Pia Veleno's Blog: piaveleno.com, page 8

Quoting Fiction: Introverted

I did have a quote exercise yesterday, but I was having such fun with it, I set it aside to expand further. I almost did that again today, but I could easily overwhelm myself with such actions. I love all of my characters. It’s so hard to say one will survive — live a longer, fuller life in a manuscript — while another will languish in a flash piece, used only to get the writing floon flowing, to be heard no more.

Today’s exercise is inspired by Placebo’s Scared of Girls. The song starts like this:

“An introverted kind of soul, the earth did open and swallow whole.”

Reminder: raw, unedited, as a flash writing exercise should be. Please ignore typos, run-on sentences, and other oddities my lovely, hard-working editor would find should we make this a sellable copy.

~*~

What was I thinking? I’m a freak – introvert doesn’t begin to describe me, not well enough anyway. Did I actually believe I could just walk into a gay bar and pick up a date? Sadly, for a brief moment or three, I did. I actually jumped on my bike and drove to the Springfield Prince. According to the internet, it was a medieval dining experience taken over by the geekier side of the GLBT community a few months back. Me? Geek? Check. Double check. Triple check. I was so geeky, I wore my cute little leather forest girl outfit. Little being the operative word. Leather barely covered my ass, leaving my thighs very bare, and it definitely didn’t cover my stomach, shoulders, or arms. It was teasing and it advertised my proclivity for cross-dressing in a safe fashion. After all, those that cosplay tended to be more tolerant of men in women’s clothing.

Looking around the room, I scratched under my left knee. There were a lot of guys waiting in the bar for the show to start. A lot. An intimidating amount. I scratched some more, letting it distract me from my goal of actually saying “hi” to someone. The knee-high suede boots I bought just for this outfit itched my freshly shaven legs. Hey, I championed the swim team to the top in high school. Shaving was normal. But, yeah, I kept right on shaving after graduation despite only swimming for fun and exercise. When I leaned over to reach that itch, my horns slipped down my forehead. Mumbling a curse, I ripped them off, untied the shoelace threaded through the ceramic black and brown horns, and quickly tucked the string under my hair and behind my ears. It wasn’t easy to tie without tangling strands of my matching brown locks in the knot, but the effect was – if I do say so myself, and I do because heaven forbid I talk to a guy who likes the look – playful and naughty, part demon, part sprite.

As I ran my fingers through my unruly wavy bangs, combing them over the shoelace, between the horns, so I looked like horns actually did spout from my head, I looked around again. This time the multitude of bodies didn’t blur into a daunting mess. This time my gaze fell on a single man – a man who, in one glance up from his beer stein – took my breath away. Now I’ve always been a romantic, but I never believed in love at first sight, or that any person could literally take my breath away, but I gasped, and then forgot to exhale. For several seconds I just stared. He’d already returned his attention to his drink, but I couldn’t do the same. He was beautiful. So handsome, and pretty, and sexy, and…

I licked my lips and then realized how foolish that might’ve looked if anyone deigned to give me a look at all. I squeezed my eyes shut, tugged at the short hem of my skirt, and took a deep, slow breath. Focus. Focus. Focus. Calm the heck down already. When I opened my eyes, he still looked amazing. He had black, razor-straight hair falling over his eyes, hiding them from me except in that moment he’d looked up – he’d looked right at me. At me! He had sharp cheekbones and full lips all of which I wanted to lick thoroughly, and from what I could see – the table at which he sat blocked some of my view – he looked lithe, slender, and athletic. He looked like the type of guy I liked. A lot. I realized I was gay while on the swim team. All those guys in very revealing “team uniforms” set my type like stone sinks in a pool. Hard and fast. Mm, yes, hard and fast.

I watched the man who was most definitely my “type” for another few moments as I reminded myself how to breathe. Then I fooled myself into thinking I had a chance by reminding myself I’d come to the Springfield Prince to break out of my introverted shell.

I will talk to him. I will walk right up to his table and say hello. I will do this. There is no reason to be so afraid.

Yeah right, there wasn’t. He was a dark-haired Adonis, and I was, well, plain ole me. A woodland character, scared shitless, even behind his mask.

Quoting Fiction: Like a Child

I’ve been in a bit of a dry spell lately. My last novel was released last May, and I’ve written very little since then. Book two of the Personal Demons series is an on again off again love affair, and we’re currently ignoring each other. I have a couple of ideas bouncing around in my head, but nothing I’m dying to write just yet.

So until I dig my teeth into that next manuscript, I hope to tempt and tease the Muse with some writing exercises. I’ll share those tidbits with you, dear Readers, and if there’s one you particularly like, perhaps it’ll inspire me to expand it further.

Without further ado, my first attempt is inspired by a random entry from a book of quotes:

“Authors are easy to get on with – if you like children” (Michael Joseph)

~*~

 “You can be such a child!” Garrison snapped.

Brian stuck his tongue out while Garrison picked tiny glittery stars out of his hair.

“As I said–”

“Maybe you don’t cater to your inner child enough. I think you’ve killed him.”

“Brian–”

“Garrison.” Brian grinned. He combed his fingers through Garrison’s unruly curls, shaking more little stars onto the floor. His smile faded as he asked, “Too much?”

With some reluctance, Garrison seemed to relax. Brian deflated; he started to apologize, but before he could get the words out, Garrison shook his head. “You’re too much.” Then he smiled. “Always, too much.”

Brian struggled between frowning and returning the smile, confused. “I’m. Sorry?”

“Don’t be.” Garrison kissed Brian’s nose, and wrapped his arms around Brian in a loose embrace. “I fell in love with too much.”

“I can tone it down.”

“No.” Garrison pulled Brian closer. “Don’t you dare change one bit.”

“Um, Gar?”

Garrison nuzzled Brian’s neck before meeting his gaze again. “Yes?”

“How did you get a purple star on your front tooth?”

New Year

(Originally posted at Slash & Burn)

We all have our own ways of celebrating the retiring of one year and the birth of another. Some watched the ball drop on Times Square, others drank until they couldn’t remember last year, still others spent quiet time with family. Regardless of how you rang in the New Year, let’s make it the best one yet.

How? I’m glad you asked. Here are my ideas for 2013:

Look for the happiness and joy in your life every day. Maybe it’s a hug from your child, or and unexpected text from an old friend. Maybe it’s that chocolate bar you’d been saving for a special occasion, or freshly fallen snow painting your yard a pristine white. Look for it, acknowledge it, appreciate it.

Better yourself. No, not resolutions; something you’ll enjoy. Pick an instrument and take some music lessons. Learn how to snowshoe. Study a foreign language. Apply for a better job. Participate in a charity; pick one that means something strong to you.

Lastly, step away. So many of us spend way too much time in front of the computer. Social interaction online is simply not the same as taking a friend out for coffee, or going shopping with your sister. Get away from your computer and get some fresh air, and welcome smiles with friends and family, and do it often. Oh, and don’t check your smart phone while you’re doing it.

In 2013,

May you find what you seek. May you catch the dreams you chase. May you walk the path to your most desired life goals. May the New Year treat you with the same joy and love for life as you give yourself every day.

Happy New Year!

~Pia

PS. Yes, lazy. I’m reposting a blog post I already wrote. That’s how little I’m writing, but I’ll come back. I promise. If not fiction, I will — at the least — write the next Hunger post. Fun stuff, food.

Review: Hounded By Love

I missed this one when it was first posted this summer, but it still made my night to stumble across it today.

Chocolate Minx at Literary Nymphs gave Hounded By Love 4.5 nymphs, and has this to say about the story:

Hounded by Love is a heartwarming thoroughly enjoyable saga.

Thank you Minx, and Literary Nymphs Reviews!

Read the whole review here: http://literarynymphsreviewsonly.blogspot.com/2012/06/hounded-by-love.html?zx=96f19701f8f9b183

 

Transgender Day of Rememberance

I had hoped to write something moving and uplifting today, but I woke up sick and my head is foggy. I’ll be fine, of course, and there are others out there who can’t speak up out of fear for their safety. For them, take some time this morning to learn more about the transgender community — from struggles to victories — and, even if you don’t know a trans person, support them in any way you can today and going forward.

My very good friend is transgender. She still presents as a male because only a few people know who she truly is. She’s been telling our friends little by little, but there are a couple people who she has not yet told because she suspects she’ll be met with disbelief, or worse. I try to be there for her, to talk, to listen, but I can’t make those others accept her when the time comes. I hope they will. I hope they’ll stop and learn before judging.

It’s possible they’ll surprise her and continue being the friends she’s come to love.

After all, here in NH we now have our first transgender Representative in the House, and her gender identity wasn’t made an issue at all. I didn’t even realize a transgender candidate was running in my own state until well after the election.

There’s progress. There’s hope. But there’s also still the lingering hate culminating in violence and death. For our trans brothers and sisters, take some time today to learn and share. Open your mind, and open another’s too.

~Pia Veleno

Hunger Games

Not the movie, but food and health. This starts a (hopefully) regular feature on this blog. Readers and writers have to sit still to do what they love. Let’s combat the inertia without giving up the storytelling.

Are you on a DIET?

Of course you are. A diet is “food and drink regularly provided or consumed” or “habitual nourishment” (thank you Merriam Webster). So if you eat Oreo cookies and drink Cherry Coke for every meal, that’s your diet.

Diet, to most people, is a four-letter word because when they hear the word, they hear (again, thank you, Merriam Webster) “a regimen of eating and drinking sparingly so as to reduce one’s weight”.

I’ll wait for the winces and shudders to cease.

Ready? Okay, good.

We are, as a country, fat. There, I said it. We’re fat. Overweight. Obese. Obviously not everyone fits this declaration. Ryan Hall is not fat. The man sets new records in marathons, so he’s probably watching his diet to keep the weight on, instead of off like the rest of us.

Ah, but I digress. Diet is a dirty word to many because we have tried, over and over, to lose weight, to be healthy, to do what we begrudgingly admit is good for our bodies and minds. And then failed. Over and over again.

Why, dear Readers, do we continue to fail at these diets? Because we think of it as that last entry – that regimen to reduce one’s weight – instead of the first. Go read the first again: “food and drink regularly provided or consumed”. Let’s take a look at what that means…

Regularly is the key word. It can’t be a quick fix diet. A diet can’t be something we do for six weeks or even six months. It has to be a change to our world that we’re willing to make permanent. We can’t give up Boston Crème donuts for three months and hope to keep the weight off when our time is up and we return to Dunkin Donuts. It sounds like a daunting task. It sounds like we have to give up everything we love to be healthy.

I am standing up here to say, we don’t. We don’t have to be hungry all the time, and we don’t have to eat miserable, boring food to lose the weight. Hunger, when trained, can be a friend. But first we must understand the difference between boredom eating, stress eating, and normal, needing-fuel eating. Hunger cannot be our friend until we train our tongues to enjoy a variety of new tastes, and our minds to understand our stomachs often don’t catch up with “full” signals as quick as we can plow through a meal. Hunger is a child that needs to be taught slowly, over time, to be tame, well-behaved, and helpful, but also like a child, once behaving, hunger will not terrorize us in the grocery store checkout line by demanding we give in to the Buy Two Get One Free deal on chocolate bars.

Come with me, dear Readers, let us embark on the great game of taming hunger together. Let’s take control of our bodies, our minds, and our hunger.

Step one. Write it down. We can’t fix something if we can’t see what’s broken. Write down everything you eat or drink between now and the next Hunger Games post. Be honest with yourself. I won’t ask to see the notes. If you’re anything like me, you’ll be surprised  by this exercise, but don’t let Hunger defeat you with this ambush. Keep going. We’ll make it worth the fight.

Blog Musings

As I edited the post I wrote for the Hunger Games piece, I stopped to wonder if I was too distracted. Should Pia the writer be blogging about non-writerly things? I know some readers – myself included – enjoy reading about other aspects of their favorite writers’ lives but, at the same time, there is such a thing as too much information. Should I be blogging about dieting when I could be writing fiction?

I was at a loss. I just didn’t know, and there’s no one right answer. What finally broke the stagnation was two things: one, I wasn’t writing anything else, so I wasn’t really taking time away from the fiction, and two, readers and writers, en masse, sit a lot. Sure, there are those of us who will walk on the treadmill or sit on the bike at the gym with a Kindle propped up against the touch screen, but for the most part, reading and writing requires physical inertia. It also lends to the nasty habit of munching convenience foods without thinking of content, or even if I’m truly hungry. Sure, maybe I’m making excuses for my Hunger Games post, but I think it’s a viable excuse for the fiction world. As for that post? It should be ready to share this weekend.

Halloween Freebie

Here’s another ghost story for you, dear Readers. The following scene, narrated by the main character, Morgan, was cut early on in the drafting of Man Whore. It reveals Charlie much more than the final manuscript does. But don’t worry if you haven’t read the book yet, because this won’t give away any spoilers.

Happy Halloween!

~*~*~

It’s not true what they say, that ghosts are tethered to the spot where they died. I know because I met the ghost of Custard in a gay coffee house in Seattle. He told me the barista wanted a piece of my ass. I glanced over my shoulder to catch said coffee boy eyeing me. He winked; I left him my number on the way out.

Custard thought I needed more advice after that and became quite the pain in the ass. I hitchhiked down to San Francisco just to ditch him. Besides Seattle isn’t all they say it is. Except the rain. Fuck all that rain.

In the gay capital of the country, I shared an apartment with what had been literally a starving artist. It was this one that convinced me that ghosts were real and not just a figment of my alcohol-addled brains. Her name had been Charlie. Not Charlene, she insisted, but Charlie. She offered to show me her birth certificate, but then walked through the wall leading me to wherever she thought it was.

Charlie taught me new techniques. She may have never sold enough paintings to survive, but she had talent. So did I, even back then, but she helped me improve it. She taught me. She opened my eyes to the beauty only found in natural light. I never painted under light bulbs again once I learned to paint with Charlie in front of big, uncurtained windows, in the San Francisco sun.

That’s how I ended up in the dive of an apartment in Boston. It had huge windows that caught most of the day’s sun. Tucked in the corner of the building, I got east and north sunlight from morning through late afternoon. I didn’t return to Boston willingly though. That, too, was Charlie.

“You’re more than this,” she said one day.

I had crawled into a bottle one dreary morning. Rain clouds filtered light through fractured emo rainbows in shades of grey.

“More than what?” That day I had decided my frequent drinking had fucked up enough brain cells and she wasn’t really there. Sober, I knew she was real. Drunk, I doubted, and that felt normal.

“More than getting drunk off your ass, foolish boy.”

Today she had a short bob instead of her usual ponytail. She wore overalls and a button up shirt that was four sizes too bid for her. She was splattered with paint even though we hadn’t had decent sunshine for two days.

“Oh no,” I said waving the bottle at her before filling up my glass. “I will not fall for that crap. One man does not save the world. Look at Jesus. He just gave the world reasons to hate each other more when he really wanted everyone to be good and happy.”

She had this smile. I can’t really describe it. Her face was translucent and so was her smile, but her intent could never be clearer. I didn’t get it and she did.

“Being a ghost are you… I dunno, in with God or something?”

She laughed and it was musical and genuine. She wouldn’t mock me no matter how crazy my questions got.

“I’m in between,” she said. “I’m not there, but I’m not really here.”

“So you’re just trying to convince me to get my head out of my ass.”

“No, Morgan. I see things. You have this aura…”

I rolled my eyes at her.

“I mean it. Like when I told you to tone down the streaky little horsehair strokes.”

“Whatever. That was my idea.”

“Anyway, Morgan, you’re a fabulous painter, but there’s something else in store for you. You should go home.”

“Nah, I like it here. I have a girlfriend who never bitches about roses and chocolates and dinners out on busy, hallmark created holidays.”

She laughed and I knew if she had blood, she’d be blushing too. She and I both knew this “girlfriend” was just a fuck-buddy and Charlie didn’t care. I adored her; it was true. I knew she wasn’t real, but she and I had the realest conversations I’d ever had.

“I have to go,” Charlie said.

She never said things like that. She would be there one moment and the next I’d be alone. She’d show up the next day and continue our conversation as if she’d never left.

“I’ll be here.”

“I won’t. Morgan, go. This isn’t your place.”

“Funny, my name is on the lease.”

“Please,” she said.

That was the last I saw her. I waited around for three weeks, sometimes painting, often times drinking. She kept her promise; she didn’t return. When I returned to Boston, she’d already picked out another trashy apartment with big windows.

~*~*~

Man Whore is available from Silver Publishing, and many of your favorite third-party distributors such as Amazon, B&N, and ARe.

Powering Down

I finally wrote that Hunger Games post I promised in the last “Coming Soon” post, and then we lost power to the charming Miss Sandy. Without power, my wireless internet doesn’t work. I have limited internet access here, on the office computer, however unauthorized deviced (translation: my personal laptop) are not permitted on the network. No password granted, no internet, no uploading a pre-written post.

So instead of sharing my thoughts on hunger, I’ll let you read something more fun. Halloween is tomorrow, so how does a free copy of My Ghost sound to you, dear Readers?

Leave your email address in a comment — no other rules — and I’ll draw one person to get a PDF copy of My Ghost first thing Wednesday morning.

(Disclaimer: If I don’t get power back today, I can’t email… but our area is recovering quickly, so I’m optimistic.)

If you’d like to leave the title/author of your favorite ghost story, I’ll read horror all year long. Recommendations most welcome, but not required to enter the drawing.

Have a great day and stay safe.

Happy Halloween!

~*~*~

My Ghost

A ghost of my past haunts me already, so running into another in the same graveyard where it all began is almost more than I can stand.

Almost.
 
So why the hell did I bring him home?
 
~*~*~
 
Available at Silver Publishing, and many of your favorite third-party distributors such as Amazon, B&N, and ARe.

Just for Fun: The Muse vs Warcraft

I’ve been going back and forth between feeling guilty for not writing much and admitting that The Job That Pays The Bills is taking way too much of my mental energy for me to write something actually worth reading after being in the office all day and week.

The guilt jumped tenfold when I resubscribed to World of Warcraft. Chances are you’ve heard of this game. They spend a lot on online ads and TV commercials to drive the membership numbers. It is a fun game – that I won’t deny – but it’s also an addicting game. It has mechanics that appeal to my OCD tendencies, and I’ll find myself saying “I’ll take a break after this quest.” An hour, four quests, and three side tangents later, I may notice that I lied to myself about that break.

What’s a girl to do when she has to pay the bills? I love my day job. I’m good at it. I want to be better and get that next promotion, but I also want writing to be more than a passing fancy. I love to be the storyteller, and it makes my day when someone really, truly gets a character. The people I help during the day don’t need me as much as my boys do. The former have more money than they know what to do with while my boys won’t find their Happily Ever After without the guiding touch of a loving hand.

Regardless of day job versus writing, I need to stop feeling guilty about having fun. We all need to have fun and we need to do it every day. Life has to be enjoyable or it becomes harder and harder to get up every day. Yes, there will be a time when I’ll need to cut back on the Warcraft hours and apply that time to writing, but not until I can come home from the Job That Pays The Bills with the mental energy to crave the written word. Yes, crave. I never want storytelling to become a chore.

I’m still working on Man Whore’s untitled sequel. I’m determined to get that finished, little bit by little bit at a time. I haven’t given up. Nor am I going to feel guilty when this evening consists of no more than a three-mile run through the woods followed by a two-hour crawl through dungeons.

Hey sometimes video games can inspire a new story too!