Cate Morgan's Blog, page 23

You’ve Been Flashed: I, Spy

Team Captain Chuck “Penmonkey” Wendig dared us to bust out the D20 in choosing three aspects from three categories and regale him with a highly publicized flash of 1000 words or less. Find the challenege details here.

The Gaming Gods then declared I would create a spy thiller (genre), family thrown apart for conflict (or, as I like to play it, Family Torn Asunder!), and poisonous snakes as the added spice. (Did it have to be snakes?)

And so I give you:

I, Spy

All things considered, Rebecca Carlisle’s day could have gone better.

First, there was matter of the manacles. Cool, rusted iron clasped her wrists painfully, attached as they were to looping chains that hung from a ceiling she could not see in the dank darkness. Second, there was the matter of the snake pit below her sensible leather boots. Thick, corded bodies slithered and pulsed in a nested tangle. The hissing was beginning to get on her nerves.

What really rankled, however, was the matter of her brother. Did her parents really have to name him Sebastian? It seemed to lack foresight, given her current predicament. He stared at her dangling form with a pale face and nervous eyes.

But chains and snakes and pain-in-the-ass brothers aside, her real problem was that of General Pole-Up-The-Posterior standing next to Sebastian, watching her without expression. For one, she was fairly certain the eye patch was unnecessary.

Rebecca cocked an eyebrow at her anxious brother. “So? How much did he pay you for my capture? And what’s my cut?”

A muscle in the General’s jaw moved. Sebastian went even more pale. “Rebecca, please.”

She sighed. “You told him I’m a spy, right? Tell me you at least got paid for it.” Her gaze hardened as she turned it to the general. “You did pay him?”

“Enough of this nonsense, Miss Carlisle,” he responded in a heavy tones.

Rebecca’s forehead scrunched as she tried to place his accent. “What is that, German? Russian? Cuban? How long have you been doing this, Generalissimo?”

“I said enough!” He coughed with the force of his frustration, cleared his throat. “The microfiche. Now.”

“That long, huh?” She gave her chains an experimental tug. She thought she detected some give. The question was, how much? “Sounds like you need a dialect refresher course. And it’s not on microfiche, idiot.”

Sebastian’s eyes gleamed with hunger. “Flash drive?”

Addendum. Master Idiot, meet padawan. “SIM card, actually.”

General Eye-Patch nodded satisfaction. “You will hand it over. Now.”

Rebecca cast a considering eye over her chains. “Really? Right now? This very same moment?”

“Now, Miss Carlisle.”

Wow. They didn’t grow spies like this anymore. She almost had to laugh. Would have, if not for the twisting mire of snakes beneath her.

She sighed wearily. “Well, if you insist…”

She twisted round, getting a good grip on the chains. Putting all her dangling weight into it, she pulled. Hard.

She dropped fast by a good six feet, felt the loosening of yet more tension. Pulled again, until her toes could just touch the raised rim of the pit. The strain in her arms eased. “A little help here? I’m a bit, well . . . ” She rattled.

The general shoved Sebastian, sent the boy stumbling in her direction. He reached for her pockets with trembling fingers.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Sebastian. I’m going to put priceless information on a delicate SIM card in my pocket. I can see there’s no getting past you.” She hopped on one foot, proffering her boot. “In here.”

He bent to retrieve the data, and got a face full of knee for his trouble. He flew across the floor, howling, hands covering his bleeding, broken nose.

The general came running. She pulled one last time on her chains, so the bulk of it coiled on the dusty cement floor. Her feet hit the ground, and she rolled. General Idiot tripped over the dragging chain and plummeted into the snake pit with a scream. Then Rebecca strode to her brother,  looped heavy chain about his neck, and yanked back. “Keys.”

“Belt,” Sebastian hissed, turning an admirable shade of purple.

She tugged the heavy keys from his belt and unlatched herself, massaging her wrists. Then she pulled his belt from his pants, spun him about, and manacled him with the thin leather. Afterward, she smacked him upside the head. “You really didn’t get paid, did you? Mum’s going to be so disappointed. What’s the first thing we do in a double-cross?”

“Get paid upfront.” Only with his nose it sounded like “Get gaid umph frun.”

“Right. Now march home, mister.” She shook her head. “Microfiche.”

“So where was it?” Sebastian asked, curiosity getting the better of him as she hauled him out the door by his collar.

“My pocket, of course.”

The Flash Strikes Back: I, Spy

Team Captain Chuck “Penmonkey” Wendig dared us to bust out the D20 in choosing three aspects from three categories and regale him with a highly publicized flash of 1000 words or less. Find the challenege details here.

The Gaming Gods then declared I would create a spy thiller (genre), family thrown apart for conflict (or, as I like to play it, Family Torn Asunder!), and poisonous snakes as the added spice. (Did it have to be snakes?)

And so I give you:

I, Spy

All things considered, Rebecca Carlisle’s day could have gone better.

First, there was matter of the manacles. Cool, rusted iron clasped her wrists painfully, attached as they were to looping chains that hung from a ceiling she could not see in the dank darkness. Second, there was the matter of the snake pit below her sensible leather boots. Thick, corded bodies slithered and pulsed in a nested tangle. The hissing was beginning to get on her nerves.

What really rankled, however, was the matter of her brother. Did her parents really have to name him Sebastian? It seemed to lack foresight, given her current predicament. He stared at her dangling form with a pale face and nervous eyes.

But chains and snakes and pain-in-the-ass brothers aside, her real problem was that of General Pole-Up-The-Posterior standing next to Sebastian, watching her without expression. For one, she was fairly certain the eye patch was unnecessary.

Rebecca cocked an eyebrow at her anxious brother. “So? How much did he pay you for my capture? And what’s my cut?”

A muscle in the General’s jaw moved. Sebastian went even more pale. “Rebecca, please.”

She sighed. “You told him I’m a spy, right? Tell me you at least got paid for it.” Her gaze hardened as she turned it to the general. “You did pay him?”

“Enough of this nonsense, Miss Carlisle,” he responded in a heavy tones.

Rebecca’s forehead scrunched as she tried to place his indeterminate accent. “What is that, German? Russian? Cuban? How long have you been doing this, Generalissimo?”

“I said enough!” He coughed with the force of his frustration, cleared his throat. “The microfiche. Now.”

“That long, huh?” She gave her chains an experimental tug. She thought she detected some give. The question was, how much? “Sounds like you need a dialect refresher course. And it’s not on microfilm, you idiot.”

Sebastian’s eyes gleamed with hunger. “Flash drive?”

Addendum. Master Idiot, meet padawan. “SIM card, actually.”

General Eye-Patch nodded satisfaction. “You will hand it over. Now.”

Rebecca cast a considering eye over her chains. “Really? Right now? This very same moment?”

“Now, Miss Carlisle.”

Wow. They didn’t grow spies like this anymore. She almost had to laugh. Would have, if not for the twisting mire of snakes beneath her.

She sighed wearily. “Well, if you insist…”

She twisted round, getting a good grip on the chains. Putting all her dangling weight into it, she pulled. Hard.

She dropped fast by a good six feet, felt the loosening of yet more tension. Pulled again, until her toes could just touch the raised rim of the pit. The strain in her arms eased. “A little help here? I’m a bit, well . . . ” She rattled.

The general shoved Sebastian, sent the boy stumbling in her direction. He reached for her pockets with trembling fingers.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Sebastian. I’m going to put priceless information on a delicate SIM card in my pocket. I can see there’s no getting past you.” She hopped on one foot, proffering her boot. “In here.”

He bent to retrieve the data, and got a face full of knee for his trouble. He flew across the floor, howling, hands covering his broken nose.

The general came running. She pulled one last time on her chains, so the bulk of it coiled on the dusty cement floor. Her feet hit the ground, and she rolled. General Idiot tripped over the chain and plummeted into the snake pit with a scream. Then Rebecca strode to her brother,  looped heavy chain about his neck, and yanked back. “Keys.”

“Belt,” Sebastian hissed, turning an admirable shade of purple.

She tugged the heavy keys from his belt and unlatched herself, massaging her wrists. Then she pulled his belt from his pants, spun him about, and manacled him with the thin leather. Afterward, she smacked him upside the head. “You really didn’t get paid, did you? Mum’s going to be so disappointed. What’s the first thing we do in a double-cross?”

“Get paid upfront.” Only with his nose it sounded like “Get gaid umph frun.”

“Right. Now march home, mister.” She shook her head. “Microfiche.”

“So where was it?” Sebastian asked, curiosity getting the better of him as she hauled him out the door by his collar.

“My pocket, of course.”

The End Is Nigh Giveaway

As you may recall from my last Author’s Log post, I may or may not have promised a Giveaway of my tribbles author copies of the upcoming End of Days Anthology from Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

In honor of our official release date on October 2, I’m giving y’all, my fellow Word Wranglers and Reader Monkeys, two chances to win:

The Rules, As I Sees ‘Em (Cuz I Dun Made Dem Up)

1. Hie thee over to Goodreads and enter to win copy numero uno. A random winner will be chosen by Goodreads staff using sciency-type stuff like algorithms and possibly Dr. Sheldon Cooper.

2. Do you have proof the End Is Upon Us? Or is it all a vast and vile conspiracy? Got zombies on the brain? Post your favorite apocalyptic theory or photo at your online space and link it in the comments here, or on Twitter @typemonkeytype using the hashtag #endofdays. I’ll consult with the Ninja Katz to choose The Winner. who will then be contacted for an address and have their Swag foisted upon them by a grateful author (namely, me).

The contest will run from October 2nd until October 6 (one week). On October 7 the contest is officially closed, at which point winners will be chosen.

Have I mentioned lately how awesome you guys are? *scrunchy face*

HABIT 7.4: Sharpen The Spiritual Saw

I’ve been spending some time considering how to approach this post without making it sound like a come-to-Jesus meeting. Or something.

Not that there’s anything WRONG with come-to-Jesus meetings. I’ve been to a few. The potlucks were lovely. Ahem.

But the point to this, the final Big Rock of the Franklin Covey system, is to find spiritual motivation and inspiration. To mean that doesn’t necessarily giving the ol’ soul a weekly spit and polish, though it can if that’s where you find peace of mind and heart. The idea to is clear yourself, however temprorarily, of the usual pile up of stress, anxiety, and general broo-ha-ha of finding balance between being a writer and a general human being.

To me, sharpening the spiritual saw means clearing the decks. It’s a time for focus on the inner writer, the story-telling heart. I’ve found some of my best moments, some of my most startling “click” connections, during this time. It’s also a time to refresh yourself, a mini stay-cation for mind and body. It’s a renewal. Otherwise writing ceases to be a creative-high inducing gig of Awesome, and starts being a chore, right up there with mucking out the bathrooms.

I read a really great interview recently with one of my favorite writers, Joss Whedon (pauses for sea of overwhelming SQUEE!). Apparently he nearly killed himself with exhuastion filming Avengers. The idea of filming Avengers 2 and other assorted comic bookery for Marvel sounded rather like having his toenails removed one by one. Or being forced to listen to Angel sing a Manilow medley.

He did two things. Between filming and post production, he filmed Much Ado About Nothing, a project deep, abiding love and unadulterated fun. As soon as he started filming on location at his home, all the stress of Avengers just poured out of him. The other thing he did, before agreeing to an extended deal with Marvel, was sit in a quiet pub with a notebook (see? Real Writers have notebooks!) and wrote down everything he wanted to accomplish with a sequel. Once he filled the page, he called his agent and agreed to a deal. By taking those moments of inner, honest evaluation he found his center again, and his renewal.

Read the full Co.Create article here.

Here are Franklin Covey’s suggestions for filling the spiritual well:

Watch, listen, and enjoy the world of nature.
Read inspirational literature, in particular, biographies of people who inspire you.
Commit to a life of total integrity to your priorities.
Listen to inspirational, uplifting music.
Commit to serve your community. Give of your time, money, and self.
Practice spiritual worship that edifies.

Here are some of the things I do:

Being a Vile Northerner-turned-Floridian, I can take notebook to the pool in my condo complex, or to the beach. On days cooler than 80 degrees I pretty much have the pool to myself if I want peace and quiet. The beaches around here of tons of tiki huts on the sand, and are a great place to people watch. You never know if the beach bum on the bench next to you is an artist or a six-figure lawyer, and both are super fun to talk to. There’s something centering about being near water.
I listen that supports what I’m writing. For Brighid’s Cross it was a combination of rock and industrial influences. For Brighid’s Mark is was jazz and blues. There’s a musical core to everything I write, because it’s so much of my core.
On Sunday mornings when I do my weekly planning with Franklin Covey, I use a journal to re-commit myself to writing by writing down everything I want to accomplish that week. What milestones do I want to hit? What are my concerns? What is the spine of story I’m working on and my feelings regarding same? Do I need to a break to write something else until I figure out what I’m doing wrong in the current project?
My community is one of writers, and readers. So here am I, grateful and giving my time. Wanting to help anyone else travelling this crazy road called Writing. Word Wrangling is a difficult and dangerous biz, yo. There’s safety in numbers.

Aaaaaaaaand that concludes this series on the 7 Habits of Highly Effective Writers. I hope you’ve found it edifying, and possibly vaguely amusing.

The End Is Nigh

Writer’s Log, author date: 9.14.2012.

The Evil Day Jobbe of Supreme Evilness has been vanquished for another week, though I highly suspect it will rear its ugly head again come Monday. Captain Tech Monkey and I returned to the ship armed with a variety of local liquors in thanks for our hard work. There, on the porch, we encountered a curious thing.

After much careful examination, we determined it was a box, inexplicably camped out in clear hopes of being invited indoors. Naturally, after the tribble fiasco, we were leary of giving in to its understated blandishments.

Captain Tech Monkey lifted the box and gave it a gentle shake. “Did you order something?”

I had, but much too recently for the shipment to arrive by anything except transporter. Upon entering domestic quarters, Science Officer Thing One and Security Officer Thing Two bounded onto the communal table to investigate. They reassured us no tribbles were contained or involved by their repeated requests to open the damned thing already.

So we did, scientifically (by locating the Right Side Up bit) and with phasers on stun (i.e. a steak knife). And Lo, we were rewarded with Swag. And not just ANY Swag, oh, no:

Not Tribbles!

Author copies!! Which means, YES, there WILL be a Giveaway (stay tuned for details). I’m thrilled to be keeping such illustrious company as the divine Mina Carter and the superlative Karen Erickson.

Big, shouty THANK YOU to Samhain Publishing, Ltd for giving a new, untried author a go, and to my amazingly patient support system. May you all live long and prosper.

In other updates: Keepers of the Flame #2 is currently in the hottest of hands (i.e., Editor Awesome). If accepted, you can expect to see New Orleans and her Voudon Loa join the ranks of Keeper lore. The puzzle pieces of Keepers #3 are being collected and pinned to the Corkboard of Doom like so many butterflies fluttering around in my creative subsconscious. The Divine Muse is looking a little tired, trying to capture them all.

In the meantime: NUMFAR! Do the Dance of Joy!!

Habit 7.3: Sharpening the Mental Saw

Writing is a mental head game. The left side of the brain wars with the right side, the Divine Muse at odds with the Infernal Editor, kind of like the Road Runner and Wile E Coyote. We endeavor to be Road Runner, but all to often end up feeling like Wile E: none of our plans work out, then we end up falling off a cliff. And not even the sturdiest of tiny umbrellas can save us from the impending boulder.

Oh, Acme. If I’d been Wile E, I would have sued your collective, conspiring asses into the Tiny Toon generation.

If poor old Wile E. had bothered to sharpen the Mental Saw (say, in the physics department) he might have been better off.  If you’re like me, and deep in a story, it’s all too easy to find yourself up to the eyeballs in plot boggery and wondering how you got there. Finish the story, get to the end, write, write, write! *gasp* *choke* *thud*

And that’s just the first draft. I do three. Polish, polish, polish, like  one of Mrs. Hannigan’s orphans. And once the final (ha, final) draft is in the hot little hands of Editor Awesome  and a contract is accepted, it’s time for the next three passes–editorial edits, line edits, and copy edits.

And while all these editorial plates are spinning away, I’m working on the next story. Which wouldn’t be terribly undoable, except for the majority of my time being dedicated to Ye Olde Evil Day Jobbe. Bills, and all that. This means in addition to wifely responsibilities, my writing time is limited and therefore thoughtfully planned out each week.

So with all these Big Rocks rolling around and me without even a tiny umbrella, it’s difficult to find the time and effort to fill the well. But it can be done. Here’s some ideas that can help sharpen the mental saw:

Keep a journal–not only can it become a personal space for working out problems, or expressing the insecurities you may be feeling. I use mine to disentangle      knotty plot problems, or to mind map my way out of tight spot. I even have a Little Black Book I keep for story ideas–one idea per page, that I had notes and possible titles to as they occur to me.

Another thing I use my journal for is for “writing down the bones”, as Natalie Goldberg puts it. It’s exhilarating to take a journal and a favorite pen somewhere and hone the artistic eye. Is that sky blue watered silk, darkening to indigo, or is it the color of your grandmother’s prize periwinkles? What does that wood bench feel like pressed under your fingertips? Can you feel the grain, really feel it? Where does that take you in your mental meanderings? As a former theatre geek, I trained a little in method acting, and this is along those same lines. Experience your surroundings. Focus on them, drink them in. Describe all five senses, six, if you can manage it. You’d be surprised how much you end up using in your writing later.

Read voraciously–This is good advice for any writer. But to truly sharpen the mental saw, it’s best to read books in genres other than one you read in all the time, or      write in. Yes, it’s always good to keep your thumb on the ol’ industry hub, but trying other genres can blow your mind wide open with new perspective. As a geek of Geeks, I grew up on fantasy and sci-fi. But rying other genres has opened me up to some of the most beautiful non-genre stories I’ve ever experienced.

Collect Quotations–The  sentiments of great people stimulate the mind. Find them, write down what hey mean to you, how they inspire you. I try to read a little Shakespeare every day.

Alright, alright. I heard half of you spit take, while the rest hared it away with heels kicking and purses swinging.

Yes, Shakespeare. The Big Cheese Playwright Guy. Here’s why: he’s the unmitigated, unchallenged master of our craft. The language of Shakespeare’s time, in addition to the iambic pentameter style, forces the reading, writerly mind to slow the heck down. As readers, we generally love it when we can bust through an entire book in one sitting because it was just that awesome. And then we run around telling everyone about it. It’s new and exciting and all full of SQUEE!!!

That’s not the point of Shakespeare. The point of Shakespeare is to savor and mull over every word. Yes, it takes patience. But it’s worth it. I recommend every writer pick up a copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare and stick it right by their dictionary and thesaurus. Because that’s where it belongs. (Seriously, some of his characters’ declarations of love are swoon-worthy). Choose a phrase that particularly strikes you. Write it down. Expand on it.

Develop a  hobby–this will help you exercise a different skill set, while still keeping you mentally active. Some hobbies you can enjoy while watching TV or listening to      music. I just took up piano again, after not having an instrument for many years. I’ve always been passionate about music, but now I can really indulge in it. I’d forgotten that enjoyment, and rediscovering it has been amazing. It was filling a void I hadn’t even been aware I’d been missing  until I started playing things by ear I’d thought I’d forgotten–ten minutes out of the box. (Have I mentioned lately how amazing my husband is? No? Well he’s da awesome in da sauce. Just sayin’.)

Continue your education–This doesn’t necessarily mean going back to school, though it can. Write down some things you’ve always been interested in. Research it, find out all you can about it. Find an enrichment course or teach yourself the subject from books and subject matter experts. Train your mind to stand apart.      Keep it open and curious and thirsty for knowledge. Keep it free of misconceptions, like a child discovering the world. The day we stop learning is the day we die.

And there you have it–Sharpening the Mental Saw.  Or, as I refer to it, “filling the well”. I hope it’s given you some ideas you can utilize in your own writerly lives, fellow word wranglers.

Now. Time for that letter to Acme. And a better Road Runner trap.

Next Time–Sharpening the Spiritual Saw.

Revenge of the Flash: Sometimes The Dragon Wins

A fresh flash fiction challenege, as exhorted by our team captain, Chuck Wendig, here. Grab your snorkles and your floatation devices, kiddies–it’s open swim!

Sometimes the Dragon Wins

From the last known copy of Hayden’s Anthropologie Draconis, on display in the Vault of Curiosities. Unfortunately only a partial, charred manuscript remains today, as Professor Hayden’s expedition went missing some years ago.

Located in heart of the Lost Seas lies the volcanic island of Draconis. Every fifty years, dragons mate and then lay their eggs within the volcanos. Eleven months later, the eggs gestating in the island’s volcanos finally hatch. The small village resides in a crescent-shaped bay, where they trade with the other islands of the Lost Seas and welcome travelers with open arms. They are a gentle, bashful people, trusting and generous in their hospitality. When I expressed concern for the dragons’ close proximity, they assured me the creatures have never bothered the village. They believe proper worship of the beasts keeps them safe from harm. This was surprising indeed, as every expedition in the past as gone missing.

In fact, as we all know, it is tradition for a knight facing retirement to embark on one last adventure to Draconis in search of dragons, so they may die in a blaze of glory and honor. As we also know, not a single one has returned to tell the tale. Even scholars such as myself have provided little information, history bearing few survivors. Only those who have stayed away from the island itself, limiting their travels to the other islands, have anything useful to tell us.

It is my therefore my intention to catalogue the entire hatching here, to see if we may discern the fate of our predecessors.

The village has been hard at work for months. The men hunt and fish, gathering food for the hatching celebration. The elder men and women gather fruit, nuts, and berries, while the women and children occupy themselves in the village’s sacred offering hut. There they clean and polish all the treasures they have traded for in the last year as offerings to the newborn dragons when they hatch. While it is common knowledge dragons build nests of their hordes, we now know the source of their treasures and the reason behind it–the dragons fight over the offerings, taking their winnings to their new nests elsewhere.

The shamans collect the bright red dragon berries found on brambles below the volcanos, surrounding a wide, shallow basin valley. They fill massive woven baskets with the berries, and return to the village balancing the baskets on their heads. The task, among others, is the making of dragonberry wine. According to the shamans, the berries are infused with dragon’s blood from previous hatching battles. By drinking the wine one apparently shares a bond with the dragons, who sense the “dragon’s blood” now running in the villagers’ veins and thereby keeping them safe. Local customs are so very quaint.

By nightfall the villagers are ready. They have painted their faces and donned dragon-like masks and costumes made of shed scales and a hodgepodge of local fauna. The repast is surprisingly replete, the dragonberry wine strangely potent. I sample the wine sparingly at first, not wanting to miss anything, but my fellow travelers indulge.

We all hike to the basin nestled between the volcanos, where the dancing and singing begin, and many shouts of encouragement. The villagers lug the year’s offerings in baskets. As the celebration continues unabated, I watch for signs of hatching. There are none. I suspect we are being made fools of somehow, but I am determined to see this through.

Imagine my surprise when, as the moon rises, wisps of smoke appear from all three volcanos on the island. The village revelries increase, and in my elation I drink more wine than is probably wise.  I think the shamans have decided, being the expedition’s leader, that I am a shaman of my own people. I find this amusing, but find it impolitic to disagree.

The festivities descend into an orgy of mock hatchling battles and inhibited, feral sex. I fear for my person and hide in the nearest shrubbery. The smoke leaden skies make it difficult to breathe, and I am sick before losing consciousness. My last thought is I wish I had thought to ask for one of the dragon-headed masks some of the villagers wear.

When the moon is at its brightest, I awaken to the ground rumbling.  Sporadic, jarring quakes are followed by continuous shaking. Chaos erupts in the basin. I stand. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for.

The volcanos erupt. In a rush of fetid, hot air newborn dragons the size of ponies burst into the sky. Dozens and dozens of them. It is breath taking, and magnificent.

That is, until the dragons look down upon our basin, and spot all that lovely, lovely treasure.

I seek help from the shamans,  but they are nowhere to be found. In fact, the only occupants in the valley are the expedition. The dragons–

Alas, this is all that remains of Professor’s Hayden’s expeditionary journal. We hope this exhibit exhorts you to invest generously that we may launch a new expedition to find the answers academia seeks. Thank you.

Habit 7.2: Sharpening the Social/Emotional Saw

First, an anecdote:

Back in July, I visited family out of state. My folks and a jelly bean assortment of other relatives live in or around a small college town. It’s a lovely little town, open to artistic types and therefore a certain amount of expected quirkiness. However, if you don’t have a car you’re pretty much stuck in the house all day.  The public transport system is so limited as to be nil, and the community is slow to let outsiders in. My mom, who was born and raised nearby and moved there to be close to family, doesn’t drive, and, despite being a writer, is finding it difficult to connect with other writers.

However. The women in our family are stubborn. We insist on doing things our own way, despite vociferous advice from all sides. In fact, the more vociferous the advice is, the more inclined we are to blow it off. In all fairness, I’m the same way. I absolutely refused to go to college. Nope. No way. Uh-uh. Can’t make me. *razberry* I was the same way about my wedding. There is no way under the sun, moon, or stars you can make me do something I don’t want to do. The more people told me I had to do something, the more I dug in my heels.

However, however. Mom also lives in fear. It’s a product of depression and the side order of disorders that go with it. Anxiety. Panic. A mild dose of paranoia. Feelings of lack of control. You’ve seen the commercials. I don’t know if she realizes that’s what she’s doing, or if she’s holding so tight onto her dream of making a living writing her way that she’s simply missing out on opportunities. She has this picture in her mind she refuses to deviate from. Every effort to help is prefaced by “I can’t” and “I don’t want to.” The subtext of fear, of trying something new, is pretty clear.

She wants a writing group, the ones in her area are too far away, aren’t serious enough, or are full of goobers. She refuses to find one online, because she wants to meet with people outside the house. She wants to make a living writing the traditional way, and refuses to consider any online  venues or even the less-mortifying-these-days option of self-publishing while she continues to shop around for agents and publishers. Does she fear success on terms other than her own? Maybe. I do know she’s restricting herself immeasurably. I want so much for her to succeed, she’s working very hard to get there–but I also think she’s her own worst enemy.

The point of all this being, even in today’s era of being ruled by the Dire Interwebz, writing at its core can be a terribly isolated gig. I think that’s why so many writers have cats. But it doesn’t have to be. Writing is what we’re passionate about, the number one thing we have in common. We’re a close-knit community, but an open one, as well. We speak our own language. Add mandatory fezzes and we’re a cult. Yes, there’s always going to be a few Debbie Downers and Negative Nancies out there, but the same holds true for any group. But trying so hard and getting rejected is so much worse–even if we tell ourselves it’s part of the gig, it can still be devastating. I’m not going to go to my family to lament, or even my husband–I’m going to go to other writers. They’ve been there. They’re encouraging when I fall, elated when I succeed.

Know what? We all feel the fear. It whispers doubt at us, every time we sit down to write. It’s insidious, pervasive. The Infernal Editor is especially good at this. Know what helps? Sharing that fear with other writers. Because we recognize it. We know how to fight it. We are the chanting mob with the burning torches and pitch forks. Because nothing and no one has the right to hold such control over us.

Here’s how to be an awesome fellow writer:

Keep your relationship in constant repair through continual deposits into the Emotional Bank Account (translation: give more than you take)
Value the differences in others (this makes us better writers, as well as better writer-friends)
Practice Emphatic Listening regularly with the people who are important to you (translation: shut yer yap and truly listen.)
 Widen your circle of friends (find other writers and get all writerly together–word sprints, check-ins on the state of emotional well-being)
Forgive yourself and others who may have hurt you. (Negative Nanciness is the product of underlying issues–have sympathy for these people rather than give in to it)
Build writerly relationships by being open, fun, and encouraging.
Let go of damaging competitive feelings you may have toward others. (Yes, so-and-so got published and made eleventy billion dollars–good for them. No, really. Be      happy for every writerly success, because you want people to be happy for      you).

Next Time: 7.3–Sharpening the Mental Saw

Return of the Flash: I’m With The Band

The details of the latest challenage a la Penmonkey, may or may not be found  Try it. I dare you. Bwa-ha-ha-haaaaaaaa!!

I chose “Biting Rigor”. Mainly because I just wouldn’t help myself. All other names are totally made up, instead of randomly generated.

I’M WITH THE BAND

Or, What’s In A Name?

 Wayne Zalewski–failed musician, pizza delivery boy, eternal optimist–shouldered a shovel slightly too long for him and stomped through the small cemetery with bright, determined purpose. Following along behind like a gaggle of geese rejected from their respective nests for lack of effort, were his band.

Well, most of his band. Bass, keyboards, and drums all present and accounted for.

Well, not his band, exactly. But the band he managed, certainly. It had taken the better part of three years, but they had finally booked their first paying gig.

There was just one problem.

“Dude,” his drummer called from the end of the line. Buddy “Bag o’ bones” Johnson called everyone “dude”, regardless of class, creed, sexual orientation, or religion. He was an equal opportunity dudeist. “Is this cool?”

“Of course it’s cool.” Wayne flipped his hair, streaked purple to show willing, out of his still vaguely acne-plagued face. The streaked changed color about as often as the band changed names, which was, on average, every other week or so. “We’re finally in at Zombie Bowl. We’re getting paid. Chaz would want to be there. He has to be there.  He’s the best front man-slash-lead guitar we’ve got.”

“He’s the only front man-slash-lead guitar  we’ve got.” Lydia, lackluster keyboardist, lit a clove. Fragrant smoke billowed from behind him in romantic swirls, her voice going muffled. “And he’s dead, Wayne.” She sounded bored. She always sounded bored.

Wayne had been trying to impress Lydia since they were twelve and in music lessons together. He hadn’t managed it yet, but he felt he was on the right track. “Not for long.”

“What about ‘Infectious Snakebite’?” Aaron “The Ooze” Peters was nose deep in the thesaurus he used to write song lyrics and bad poetry, often one and the same. Somehow he managed not to stumble.

They reached Chaz’s grave, off in the bracken among the cheap plots. His headstone wasn’t so much granite as it was chalk. It was already crumbling. Wayne stuck his shovel spade-first in Chaz’s next-to-final resting place like a mountaineer sticking his flag of choice at the peak of the Matterhorn.  “Right, let’s get to it.”

Lydia leaned against the headstone and checked her nails. Electric blue today. The others began digging.

All went well for some time. Three or so feet under the others, not accustomed to so much activity, began to grumble. Four feet, and Lydia lit another clove. Five, and Wayne was soaked in as much niggling self doubt as he was sweat.  Six–thunk.

Wayne donned his face mask  and used his shovel as a crowbar to wedge open the lid of the rather cheap coffin.

Chaz was right where they left him, clad in cheap dress shirt and an oversized, rented tux circa 1978 or so. They would definitely lose the deposit on it. Chaz’s favorite guitar lay in his grip like a knight’s sword, ruined hands clasping the neck of the instrument to his heart.

“It doesn’t look like him, does it?” Lydia observed.

“Well, it’s been a year.” The face mask was thin and, unfortunately, not much help against the smell. “Get the candles.”

Buddy rummaged in the black duffel he’d been carrying. “Dude. This isn’t cool.”

Wayne sighed wearily. “We’ve forgotten the candles, haven’t we? Right. Get the Zippos, then.”

It was sort of poetic: open flames flickering in the damp, misty breeze.

“How about ‘Incoherent Slaughter’?” Aaron contributed.

“Tell me you’re not going to play ‘Free Bird’.” Lydia’s cigarette smoke joined the general haze.

“Okay, Buddy. Whenever you’re ready.”

Buddy showered Chaz with a variety of ingredients. One or two Wayne wasn’t so sure about. Finger bones had been replaced with chicken bones, remnants that that night’s bucket of KFC. Unable to locate some of the herbs on the list, Aaron had opted for his Gran’s Allspice, figuring that would cover all bases.

Wayne girded his loins, his courage, and his doubts. And in a voice that barely shook at all, said the words.

They all gazed down at Chaz, and waited.

Nothing.

Wayne consulted the folded and refolded paper in his hands. You really could find anything on the internet. “Give him a bit more grave dust, Buddy.”

Buddy did, and lost his grip on the mason jar. It bonked Chaz in the head, knocking it to the side.

More waiting. More Nothing.

“We could always go back to being ‘Muscular Junction’,” Aaron offered.

Lydia lit her last clove. “Whatever.”

“Wait. Something’s happening.” Wayne’s heart pounded like Buddy’s drums when he’d forgotten what song they were playing.

And it was.

Dirt and dust and fried chicken bones shifted. Chaz’s head straightened on its putty gray neck to grin at them. One long-fingered hand unclenched from the guitar’s neck and raised slowly as though asking for assistance after an all-night carouse. Wayne, not the most in-tune string on the guitar, took his front man’s hand and helped him up.

Chaz lurched and, in gratitude for his new lease on life, or perhaps in return for the mason jar, chomped his manager on the arm clear to the bone. Wayne shrieked.  He snatched the guitar in his free hand, and banged the axe repeatedly over Chaz’s head.

“Dude,” Buddy pronounced over the tortured sounds of a vintage guitar being inflicted as a blunt instrument.  “Cool.”

“I’ve got it,” Aaron added, eyes gleaming over the top of the thesaurus. “‘Biting Rigor’.”

Lydia flicked her cherry lit stub into the screaming, crashing, twanging fray six feet below her Doc Martens. “I knew I should have gone to college.”

Habit 7.1: Sharpening the Physical Saw

As writers, we’ve all heard the mantra: Butt In Chair.  Or, if you want to be all highbrow about it: Glutonus en Chairus. And, by now, you all probably know my mantra: Balance, balance balance.

A little physical activity is a good thing, especially when you’re either a) fighting the Infernal Editor over a block in the writing road, or b) you’ve been writing hotter than a Ferrari on its highest setting. It’s good to walk away sometimes, lest something burn out and go clunk. Odds are anything going clunk will be your trunk, because it’s been buried flat in sweaty, fake leather for hours at a time.

Now, I’m not saying we need to start out running seventeen miles a day at speed, followed by a full out collapse in a gasping heap. What I’m saying is, get some air. Walk around a bit. Drink some water. Put on some music (not the telly) and do some laundry or dishes or something, and give the subconscious mind some breathing space. The gray matters are a muscle, and before it can stretch it needs to breathe.

Writers aren’t always the healthiest of eaters, spending so much time with our butts in chairs as we do. We’re more convenient eaters. Me, I cook all sorts of stuff I don’t actually eat. Fortunately, the tech monkey is a master of kitchen regions. Unfortunately, he’s, well, a master of the kitchen regions. It’s rather like living with Malto Mario. Too much yum for two people, and there’s no such thing at portion control because that would ruin the presentation. Also, the YUM.

I think we’ve established that the best way to meet goals on a regular basis and transform them into glorious routine is to start small.

What is the one thing we can do as people, and as writers, we can do on a weekly basis (that we’re not currently doing), on a physical level? Start small. Me, I know I could stand to drink more water. I am a fiend for the coffee. OMG you guys the COFFEE. So many blends, so little time. I love the smell. I love the taste. I love tagging the bottom of my twenty-ounce monster soup mug with whipped cream and pouring the coffee on top. *drool*

Ahem.

The problem is, for me, that water is fairly low on the yum quotient. As in, non-existent. So, carrying the “drink more water” referendum a bit further, what can I do to raise the yum? What can I do to make drinking water a treat worth having? I can flavor it with all those little wunnferful flavor packets. Some of them even have added vitamins or metabolism boosters. Maybe I can even manage to make water taste like cocktails? Ooooooo . . . o_O

As a writer, I need to peel my glutonus maximus (emphasis on the glut and the max) from my chair a little more often. And not just to shift it to another chair in another room. I need to get my body in gear and give my creative mind a little breathing room. Also, I can stand demoting some of the out of control gourmet portions to leftover duty. The Spice does not necessarily need to flow quite so generously. Once I get the dietary needs under control, I can start adding some light workouts on the Wii, and take it from there. It’s best to let the body adjust and conditioned.

Here are some other ideas straight from Franklin Covey:

Get the amount of sleep your body needs.
Call your doctor and make an appointment for a physical.
Set health and fitness goals.
Set a balanced diet. (Nevermind the latest diet craze. Balance!) Also, the water.
Ensure your exercise routine is not one-dimensional. Include flexibility, strength, and cardio

We need all these things as people. As writers, we need to peel our butts from our chairs once and awhile, to let the creative spice flow.

Next Time: Habit 7.2–Social/Emotional