is the Internet, found discussions, articles, and blogs exploring the possibility, and my answer is not so firm. Imagine it: The. Perfect. Novel. What a wonderous thing that would be. Envision a novel with just the right dash of literary brilliance, the ideal measure of heart pounding action, the right sprinkling of commerical appeal, and the best damn characters you've ever seen. What would you give to write that novel? I'll tell you, I'd give...almost anything. Probably as much as I'd give to read such a wonder.



Literature isn't as revered as it used to be. Well, what we used to define as literary isn't as admired, the actual definition of literature today is evolving. Gone are the days where we stand and gasp at the awesomeness of a novel that we need a thesaurus and a degree in psychology and philosophy to understand. Literature today is being smushed and stretched and cut and pasted until it fits something that would have classic literary greats rolling in their graves; commercial fiction. "The heck!" you say. No, I'm totally serious. These days literature is bleeding into genre fiction with awesome results. We haven't achieved the perfect blend yet, but it's coming. I can feel it. And I say it's about damn time. I'm sorry to those self-proclaimed purists who cringe in horror at the thought of literature becoming something that "not so smart" folks can read. Okay, I'm not sorry. I think that the days of separating greatness based on archaic rules that make no sense anymore should be gone. I think that romance, sci-fi, historical, mystery, and all of the other genre authors who can write the shit out of whatever they attempt should be seen as equals to the geniuses of old. Why? Because in my book good writing is good writing, whether you write about the meaning of life and your place in it or aliens taking over New York.



You see, I've always struggled because I can appreciate both types of fiction and I'll read anything as long as it's well written. I've fought my instinctive style, argued with my muse until it left in a flurry of feathers, tight ass, and cheap cologne (hey, my inspiration is my business) because nothing that I write from my heart seems to fit neatly into a genre or into what we view as literary. I want to use fancy words (occasionally) and I want the reader to question what they know and believe (often) but I also want vampires, murder, and the occasional (okay frequent) steamy romance. Why can't I do that? Because, to include vampires makes it paranormal-something or horror. To include murder makes it suspense or thriller or crime. Romance...isn't that self explanatory? Forget that the reader closes the book feeling as though they've learned something about something they thought they knew but really had no clue about. Ignore the fact that the reader cursed me for daring to question society's status quo but had to keep reading to see if I was just kidding. That doesn't matter. If it has genre it ain't literary and if it's literary it cannot be put into a genre.



Why not? Exactly. There is no law that says we can't combine the two. Shouldn't we all strive to write beautifully while still appealing to the masses? Does breathtaking prose mean that the zombie can't fall in love with the werewolf transvestite or the uncharacteristically sexy scientist can't discover (after a passionate affair with a scaly fish-woman from Pluto) that we all evolved from guppies and not apes or God's hand and both camps (er--religion and science, if you're wondering) had it wrong the whole time? Can't that be literary?



I've always believed that can't shouldn't be in anyone's vocabulary. Never is definitely a no-no in my world. So when anyone says "you can't" or "that's impossible", my reaction is to say "Why not?"



There is such a thing as the perfect novel and rather than worrying about genre or whatever, I think our focus should be on striving to come as close to that perfection as we can. Why not?

What I Hate About Writing

Research. It's like a four letter word concealed in eight . Don't let if fool you though,  it is just as offensive and nasty as those others. In my world it is anyway.



When I began writing to publish, (because before I was writing to...?) I didn't consider the amount of time that research sucked out of a writer's life. If you say it sucks no time out of yours because you never have to do it, then I'm frightened to see your work. (and I hate you a little) Every writer has to research at some point. Setting, characters, psychology, dates, times, cars, and the list goes on--you have to get this stuff right. There are some things you can't just make up. You might not think googling the year that the New Kids on the Block recorded Cover Girl is research, but it is. And why do you need to know that? Just asking. It's a strange fact to include in a book.



But moving along, I also write articles. Those are nonfiction folks. The ones on writing I assumed would be simple. Write what I know. Not so much. I know tons, but still have to confirm that what I know and what the world knows are the same thing. Writer jargon, publishing industry news, etc. have to be right. Just as I term almost every mechanical item in my house "the thingie" I also term some writing methods, rules, etc. as thingies. You can't do that in an article.



Book reviews and author spotlights also require a lot of digging. Sure, I interview them, but if I were to ask them every question I need answers to, they'd run for the hills. Authors, apparently, do not enjoy talking about themselves. I'm the minority. So I have to dig up facts, check websites, read book covers, find sources, in order to write about these people. This is the fun stuff.



The not so fun? This week I wrote articles about how to assemble a pool, install a tin ceiling, types of transmission mediums, and this morning I began an article about winches. No, not wenches, w-i-n-c-h-e-s; with an "I". Good times. This is the research that makes my brain explode. But Mommy's gotta keep her girls in food and clothes, right.



Earlier this week I shared a story I'd set aside because it felt like it was going nowhere. I didn't know how to approach it. I had too many questions without answers and I'd already spent a month just researching a damn plane crash. Plus, the actual process of writing it felt stilted and weird, so I just set it aside. When I picked it up again I felt my earlier excitement about the story. I couldn't wait to dig in. But then I encountered a problem I'd forgotten. The question of phone versus radio nearly sent me headlong into Crazy Town. Actually, I even pitched a tantrum over it. I do NOT have time to research this stuff, freelance, take care of my family, and write the damn novel. It's going to take me years to finish this thing and when I do, it won't be published because it will be 1000 damn pages. (insert crying, head banging and flying objects, dogs hiding here) But then, a calm voice from across the ocean somewhere said I was behaving very childishly. (not in those words, but that's basically how I was behaving). The world righted itself, I looked again and said, "So I research. Again." The answer is phone, by the way.



Research is not fun. It makes my brain hurt and sucks the creativity from my soul. It is not at all a pleasant experience for me and I hate it and I wish that I didn't have to do it. The reality is, I have to. Not only in my daily "job" but as a writer of fiction, it is necessary. If I want to be taken seriously, if I want my work to be the best that it can be and because I don't enjoy people laughing at me or asking why, how, when and who after I've written the story, it's going to be there, waiting.



All I can say is thank you Google. You are my best friend sometimes. The library is also a handy thing to have.



The other reality is that every writer has something about the process that they hate. Outlining, dialogue, synopses, queries, editing, rewriting, writing...the list is endless and I have a few on mine. Queries? Another four letter word. What part of the writing process sets you to tantrums or crying jags? Come on, I know there's at least one thing that triggers the crazy button in you.

Circle Time

It's circle time again on the Edge. Yesterday I read a WIP that I haven't been able to make any progress in months on. I actually set it aside, sick with myself for the lack of inspiration for a story I was so excited about during the outlining. You know what it was? The research. It bored my muse to death. That's what happened.



My brain refused to move beyond the first pages. I had about ten pages written and a brilliantly talented writer helped me tweak the first few. I knew what I wanted to say but I have a tendency to jam as many words as I can into my writing. I know, you couldn't tell could you. So this lovely man helped me to trim that to a beautiful opening which I can't believe I managed to slap together even if it did have a few hundred too many words. Yesterday I wrote another 3000 words and would have written more but Mom duty beckoned and I had to put it away.



Anyway, I thought I'd share the first chapter with you all. Why? Meh, I like it when people read my work. I'm one of those people, not the type who dreads having my work read.



So, here it is, my untitled WIP which I'm calling Rayne at the moment.



Rayne

by Renee Miller



The End





Hot metal crackled and sighed as it settled into the scorched earth, flames hissing over blistering surfaces as the fuel remaining in the aircraft's tanks burned out.



High above the wreckage, grey clouds rolled unconcerned across the sky, and the mountain shook. With the low-frequency rumble of a beast in pain, the ground shuddered before a chill wind that blew through the trees, their foliage wilting and drifting through the thickened air. The earth split. Torn crevasses belched sulphurous black smoke, rolling like a malevolent plague, and scattering ashes in its wake before drifting downhill. A roar grew in intensity and volume until it drowned out the burning aircraft's racket. On the once parched plains, water bellowed over the land, levelling out everything in its path until its momentum slowed to a hushed rumble around the base of the mountain.



The Earth held its breath as the water raged, destroying the frail creations of men.



But Earth would heal; it had done so before. Its creatures were gone, save for a pitiful few. And their survival would depend not on numbers, or technology, but their ability to change and adapt.



BOOK 1

The first days….

Chapter 1



Rayne woke with a start, his eyes darting around the dark cavern that trapped him while his mind worked to understand what happened.



The plane. He'd been on the plane and the pilot had mentioned an emergency landing. Then what?



Moving his legs he tried to sit up, but something pressed down on his midsection. Rayne looked down and cringed. Covering his chest lay a mop of blond hair, matted with blood and singed black in places.



The flight attendant. What was her name? Krissy. A petite woman who had flirted and blushed coyly at his encouraging smile during the last part of the flight and who had screamed as the plane impacted the mountain. He gently turned her head and his stomach lurched as her eye stared back at him. Her other eye had vanished, leaving a blood coated fleshy mess behind. Rayne moved his hand to her shoulder, pushing the dead woman off him.



He shifted, testing his limbs and finding everything seemed to be in working order. A bit sore, somewhat scratched and bruised but remarkably fine otherwise. Rayne's head spun as he sat up, and he paused to breathe deeply.



The cabin, shadowed in a hazy darkness, showed the outline of seats, many of them now lying on their sides, others scattered about, many with what looked to be people still in them. He blinked as his eyes teared up, itchy and burning until he closed them. Smoke, there must be a lot of smoke. Of course, they'd flown into a mountain. The plane wouldn't have impacted without a fire, not unless they lost the fuel tanks somehow.



He'd seen the mountain through the window as they circled it and prayed the pilots wouldn't try it. Even the most skilled pilot would have difficulty landing on a mountain. Damn near impossible in Rayne's mind. He recalled seeing a ravine below as the plane tipped and the pilots warned the passengers to brace themselves for some turbulence.



Rayne snorted. Turbulence was an understatement. He shifted to his knees, feeling around in the gloom of the plane trying to move toward an exit if he could find one, and went over the minutes before the crash in his head.



Water; so much water and a rumbling sound. His first thought had been of thunder, but it didn't sound like any thunder he'd ever heard. What else could it have been though? A moment later the cabin of the plane lit up with a flash of lightening before what felt like a giant hand pushed the plane. Rayne recalled the sensation that they were plunging, too sharply and too fast. Objects slid down the aisle, the flight attendants instructed everyone to buckle their seatbelts; obviously Krissy didn't listen to her own advice. She'd been running through the aisle, something in her hand, but Rayne couldn't recall what it was.



He had looked out the window next to his seat when the plane pitched and then water rushed by and he'd prayed that they didn't land in the ocean. He wasn't afraid of too many things, had seen the worst that humanity could offer while in service, but water terrified him. The mountain came into view soon after and he'd thanked whoever listened to his silent plea, then everything blurred. He heard Krissy's scream—everyone screamed but she'd been right next to him. A loud screeching sound, a sickening crunch and a flash of blinding orange light before darkness overtook him.



Ignoring the ache in his head, Rayne slid across the floor, carefully climbing over the debris and bodies that littered his path. He felt each body for a pulse when he could, a couple too mangled to bother. Most of them still breathed but he couldn't do anything until he figured a way out.



Desperate to breathe fresh air, he pushed to his knees, testing their strength before standing on shaky legs. He felt strange, like he was trying to walk up a hill and he tilted his head to look above. Reaching to steady himself, he encountered something soft, and jerked back.



A girl, probably one of the students that sat about four seats behind him, hung strapped into her seat. Her head lolled forward, but her skin felt warm under his hand. His instinct was to unbuckle her and begin first aid, but without more light he couldn't even assess her wounds, let alone treat her.



A sliver of light ran over the girl's face and Rayne paused. Light. Although grey and overcast it was enough. He turned and his heart quickened in relief. The plane did split and the tail end had vanished. Not only that, the hole left behind opened to a grey sky above, bits of what looked like ash or snow danced through the air.



A shiver passed through him as his body registered the coolness around him. Surely they didn't land at the top; that would make things just a little more difficult. Scratch that, he thought, it would make it a lot difficult.



Rayne struggled to climb up to the hole but he only managed a few feet before sliding back down. His arms and legs trembled with the exertion and he leaned against the floor of the plane, the industrial carpeting rough against his cheek. What would they do if they couldn't get out?



"Think Rayne, think." He mumbled, and looked around him.



Now that his eyes had adjusted he realized the plane must be upended. The cockpit now at the bottom and the tail, or what was left of the tail, pointing to the sky. But were they hanging or had they hit something? He had to find a door, and then he could assess the situation a little better.



A muffled curse caught his attention and he looked to his right, a few feet down and nearer to the cockpit a young man stood swaying slightly. Rayne cringed at the blood caked to the side of his face. He lurched then took a step, stumbling over something before pausing to look around him. "Fuck,"



"You okay?" the young man jumped at Rayne's voice and turned.



"Shit, I thought I was the only survivor. What happened? Where are we?"



"Well, I'm not sure what happened, although I'll bet the plane crashed. I think we're on Kilimanjaro. We were circling it right before everything went nuts, and we are indeed fucked."



The young man nodded. His face seemed very white, eyes unfocused. Shock, thought Rayne. Great. He appeared to have some trouble digesting Rayne's information and raised trembling hands to a messy, blood soaked mop of blond hair.



"What are we going to do?" he turned to Rayne again.



"First, let's calm down and assess the situation. No point in panicking. I'm Rayne. And you are?"



"Chance," the boy licked his lips, pausing as though trying to remember his full name. "I—Chance Briggs. We were on a trip to see the mountain. We were supposed to stay at a little lodge thing. I don't know, I thought—"



"Hey, it's okay. I'm scared as hell too, but let's stay calm. Someone will come get us. This is a busy spot, it's not like we've crashed into the middle of nowhere. Plus, the pilots would have sent out a distress call when they went down. We'll be okay."



Chance nodded and startled as a low moan sounded from behind him. Rayne shuffled toward him. "Is someone alive over there?"



"I don't know." Chance knelt down.



"Help."



A voice called from behind him and Rayne turned. A woman sat still strapped into her seat, struggling with her buckle. The way that the plane had slanted, her body strained against it and if she did manage to get it to release, Rayne figured she'd do a face-plant to the other side.



"Ma'am, don't move yet. We're trying to find a way out and then we'll come get you." He moved closer and she gazed around blindly.



"Who's that?"



"My name is Rayne Summers. The plane crashed but you're fine. You're okay. Just wait for us to get you out of there."



The woman mumbled and continued to fuss with her buckle. "For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God."



Shit. Rayne looked to Chance who gazed wildly around the cabin. This woman would be the death of him. First he had to deal with her bible nonsense during the flight and now who knew how long he'd have to listen to her.



"Young man?"



"Yeah?" Rayne closed his eyes and rubbed his nose. His head throbbed.



"I can't feel my legs. Do you think you could help me now and find a way out later? It will only take a moment."



Chance started for the woman and Rayne touched his arm, shaking his head. The boy looked undecided and Rayne put his finger to his lips. "Okay, we'll be right there. It's a little tough getting over all the bodies."



"B—bodies?"



"That's why I wanted to make sure I could take you out of here first, otherwise you'd be laying on bodies while we searched the plane."



The woman was quiet for a moment, and Rayne looked at Chance who gazed at the people around him. There were indeed bodies.



"Okay, you do that first. I'll pray for us."



"You do that."



Rayne pointed to the top of the plane, what used to be the tail, and Chance razed his eyes to it. "I'm going to get as high as I can and get a foothold, then you're going to climb up over me and I'll boost you up. I want you to tell me what you see when you get up there. Understood?"



"Why don't I boost you?" Chance paled further, if that were possible, and Rayne took a breath.



"I'm six foot four and over two hundred pounds, son. How much do you weigh?"



"Uh, buck forty."



"Do you understand?"



"Yeah."



Chance didn't sound thrilled, but he followed Rayne up the cabin. About three quarters of the way up, just shy of the opening, Rayne found a ledge that he could fit his foot onto securely. The metal was jagged as whatever had been there was ripped away, but it didn't bend with his weight and they had no other option.



"Okay, you ready?" he glanced at Chance who hung below him, gripping the ledge.



"Hey, isn't this where the fuel tanks are?" Chance's eyes darted around him, suddenly afraid.



"Son, look up for a minute. See that sign? That's the bathroom sign. Okay? You with me?"



"Sort of."



"The bathroom was in the middle of the plane. Remember? Half the plane is gone. I'm hoping that the wings are gone too. It's the only reason we wouldn't have gone up in flames. I bet the pilot dumped the fuel, or as much as he could before we hit and by some stroke of luck, the tail section was likely ripped away and the wings with it. I hope. I need you to get up there and see where we are so I know how critical it is to get out. If the wings are still attached and blazing away next to us, we want to get the fuck out now."



"Gotcha." Chance lunged past him, his arms scrambling for something to grab onto. Rayne pushed him up, bracing most of the boy's weight on his right shoulder.



"Watch it at the top, the metal's going to be sharp." He warned.



Slowly Chance made it to the opening, his knees bent and his neck turned at an awkward angle. His foot found Rayne's shoulder and the sole of his shoe pressed painfully down. "Can you boost me anymore?"



"Yeah, on three. One, two—" Rayne gripped the boy's ankles and hoisted him up, his arms shaking with the effort. In moments, the weight lifted slightly and he glanced up. Chance's head cleared the opening and the boy leaned on the metal. "What do you see?"



"You're right, sir. We are fucked."



##



Rayne sat next to the bible lady, his head in his hands. She chanted as he tried to think.



"Dear heavenly father, in the name of the lord Jesus, as your servant, I come before you right now in behalf of these your people. Father, these are your people, the people you have taken out of the kingdom of darkness."



He couldn't think with her damn monotonous voice droning on and on. God didn't save them, the pilots saved them…and whatever sheared off that tail section. Rayne hadn't put much stock in God since he'd witnessed what religion could do to a country, to its people. He glanced at Chance who stared openmouthed at the woman.



"You do not condemn us, Father. You are not the accuser. You convict us of sins so we will confess our sins to you and reject their influence in our life. You never haunt us with accusations saying we are evil; no good, worthless, unacceptable to you; so bad we are not true Christians. We know that such accusations only come from the enemy, the evil one, the father of lies. You don't condemn." She continued and Rayne turned his gaze to her hunched form.



"Maam?"



She paused, raising her head from her folded hands. "Yes?"



"I need you to pray—or whatever that is you're doing—in silence. Can you do that?"



The woman's face reddened and she opened her mouth and closed it. She blinked and took a deep breath. "I am ensuring our survival, Mr. Summers. The Lord saves those who but ask for help."



"Well, the Lord stuck us up on top of a fucking mountain with no way out and a bunch of dead people. So, until he shows me an exit and a fucking helicopter to get us out of here, I'd appreciate it if you asked for his help silently so that I can figure out what we're going to do."



"He must have a purpose for you. Perhaps it is to teach me tolerance. Fine, I will pray quietly. When He shows us the way out, then you'll see."



She returned to her hands and hunched over once more. Rayne shook his head and turned to Chance. A smile played on the boy's mouth. Rayne rolled his eyes and sighed. "So, we're pretty far down?"



"Well, it sure looked like it. I didn't see any wings, the sides are pretty mangled. There's not much of the plane left. Looked like there's fire above somewhere. I could see it glowing—you know, like an orange light. The sky was really grey and cloudy. I couldn't see the top of the ravine."



"Fuck." Rayne ran over the mountain in his head. He'd been on Kilimanjaro before, but so long ago he couldn't remember quite where they'd be. A ravine? Christ.



"Maybe we could find a way out the bottom." Chance suggested.



Of course! Why hadn't he thought of that? "The cockpit might be crushed to nothing but we'll check. It's our only option right now."



Chance grinned, pleased with himself. They moved toward the cockpit, the door still firmly closed. A noise behind them made them pause, and Rayne turned. Two passengers, the young girl and a man beside her shifted. The girl gazed around but didn't move her head more than an inch before crying out. The man reached out to comfort her.



"We'll get them later." He murmured to Chance and they moved to the door.



Rayne scooted down, sitting next to the knob, and Chance braced himself on an overturned seat. The pitch felt steeper and Rayne found it difficult to keep himself from stumbling forward. He turned the knob and pulled. The door came off in his hands, banging against the frame. The gap showed a grizzly scene and a retching noise erupted from Chance.



"Don't look." Rayne ordered and the boy turned away, covering his mouth.



The cockpit had folded, the nose looked to be sheared off, but Rayne couldn't be sure. It might have been crushed. The pilots…well the pieces of pilots left, lay across the bottom. Blood and bone coated the ground and—the ground. Rayne's heart skipped a beat and he scrambled forward.



"I think we have a way out." He said.



Crawling over the mess, Rayne peeked around the side and a blast of cold air hit his face. Sweet, clean, frigid as hell, wonderful air. Sticking his face out, Rayne gasped, losing the air in his lungs. Trying to open his eyes, he blinked, as bits of ash—not snow as Chance thought—drifted down around them. Turning around, he scrambled back inside the cabin, trying hard to keep his panic in check. Baby steps. So they couldn't leave the aircraft right away, that's not the end of the world. He had to think this through.



"Okay, son we're going to assess the situation. Then we're going to gather whatever food, water, blankets, luggage we can find."



"Where are we going?"



"Leaving the site is probably a stupid idea. If the pilots made a distress call, and I'm betting they did, they'll be tracking us to the location of the last communication. Eventually we need to set up something that can be seen from the sky, so they know we're here. Something big. We just have to survive long enough for someone to find us. That means, we don't go traipsing over a mountain we aren't equipped to tackle."



"Oh. Okay. So, do we let the lady out of her seat?" Chance's face fell. He didn't look at all eager to let bible lady out.



"Yeah, I guess we should. And then we'll see who else is alive."



***

 

What's that? Rough? Why yes, it is. Very rough. But it's still exciting that I'm inspired once again. I have other projects, but this one ate away at me, beckoning and taunting, daring me to give up on it until I wanted to scream. Now, it's quiet again, almost smiling.

 

So, after all that, I'm wondering what kind of writer you all are (if you're a writer). As I said, I love to share my writing. Even if the feedback is negative, I love sharing. Negative feedback only helps to improve it later on. Actually, negative feedback is far more satisfying than "I love it," only because I figure out where I've got it wrong, not just where I've done it right.

 

Do you enjoy sharing your work or does the idea of posting whole chapters as I've done scare the shit out of you? Why?

My Harshest Critic Comes to the Dark Side

Well folks, I've done it. I've finally beat my harshest critic. I've written something that even my mother can't put down. Victory is mine.



Okay, so it isn't a publishing deal. But seriously, my mother hasn't read more than a couple of chapters of my manuscripts. I've given her five up to this point and all five she cringed and sighed and then said, "I'm sorry, I just can't do it. It's not the writing, honey, that's fine, it's just...why can't you write happy stuff?" Sigh. I've given her dozens of short stories to read too and she reads about a half page before looking at me as though she wonders where I came from. "It's not you, it's me." She tried once. "I just don't like dark stuff and your stories are so dark...and raw. I don't like raw."



Fine, I accepted that my mom would probably never read my work. Is that a big deal? I tried to say that it wasn't, but really, it was. You see, my mother is an avid reader. As a child I remember boxes of books stored away, a book or two on the go at all times, and she would talk about her favorites and share what she liked and didn't like. I learned fast that my mom is just about the pickiest reader I've ever seen. She gives the author about a chapter (when she's feeling generous) and if she's not feeling it, she stops reading. If the author writes one thing that's 'unbelievable', again, she's done that book. If the author dared to fuck up the ending, she'd never pick up another book with their name on it again. No kidding. She's a tough critic.



I printed Dirty Truths off, (my mom doesn't own a computer) and took it over, expecting much the same reaction as I've always had. Dirty is dark and sometimes very intense, so I was certain she'd hate it. Then there was the scene with the pool table...let's say my mom thinks that everything I write about, I must have done in order to write it convincingly. The pool table scene is not something you want your mother to think you've done. Let's just say that. But still, the chubby little kid in me desperately wanted to hear her say "Good job". Why? I don't know. Usually other people's opinions don't really affect me one way or another, but this is my mom.



So, I promised her that Dirty Truths was a story she'd like and that there was no serial killer, no horrible scary scenes and I guaranteed a happy ending. Which doesn't matter for my mom. If she's not liking the book, she'll turn to the last chapter, get the ending and put it down. Anyway, she was about a third of the way through the story and she calls me. Why? To rip me a new asshole over the 'hero', Wade Bowen, who is not the typical kind of hero.

Mom: Why did you make him kill that man?

Me: Don't you think that man deserved to die?

Mom: Two wrongs don't make a right. You can't make him a murderer, I like him.

Me: So you'd stop loving someone because he's less than perfect?

Mom: That's not what I'm saying. Less than perfect is a far cry from a muderer.

Me: Not really. Depends on your idea of perfection.

Mom: You can fuck off with your writer bullshit. I'll keep reading only because I have to know what happens, but let it go on record that I don't like heroes that kill people.

Me: Noted.

Mom: It better have a happy ending.

Me: It does.

Mom: I'll take you out of the will if it doesn't.

Me: I don't want your crap anyway.

Mom: Piss off.

Me: Love you. Bye.

(My mom almost never swears. Only me and my dad are able to get her to utter profanities most of the time. She doesn't even swear at Bell Canada. It's a gift.)



So two days later, or thereabouts, she calls me again. Here's how it went:



Mom: I started reading at 7pm, last night.





Me: I thought you were already reading it.



Mom: I was, but I had to stop being mad at you for ruining Wade.



Me: Oh.



Mom: I didn't go to bed until around 2am. I hope you're happy. I had to finish it.



Me: Yay!



Mom: Yeah, so why haven't you published this yet?



Me: Um...how long do you have?



Mom: Why?



Me: I'm going to explain the publishing industry to you.



Did I succeed in explaining how querying, rejecting, querying, rejecting, etc. went? Not really, she thinks it's the dumbest thing she's ever heard of and is quite certain she couldn't handle that much rejection. "It's a good thing you're such a bitch, or you'd be a mess." She said. Thanks Mom, love you too. By the way, she calls me a bitch in the most loving of ways and I am quite proud of the title. So no hate mail for my mom. Okay? Cool.



So, while it's not a publishing deal, it's not even a partial request from an agent, this particular achievement has made my entire year. She's the one who tells me at least once a week not to get my hopes up. That writing should be fun, and if it never 'happens' for me, I should be proud that I stuck to it. When I say that I will publish something, and that it's not a pipedream, I get "I know. But sometimes life doesn't go the way you want it to and you might not find your audience."



So, she isn't like many moms who give praise simply because they love their kids. My mom loves me (shut up) but she loves me enough to make me face reality if the need arises. And if this critic loves what I've written, then I know someone else will. That's okay. I can wait.



And by the way, I haven't heard the 'reality' speech since she read Dirty Truths. Encouraging, no?

Hey, it's Bullying Awareness Week. If there's one thing I...

Hey, it's Bullying Awareness Week. If there's one thing I hate more than garage moles, it's bullies. Seriously though, this is an issue very close to my heart. Every year our young people are taking their lives or other young lives because of  bullying. Every day a woman is beaten into submission by a bully, every hour a child is irrevocably damaged as a result of a bully's abuse, every second someone, somewhere is the victim of another person; a bully who feels that person isn't worth the dirt on their shoes. A person who feels bigger, better, more important when they inflict pain on another, when they force them to their knees.



Violence, abuse, hate; a cancer in our society that for far too long we've been content to turn from, to ignore becaue 'it's not our problem'. Guess what folks. It IS your problem, and my problem, and their problem. For every instance of abuse you ignore, for every bruise or hurtful remark you pretend you don't see or hear, there's a chlid watching, learning...



"Bullying wasn't like this when I was young."



"When I went to school, kids weren't so nasty."



"What's wrong with kids today?"



Well, what did you think would happen? How long do you think a problem can be ignored before it festers and grows into what we see in our schools today? Bullying is learned. Violence is learned. Each time it's passed to a new generation it mutates into something uglier, more powerful, until it seems almost unfathomable the amount of hate and anger stuffed inside of one small person.



For this week, and for every day of your life after this, I ask that you stand up to all forms of bullying. To that man who called his wife a fucking retard, to that kid who shoved another on the ground, to that daughter who leaves her aging mother to rot in her own urine, to that parent who grabs her child by the hair and calls her stupid or worthless; Speak Up. Tell someone. Even if you aren't sure, usually our instincts are right. Tell someone. Don't assume it's not your problem. It is. It will be. How would you feel if your cries went unanswered? How would you feel if it was your child terrified to walk home from school? Terrified to even go to school. How would you like it if your sister was battered and bruised? How about your child sexually exploited by some sick grown up who should know better? What if your child was the tormenter?



This is, as I said, an issue I feel very strongly about. My oldest daughter was bullied relentlessly for three years. True, her torment was probably minor compared to many. But she cried daily, refused to go to school, hated herself and her life. She wouldn't leave the house, couldn't even go on the computer. I made calls, I ranted, raged, I spoke up. Still, three years? It shouldn't have taken me three years to see results. The final straw, a teacher. Someone who should have known better. A teacher targeted her and finally, the school took notice. Disgusting.



My youngest daughter, a much different personality, strong, outspoken, bossy even, was bullied this year. It doesn't matter how independent or confident your child is, one incident can shatter their self esteem. Thankfully, it didn't take so long to deal with her bully. Good thing she has a mother with a big mouth, she has a best friend whose mother also has a big mouth and who won't stand for any sort of bullying.



I wasn't bullied at school but my childhood was full of violence and abuse. No one spoke up. No one offered help. Everyone knew. No one said a word. They had tons to say in criticism of my parents and their misery. But  NOT. ONE. PERSON. HELPED. I could have been a much different person if not for my parents' insistence that I never allow myself to be a doormat. They gave me a voice and broke the cycle. Many aren't so lucky. Will you give someone a voice?



I wrote a short story for submission to an anthology that was cancelled earlier this year. It was inspired by what my oldest daughter was going through. It's rather tongue-in-cheek in its ending, but the message is what's important. How much do they have to take before we as a society say "Enough"?



Mother Fucker





By Renee Miller



Loser.





Retard.





Lesbo.



The taunts followed Anna down the halls of Stoneham High School. Head down, she moved as fast as her trembling legs would allow and prayed that she'd make it to Miss Davies' office without incident.



Something hit her back. Laughter. Anna's face warmed in humiliation. Whatever hit her felt cold and wet. The moisture seeped through her t-shirt and the voice in her head—which sounded much like her mother's—told her to turn around. Stand up for herself. But Anna didn't stop, although rage burned in her belly, its acrid smoke drifting up to sting her throat. Her mother promised if it didn't stop, they'd discuss home schooling. Anna had lasted a month since that promise and she couldn't do it anymore.



Her mother had called the principal when Anna finally confided in her about the bullying. The principal pretended to be shocked despite Anna's repeated complaints over the past two years. "The rules here at Stoneham are clear. We are a zero tolerance school and these are good kids. Are you sure that Anna isn't a little too sensitive?"



Anna's mouth curved into a rare smile as she remembered the profanity-ridden tirade her mother had rained upon the principal. Anna's mother didn't take shit from anyone. Anna wished she could be the same, but two wrongs did not make a right, even if the second wrong would make her feel better.



Someone pulled at Anna's hair and she stumbled, dropping her math book and pencil box. They clattered against the wall before hitting the ceramic tiled floor. The box cracked and spilled its contents at Anna's feet. She knelt to pick it up but didn't turn.



"What's the matter? You too good to talk to me now?" Carrie.



"No. I have to see Miss Davies. I'm late."



"You're such a weirdo. That's why no one talks to you. What do you write about in those stupid notebooks? Is it true you like girls?"



Anna turned to stare up at her ex best friend. They'd done everything together until seventh grade, when Carrie suddenly started calling Anna names and pulling vicious pranks. Carrie was on the chubby side, her hair was greasy and her face slightly bulldoggish. Anna didn't understand why the other kids liked Carrie and not her. Her mother said it was because they were afraid of Carrie's vile tongue. She said that no one enjoyed being a target so Carrie made sure to strike first.



Sighing, Anna resumed picking up the contents of her case, not sure where she could put all of it now that the box was broken. She would not dignify Carrie's stupid question with an answer. Carrie and the others called Anna gay because she never bothered with boys. Anna tried to tell Carrie it wasn't that she didn't like boys, or that she preferred girls, she just wasn't interested in that stuff at all.



"Did you like sleeping over at my house? I bet you did. Fucking lesbo." Carrie's words elicited a few chuckles and Anna felt her rage boil over.



Her hand closed around her compass. Its point pierced the tender skin between her thumb and her index finger. She winced.



"Probably fucks her mother."



She stood and spun around. Carrie's grinning face, fat cheeks folding and wrinkling around her eyes, mocked Anna.



"What did you say?" Anna demanded.



"I said you probably fuck your mother. You're certainly always up her ass."



"Take it back."



"Fuck off."



Anna advanced, clutching the compass in her fist. Fury flamed inside her, casting a red haze over everything. She heard taunts from the other kids. Hit her. Mother-fucker. But she ignored them. "Take. It. Back."



"No. I bet you and your mama do each other every night. That's why you're so weird. You'll never have any friends. You're a mother-fucking loser.



##



"One child is expelled, another in hospital after a brutal attack on Friday afternoon. Sources say the attacker, a thirteen year old girl at Stoneham High School, endured years of bullying by the victim before losing control and attacking the other girl with a compass. School Officials refused to comment, but several students claim that the attacker was a loner and 'kind of weird'. More at six."



Anna raised the remote, muting the news anchor's voice and looked at her mother. "Sorry."



"Don't be. She had it coming. How much is one person supposed to take?"



**



Will you speak up?

This Post is About Nothing.

So, I don't know that I have anything interesting to say. I thought perhaps I'd just write a post that is a little more about me, and a little less about my writing. Of course, since I am a writer, writing will creep in here anyway. Oh look, there it is.



Let me begin my me-post, by telling you about my week. This has been a rather rough week for me. On Wednesday I stumbled out of bed with a stiff shoulder. Nothing major. Just annoying. I ignored it and went on with my day. Eventually it either went away or I forgot about it as I often do with minor aches and pains. Thursday morning the pain migrated to the center of my shoulder blades, and crept up my neck. Yikes, I thought, that isn't good. So I popped a couple of T-3's, (really strong Tylenol) and ignored it. By mid-afternoon, said pain was screaming for attention. "But I gave you drugs!" I said. "MORE!" said the pain. I refused. I would not give in to pain just because it spoke louder than the other voices. Eventually it grew tired of whining and it's crying dulled to a rather pathetic whimper.



Today, the pain said, "Fuck you and your pain killer withholding bullshit, bitch.I said more and I. Mean. More." It moved across my back up my neck and into my right shoulder, ending at a tingling sensation in my right hand. Yep. I was in trouble. I couldn't turn my head to the right at all and only part way to the left. I couldn't even touch my chin to my chest. It hurt. Bad. I eyed the T-3's longingly. But then, common sense spoke up and said, "Now, Renee, did those pills silence the pain yesterday?" No, I thought, they didn't. "Well, do you really think they'll do it today?" No, I thought, they won't. So I hobbled to the drug store and bought something stronger. Muscle relaxers. Ooooh, good stuff.



Muscle relaxers are why I've accomplished nothing today and why I'm writing a blog post about absolutely nothing. You see, I'm not really good at taking any kind of medication. Over the counter ibuprofen has been known to make me loopy. Muscle relaxers? Well, let's just say I'm in happy pain. I'm supposed to write articles each day in order to pay the bills. My brain is on a happy trip with the muscle relaxers. A trip full of rainbows and unicorns and without any focus or intelligent thought at all.



So, here we are. You're there eating my cookies. No, it's okay. I'm not really into cookies while I'm high. You enjoy them. I'm sitting here, my head cocked at a strange angle because to cock it at a normal angle hurts. A lot. You're looking at me as though you're wondering if I'll get to my point before the cookies run out. I might. Probably.



Okay fine, I will. A while ago a friend said to me that writers and artists were all weird. I said, "Hey! I'm a writer." She said, "Exactly." Of course, I frowned and said that I was slightly offended that she found me weird. I thought perhaps unique, maybe a little flakey or eccentric, but weird? No. I said to my friend who really is a dear sweet girl, "Okay, name five weird things about me. Things that other people would find weird, not just you." Because she sometimes exaggerates. So, for all of you, here are five weird things about me. Yes, they're true.



1. I hate feet. Your feet, my feet, his feet, her feet; all feet. Don't touch me with yours, I won't touch you with mine. Don't touch mine. Ever. Never. Not even when they're covered. People stepping on my toes sends me into that dark place in my brain where the homicidal voices live. I shudder at the thought of a foot massage. Shudder and even vomit in my mouth a little. Kurt asked me once to cut his toenails and I said, "That is a deal breaker." Besides, I'd need a grinder to trim those bastards.



2. I'm terrified of driving. Terrified. Me behind the wheel of a car = instant panic attack. I don't mean just a "oh no, look at me driving. eek!" I mean, full on, sweating, crying, white knuckled, shaking, blubbering mess kind of panic attack. I don't like cars passing me, I don't like reversing, I hate stopping, I hate everything about it. I've had my learner's permit (or G1 as it's called in Canada) more times than I care to say. Never made it to actually getting my license. I'm a terrible passenger too. One way to send me into the same sort of panic is to head out on the 401 (that's a highway) and slip between a transport and the Wall Of Death. I'll vomit. Promise.



3. Sometimes I yell for no reason. Okay, so here's my take on this one. I yell. Probably far more than I should. Usually the yelling is accompanied by profanities. My top three; fuck, shit, asshole. But to me, there is a reason every time. Sometimes my reason for yelling happened before the actual yelling, but it was brewing for a long time. So what seems sudden and unprovoked to those around me who are oblivious to their idiocy, is really a rational, well reasoned outburst. And sometimes I just yell because it makes me feel better. Don't judge me.



4. Someone can talk to me for great lengths of time and I'll answer appropriately and nod, look them in the eye even, and make them think I'm listening, when really, I'm watching my own private show in my head. Might be my current WIP (there's that writing again), a story I'm considering, something that happened earlier, me planning what I have to do tomorrow, etc. Suddenly I'll realize I've missed an entire conversation and get this blank stare before saying, "I'm sorry. What?" Poor Kurt. Happens daily to him.



5. I PREFER to be left alone. In fact, I'd happily stay in my house, never speaking to another soul face-to-face for days. Give me coffee, cigarettes and something with which to write, a book, and I'll get along just fine. Okay, so I'll explain. I enjoy company. I have lots of friends. But I don't like said friends coming over unannounced and fucking up my day. I plan each day that I have without kids to the minute. I have only so much time to accomplish writing for money, writing for me, and cleaning my house. If you show up without calling, I will snap. If you call and I don't answer, that means I don't want company. If you show up and I don't answer the door, don't take it personally, I just don't want company. My own mother calls before she visits. Why? Because I have, on occasion, asked her to go home. Is that bad? Is that weird? I don't know. I really get upset when someone throws a wrench into my day, my schedule, my 'plan'.



So, according to my lovely friend, those are the top five weird things about me, that makes me a perfect artistic whackjob personality. She had a longer list, but some things are just too personal to blog about. No, I will not tell you. The muscle relaxers are wearing off and I'm losing my ability to type with my right hand again. So I'll say good night, but I'll give you some homework. Hey, you didn't think those cookies were free? Silly. I want you to share five weird, or quirky things about you. I won't tell anyone. I promise.

I Want Your Thoughts (No really, I Do.)

Have you ever written something that you are really excited about, that you love with a capital L, and that you know others will love if only they'd get a chance to read it, BUT you're pretty sure no publisher would touch it? No? Well folks, I'm in a bit of a predicament because I've done such a thing. I wrote this story called The Legend of Jackson Murphy in late 2009, early 2010. Over the past year I've tinkered with it. Changed the POV about three times, rewrote scenes, added some, took some away, modified dialogue, played about with the setting and now I'm on the final rewrite before I deem it either done or garbage.



Yes, I said garbage. Not literally throwing it out or deleting it, but setting in permanently aside to gather dust with the lonely Happiness Hills. I'm actually asking myself why I'm working so hard at this thing when I'm fairly certain it will never see a bookshelf unless I self publish it. And we know that I won't do that.



It's not the writing, because I can write and rewrite until this sucker shines. I know that. And it's funny. Of course, you need a sense of humor or that doesn't matter. My concern is the POV character. Jackson Murphy. You see, Jack is disgusting and vile and awesome. He is the guy you love to hate. He doesn't care about anyone but Jack and Jack's money. He loves sex, hates his wife, and is ambivalent about his three children. Can you see a publisher taking a chance on a protagonist who is unlikable? I'm still on the fence about that one. That's why I will probably polish this and then...I don't really know what then. To change him ruins the story. I know, you've heard that a million times. But, I've had this to readers twice and both times, the readers would agree (I think) that to change him makes the whole story pointless. The story IS Jack's assholeness. In fact I love that he is so scummy.



You don't know what I'm talking about so I'll share a little more about it. Here's the premise for The Legend of Jackson Murphy:



What would you do if you could 'eliminate' your problems without paying the consequences? Jackson Murphy is a successful contractor, with a nice house and a nice family and a wicked mistress. He has everything a guy could want, but he has learned that everyone else wants it too. Well, Jack doesn't share, and he'll do anything to make sure that what is his, remains his. Jack's going to get away with murder, even if it kills him.



So it's kind of suckish as a blurb, but I haven't quite made it to synopsis tweaking stage or even a query stage. I'm just sort of sitting on it.



Here's a scene, and it's graphic. Lot's of swearing and well, if you're easily offended, go read a different blog. This one isn't for you.



A million thoughts running through his head added together to confuse his plans for the meeting with Asshole Thorne. Jack pushed the door open--jackass James didn't lock a damn thing--and tossed his keys at the hook. They clattered to the floor.



"Fuck it." Jack rounded the corner and skidded to a halt, his brain unable to believe what his eyes said they were seeing. If there was one thing he could have gone his whole life without seeing, this would have been it. James had made a friend, and he was fucking her on Jack's kitchen counter.





Not sure what to do, Jack stood at the table wishing someone would gouge his eyes out of his head and bleach the memory from his brain. He stared for a full minute, rage bubbling to a boil in his gut.



Who nailed some chick he barely knew on someone else's counter top?



What the fuck? Nasty. That's what.



Now Jack would have to rip the damn thing out and fumigate or something. The girl looked as though she crawled out from under a bridge somewhere. Her hair had that skunky look, dark underneath with blond on the top layer. Why did women think that was even remotely attractive? It was just plain weird, that's what it was. Weird and tacky. Trailer trash hair.



Jack tilted his head, she leaned a little on the fat side of chubby too, and he could tell since her fat ass was plopped atop his counter. All dimply and scarred, it jiggled every time she moved…or every time James pounded her. Ugh. Jack vomited a little in his mouth.



Swallowing it back, he strode to the counter. James had his back to him, completely oblivious to his audience. Jack reached with his left hand and picked up the pan from the stove, raised it over his shoulder and cracked James in the back of the head. The skunk screamed and tried to cover her sagging breasts while James swore, grabbing his head as he jumped away from her. His erection couldn't sustain the blow. Jack almost laughed.



"What are you doing, you fucking idiot?" Jack asked.



"Jesus Jack, why do you always have to go there? You can't just say excuse me? You gotta fucking hit me? With a frying pan? Shit, you are mental."





Okay, so one scene. It's just been rewritten from first to third so yeah. I see the bumpy parts. Let's imagine it's edited, yet again.

Here's my question; How do you know when a manuscript is just not worth the effort anymore? Does that ever happen? Has it happened to you?



And just in case you think I'm getting soft and all whiny and crying over a single story and doubting myself or any bullshit like that, I'm not. Jeesh, I love what I write. I love this manuscript. I'm just trying to be realistic and I think that perhaps I've played with Jack too long. I've lost my objectivity in judging his worth either way. I don't think I'd see crap if it were crappy and I also don't think I'd see gold if there were any in there. Know what I mean?

Secret Agents and Other Bullshit

Part of the busines of writing and publishing is being known. Am I right? Okay, well perhaps I should say for most of us who want to achieve some level of success, it's being known. How's that you bunch of whiners? Jeeze.

I've really just had it up to here (points to nose-eye level) with anonymous agent, editor, publisher, author blogs who dole out advice to us noobs and yet hide behind some silly or ominous pseudonym and then become offended if someone dares to question their reliability. Well shit, how reliable would you find a gynecologist that goes by the name Mr. Feely and wears a PeeWee Herman mask and a clown wig every time he sees you? How about a mechanic who calls himself Handy Manny and covers his face with a welding helmet (what are they called?) and refuses to sign his invoices with anything other than The Man? Not very frigging trustworthy if you ask me. I'll tell you, if Mr. Touchy said I needed another pap because last week's was inconclusive or Handy decided that I needed $700 in repairs to my brand new car, I'd definitely question their advice.



So perhaps these examples are like comparing apples to oranges and perhaps I do tend to exaggerate my points just a little, but you do get what I'm saying, right? Today was like the straw that broke the proverbial camel or whatever. I read a post, very nicely written, disagreeing with an anonymous agent blog. No, I won't get into particulars here as I'm sure a million other blogs will be posting said links defending either side. Anyway, the nicely worded disagreement cited none other than the Shark's response to this original anonymous blog. (are you dizzy yet?) Again, Ms. Reid was herself and didn't mince words. Sure she could have written the post without fuck or crock of shit, but where's the fun in that? Where's the shark in that? She is what she is and makes no apologies. I like that. I don't like someone who offers advice which contradicts other advice but hides behind a pseudonym. I don't like writers defending this anonymous advice as though it were the gospel and we writers were a bunch of sissies who'd never heard the word fuck.



I'm still learning the world of publishing and I'm querying agents at a dizzying pace collecting rejections faster than I can record them on my little organizational spreadsheet. I don't always know who is right and who is wrong. But I do have a brain in my head and I often use it. (I know, hard to imagine) I can pick out good advice from bad and I know that I would trust someone who lays their cards out there for everyone to see rather than playing them close to their chest. I don't like poker, it's irritating and stressful and I don't enjoy playing games it when I'm trying to establish myself and my writing.



So, there's my thoughts on that. If you can't be real, then don't expect anyone to take you seriously.

Halloween; All the Cool Kids are Into It.

Before I begin, yes that's me in the picture. Circa 1999, while working at the Tweedsmuir (that's a bar). I believe the genie costumes were someone else's idea. Sadly, they don't make costumes in tall. So, while everyone else's pants poofed, mine hung on by a thread and some duct tape. The shoes...I couldn't find silver slipper-like shoes in size ten. So I found some in a size 9 and painted them with nail polish. No, paint doesn't adhere to patent leather. Nail polish does. My feet were blistered and I was in agony at this point. I'm a good actress though. Now, to the blog post. Quit looking at the picture. Stop it. Thank you.



Aside from Christmas, which I love, love, love, Halloween is my favorite holiday/event each year. Why? Well candy, first of all. A valid excuse to buy sacks of chocolate bars and cases of Doritos, jeeze how could it get better? But there's also the myths and the history surrounding the day.



There are sooo many legends and myths about Halloween which vary depending where you're from. One of my favorites includes the Celtic festival, Samhain. In Gaelic culture, Samhain was a time the ancient pagans used to take stock and prepare for winter. They believed that on October 31, the worlds of the living and the dead overlapped which allowed the dead to come back to life and wreak havoc among the living. So, during the Samhain festival, they'd light bonfires and wear masks in an effort to mimic the evil spirits and appease them. Bet you never thought of that when you were picking out that hooker costume, eh? It certainly never crossed our minds when selecting genie costumes. We just thought they were hot.



What about trick-or-treating? I have a favorite story about that too and it's tied to the wearing of costumes. According to medieval history, the practice of dressing up and begging door to door on holidays was common in the Middle Ages. It is similar to 'souling', which is when medieval poor people would go door to door on what was called Hallowmas (November 1) and they'd receive food in exchange for prayers for the dead the following day, All Souls Day. Shakespeare mentions it in The Two Gentlemen of Verona, written in 1593, when the character Speed accuses his master of whining like a beggar at Hallowmas.



And I also found an interesting fact that makes Halloween extra special to folks in my area. The earliest known reference to begging door-to-door on Halloween in North America happened in 1911. A newspaper in Kingston, Ontario, (just a hop and a skip from Tweed) reported that it was acceptable for smaller children to go out in costume on October 31 between 6 and 7 p.m. during which time they'd visit shops and neighbors and were given nuts and candies in exchange for their rhymes and songs.



Yep, I've been a Halloween buff for a while. My kids are too. We come back with not one, not two, but three or more bags of candy every year. For a small area like Tweed, that's not bad at all. Of course, we begin as soon as it gets dark and usually, my kids (the troopers) refuse to come home until we've gone to every house giving out candy. That takes at least three hours. And it's cold, often raining and not pleasant and yet, I can't wait for it to come every year.



But I think the reason I love this time of year so much really stems from the fact that the whole purpose of Halloween costumes (in modern times) is to imitate fictional (depending on what you believe) creatures. Vampires (my personal favorite), witches, ghosts, demons, cartoon characters, and sluts. Wait...those aren't fictional. Let me tell you, a couple of my childhood friends and I dressed up as prostitutes, hookers, or some sort of slutty, dirty, female character for at least six Halloweens. What does that say about us? I'd rather not know. We told our parents we were punk rockers, rockstars or something like that so they would let us wear the fishnets, heels and revealing mini skirts and way too tight shirts. Then the makeup--I wish I had a picture to show. But I don't.



This year my daughters are going as a witch and a ghostly goddess (which is actually creepier than it sounds), and we plan to be out very late. Kennedy is very excited and I'm thrilled she traded in her princess costumes for an awesome witch costume. My favorite childhood costume was a clown costume. Clowns are creepy. That year my mom went all out and my makeup was awesome. Too bad I was allergic to it and it never 'dried' and when we washed it off it looked like I'd stuck my face in a fire. Good times.



What's your favorite memory of Halloween?