Dawn Metcalf's Blog, page 21
April 11, 2013
My Other Life
Yesterday, I got to get up and scream and dance and rave about things I'm passionate about to a bunch of unsuspecting high school students. This is my other life.*
It's not so different than when I'm doing author talks, but then I'm talking about things I love--books, art, passion, creativity, dark fantasy, strong protagonists, children's lit, or the fact that I'd like to help someone else along their publishing journey--rather than things that I hate. "Hate" is a strong word, and I don't use it lightly. But I hate H-A-T-E! that so many people believe that there is something fundamentally wrong with them and how that affects their lives at the core. Basically anything that ends in an "-ism" or appears on a pamphlet in a wellness center was the sort of thing that I looked around at my high school and wondered "?!?!?" Kids were *miserable* to themselves and one another, getting thinner (bulemia) or bigger (steroids) or smoother (plastic surgery) but rarely any happier (being human). Yes, there was smoking and drinking and drugs and smashing expensive cars around trees (which were prominently displayed in front of the local McDonalds, which might have been a deterrent if there hadn't been such a steady stream of them that the school basically looked forward to seeing which model would show up next. Over 40,000 kids served!) but for me the scariest thing was the stress, self-loathing and depression that seemed to be everywhere, across every cliche and social strata, every line of race, finances and gender. Where was this all coming from??? That's when I started thinking that most of this was stuff that we were surrounded with every day, an undercurrent message that we weren't good/smart/thin/strong/sexy/capable/whatever enough and it was wrapped around what our families thought and what the people who we were attracted to thought, too. Enter sex, gender, sexuality and the entire spectrum of feels that motivates and de-motivates ourselves at our core. It stood front-and-center at every decision and darkest worry in our deepest hearts and ate away at Who We Are and Who We Wanted To Be.**
I hate that.
These things come up in my writing, but for over 20 years of my life, I get up in front of people and shout about it. I am absolutely passionate about feeling happy. I find this in my everyday with friends and writing and being out in the world, but it's been a while since I've been able to get loud in a classroom. Yesterday, I spoke to a group of girls about media messages. I got to teach them something about the history of advertising, how it melded with psychology and associative imagery way back when soap became something "elegant" and caused a boom in sales that set the stage by which all other soaps, and all products, were judged and marketed right up to today. I asked them to identify the "stereotypical American woman" (a.k.a. Barbie) and realize that no one really looks like this, but we carry that knowledge in our hearts, that it lingers in the back of our social consciousness and comes out as the central message in advertising, which is this:
"There is something wrong with you and this will fix it."
And, yeah, I hate that, too.
So I deconstruct how the structure of an ad works and how color, lighting, choice of models and position plus a clever phrase gets people to shut off their brains and soak in a split-impression long enough to want whatever it is that they're selling; to feel a little worse, to feel a little inadequate, a tiny niggling worm of self-doubt and how this can take a little joy out of the day...but only if you let them. We got to take out some favorite magazines and see how this was happening. I got to see light bulbs go off. I got to see girls get curious, get interested, and get a little mad. I encouraged them not only to get mad, but get even. Not to fall for the byline and even write the companies back. Check out videos on photoshop manipulation and the Worst Offenders on about-face.org. Tell their sisters, their cousins, their moms, their friends. Spread the word. Be smart.
And you know what? I love that.
My best friend once told me that all I want to do is give the world a hug and, as cheesy as that sounds, he's right. I do. Writing is one way that I do that. This is another. Advertising media wants to sell you stuff by saying that there's something missing/wrong/bad with the way you are and exposing that it's all lies, because the MOST important thing to know is that if you're happy just the way you are, then you don't feel that you need anything else. You have a choice. You can choose wisely. Feeling like there's no choice is the worst and having that feeling based on lies and manipulation is basically abuse.
So here are some things I wanted to share:
About-face.org is a great site to learn about media manipulation and the violence it reflects inherent in our culture as explored by Jean Kilbourne in Killing Us Softly (1-4). And if you want to get a glimpse at what soap companies are doing now, you have to check out this classic video made by the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty.***
It's like something out of UGLIES but it's true in real life, right now.
Be happy. Choose powerfully. And remember: you're great just the way you are! *hug*
* Just in case you didn't know, writing is a HUGE part of my life, but only a part. This is another part. There are more.
** And this was back when AIDS was coined "the gay flu" and I absolutely couldn't stand the idea that anybody ANYBODY! was condemned to die so horribly because of something they could avoid (unsafe sex).
*** By the way, they're STILL mostly interested in selling you stuff.
It's not so different than when I'm doing author talks, but then I'm talking about things I love--books, art, passion, creativity, dark fantasy, strong protagonists, children's lit, or the fact that I'd like to help someone else along their publishing journey--rather than things that I hate. "Hate" is a strong word, and I don't use it lightly. But I hate H-A-T-E! that so many people believe that there is something fundamentally wrong with them and how that affects their lives at the core. Basically anything that ends in an "-ism" or appears on a pamphlet in a wellness center was the sort of thing that I looked around at my high school and wondered "?!?!?" Kids were *miserable* to themselves and one another, getting thinner (bulemia) or bigger (steroids) or smoother (plastic surgery) but rarely any happier (being human). Yes, there was smoking and drinking and drugs and smashing expensive cars around trees (which were prominently displayed in front of the local McDonalds, which might have been a deterrent if there hadn't been such a steady stream of them that the school basically looked forward to seeing which model would show up next. Over 40,000 kids served!) but for me the scariest thing was the stress, self-loathing and depression that seemed to be everywhere, across every cliche and social strata, every line of race, finances and gender. Where was this all coming from??? That's when I started thinking that most of this was stuff that we were surrounded with every day, an undercurrent message that we weren't good/smart/thin/strong/sexy/capable/whatever enough and it was wrapped around what our families thought and what the people who we were attracted to thought, too. Enter sex, gender, sexuality and the entire spectrum of feels that motivates and de-motivates ourselves at our core. It stood front-and-center at every decision and darkest worry in our deepest hearts and ate away at Who We Are and Who We Wanted To Be.**
I hate that.
These things come up in my writing, but for over 20 years of my life, I get up in front of people and shout about it. I am absolutely passionate about feeling happy. I find this in my everyday with friends and writing and being out in the world, but it's been a while since I've been able to get loud in a classroom. Yesterday, I spoke to a group of girls about media messages. I got to teach them something about the history of advertising, how it melded with psychology and associative imagery way back when soap became something "elegant" and caused a boom in sales that set the stage by which all other soaps, and all products, were judged and marketed right up to today. I asked them to identify the "stereotypical American woman" (a.k.a. Barbie) and realize that no one really looks like this, but we carry that knowledge in our hearts, that it lingers in the back of our social consciousness and comes out as the central message in advertising, which is this:
"There is something wrong with you and this will fix it."
And, yeah, I hate that, too.
So I deconstruct how the structure of an ad works and how color, lighting, choice of models and position plus a clever phrase gets people to shut off their brains and soak in a split-impression long enough to want whatever it is that they're selling; to feel a little worse, to feel a little inadequate, a tiny niggling worm of self-doubt and how this can take a little joy out of the day...but only if you let them. We got to take out some favorite magazines and see how this was happening. I got to see light bulbs go off. I got to see girls get curious, get interested, and get a little mad. I encouraged them not only to get mad, but get even. Not to fall for the byline and even write the companies back. Check out videos on photoshop manipulation and the Worst Offenders on about-face.org. Tell their sisters, their cousins, their moms, their friends. Spread the word. Be smart.
And you know what? I love that.
My best friend once told me that all I want to do is give the world a hug and, as cheesy as that sounds, he's right. I do. Writing is one way that I do that. This is another. Advertising media wants to sell you stuff by saying that there's something missing/wrong/bad with the way you are and exposing that it's all lies, because the MOST important thing to know is that if you're happy just the way you are, then you don't feel that you need anything else. You have a choice. You can choose wisely. Feeling like there's no choice is the worst and having that feeling based on lies and manipulation is basically abuse.
So here are some things I wanted to share:
About-face.org is a great site to learn about media manipulation and the violence it reflects inherent in our culture as explored by Jean Kilbourne in Killing Us Softly (1-4). And if you want to get a glimpse at what soap companies are doing now, you have to check out this classic video made by the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty.***
It's like something out of UGLIES but it's true in real life, right now.
Be happy. Choose powerfully. And remember: you're great just the way you are! *hug*
* Just in case you didn't know, writing is a HUGE part of my life, but only a part. This is another part. There are more.
** And this was back when AIDS was coined "the gay flu" and I absolutely couldn't stand the idea that anybody ANYBODY! was condemned to die so horribly because of something they could avoid (unsafe sex).
*** By the way, they're STILL mostly interested in selling you stuff.
April 8, 2013
Speak to Me
I'm a sucker for voices. I like the sound of language spoken.
I especially enjoy bass voices, ones that make you think of words like "resonant" and "timbre." The first boy who kissed me and really kissed me was older, his voice deeper than any boy in my grade, and it struck me like a plucked string whenever he said my name. I've dated three boys with accents, one whose voice was clipped and tumbled softly over the harsh edges of consonants, swallowing the ends of words, another whose every sentence was liquid burbled bubbling that tickled down my spine, and the third was from Liverpool. (He spoke Scouse and was always good for a laugh!)
So it should be no surprise that while most writers fill their folders with photos of movie stars and models, knowing the hair style and type of nose and he exact shade of their characters' eyes, my files are filled with memories or movie clips capturing a sound or voice delivering a line. I may have a vague impression of what my characters look like, but I know *exactly* what my characters sound like.
Is it what they say or how they say it?
In every story I've ever written, there is someone with a distinctive, deep voice. Most often, these are bass voices or tenors or some rich, rumbling echo that emerges from their chest like a summer storm. I can hear
I love that.
Oddly enough, my brother has a voice like this--something I never knew until I came home from college--a voice made for singing in vaulted halls, rich and chocolate-thick and when he sings, it fills the world and I can't believe that such a sound can come out of a person, let alone a person I know. He tips back his head with it, opening his throat and lengthening his spine to let the sound pour out. I am in awe of my little brother in those moments. The sound is what the word "sublime" was made for. It is this quality that I find most humbling and fit for characters who deserve a little awe, a little external characteristic that exemplifies their internal (awesome) character.
Whatever the reason, voices "speak to me" in a way that pictures can't quite capture. Voices breathe and resonate and make a character real to me in a way that exists off the page and in my mind. When I write folks like Graus Claude, I hear James Earl Jones. Ink's voice, too new and fresh to have weight, spoke in a "simple way that sliced through sound." And when I wrote Nikolai, I gave him one of my favorite lines: “Happy Lehman’s Day, Joy.” he said with a grin. His accent was like marzipan, rich and sweet.
Yeah, I'm a sucker for voices.
What "speaks" to you beyond the hair and eye color of your characters? Is it a quirk? A color? A smell? A sound? Share some thoughts, links or clips in the comments: we're listening!
I especially enjoy bass voices, ones that make you think of words like "resonant" and "timbre." The first boy who kissed me and really kissed me was older, his voice deeper than any boy in my grade, and it struck me like a plucked string whenever he said my name. I've dated three boys with accents, one whose voice was clipped and tumbled softly over the harsh edges of consonants, swallowing the ends of words, another whose every sentence was liquid burbled bubbling that tickled down my spine, and the third was from Liverpool. (He spoke Scouse and was always good for a laugh!)
So it should be no surprise that while most writers fill their folders with photos of movie stars and models, knowing the hair style and type of nose and he exact shade of their characters' eyes, my files are filled with memories or movie clips capturing a sound or voice delivering a line. I may have a vague impression of what my characters look like, but I know *exactly* what my characters sound like.
Is it what they say or how they say it?
In every story I've ever written, there is someone with a distinctive, deep voice. Most often, these are bass voices or tenors or some rich, rumbling echo that emerges from their chest like a summer storm. I can hear
I love that.
Oddly enough, my brother has a voice like this--something I never knew until I came home from college--a voice made for singing in vaulted halls, rich and chocolate-thick and when he sings, it fills the world and I can't believe that such a sound can come out of a person, let alone a person I know. He tips back his head with it, opening his throat and lengthening his spine to let the sound pour out. I am in awe of my little brother in those moments. The sound is what the word "sublime" was made for. It is this quality that I find most humbling and fit for characters who deserve a little awe, a little external characteristic that exemplifies their internal (awesome) character.
Whatever the reason, voices "speak to me" in a way that pictures can't quite capture. Voices breathe and resonate and make a character real to me in a way that exists off the page and in my mind. When I write folks like Graus Claude, I hear James Earl Jones. Ink's voice, too new and fresh to have weight, spoke in a "simple way that sliced through sound." And when I wrote Nikolai, I gave him one of my favorite lines: “Happy Lehman’s Day, Joy.” he said with a grin. His accent was like marzipan, rich and sweet.
Yeah, I'm a sucker for voices.
What "speaks" to you beyond the hair and eye color of your characters? Is it a quirk? A color? A smell? A sound? Share some thoughts, links or clips in the comments: we're listening!
April 5, 2013
Happy Friday! Make A Wish: Dr. Who 2
So I'm still in the revision cave, (it's very nice here--a little musty, a little dank, and the chain to the desk is nice and thick!) but I wanted to resurface to wish everyone a Happy Friday! I have been a-swim in emails to my PR g-ddess, upcoming plans and swag and can't wait to share them with a now-suspecting public, but in the meantime I wanted to at least share a smile. Remember when I said last week that I'd made my first Dr. Who fanfic? Well, that was true but it wasn't the only one. I'd made two to submit to the contest that I shall not enter, but that doesn't men I can't post it here and this was my favorite of the two. A little wish-fulfillment for fans of the Ponds...
Enjoy & tell me what you think (or what you'd wish for!) ;-)
* * *
MAKE A WISH
He stood in the shadow of a building watching his two best friends feed one another forkfuls of noodles in the fancy restaurant across the street. They were laughing and wiping their chins with black napkins. Amy wore purple nail polish. Rory’d grown a goatee. The Doctor memorized the details. This was as close as they could ever be again. He was cold and it was raining. It was every sort of bleak.
Amy laughed and tweaked Rory’s nose.
“You’re skulking.”
He tucked his hands under his armpits, ignoring the woman in the trench coat. “I’m not.”
“All right,” River said, twirling her umbrella. Her shoes tick-tacked against the pavement with their red stiletto heels. “You’re simply standing in the shadows in the middle of Manhattan watching two of your closest friends eat dinner at a discreet distance in the rain.” He glowered at her. It had no effect. It rarely did. She ran a critical eye over the grey sky, the grey brick, and his grey mood. “Quite the setting, I’ll give you that,” she said casually. “I *did* ghostwrite a mystery novel in the 1930’s, if you remember.” Her mouth massaged the pen name past her lips. “‘Melody Malone.’ I thought it had a nice ring to it.”
The Doctor stared through the window smudged with rain. It was New York then, too, full of panic and faded wallpaper. Aged retinal flashes, glimpses of angels and death… Don’t blink! He squeezed his eyes shut.
“I remember,” he said. Amy. Amy Pond. She’d always been Amelia in his heart—seven years old, moon-faced and perfectly Scottish. It was terribly unfair that she’d grown up without him. Growing up. Growing old. He hugged his arms tighter. “I don’t want to remember. It’s my curse to remember. To keep on remembering long after they’ve gone.”
River pursed her lips and took a step closer. “When, exactly, do Time Lords pass through adolescence? As your wife, I feel that I really ought to know.”
He sniffed. Raindrops dripped off the tips of his hair. “Is there something you want?”
Her voice softened, a satin kerchief over a Glock. “I want you to stop skulking,” she said. “And here it is, your birthday.”
That got his attention enough to tear his eyes away. “What do you mean?” he said, despite himself. “You have no idea when my birthday is. It isn’t the anniversary of this regeneration…” His face scrunched up. “Or is it? How does one count the days when you’re a Time Lord? Backwards? Forwards? Reverse-innie-outwards? Sounds more like bellybuttons.” Ignoring him, she’d produced a red ribboned box out of her fashionable purse. He tilted his chin at it. “What’s in the box?”
She smiled her Cheshire smile. “Spoilers,” she teased. “That’s why it’s wrapped up properly. You’re supposed to open it.”
The Doctor took the pressie and tugged the bow loose. Inside the box was a blue cake thick with icing and cream. Instead of “Happy Birthday” it said “Police Box.” It was a small cake, but he figured it was probably bigger on the inside.
“Happy birthday, Sweetie.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek since he’d turned aside with a flinch. She admonished him with her eyes. “Can I have a little more, please? I’ve come all this way, having broken out of prison and everything.”
He smiled only slightly abashed. “Sorry. I’ve grown leery of beautiful women bearing moistened lips.” He kissed her and she returned it with gusto. He came up for air a little happier, although he still glanced back at the window.
“I wish I could share it with them,” he said.
“I know, darling,” she said. “Me, too. They’re my parents and yet there will always be this distance between us. We revolve around one another, but never quite touching. I envied you your time with them." She shrugged. "Now it’s my turn. I *do* understand.” Her umbrella sheltered him from the last traces of rain. “But we know something that most people will never learn in a lifetime,” she whispered. “That they loved us, wholly and completely. And that’s something.”
“That is something,” he agreed and handed her back the cake. He straightened his bow tie and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she fished for candles in the depths of her bag. “You know, it’s *completely* unfair that she got to be a ginger,” he muttered. “Eleven incarnations and not once!” He grabbed two fistfuls of his hair and shook them for emphasis. His wife indulgently allowed his segue/rant. She considered it an early birthday present. Until later. (Approximately forty-two minutes later when she’d open her trench coat.) She grinned.
He blinked up at the clouds and leaned against the wall. It was cool and unforgiving, but supportive all the same. “Sometimes, Dr. Song, I think the universe is laughing at me.”
River patted his shoulder. “It might as well join in.” He grunted and she gave him one of her wide, winning smiles. “Now go on, then. Say good-bye.”
He ducked his head and pouted. “I don’t want to.”
She sighed, “I know.”
“Are you sure?” He spun to face her with renewed energy and a dash of frenetic hope. “I mean are you really, really sure? As in proof-positive, no-doubt-about-it, absolutely zero room for misinterpretation of any kind imaginable within the realm of quantum physics or the TARDIS at full-reverse that there aren’t any other Ponds out there?” He squeezed his finger and thumb together, squinting through them. “Not even a little one?”
“No, darling,” River said, plunking tiny colored candles upright in the frosting. “I’m afraid not. No other Ponds—I’ve checked. I remain an only child.” She tried not to sound too sad about it as she shook a matchbox by her ear and removed the last stick. “Not that I doubt they had a lot of fun trying.”
“LA LA LA LA LA!” The Doctor sang with his hands over his ears. She smiled. He was sounding more like his old self again. Or his young self again. It was so very hard to keep track without her journal. She struck the match and lit each of the wicks in turn.
“Now be a good boy and blow out the candles,” River said, offering up the birthday cake and breathing into his ear, whispering-close, “Make a wish, my love.”
The Doctor looked back at the Ponds sharing a tiramisu, and then at River whose eyes were alight with love and candle flames. He knew what he’d wish for. Nothing big—no good ever came of those—only a tiny wish. A little one.
He closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and blew.
Enjoy & tell me what you think (or what you'd wish for!) ;-)
* * *
MAKE A WISH
He stood in the shadow of a building watching his two best friends feed one another forkfuls of noodles in the fancy restaurant across the street. They were laughing and wiping their chins with black napkins. Amy wore purple nail polish. Rory’d grown a goatee. The Doctor memorized the details. This was as close as they could ever be again. He was cold and it was raining. It was every sort of bleak.
Amy laughed and tweaked Rory’s nose.
“You’re skulking.”
He tucked his hands under his armpits, ignoring the woman in the trench coat. “I’m not.”
“All right,” River said, twirling her umbrella. Her shoes tick-tacked against the pavement with their red stiletto heels. “You’re simply standing in the shadows in the middle of Manhattan watching two of your closest friends eat dinner at a discreet distance in the rain.” He glowered at her. It had no effect. It rarely did. She ran a critical eye over the grey sky, the grey brick, and his grey mood. “Quite the setting, I’ll give you that,” she said casually. “I *did* ghostwrite a mystery novel in the 1930’s, if you remember.” Her mouth massaged the pen name past her lips. “‘Melody Malone.’ I thought it had a nice ring to it.”
The Doctor stared through the window smudged with rain. It was New York then, too, full of panic and faded wallpaper. Aged retinal flashes, glimpses of angels and death… Don’t blink! He squeezed his eyes shut.
“I remember,” he said. Amy. Amy Pond. She’d always been Amelia in his heart—seven years old, moon-faced and perfectly Scottish. It was terribly unfair that she’d grown up without him. Growing up. Growing old. He hugged his arms tighter. “I don’t want to remember. It’s my curse to remember. To keep on remembering long after they’ve gone.”
River pursed her lips and took a step closer. “When, exactly, do Time Lords pass through adolescence? As your wife, I feel that I really ought to know.”
He sniffed. Raindrops dripped off the tips of his hair. “Is there something you want?”
Her voice softened, a satin kerchief over a Glock. “I want you to stop skulking,” she said. “And here it is, your birthday.”
That got his attention enough to tear his eyes away. “What do you mean?” he said, despite himself. “You have no idea when my birthday is. It isn’t the anniversary of this regeneration…” His face scrunched up. “Or is it? How does one count the days when you’re a Time Lord? Backwards? Forwards? Reverse-innie-outwards? Sounds more like bellybuttons.” Ignoring him, she’d produced a red ribboned box out of her fashionable purse. He tilted his chin at it. “What’s in the box?”
She smiled her Cheshire smile. “Spoilers,” she teased. “That’s why it’s wrapped up properly. You’re supposed to open it.”
The Doctor took the pressie and tugged the bow loose. Inside the box was a blue cake thick with icing and cream. Instead of “Happy Birthday” it said “Police Box.” It was a small cake, but he figured it was probably bigger on the inside.
“Happy birthday, Sweetie.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek since he’d turned aside with a flinch. She admonished him with her eyes. “Can I have a little more, please? I’ve come all this way, having broken out of prison and everything.”
He smiled only slightly abashed. “Sorry. I’ve grown leery of beautiful women bearing moistened lips.” He kissed her and she returned it with gusto. He came up for air a little happier, although he still glanced back at the window.
“I wish I could share it with them,” he said.
“I know, darling,” she said. “Me, too. They’re my parents and yet there will always be this distance between us. We revolve around one another, but never quite touching. I envied you your time with them." She shrugged. "Now it’s my turn. I *do* understand.” Her umbrella sheltered him from the last traces of rain. “But we know something that most people will never learn in a lifetime,” she whispered. “That they loved us, wholly and completely. And that’s something.”
“That is something,” he agreed and handed her back the cake. He straightened his bow tie and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she fished for candles in the depths of her bag. “You know, it’s *completely* unfair that she got to be a ginger,” he muttered. “Eleven incarnations and not once!” He grabbed two fistfuls of his hair and shook them for emphasis. His wife indulgently allowed his segue/rant. She considered it an early birthday present. Until later. (Approximately forty-two minutes later when she’d open her trench coat.) She grinned.
He blinked up at the clouds and leaned against the wall. It was cool and unforgiving, but supportive all the same. “Sometimes, Dr. Song, I think the universe is laughing at me.”
River patted his shoulder. “It might as well join in.” He grunted and she gave him one of her wide, winning smiles. “Now go on, then. Say good-bye.”
He ducked his head and pouted. “I don’t want to.”
She sighed, “I know.”
“Are you sure?” He spun to face her with renewed energy and a dash of frenetic hope. “I mean are you really, really sure? As in proof-positive, no-doubt-about-it, absolutely zero room for misinterpretation of any kind imaginable within the realm of quantum physics or the TARDIS at full-reverse that there aren’t any other Ponds out there?” He squeezed his finger and thumb together, squinting through them. “Not even a little one?”
“No, darling,” River said, plunking tiny colored candles upright in the frosting. “I’m afraid not. No other Ponds—I’ve checked. I remain an only child.” She tried not to sound too sad about it as she shook a matchbox by her ear and removed the last stick. “Not that I doubt they had a lot of fun trying.”
“LA LA LA LA LA!” The Doctor sang with his hands over his ears. She smiled. He was sounding more like his old self again. Or his young self again. It was so very hard to keep track without her journal. She struck the match and lit each of the wicks in turn.
“Now be a good boy and blow out the candles,” River said, offering up the birthday cake and breathing into his ear, whispering-close, “Make a wish, my love.”
The Doctor looked back at the Ponds sharing a tiramisu, and then at River whose eyes were alight with love and candle flames. He knew what he’d wish for. Nothing big—no good ever came of those—only a tiny wish. A little one.
He closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and blew.
April 1, 2013
April First!
Happy April Jester's Day!
Happy April Trickster's Day!
Happy April Harlequin's Day!
HAPPY APRIL FOOL'S DAY!
Go prank somebody you know & love. ;-)
You only hurt the one you love. Ain't that right, Puddin'?
Happy April Trickster's Day!
Happy April Harlequin's Day!
HAPPY APRIL FOOL'S DAY!
Go prank somebody you know & love. ;-)
You only hurt the one you love. Ain't that right, Puddin'?
March 29, 2013
A Slight Diversion That's Bigger On The Inside
After hearing the rumor that Matt Smith might be leaving the show after filming the Christmas Special, I thought "Darnit! And I *just* finished my very first official-type fanfic for Dr. Who! ACK!" And while the rumors turned out not to be true, I thought I'd share my little diversion here on my blog as a way to bond we Whovians together during this latest regeneration scare. (It was also a nice way to break out of my editing/proofreading/revising panic-brain and indulge in pure silliness for a while. It's a nice place to visit!)
So here's a little fic' just for fun, inspired by Figment's contest (going on here) I kept to the 1200 word limit and adhered to all other rules except, well, submitting. This being my first stab at such a thing, I'm curious as to what experienced fanfic writers think. So experienced fanfic writers: What do you think? Leave tips in the comments. I'm new at this!
* * *
They ran through the corridors of the ancient tomb. Somewhere down below, auxiliary engines whined. Dust and bits of sandstone rained down as two thousand years of stasis were shaken loose, preparing for lift-off.
“I said not to touch it,” he said.
“I didn’t touch it!”
“You deliberately touched it,” he shot back. The Doctor led the way, trailing his companion behind him in a white-knuckled grip. “What makes you think that I’m always going to show up just to rescue you no matter what incredibly unbelievable danger you’ve blundered your way into?”
The young woman managed to shrug in her ridiculous red coat. “Because you never disappoint me?”
“Ha ha,” he said darkly. “This way.”
They dove down a sloping set of stairs into what had once been a relief chamber and was most likely the Phenarii control axis. He let go of her hand and swept the sonic screwdriver over its calcified surface.
“I might have known better if you hadn’t left me,” she said pointedly. “Again.”
The Doctor checked the readings and rapped it against his head. Diving sideways, he stopped short of a great slab of rock covered in runes that the TARDIS helped translate as: “Emergency Exit.” He ran the screwdriver along its seam.
Her face appeared over his shoulder.
“It’s jammed, isn’t it?” she said.
He sniffed. “It’s jammed.” He adjusted his bow tie. “Right, then. Stand back. I’m going to use an old trick taught to me by the Guru of Hol’pek.”
She looked intrigued. “What are you going to do?”
He rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to kick it!”
He did. The stone loosened and slid sideways, smooth as oiled glass.
“Ah ha!” The Doctor said, dancing to cover his sudden limp. “Come on!”
They staggered up the next corridor with the crash and thrum of erupting machinery at their heels as the Phenarii ship sloughed off the last remnants of human civilization. The Doctor glanced back at his companion’s white gaiters and black boots.
“Where did you get the uniform?”
“Hell-o?” she sang. “Revolutionary War? America? The Time Cannon? Big explosion and then we’re knee-deep in desert? Any of this ringing a bell?”
“It sounds vaguely familiar,” he admitted. “But I thought you were with the Ood.”
“I was. He wore one, too,” she said. “I thought it would help him fit in.”
“Help him fit in?” The Doctor said. “Have you seen an Ood?” His fingers flew over a series of glowing pads set into the wall at impossible angles. “The only place an Ood would ‘fit in’ is with a very tolerant and likely nearsighted school of land-bound cephalopods with a curious affinity for glowing Christmas ornaments. Now hang on to something that isn’t me.” He grabbed the ornamental staff held by a faceless statue and gave it a violent twist. The ship buckled. The Doctor bounced off the Phenarii Trajspherion and smiled at the golden light streaming out of the sunken eyeholes, draping a miniature sea of stars in the dusty air: an interstellar map.
“Is that where we’re going?” she asked, coughing into her fist and snagging her hair on one of the cuff's brass buttons.
“No,” he said in a whisper. “That’s where we’ve been. I mean the ship—this ship—all the places the Phenarii explored before becoming marooned on a little blue and green planet on the other side of the universe.” His eyes widened and he smiled like a child. “Quite a trip, from what it looks like. Hope they packed crisps.” He lifted a hand, fingers swimming through space, tickling tiny suns like a god. “Aren’t you a beauty?” he cooed.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Quick reminder: ancient pyramid, disguised spaceship, about to take off?”
He snapped up. “Yes! Well then. Of course. I'm the genius. Got to set rights to right!”
“So you know how to fly this thing?”
He laughed. “Haven’t a clue,” he said. “Hang on!”
There was a great shudder and the deafening scraping sound of clay and brick crumbling like a thunderstorm, kicking up a vast cloud of sand as the Phenarii vessel emerged, sharp-edged and blinking, its great stellar eye a shining beacon at its helm. The Doctor pressed his face to the lost likeness of the statue, peering through the eyeholes into its gold and sparkling depths to steer. With any luck, they’d uncork the TARDIS from the strange bubble that had appeared after the Time Cannon’s direct hit.
The young woman crept to the nearest panel, wiping away a sheen of dust. The human mind had little capacity to grasp the wonders of the universe, but he watched her awe with envy. How long had it been since he’d been struck by the miraculous? How many years had dulled the sheen over his eyes? Maybe regenerations were incomplete. They’d left layers of cynical film behind. That’s why he loved humanity—their limitless possibility and wonder wakened something in him that he’d otherwise forgotten.
She caught him staring at her and smiled. It was radiant.
“So…this was the Phenarii’s?”
The Doctor patted the wall. “This was the Phenarii’s,” he said. “A race lost to time, rumored to have sent their best and brightest in all directions once their home world was doomed to their nova sun, searching the endless reaches of the universe for a new place to call home.” He wiped the grit of ages on his pants. “I guess they found one.”
“I guess they did,” she said. “That would explain why the Egyptian gods had animal heads and their penchant for wrapping things up after death.”
The Doctor grinned. “Not every planet celebrates birthdays the way you do.”
“I prefer my Harrods gift cards, thanks.”
“I’ll try to remember: no mummies for pressies.” He stepped away from the control unit, still holding the tuning shift. He could feel its sonic energy buzzing in his bones. Fortunately, he was used to it.
He squinted around the hexagonal chamber. There were statues in every corner, their faces eroded into unrecognizable shapes, and the walls behind them clean of hieroglyphs, unlike the rest of the tomb. “The Phenarii found their place in ancient Egypt, but why did we pick up a signal in Greek? Why lead us to America, 1778 only to throw us back here?” He ran his fingers through his coxcomb, mourning his lost fez. “What were they doing?” he muttered. “They had a Time Cannon. They could have relocated to any time in Earth’s history—returned to their own planet by jumping far enough to join interstellar travel. The Phenarii haven’t the capacity to build, let alone power, such a thing and what use is it to…” The Doctor’s face swept clean, a curtain flung aside revealing a stage full of fear. “This is a sarcophagus,” he whispered. “Greek, sarkophagos, literally, ‘flesh-eating stone.’” He carefully turned away from the walls whose faces had rotted over time. The carved bodies, faceless and crumbling, sent a shiver through him stronger than the sonic drive in his hand.
The Doctor placed a hand on her shoulder and said two words slowly:
“Don’t blink.”
So here's a little fic' just for fun, inspired by Figment's contest (going on here) I kept to the 1200 word limit and adhered to all other rules except, well, submitting. This being my first stab at such a thing, I'm curious as to what experienced fanfic writers think. So experienced fanfic writers: What do you think? Leave tips in the comments. I'm new at this!
* * *
They ran through the corridors of the ancient tomb. Somewhere down below, auxiliary engines whined. Dust and bits of sandstone rained down as two thousand years of stasis were shaken loose, preparing for lift-off.
“I said not to touch it,” he said.
“I didn’t touch it!”
“You deliberately touched it,” he shot back. The Doctor led the way, trailing his companion behind him in a white-knuckled grip. “What makes you think that I’m always going to show up just to rescue you no matter what incredibly unbelievable danger you’ve blundered your way into?”
The young woman managed to shrug in her ridiculous red coat. “Because you never disappoint me?”
“Ha ha,” he said darkly. “This way.”
They dove down a sloping set of stairs into what had once been a relief chamber and was most likely the Phenarii control axis. He let go of her hand and swept the sonic screwdriver over its calcified surface.
“I might have known better if you hadn’t left me,” she said pointedly. “Again.”
The Doctor checked the readings and rapped it against his head. Diving sideways, he stopped short of a great slab of rock covered in runes that the TARDIS helped translate as: “Emergency Exit.” He ran the screwdriver along its seam.
Her face appeared over his shoulder.
“It’s jammed, isn’t it?” she said.
He sniffed. “It’s jammed.” He adjusted his bow tie. “Right, then. Stand back. I’m going to use an old trick taught to me by the Guru of Hol’pek.”
She looked intrigued. “What are you going to do?”
He rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to kick it!”
He did. The stone loosened and slid sideways, smooth as oiled glass.
“Ah ha!” The Doctor said, dancing to cover his sudden limp. “Come on!”
They staggered up the next corridor with the crash and thrum of erupting machinery at their heels as the Phenarii ship sloughed off the last remnants of human civilization. The Doctor glanced back at his companion’s white gaiters and black boots.
“Where did you get the uniform?”
“Hell-o?” she sang. “Revolutionary War? America? The Time Cannon? Big explosion and then we’re knee-deep in desert? Any of this ringing a bell?”
“It sounds vaguely familiar,” he admitted. “But I thought you were with the Ood.”
“I was. He wore one, too,” she said. “I thought it would help him fit in.”
“Help him fit in?” The Doctor said. “Have you seen an Ood?” His fingers flew over a series of glowing pads set into the wall at impossible angles. “The only place an Ood would ‘fit in’ is with a very tolerant and likely nearsighted school of land-bound cephalopods with a curious affinity for glowing Christmas ornaments. Now hang on to something that isn’t me.” He grabbed the ornamental staff held by a faceless statue and gave it a violent twist. The ship buckled. The Doctor bounced off the Phenarii Trajspherion and smiled at the golden light streaming out of the sunken eyeholes, draping a miniature sea of stars in the dusty air: an interstellar map.
“Is that where we’re going?” she asked, coughing into her fist and snagging her hair on one of the cuff's brass buttons.
“No,” he said in a whisper. “That’s where we’ve been. I mean the ship—this ship—all the places the Phenarii explored before becoming marooned on a little blue and green planet on the other side of the universe.” His eyes widened and he smiled like a child. “Quite a trip, from what it looks like. Hope they packed crisps.” He lifted a hand, fingers swimming through space, tickling tiny suns like a god. “Aren’t you a beauty?” he cooed.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Quick reminder: ancient pyramid, disguised spaceship, about to take off?”
He snapped up. “Yes! Well then. Of course. I'm the genius. Got to set rights to right!”
“So you know how to fly this thing?”
He laughed. “Haven’t a clue,” he said. “Hang on!”
There was a great shudder and the deafening scraping sound of clay and brick crumbling like a thunderstorm, kicking up a vast cloud of sand as the Phenarii vessel emerged, sharp-edged and blinking, its great stellar eye a shining beacon at its helm. The Doctor pressed his face to the lost likeness of the statue, peering through the eyeholes into its gold and sparkling depths to steer. With any luck, they’d uncork the TARDIS from the strange bubble that had appeared after the Time Cannon’s direct hit.
The young woman crept to the nearest panel, wiping away a sheen of dust. The human mind had little capacity to grasp the wonders of the universe, but he watched her awe with envy. How long had it been since he’d been struck by the miraculous? How many years had dulled the sheen over his eyes? Maybe regenerations were incomplete. They’d left layers of cynical film behind. That’s why he loved humanity—their limitless possibility and wonder wakened something in him that he’d otherwise forgotten.
She caught him staring at her and smiled. It was radiant.
“So…this was the Phenarii’s?”
The Doctor patted the wall. “This was the Phenarii’s,” he said. “A race lost to time, rumored to have sent their best and brightest in all directions once their home world was doomed to their nova sun, searching the endless reaches of the universe for a new place to call home.” He wiped the grit of ages on his pants. “I guess they found one.”
“I guess they did,” she said. “That would explain why the Egyptian gods had animal heads and their penchant for wrapping things up after death.”
The Doctor grinned. “Not every planet celebrates birthdays the way you do.”
“I prefer my Harrods gift cards, thanks.”
“I’ll try to remember: no mummies for pressies.” He stepped away from the control unit, still holding the tuning shift. He could feel its sonic energy buzzing in his bones. Fortunately, he was used to it.
He squinted around the hexagonal chamber. There were statues in every corner, their faces eroded into unrecognizable shapes, and the walls behind them clean of hieroglyphs, unlike the rest of the tomb. “The Phenarii found their place in ancient Egypt, but why did we pick up a signal in Greek? Why lead us to America, 1778 only to throw us back here?” He ran his fingers through his coxcomb, mourning his lost fez. “What were they doing?” he muttered. “They had a Time Cannon. They could have relocated to any time in Earth’s history—returned to their own planet by jumping far enough to join interstellar travel. The Phenarii haven’t the capacity to build, let alone power, such a thing and what use is it to…” The Doctor’s face swept clean, a curtain flung aside revealing a stage full of fear. “This is a sarcophagus,” he whispered. “Greek, sarkophagos, literally, ‘flesh-eating stone.’” He carefully turned away from the walls whose faces had rotted over time. The carved bodies, faceless and crumbling, sent a shiver through him stronger than the sonic drive in his hand.
The Doctor placed a hand on her shoulder and said two words slowly:
“Don’t blink.”
March 25, 2013
Happy Passover!
Firstly, a joyous Passover for all those who celebrate--may you be thankful for the bounty that surrounds us all: friends, family & (of course) food. So get that matzo ball rolling!
Secondly, thanks to *everyone* who participated in spreading the news about Indelible and I assure you there will be future opportunities to win, read, gain sneak peeks and otherwise revel in the months leading up to the release of Book One of the Twixt. I'm so incredibly fortunate to be able to share this journey with you!
So without further ado, the winner of the very first ARC of Indelible is...
Danielle Duffield!!!
Congratulations, Danielle! Please email me with your mailing address to receive your prize!
And to celebrate, here's my very first gif reaction to how things are going:
Secondly, thanks to *everyone* who participated in spreading the news about Indelible and I assure you there will be future opportunities to win, read, gain sneak peeks and otherwise revel in the months leading up to the release of Book One of the Twixt. I'm so incredibly fortunate to be able to share this journey with you!
So without further ado, the winner of the very first ARC of Indelible is...
Danielle Duffield!!!
Congratulations, Danielle! Please email me with your mailing address to receive your prize!
And to celebrate, here's my very first gif reaction to how things are going:
March 22, 2013
Contest! 1st ARC of INDELIBLE!
Okay, I caved. It's just *so* pretty!
I couldn't wait to share these arcs with everyone out there so I'm running a spontaneous contest for the very first arc of Indelible that I just took out of the box! You can see it here, pictured next to a stack of its siblings and, being the proud Book Mommy that I am, I had to snap a picture:
Look who wants to come home with YOU!
How to enter? Easy-peasy! You can:
1) Like Indelible's Facebook Page here: I Like Indelible!
2) Mark Indelible as "To Read" here: I Can't Wait To Read Indelible!
3) ReTweet this contest on Twitter like so:
Let's kick off Friday! Who wants the very 1st #Indelible ARC? Like/To-Read for a chance 2 win! http://on.fb.me/YKlzAy http://bit.ly/165oRV4
IT'S JUST THAT SIMPLE! Click and enter to win!
One winner will be picked and announced on Monday, March 25th. Spread the word and the smiles this weekend and YOU could have the very first Advanced Reader Copy of my next book, Indelible (and maybe some extra surprise swag)!
Good Luck!!!
I couldn't wait to share these arcs with everyone out there so I'm running a spontaneous contest for the very first arc of Indelible that I just took out of the box! You can see it here, pictured next to a stack of its siblings and, being the proud Book Mommy that I am, I had to snap a picture:
Look who wants to come home with YOU!
How to enter? Easy-peasy! You can:
1) Like Indelible's Facebook Page here: I Like Indelible!
2) Mark Indelible as "To Read" here: I Can't Wait To Read Indelible!
3) ReTweet this contest on Twitter like so:
Let's kick off Friday! Who wants the very 1st #Indelible ARC? Like/To-Read for a chance 2 win! http://on.fb.me/YKlzAy http://bit.ly/165oRV4
IT'S JUST THAT SIMPLE! Click and enter to win!
One winner will be picked and announced on Monday, March 25th. Spread the word and the smiles this weekend and YOU could have the very first Advanced Reader Copy of my next book, Indelible (and maybe some extra surprise swag)!
Good Luck!!!
My Smiles & Geekery Know No Bounds. Look! Indelible Arcs!
Happy Happy Friday!
I have news! I have news! It looks like this:
And, oh, do I have plans! Plans for them and plans for you! Oh, yes! But not just yet, my Precioussss...
I am right now in the throes of rewrites for the sequel to INDELIBLE (whose name shall not be revealed as of yet) and so am offering you a veritable trio of perfect smile-worthy treats: a short-n-sweet vampire song written and sung by Jonathan Coulton (aka geek culture genius) as performed by CaptainValor (aka Stephen Torrence of Bad Philosophy) in ASL.
What more could you ask for in life? Enjoy!
I have news! I have news! It looks like this:
And, oh, do I have plans! Plans for them and plans for you! Oh, yes! But not just yet, my Precioussss...
I am right now in the throes of rewrites for the sequel to INDELIBLE (whose name shall not be revealed as of yet) and so am offering you a veritable trio of perfect smile-worthy treats: a short-n-sweet vampire song written and sung by Jonathan Coulton (aka geek culture genius) as performed by CaptainValor (aka Stephen Torrence of Bad Philosophy) in ASL.
What more could you ask for in life? Enjoy!
March 20, 2013
My One Thought to Add
One would think that as a feminist (and a humanist and a menimist) as well as a raging gender advocate that I might have something to say about the Steubenville rape case. And I do. I have many, many things to say, but other people have said just about everything that I could or would want to say--and some things I would have never thought to say and wish I had--and have done so in about every tone from calm to pedantic to apocalyptic and so what I'm left with is this:
A truism of life, whether we are talking about tweeting or blogging, arguing online or off, speaking about others behind their back or into their face, shoplifting/illegally downloading/plagiarizing (all words that mean "stealing") or contemplating heinous, disgusting, rapacious crimes towards another fellow human being, is this: If you think you probably shouldn't be doing something, then you're right. Don't do it. Because I don't care what your grandma would think if she knew, or if only G-d knows, or if some nameless fear is supposed to keep people in line, because the only thing I *do* know is that there will be one person who knows the truth and that is YOU. And you cannot be fooled. You will know. And you will be living with you for the rest of your life.
Thus endeth the unspoken rant.
A truism of life, whether we are talking about tweeting or blogging, arguing online or off, speaking about others behind their back or into their face, shoplifting/illegally downloading/plagiarizing (all words that mean "stealing") or contemplating heinous, disgusting, rapacious crimes towards another fellow human being, is this: If you think you probably shouldn't be doing something, then you're right. Don't do it. Because I don't care what your grandma would think if she knew, or if only G-d knows, or if some nameless fear is supposed to keep people in line, because the only thing I *do* know is that there will be one person who knows the truth and that is YOU. And you cannot be fooled. You will know. And you will be living with you for the rest of your life.
Thus endeth the unspoken rant.
March 18, 2013
The Secret Life of Writers in a Nutshell
Originally, this random epiphany was posted in 2009, but given the number of conversations I've had with various people recently, I figure it bears repeating.
* * *
Being a writer means exactly two things:
1) That you secretly believe that your writing is better than 90% of what's out there (or can at least hold a candle to the majority),
2) That you secretly believe that your stuff sucks and that it'll never amount to anything, ever.
The funny thing is that this never ends. Seriously. Lather, rinse, repeat. That's being a writer!
Observe:
You secretly believe that your writing is better than 90% of what's out there, but under that, you secretly believe that your stuff sucks and that it'll never amount to anything, ever. But underneath that is the real, honest belief that your writing is still better than 90% of what's out there, although deep down you know that your stuff totally sucks and that it'll never amount to anything, ever...etc.
Isn't that fun? So endeth the lesson. Now I'm going to eat some chocolate and continue revising! Ciao!
* * *
And it's still true 4 years later. Now off to do more editing. Ciao!
* * *
Being a writer means exactly two things:
1) That you secretly believe that your writing is better than 90% of what's out there (or can at least hold a candle to the majority),
2) That you secretly believe that your stuff sucks and that it'll never amount to anything, ever.
The funny thing is that this never ends. Seriously. Lather, rinse, repeat. That's being a writer!
Observe:
You secretly believe that your writing is better than 90% of what's out there, but under that, you secretly believe that your stuff sucks and that it'll never amount to anything, ever. But underneath that is the real, honest belief that your writing is still better than 90% of what's out there, although deep down you know that your stuff totally sucks and that it'll never amount to anything, ever...etc.
Isn't that fun? So endeth the lesson. Now I'm going to eat some chocolate and continue revising! Ciao!
* * *
And it's still true 4 years later. Now off to do more editing. Ciao!
