Rhi Etzweiler's Blog, page 4

Ooh, writer porn! What notebook nerdery.

The wolf, it mocks me with its laughter.As a kid, I was a nerd. I loved learning, and the scholarly aspect of my formative education was far from a burden -- with the exception of that damned section on quantum mechanics during Physics 2AP my senior year.

Anyway, I used to look forward to going back to school. It was a relief from the endless doldrums of summer, for one. Granted, I usually found plenty of time and energy to invest in writing, and going back to school sort of cramped that. And the actual interactions with my peers? No thanks, I could do without that.

But all the school supplies. Notebooks, and pens, and erasers, and mechanical pencils...it was enough to make me drool. And yep, it's that time of year again. I really didn't intend to go buy anything. I seriously didn't. I'd splurged on a hoard of writing utensils earlier this spring, actually, and didn't need anything. Really. Plenty of space left in the notebooks I've got.

I certainly didn't need these.
But they came home with me anyway. An entire rainbow of composition books.
That array was Not Planned. I'm dead serious. It just... happened. I got home and unloaded them from the bag and blinked in amazement.

Yeah, I still use good old pen and paper to write, at least some of the time. I am not yet to that point where I can justify purchasing a tablet that has the size and capability to have both ease of mobility and convenience of either my laptop or desktop computers. And sometimes my thoughts just seem to loosen up and flow more easily when I pick up a pen. Especially when it's a gel pen that just slides over the paper like silk bedsheets (which are terribly impractical, mind you, if you're at all energetic in bed--I like my sex sans contusions or fractures, thanks--or a mobile sleeper).
Anyway. Pens. And paper.

I have a collection of smaller Moleskin notebooks hiding about for potential giveaway material in the distant future, their content the arduous working material of a few different WIPs. These, though. The composition notebooks are my workhorses. Clamped with butterfly clips to bookmark content no longer needed, standard paperclips to separate notes for different projects that inevitably lump together in the same space. Inevitably, because I only carry two of them, and one is devoted to the tome of a book I'm working on, so all the others stream together in the overflow one. Stream together, because as much as I do try to focus my energies on a single story at a time, I'll have ideas for plot points, thoughts about character backstory or development, and it comes out almost stream of consciousness, all over the place.

These won't stay so pristine and lovely for long. I figured their cleanliness was worth commemorating. Much like any 'before-after' comparison.

High hopes and little victories.

Releases October 14, 2014.So, it's now official enough for public knowledge:
The military anthology for which I've completed a short story is slated for release in mid-October, just in time for GayRomLit, and has a confirmed title and cover art.

I'm so excited. Mostly because I completed a story. Yes, it's short, and I'm still doing some tweak editing, but thanks to my Magical Betas of Awesome, it has a solid ending that I don't loathe with every fiber of my being, as I do most endings that I write.
The characters are ones that I enjoy immensely, and their entire squad is likely just as interesting too, come to think of it. I expect there will be more of tattooed, red-headed heathen Chartreuse Beaudrou and his battle buddy, Kainai medicine man Apisi Howling. No, neither of them look anything like that hairless, pale hot toddy on the cover there. But that's okay. He's doing his job quite well, too.

I did my damnedest to keep their story "contemporary," which isn't something I write a great deal. Okay, fine--it isn't something I write at all. The only way I managed it was by giving myself wriggle room all over the place, and shading word choice and phrasing to allude to things that mean nothing from the perspective of the story, but could mean whatever I want them to, or need them to, when I dig deep and write their sequel/prequel/full-fledged story.

So come on over to the anthology's Facebook group and check out the full complement of contributing authors, and show your support! This anthology will be limited availability, from October through March.

Reminders, of writing life and writing loves.

I forgot how exuberantly "puppy" actual puppies are capable of being.
I was reminded, yesterday, when I was introduced rather unexpectedly to a yellow lab pup who was all legs and paws and bright blue eyes. I remembered, almost immediately, the entire pack of yellow labs my riding instructor kept at her ranch. They went everywhere together, it seemed, a teeming mass of golden tawniness, happy friendly energy bumbling everywhere, wet noses and slobbery tongues and solid bodies nudging enthusiastically into legs and knees and whatever else was within reach.

This puppy was precisely like that, came barreling toward me with no bark of warning or malicious intent. Just a huge pile of happiness as though he could instantly detect that I was someone he wanted to sniff and lick and share his energy with. He came racing after me not once but on four separate instances, which thoroughly baffled his humans because he'd never done anything like it before. Ever.

Ah, the innocent impulsive perceptiveness of youth. No filters, no fears, no preconceptions.

I've been stumbling upon reminders, recently, of projects and stories and muses that had gotten shuffled to the side over the past couple years. Other things required my focus and energies. It's not to say that they've returned in full vigor, but I have an increasing desire to drag them from the shadows, brush off the cobwebs, and play with them again. With outlines, this time, so that I have direction and a target to focus on, to maintain some motivation and course corrections without stagnating and getting sucked into the Bog of Eternal Stench.
Outlines are my nemesis. Plot arcs and the Things That Must Happen always trip me up. Finding the path to Satisfying Climax and Resolution is not one that comes easily. I'd much rather meander about in the meadows full of wildflowers, exploring worlds and character dynamics and to fuck with following the Generally Accepted Protocol of Storytelling. I've no fucking clue how to do it properly. I've no fucking clue, to be honest, why It Must Be Done This Way.

Conflicts are of course a part of any interactive dynamic. I have always despised the formulaic method of writing, and that doesn't just go for the cliched tropes of having the romantic leads first interacting in the third chapter, etc.

I need more organization, though. I've always been one for letting the muses loose to do as they please, but inevitably they trip up, freak out, and lose their momentum, running away from whatever it is they really need to confront. This is the case in at least three different stories I currently having sitting incomplete on my Writer's Desk. This is a personal vendetta against my own artistic methodology that I'm embroiled in, and it's demanding the sort of purging and careful reinvention that is never pleasant.
The most difficult part about this is that there's no topographical map I can whip out and land nav my way to the solution with a few quick azimuths to determine the most efficient course to the destination.

I suspect it will be the journey itself that is most beneficial for me. Still, the knowing won't make the process any easier. I am hoping to rediscover and reinforce my confidence in my storytelling abilities, along the way.

Puppy love is often rife with naivete, youthful blindness, and hormone-fueled passions that swiftly burn out and die.
But as the puppy reminded me, it's sometimes good to let yourself approach life and your passions with this sort of energetic disregard for mundane, mature concerns like safety, well-being, and logic. Moderation in all things, including sobriety and sanity.

Once more into the breach, my friends.

Seasons and timing and such. And cookies!

As though winter isn't rough enough most of the time, this year Mercury went into retrograde for the entire month of February, and of course, oriented in Pisces. That's my constellation, the one that resonates with me the most--I'm technically an Aquarius/Pisces cusp, but when it comes to art, and writing, the Piscean in me comes to the fore. (The Aquarian side I save mostly for forced social interactions.) At any rate, February was a big fat bust. The most I managed to write on any given day was 100 words, when words came at all. Oftentimes just that much took hours to accomplish.

Yet life is cyclic in so many ways, and Mercury relented at last. I could almost feel the floodgate giving way, the surge of words scourging away the residue built up by weeks of frustration and headdesking.
Of course, the parameters of my upbringing demanded this sort of pagan resonance receive disbelief and an "evil" label, so despite the years and distance between us, I still doubt the influence of the natural order of things. Right up until the evidence is as undeniably present as this. Like a slap to the face.

The past week has seen more than just a decided warm/sunny trend and the thawing of the ice flows in the right side of my brain.
It's been a week of profound, decisive actions as far as my stories and writing career are concerned.
And cookies.

Not just any cookies though.
No, not just any cookies. Big Soft Ginger Spice Cookies, a Haus of Rhi specialty. With Hershey's Special Dark cocoa powder sprinkled on them. Let's all drool for a moment, shall we? Because these things? They might not look like much thanks to my shitty photography skills, but by the All-Father. They rival Loki for sweet, sweet divinity.

[wipes drool from chin] Okay, back to the writing things now:

I'm plotting my publications for the coming year. Yes, a bit late out of the starting gate, aren't I? As it's already March and whatnot. Did I mention winter and I don't get on well? I did? At any rate, there's this anthology piece -- I swear, it's almost done, I have to change a sea monster into a dragon, scorch a pod of orcas, and reorder the scene where someone's brains melt out their ear canals so that it doesn't make the rest of the ending feel anti-climactic in comparison -- and then I've got a very huge fantasy series that is taking shape, finally finally finally, into a self-publication project. My first. In all probability, the first of many to come.

And then Red still wants to talk to me. Though I can't imagine where she's found the patience. Darning the holes in her argyle thigh-high stockings, I expect.
And then Mike has decided that retirement just makes him restless. The wide open spaces of his family ranch just trigger old traumas on top of the new and make him smell blood-soaked Cirokkan soil all over again. Add to that the fact that Sergei has no idea what to do with himself; the prospect of freedom is terrifying to him the way an animal who's only ever known a cage or crate is fearful of wide open spaces. Like living rooms. Never mind yards and free range prairies.

Yes, you read that right. I expect there will be some "Adventures of Nikishin's Brain" involved, at least peripherally, and all this is of course very informal, but The Sequel cometh. At last, behold, the apocalypse is surely bearing down on us.
Any moment now.
Brace yourself.

Any moment now.


Oh well. Come on by and have a cookie then.

Interview and Gift Card Giveaway at BBB

I was over at "Bitten By Books" for the two-year anniversary of Blacker Than Black today. Talking about my muses, and hosting a $20 gift card contest.
Contest ends at midnight on Saturday, February 1st.
Please stop by to check out my interview, ask some awkward questions, and maybe enter the giveaway. (Hey, free stuff, right?)

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Ebb and Flow

It's come back to me, and I am so, so very relieved.
Back in October, the anthology piece I was writing just...stalled out and died on me. I was struggling with the relational dynamics between the characters, how best to proceed with constructing a believable interplay that would engage some emotional investment from the audience.
This project has been excruciating for me on a number of levels, but what I've struggled with most is the faint undertones of questionable consent. Not on a sexual level, but a relational one. The power play between the main characters, the dissonance that occurs. I still don't know if it will have a "satisfying" resolution.
But then, I didn't go into this WIP with the expectation of a positive or even satisfying climax taking place. I think I've worked my way around to that much--a satisfying climax, as the case may be--but the resolution that takes place in its aftermath is unlikely to leave the audience with more than the bitter taste of discontent.

I find it difficult to find the right words to describe what's taking place in my head, never mind the story. But it's coming along finally, the tide has turned and with it the story's energy and inspiration and driving motivation are returning to life as well.

A thousand thanks to my betas, for their assistance in that regard.
After Nano bombed out on me with such a spectacular belly-flop, I was getting a bit concerned. This, however, is a great way to begin 2014, I'm pleased to say.
Knock on wood that this trend continues, because I have Red sitting over there staring at me with this expression that says, "well fucking hurry up already, because it's my turn when you're done there."

At the mercy of fickle muses

Or, Rhi's Nano-Adventure Begins.



Terribly fascinating, the way these things happen.

Since I initially began writing this MHT anthology short story, I'd been planning to hammer out the last of it during Nano and have done with it. I desperately want to do a story for this project and despite the obstacles that are arising, my plans to finish it have not changed.



However, just as I sat down to write today I read a note from a reader asking about the potential for a sequel to "Blacker Than Black." And in the course of penning my response, Red woke up.



No, no. Red didn't just "wake up." Red came roaring to life like a soldier shaken awake by incoming mortar sirens and impacts. It's a good thing that she and I are so familiar with one another or I might have backhanded her into Alpha Centauri.

As things stand, however, my Nano-Adventure is off to a roaring, energetic start (which is how these things usually begin, is it not) with 3k already dumped out.



Not a bad number. The odd thing is, there'd be more of it but I had this silly idea to do it longhand. And then my hand couldn't keep up with my brain, and then it started to cramp, and I had to break out the magnetic wraps to stave off the stiffness and carpal pain. It's not a chronic thing, but any long periods of typing or writing without a break to stretch my forearms and flex my hands causes discomfort.

Yes, I have trouble remembering to pause and stretch and flex when I'm writing. My brain moves that fast, I'm too busy trying to keep up with it and get everything out to worry with silly things like writer's cramp and carpal tunnel stretches. PFFFT.



But now I have to transcribe 3k of longhand too, and ugh, why did I ever think longhand would be great for anything longer than a quick bout of thirty minutes of brainstorm writing during my lunch hour at work? Aren't I the cute little writer trying to be quaint. Not.



I might have to break down and get a tablet with a bluetooth keyboard and a simple text editor after all.



Which brings me to the second part of my Nano-Adventure. Before all this began, I had this lofty goal of attending a write-in at a little coffeehouse that was scheduled not far from where I am. It's across from a college campus (oh dammit) but that was okay, I would brave the crowd and go have some caffeine and escape the distraction of the internets and be productive. Even though I wouldn't have my Spotify... And maybe even socialize with some other writers.



Yeah that last part put the nail in the coffin of that idea. So much nope. I do not socialize. I do not schmooze. Not in person, no way. I have no propensity for "making nice" or smiling and lying about "how excited" I am to be in public and whatnot.



I'd like you to meet Rhi, the Introvert, if you haven't met them already. No, really. *waves at everyone*



My entire plan for this month got derailed in the space of a message that would fit inside a Tweet parameter. I guess, after a fashion, Red has been waiting to tell her story and this was the right time.

Fitting, since Black's story was also a Nano project. Fitting, too, that her story just dumped out in first person present tense as well.



I really hope everyone likes Red when they get reacquainted with her...



That's the nice thing about Nano. It's a tool, and it's only as good as the effort you put into it, like most things in life. This time it was the trigger that the floodgate was waiting for. I welcome it. I just won't be doing the longhand thing. HAHA.

Blood, wood, and bronze.

My struggles with this current writing project have led me on an artistic journey the past few weeks. They've ranged from wood-burning projects to metaphysical reinforcements. It doesn't feel as though the creative energy is lacking this time. It is simply this powerful subject matter leaves me struggling with how best to evoke the emotions and response from the reader audience that I intend. Part of that is parsing free just what I intend. There are many times when I don't know for sure.





Sandalwood malas.

I think it's safe to say that each of us lives in a society or culture that has a number of forms of acceptable violence and aggression. It's called any number of things; discipline, punishment, a tradition of hazing, tenderizing the fresh meat. And really, it's a failure to communicate, right? Communication is a two-way channel along which we give and receive information. Transmission and reception; both parts carry equal import. Without it, frustration and irritation and confusion result. It leads some to attempt more extreme measures to get their point across, and this is where the slippery slope of abuse comes into play, be it sexual, emotional, physical, mental, or psychological. Abuse is "wrong or improper use or treatment," and as such incorporates a broad spectrum. Through the course of creating my story and its characters I have found that they all find occasion to abuse one another in due time.



Is it justifiable to abuse the one who abuses you? Or does that simply lower you to their level of ethical lack? What happens when someone takes a punch or three because they perhaps consider it a price worth paying to manipulate the physically abusive individual into doing precisely what they want them to do...

Who, then, is the aggressor, or are they both equally culpable?

Do they just deserve each other, and what they get? Should we leave them to wallow in their vicious cycle of misery?



I once had a very heated conversation about whether or not it was possible to save someone who did not want to be saved. Like the drowning person who in their panicked frenzy bludgeons their rescuer almost senseless, the one being saved resorted to verbal, physical, sexual, and psychological abuse to avoid the enlightenment that would lead to their personal healing.



My argument was that they would save themselves, or not, but that nobody could do it for them regardless of how much they cared or wanted to. They would save themselves when they were ready, and to attempt to force them would only make them resist all the more fiercely.

Does it depend on how strong your loyalty or devotion is? Are the wounds worth the effort?





Sandalwood mala, bloodstone amulet.

I've come to the conclusion that you must be willing, in your loyalty, to stand at their side and wait them out. To let them thrash to the point of exhaustion. To wait until they slip beneath the surface one final time and have surrendered, so that they can be rescued with minimal injury to ones' self. I guess it depends on how strong your support structure is. How strong your resolve and determination are. How much you take care of yourself in the process, refilling your tank at regular intervals so that the other may drain it from you. Because they will. It's what they do.



Not terribly unlike a lyche, really.



I still find it difficult to justify. I feel quite strongly that persons with such severe damage should not be in an intimate relationship with anyone but themselves. But if they want intimacy to distract them, they'll find it somewhere. A drowning person will grab onto anything they can find, regardless of who or what it is. It's one of the first and most important lessons a lifeguard learns: make sure what they grab isn't you.

You need to have a line which you will not cross. You need to know when to back off and surrender your efforts to more capable persons. You need to know when to get them help whether they want it or not--the issue of suicide prevention is a large part of this, both in the military and civilian sectors.



That whole conversation is coming back to me in full force. Not a discussion of legalities, but of ethics. Those ethical struggles from the past are relived in vivid clarity and tear at me. The quandaries that have no clear answers, no cut and dry simplistic solutions. Watching someone willingly submit to abuse because they choose it, over and over, just to try saving someone from themselves... It's a difficult thing to witness. Is it still abuse? Does their conscious, voluntary involvement negate the culpability of the abuser?



Caretakers and spouses of combat veterans suffering from traumatic brain injury (TBI) and combat-induced post traumatic stress go through some of this, to varying degrees. Persons caught in that vicious cycle of abuse and nonexistent self esteem, a form of PTSD in its own right, go through this as well. The symptoms are similar, yet the situations may be so highly deviated as to be at opposite ends of the spectrum. I'm not calling anything black or white.

In my mind it's all mist and smoke, gun-metal gray and charcoal.



But it's also impossible for me to tackle the creation of this story without engaging the shards of my own life experiences and weaving them into the words as well. So I've had to create some reinforcements of my own. Of sandalwood, and bloodstone, and bronze. To anchor and ground, to shield me from the negativity and dark thoughts that I must wallow through to forge this story. A bit of self love to refuel my tank, so that this labor doesn't sputter out before it's finished.

A toast of blood, remembrance for the fallen.

I am melancholy this evening. It grew from a mellow mood this morning when circumstances reminded me of the date. Silly mundane things like paying bills and doing my duty at the dayjob brought it to my attention.



Today marked the twentieth anniversary of the Battle of Mogadishu. Shughart and Gordon will never be unseated from their Throne of Badassery, at least not in my mind.





A toast of blood from a writer's cluttered workspace.

I spent much of my mental energy today recognizing all the small things, all the privileges, that are encompassed by living, and growing old, that are largely taken for granted. Be they irritations, or the flaring light of sunset, or the thousand shades of sunset as fall colors blush to life in a tree. Or Mike, who's learned a new trick of rolling over and now flops on the floor like a dead fish, without prompting, at the merest scent of bacon treats.



And so I am melancholy, though grateful, and offer up a toast of blood (Bull's Blood, mind, not actual O+ or anything) for all the fallen tonight. For all the fallen, but especially for all those who've stood shoulder to shoulder with their brothers and shed blood or given their lives for them.



I've always believed that the best way to honor the dead is by living and cherishing each breath. I may not succeed each day, but it's what I strive for. But for tonight, the melancholy is welcome.

Writer, Distracted.

Much like crows, vampires, and leprechauns, I am a writer easily distracted. Those distractions come in myriad forms, as strangely inconsistent as a menagerie of mythical creatures. (Mildly alliterated analogy unintentional.)



On vacation for the past week, I spent my time doing things deliberately unrelated to writing, plotting, or creating. Especially no creating. Nothing that demanded creativity in the least. My brain needed a vacation as much as I did from the dayjob. The most creative things I did were: cook french toast (involving sourdough loaf and heavy whipping cream, seasoned with cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar and vanilla extract); carry on a detailed conversation analyzing the ethical implications of character choices in the third season of The Walking Dead; and go to the local RenFaire for a day--not in costume, for once--and make a few lewd comebacks in the bartender's general direction.




Today, though, marks a week for easing back into the writing thing and striving for some productivity. Wouldn't you know, someone dropped a landmine of inspiration in my email over the weekend. Part of me wants to keep it a secret because I have this proven hate/hate relationship with deadlines and anthologies.

Yes, you read that right. I'll be working on a piece, of currently indeterminate length (please feel free to laugh at me), for an anthology.




The project is currently titled Men Hurt Too. Michele at Top to Bottom Reviews is coordinating it with the intention of providing the proceeds to a charity (not yet chosen) that will benefit male victims of domestic violence.




I am a bit nervous about this. Okay, gross understatement there. I am ten kinds of nervous about this. It's way outside my comfort zone and pings on at least a handful of trigger mechanisms to booby traps that I really would prefer to avoid.

But that is in part the precise reason why I've chosen to commit to this project. Our cultures and societies the world over have this stereotypical notion that males do not experience abuse at the hands of their significant others, regardless of their gender and/or orientation, that they do not end up the victims of domestic violence or rape, be it physical, emotional, psychological, or some combination thereof. Through erasure and complete disregard, it is ignored and dismissed. 




So here I am. Waving a red flag and yelling, "Ole!" If I get gored or trampled... at least it'll be one glorious, bloody mess. That monster doesn't bear much resemblance to any bull I've seen, but it's time to grab a whip and a cattleprod and see if I can tame it anyways. (Oh yes, you may laugh at me for that one as well, if you like.)




I would love to see some writers of greater prowess and skill than myself step up to join in. There are so many of you! Sign-up runs through the end of September.




I'm off to stare at a blank screen, sweat profusely with the central air cranked, and chug caffeine. I foresee a week of late nights and all-nighters.