Sarah Wynde's Blog, page 88

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Competition

My favorite lines from the most recent chapter of my current WIP:

1) Maybe he was like a Doctor Who alien, a creepy monster zipped inside a human-being suit.


2) Seriously, her brain would dump crazy-sauce all over her psyche when someone got too close to her on the El and it was going to let aliens slide?


3) Someone should have given Gaelith better lessons in not being an alien.


4) “I’m a legal adult in all fifty states. I take care of myself. A couple days in paradise, awesome, rad to the tenth, rocks the big one.” Fen couldn’t keep her hands still and her voice was rising with each additional adjective, so she stopped herself and took a deep breath. In a quieter voice, she said, “But I want to know when I’m going home.”

5) Aliens.

Damn them.

They were so very, very nice.

Writing today was awful. Gah. Words squeezed out like that very last bit of toothpaste when you know you should have bought a new tube three days ago but you just didn’t get around to it, and the honest truth is that there’s nothing left in there but you still want to brush your teeth.

End of the day, though, I am amused.

Feel free to vote for your favorite in the comments! I love them all, but then, I know what goes in between them.

Being mean or not

So…I’ve been grinding out word after word of Akira and Zane’s honeymoon and mostly hating it. It’s not that the words aren’t good, they’re fine. But I hate it anyway.

Today, I couldn’t do it. Could NOT do it. So I decided to just let my fingers fly, write anything, whatever the words were that the fingers typed, that was fine, even if they were the same words over and over again. Write, write, write, damn you.

And I discovered — I am entirely resistant to writing about Akira and Zane because it means being mean to them. I have a plot. A good plot. It involves them being UNHAPPY. I don’t want them to be unhappy. I don’t want that to happen. And my fingers–they don’t want to write that.

When I let them go, they started writing an entirely new story instead. A girl named Fen. Busy fighting off a murderer, not very effectively. A much, much darker story than I anticipated, a girl who’s far more bitter than I knew and a sense of OMG, FUN! that was totally unexpected. There’s a character–meant to die in this scene, meant to convey through his death that this is a darker book–well, he declined to die. And he’s horrible. Truly horrible. And also Spike, from Buffy. Yeah, he’s a psychopath. Yeah, he mildly regrets having to kill you. But we all gotta do what we all gotta do and the heroine’s death, it’s just what he’s gotta do.

He lived. And I wrote happily.

Fen is by far my darkest character. I don’t know how far I’ll get with her. She understands depression and death and suicidal ideation and cutting and being alone in a way that I’ve never even tried to reach with my other characters. And I believe–oh, I so believe–that there is sunshine in her future. I want to write her and that feels really, really good.

Might take me a while to finish Akira’s carefully-plotted horror story. But that’s okay. Telling my fingers to do what they would gave me more joy today than any writing I’ve done in weeks, so that’s the new plan. I’ll be mean to Akira someday. But meanwhile, Fen? She doesn’t even understand mean. She thinks that’s what life is all about. I love her.

Making marketing decisions

One month since I published A Gift of Time. I’ve sold about 100 copies and gotten 16 reviews on Amazon. I’ve got three free days left to use before I take it out of Kindle Select and start selling it other places, so I’d like to use them wisely. That means for the first time I’m considering spending money on some advertising, therefore doing some reading about indie book promotion, and oh, it’s just overwhelming.

There seems to be pretty much unanimous consent that 16 reviews is not enough. That says I should keep waiting for more reviews, but I have only two months left in which to use my free days, and scheduling days isn’t easy. Another thing I read said “don’t waste your money advertising a later book in a series, people won’t buy it.”

Ugh, you know, even writing this much — putting this twenty minutes of thought into it — has made my brain want to shut off. I’m going to have to get less resistant to this idea, but maybe that will happen for some later book. Like, much later. I think I’m going to go write some more of Akira’s honeymoon right now instead. But if you haven’t reviewed Time and feel inclined to help me out, a review would be useful.

And if you haven’t entered my Goodreads giveaway, you should! I’d really like the books to go to people who want them.

To the people who dumped their dog on my street last July…

Just so we’re clear, I pretty much still hate you.

But I thought you might like to know how your boy is doing.

Let’s start with the eyes. Incredibly goopy, chronic dry eye, probably going to go blind some day. But it turns out that one dose a day of cyclosporine does a great job of keeping them clear. I’ve done the math and it costs me about twenty-five cents a day–and you know, I can live with that.

Now the joints. That limp? Or maybe I should say those limps? The poor guy has three legs with patellar luxation. Frankly, that just sucks for him. I’m thinking you bought him from a puppy mill and that whoever puts that puppy mill out of business is doing God’s work because no dog should have to live with knees that dislocate so easily. That said, on the days when he doesn’t want to walk, he doesn’t. The rest of the time, he comes out with us and walks a mile or more and is perfectly happy to smell all the smells and bark at the other dogs. It’s sort of obvious that you never walked him–he didn’t have the leash concept down at all–but he trots along next to me now like a trooper most days. I’m fairly sure he likes it, based on how excited he gets when he sees his leash come out.

Then the allergies. Oh, my gosh. You know, I’m totally sympathetic to you on this one. The poor dog is allergic to everything. He has an intimate familiarity with the cone of shame–I’m quite sure you put it on him more than once and it did no good, he still scratched himself bloody. The good news is that a healthy diet of only good, limited-ingredient dog food, with salmon for treats and a little additional omega-oils on his kibble, has done wonders. His skin is much healthier, not so many dry flakes, and most of his fur has grown back in. He can’t eat anything with flour without paying for it for weeks, and I’m pretty sure chicken is also on his no-no list, but as long as he gets only dog food and salmon, he’s pretty comfortable.

I say pretty comfortable–the reality is, though, he still chews on himself. What, did you never give him toys? I’ve figured out that he chews himself like the other dogs chew on treats, stuffed animals, rawhide, bones… when he’s bored, when he’s lonely, instead of looking for a toy, he chews his tail or his paw. I suspect you crated him for eight hours a day. Maybe more. Maybe when you figured out that you couldn’t keep him healthy, you spent more and more time with him locked in a box because you felt guilty and couldn’t bring yourself to deal with the guilt. At any rate, we’re working on that. I can’t say that I’ve figured it out yet, but given that he no longer spends his time hiding, I think I’ll get there.

Oh, right, about the hiding: when he first showed up here, his default position was to find a place to disappear. My closet, underneath furniture, in dark corners. He made himself invisible on a regular basis. I kept thinking he was gone as completely as he’d arrived. Now? Not so much. At any given moment, he’s most likely in physical contact with me. Usually snoring, I admit. Often upside-down, belly exposed. Frequently tucked into my elbow while I try to type above him.

I hope that image is clear enough that you get the most important part of this picture: your dog is being well taken care of. You suck. Really, truly, no matter what, you ought to feel like crap that you left your dog, your sweet, lovable, goofy dog, out on the street, trusting to luck and hope that he would find a home.

But… that said… he did find a home.

I can’t understand why you did what you did. I don’t know where you were coming from. But I do know that he is so sweet that no matter how neglectful you were, no matter how overwhelmed, no matter how out of your depth, you did love him. He is a dog that has been loved. And I feel so sorry for you that you gave that up. So sorry that for whatever reason you couldn’t manage to accept the responsibility that love brings with it. Mostly, though, I’m sorry for your loss. You made a horrible decision. I don’t know how you can live with yourself.

But you got lucky. Or maybe I got lucky. Because he isn’t your dog any more. He’s my dog. And I want you to know that I love him, that I am taking care of him, that he gets eye-drops every morning and omega oil every evening, and that he is loved, loved, loved.

Appetizers

I’m working on this short story right now (Akira & Zane, honeymooning in Belize, not going so well) and for some reason, it made me want to write this blog post instead. I think it’s because of a line I wrote a while back about what Akira would remember from her wedding–sometimes the details we will remember are more obvious than others.

So New Year’s Eve was a rough day for me. Long story and I’ll skip most of the boring details, but the two most important were that it was R’s 18th b-day, and he, of course, was far, far away, and that the toilet started leaking copious quantities of water. On top of an already tough week, not a good combo. So I called a friend and he came over, and I started cooking.

First up was spicy crab tarts. I mixed crab meat, light mayo, parmesan cheese, siracha and some worcestershire sauce, and put it in phyllo cups, baked it in a 425 oven for about ten minutes. Sprinkled it with some green onion, finely chopped, and some red paprika. (I think it wasn’t really paprika, maybe chili powder of some kind? But some form of red pepper.) Delicious.

When the tarts were gone, I spread cream cheese thinly on crackers and topped them with slices of smoked salmon and slivers of lemon.

I think the bacon and cheese came next. I mixed up chopped bacon (already cooked), light mayo, shredded sheep’s milk cheese (petit basque), and a tablespoon or so of Cento diced hot cherry peppers, and spread it on thin slices of baguette and baked it in my 425 oven for 8 minutes or so. I’m pretty sure that was the clear winner of the evening. It was spicy and creamy and salty and… really, all things good. I could have eaten it all night long.

Once it was gone, I made… oh, I think the cranberry came next. So I took puff pastry cups and baked them per the directions on the box, then filled them with a bit of brie, a little green onion, and a dab of the homemade cranberry sauce leftover from Christmas dinner, and baked them for another five minutes or so, long enough for the cheese to melt. Yum. Best hot, though. When they’d cooled off, they were still good, but nothing remarkable.

Finally, I did some artichoke tarts. I mixed softened cream cheese with chopped up marinated artichokes, some parmesan cheese, some red hot peppers, and honestly, I don’t know what else. I was very much in the cooking zone where I didn’t read recipes or measure ingredients, just assumed that all good things taste good together. Maybe there was some mayo in there, if the spread seemed a little thick. And maybe not. I might have added some salt and pepper, possibly some green onion. Anyway, I tried the artichoke spread in all my breadish options: in phyllo cups, in puff pastry, and on baguette. I think it was best on baguette–toasted cheese spreads are always good on bread–but it was always tasty.

Then another friend arrived, so I made some more of everything.

It wound up being an okay day. I still missed R. I still felt nostalgic about so many New Year’s eve’s past that seemed far more hopeful. I still felt sad. But I also felt creative and competent and like life was probably not all that bad after all. And that’s what I want to remember. Twenty years from now, when I think about R’s 18th birthday, I don’t want to remember only, “Oh, I was so sad.” I want to remember bacon & cheese & pepper appetizers, and sitting around my kitchen table talking about Harry Potter and towns in Ohio.

Also, the bacon & cheese–sooo good. Seriously. Good bacon plus good cheese plus good bread plus mayo to bind it all together and red peppers to give it a little kick… yum, yum, yum.

(Oh, right, and you should visit Goodreads and enter my book giveaway. The print edition of A Gift of Time is beautiful!)

Goodreads Giveaway

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Goodreads Book Giveaway







A Gift of Time



by Sarah Wynde

Giveaway ends February 02, 2014.

See the giveaway details

at Goodreads.

Enter to win

So the print edition of A Gift of Time is gorgeous. I might be biased, of course, but I don’t think so. I thought the print editions of my other books were nice enough, but I didn’t madly love them. Time, though–it’s just so pretty! I used a drop-cap on the back cover, ornamental fonts on the chapter openers and the photo on the cover is just… well, gorgeous. I love it. So much so that I want at least a few other people to see it and so I’m doing a Goodreads giveaway. If you’d like a chance at a paper copy of the book (signed, of course!) and you live in the US, do go ahead and enter. (I’m sorry, non-US people, but I was a little too worried about postage costs to open it up. I’ll try to plan ahead better next time.)

A season of peace

I’m sitting on my bed, shivering, because the back door is open and there’s a cool breeze flowing through. I know in most places in the US right now shivering would be an understatement–you wouldn’t have your back door open this time of year–but it’s not comfortable. Obviously, I should get up and close it, but I have one dog on my right, gently snoring, one dog on my left, peacefully curled into a ball, and a third dog on my feet. This is a precarious, precious moment of equilibrium and I don’t want to jeopardize it by moving.

This week has been grueling. I’m exhausted. Major, major, major mistake: making appointments for the dogs to have vet procedures while C was away.

Bartleby, poor boy, finally got neutered. That shouldn’t be a big deal, but he chews on himself. And it turns out that he is very, very familiar with the cone-of-shame and a little bit of an escape artist when it comes to it. He growls steadily the whole time I try to get it on him and when it’s finally on, he wanders off and finds a wall to push it against until he’s getting his head almost out of it. I either need a cone that’s tighter around the neck, but that doesn’t seem possible, or one that’s longer but still just as tight around the neck. I think I’m going to head back to the pet store this afternoon to try again. Meanwhile, I feel like I’ve spent hours chasing him around saying, “No! No chewing!” which he ignores, unless I physically stop him and pet him for a while.

Zelda, poor girl, went in to have her teeth cleaned and wound up having four of them pulled. I can’t say I was surprised–I’ve been worrying about her teeth for years, because several of them were broken. But she’s been in a lot of pain, and a bit of a state of shock. Before she was in pain, we’d established that she was okay with M around (M is C’s dog). For three nights, M slept on my bed with B and Z, and it was crowded–three dogs is a lot–and I didn’t sleep well, but it was okay. After Z was hurting, though, she was no longer willing to let M be in the bed. Or near me. Or in the kitchen. Or on the couch. Z in pain is about ten times more territorial than she is when not in pain and she’s always somewhat territorial.

I wonder if somehow she blames M for the pain? It could be. Her hostility first started when I needed to take M for a walk and Z and B didn’t feel well enough to come along. M has a lot of energy and is bigger than either of the others: she really needs a serious walk to burn off some of her bounciness. Z just wasn’t up for it. We made it halfway down the street and then she stopped walking and just stood and shook. We went home and I took M for a walk on her own, but by the time we came back, Z had gotten growly. And then it rained for two days. M’s opinion of walking in the rain is that we must run, run, run to get home and out of the horrifying WET. B’s opinion of walking in the rain is that we must stand absolutely still and hope it will soon be over. Z’s opinion of walking in the rain is more of a “So? I have things to sniff, who cares about a little water?” Trying to walk all three of them at once… it would be funny if it was in a movie, happening to someone else, but experiencing it is less amusing.

So the last three days, M is her usual bouncy, happy-go-lucky self, only bouncier than usual because she’s not getting enough exercise, and–since her person is away–determined to snuggle with the pack. Z is a grouch, eyes always on M, hackles always on the verge of rising, and wanting to be in touching distance of me at all times. And B can only be stopped from chewing on his stitches when I’m holding him. It’s like trying to watch three toddlers. And with about the same amount of sleep that you get when you’re taking care of babies and toddlers.

Which brings me back to why I’m sitting here, shivering, and writing a blog post instead of doing any of the zillion more essential things that need to be done. Laundry, taxes, filing. Letters to be mailed. Health insurance to be checked on. Grocery shopping. Trip to the pet store. Etc., etc. But for this moment, there is peace.

Happy, peaceful, sleeping dogs.

I think I’ve talked myself into feeling lucky.

Happy New Year!

A Gift of Time is free on Amazon today

Said it all in the headline.

But here’s the link: A Gift of Time

Please help spread the word if you can. Forward, share, reblog, whatever. It doesn’t have enough reviews to get picked up by the free sites, so the only visibility it will get is from what I can give it and that’s… well, you.

Two years ago, I set Ghosts to be free for the first time and I had 86 downloads by this time of the morning. Today… 2. Two’s better than zero, of course, so I am not complaining. Much. But my readers-to-hours ratio on this book is coming in at a number so far below the decimal point… hmm, I’ve just confused myself mathematically. But I’m at about 100 hours of writing time per reader right now, which is sort of an amusing way to look at it and sort of a really depressing way.

I think I’ll go walk the dogs.

Life choices

I dreamed a few nights ago that the first three Amazon reviews of A Gift of Time were all one-star reviews, written by the same person. She hated the book so much that giving it one star wasn’t enough, she had to rate it again and again, one star every time, and then show up at my house to tell me everything that was wrong with it. It was a weird dream. Definitely a nightmare. And in the dream, I decided to quit writing. That was the moment that woke me up.

The good news: I’m not going to quit writing. It really annoyed me that in my dream I’d decided to do so. For the next ten minutes, I was huffing and puffing at my dream self. What a wimp! What an idiot! You don’t give up something fun just because someone else comes to rain on your parade. You are a nerd, in the wonderful Wil Wheaton sense of the word, where you get to love what you love and damn the naysayers. Yes, I was lecturing myself. My dream self even. I sort of feel embarrassed.

But it sent me into a good spiral of thinking about writing and about what the last two years have meant to me.

Unless you’re a writer, you won’t care about this, but there are crowd scenes in A Gift of Time. Scenes where five characters or more are present and active. The first book I wrote (the one that no one has ever seen) had a scene with six characters and it was agonizing to write. So hard to manage all those characters. So hard to balance them. So hard to keep them all in the room, all active, all talking. In Ghosts, I can remember ruthlessly cutting characters out of scenes because I couldn’t handle having a fourth person present. That was too hard to make work. In Time, there are crowds. Literal crowds. Rose, Max, Meredith, Grace, Akira, Colin, Carla, Travis, and Emma–plus a bunch of nameless others–all in one room at one time–and I never even thought about it being hard to write.

With Thought, I decided I needed to learn to write action scenes. I love Ghosts, of course, but it’s all conversation. It could be a stage play if it needed to be. Hmm, actually, it would make sort of a great play–the actress who got to play Akira when she turned into Zane’s mom would have so much fun. So in Thought, there’s action, and it was hard work. Oh, the research that went into that parking lot scene. The careful mapping out of character’s motions. The reading about self-defense, the calculating of weights, the plotting out of positions. In Time, I just wrote the fight. I didn’t agonize over it at all. I did do some fun research–the whole Golgi organ reflex thing was super-cool–but the writing was just a map; grab here, push there.

In a sense, two years of writing have gotten me nothing. Time has sold about as many copies in its first week as Ghosts did, and I’m no more likely to earn a living by writing than I was two years ago.

But I’m pretty sure I’m a better writer than I was two years ago. And that’s something. And I’m absolutely sure that I’m not going to quit writing, no matter how many 1-star reviews Time gets. And that’s a lot.

Onward and upward–I’m going to finish writing Reckless, my last unfinished Eureka story, then turn my attention to Ghosts of Belize and Akira’s honeymoon. Probably around Feb, I’ll start my next project. It will either be Grace’s story or something entirely new–either a crystal-sensitive mermaid or a sarcastic, Sherlock-inspired princess.

If you haven’t reviewed Time… nag, nag, nag. Reviews matter. And I hate writing them, too, so I sympathize. But if you’re reading this and you’ve read Time, there is literally no better way to support me than to write a review for Amazon or Goodreads.

As always, my brain sidetracks on literally. You could just give me lots of money. That would be a better way to support me. Or you could pay off my mortgage, so that I didn’t have to worry about it–that would help. Or you could tell all your friends or buy an ad or get your local librarian excited about my books–OKAY, so maybe there might *literally* be some other ways to support me. But writing a review is by far the easiest.