Shawnee Small's Blog, page 8

Hello. I must be going.

I have come up for air in order to have a crisis. I think it’s one of those things that go through the mind of most forty somethings. Maybe it’s the beginning of the midlife crisis, maybe it’s just hormones. What I do know is that it’s horribly annoying and probably something that I should vent within my own inner circle, but what else is the internet for other than to share inappropriate feelings and give fodder to the NSA?

Is this it? Is there more to life?

Ah, that age old question. The ultimate first world problem left for the privileged white middle class who don’t have to work four jobs to make a living and feed their family. I should be a Catholic for all the guilt I harbor over this very thing. I am embarrassed for even bringing it up, but sometimes you gotta just go with it and so here I am. Stuck on this very thing.

It’s not the first time I’ve battled with my own self-doubt. I have toyed with and picked at this nagging suspicion that life was supposed to be more somehow, that along the way I had gotten off the bus one stop too early. Had I missed a turning somewhere? Had I made a poor decision that somehow had led me down the wrong path?

I’ve had a lot of questions, but not many answers.

At first, I had tried to pin it on making the conscious choice not to have children. Yeah, I know, how very un-American of me. Just saying it out loud makes me feel like I’ve committed some sort of crime. But yes, I chose not to conceive. It was the right decision, trust me. The thing is when you don’t have children, they don’t give you a manual on how to live the rest of your life. When you ask a friend who is inevitably married with children (which is most of them, let’s face it) the usual response is “I don’t know. I’ll get back to you when little Tommy stops dropping my jewelry into the toilet.” They don’t have the luxury to answer such a acerbic question as that. Your friends with kids are just doing what they have to do to get through each day. Their life is their kids, well, for the next 18 years at least.

So the no children thing didn’t help maybe, but it wasn’t the root of the problem.

Next, I turned to my physical world. Had I become bogged down in materialistic things? Had I allowed my parents values to overshadow my own? Why had I needed the big house with the perfect furniture and the fancy china that serves 12? When had those things ever been important? My husband likes to say “the more things that you own, the more they own you”. He’s right of course, but it didn’t feel like that was it either. Even now, I could get rid of most of those things, but it still didn’t answer the nagging question of purpose. What’s the point? I’m 41 years old and not getting any younger. What am I doing with my life?

It’s probably why I ended up being a writer. And why sometimes I’m not a good friend or wife. The introspection can be paralyzing. Sometimes I just need to shut everyone out until I get lonely enough to come back around. It’s not nice and perhaps it’s even cruel. I know I’m in one of those places now. My own company seems preferable to anyone else’s – anyone who is in close proximity to me or real. Imaginary people are okay, real ones not so much. The fiction is often more satisfying than the reality.

So how does one get over this hump, this need to define one’s self by purpose?

I don’t know.

Odyssey, a short story, & other epiphanies

Hello fans and friends,

It is Friday, which means blog day.

After several weeks of distractions including a lovely trip from our UK family, I’m getting back up on that horse we call writing. Spring is just about gone, the sweltering days of a hot, humid Virginia summer are touching down upon us and I’m about to get trapped back inside my house with the A/C cranked up on high. Although it seems bad, this is a good thing. The two extremes of the year are probably the only time that I get anything done writing-wise so I look forward to a prolific summer of getting Watcher re-edited and back out in the public sector as well as getting through the final push on Protector (fall release, fingers crossed).

That, of course, means I have a few announcements.

The first one makes me a little sad. For those who don’t know, I got waitlisted for Odyssey – one of the top residential SF/Fantasy workshops in the country. I had hoped that there was one poor soul who would not be able to go so that a space would be freed up for me, but alas it wasn’t meant to be. The May 24th deadline has come and gone and I am now in Virginia for the summer. My short story based on Roxanne by the Police is now up in the Mixtape Collection if you’d like to read it – it’s the story that I submitted with my application.

So poo.

In different news, like a boomerang flung once but comes back again, I’ve decided to continue to go indie and NOT query for an agent for The Shining Ones series. I know, I know, can I just make up my mind already, right?

The thing is that it just doesn’t make sense to try to go the traditional publisher route these days. Not only is it hard to get a deal, but the deal you get is probably so disadvantageous that you wonder why you thought it was a good idea in the first place. Seriously. The ideal situation is probably being a hybrid author meaning that you get a publishing deal for hard copy only,  leaving you the author in charge of digital. Cause frankly, if you can do the numbers yourself via ebook why would you then turn it over to get less money?

It just doesn’t make sense. Plus, if you get the numbers on your own then the likelihood is that you can leverage your platform or brand in a better deal with publishers if you have a proven hit. See, I know how to throw the lingo around, too. I’m halfway there . . .

So, I lost about a year with my flip flopping decision and many nights thinking that the only way I could be validated is with a deal . . . I have since changed my mind. I’d rather just write and get stuff out there and not wait years to see my stuff in print. Either my fans will love it or hate it and that’s what truly matters.

This will be good news for most – you’ll get your wish for Protector this year.

xo

shawnee

Final List for the Mixtape Collection

Just a short post today, but for those who are interested, the final selection of ’80s hits for my short story collection has now been finalized. You can find the list on my Mixtape page.

Gotta love the matching mullets, right?

If you are a Dr Who fan . . .

Then you need no words for this:

The Thoughts of a Bipolar Writer

There is something about the rites of Spring that makes me go off the deep end. No lie.

I can’t really explain it properly but it’s like this presence in the air, like someone has sprinkled cocaine in the ventilation system and I just got a really good dose and now I’m coming off the high and tweaking. Okay, well, maybe it’s not quite like that, but the sentiment is similar.

The truth is that I do my best writing in the winter months. My friend Elizabeth calls it my “introspective time” and everyone around me knows not to call me or wonder where I am. They know. I’m at my desk or in the La Fuma chair or somewhere writing away like a mad man. In a very anti-social way, of course, but still productive.

But the thing is, the Spring, it messes with my head and therefore with my writing mojo. Suddenly, the daffodils are blooming, the gardens are calling, there are lonely vegetable seeds tucked away in a folder somewhere pleading to be let out . . . it can all be very distracting. Just seeing the sun outside and knowing that my skin is itching for some Vitamin D is enough to sabotage my whole day.

And that makes me crazy in a certifiable sort of way. Suddenly, I’m obsessed with mulch and flower beds and weird DIY stuff like making lamps and using spray paint on just about anything. Seriously. It’s an addiction – I need help. I sit at my homemade desk and stare at the screen trying deperately to will myself to do something useful, but alas, my lap top can’t hold a candle to my beehive brimming with bees.

So what does one do?

I don’t know, but I’m trying to figure it out. When I do, I’ll let you know.

 

Whip It Now Available

By now, everyone has had their share of marshmallow peeps and chocolate eggs. And if it wasn’t obvious, I’m sort of late in posting a new short story. I said Friday, I know. Holidays have a tendency to creep up on your like that.

HERE YOU GO.

A word of warning about this short story. This is the first time I’ve dabbled in futuristic dystopian fiction and I have to say that I didn’t really enjoy it. I found myself scrambling for technophile type stuff that just didn’t come naturally to me. In essence, I had to make a whole host of stuff up on the fly and even now I cringe a bit. I’m better with the dark, gothic stuff any day of the week apparently. So make of it what you will.

Oh and here’s Devo for those of you who want something stuck in your head all day:

Clarion West = fail

Well, the short answer is that I didn’t get in. My rejection email came last night while I was either in the middle of Netflix or sleeping. I’m not sure which. Either way, the outcome is the same . . . I won’t be going to Clarion West this year.

I have to say that it’s a mixed blessing; on one hand, I’m disappointed that I didn’t get in. (Part of me felt that there was some sort of karmic destiny in the mix given the fact that  Neil was teaching this year) At the same time, being away for six weeks from my family and garden and having to pay nearly $5K for the privilege was a worrying thought indeed. Alot of money and a lot of time. Would I even measure up once I got there?

I don’t have to worry about those things anymore, but it still sucks. It’s like when you have a great disappointment you try to be gracious about it by making up excuses for why it’s okay. It’s almost lame to do so, but you just can’t help yourself. That’s kinda like the way I am this morning – plus I’m getting sick. (Instead of karmic destiny try karma biting me in the ass.)

My last words on this subject are this: my husband, Jon, said one thing to me that has made it a worthwhile experience. Applying for Clarion West made me take up short stories again, something I hadn’t done in over twenty years. While I did it, albeit unwillingly, I found out that I actually enjoyed it. It’s a completely different experience from writing a novel, and something I’ll continue to do. If it hadn’t been for Clarion West, The Mixtape Collection would still be a pipe dream somewhere.

If you’d like to read my short story submission you can find it here. Until next year.

xo
shawnee

Thanks for all the fish. We still miss you.

I met Douglas Adams in a very surreal way:

On a boat, in the middle of the night, on the Thames in 1998, drunk off my ass. He was very polite and smiley. I was very loud and obnoxious. I’m sure I cracked some sort of H2G2 joke that was completely inappropriate. Yet, if my recollection recalls, he didn’t seem to be overly offended. In fact, my memory seems to recall him responding something like, “Ah, I’ve never heard that before.” Of course, it was said in a dry British humor sort of way. I’m not too clear on the details, but I’d like to think he was being nice to me.*

The reason why I was even on this boat was because I just happened to have very lovely friends who had just worked their assess off on Starship Titanic and they were celebrating its launch with an epic boat party. Yes, I know I’m a jammy bastard – we all were back then. We roamed hipster parties in packs in the late ’90s. The thinking was this, “Why go to a party alone when you could take twenty of your closest friends?”

Needless to say, it was brilliant, a once and a lifetime experience, and something that I will fondly remember for the rest of my days.

But back to Douglas.

I didn’t really appreciate the effect that he had on my life until I was much much older. I had  to look back at my life to see the subtle influences: seeing The Guide the first time at the age of seven because my hippy uncle was reading it, watching Dr. Who with my doctor, Tom Baker, and not even knowing that Douglas was behind the scenes somewhere. Then nothing for several years until I was old enough to read HHGTTG myself. Little smatterings of Douglas working on my young, tender psyche, yet I was too immature or frankly, too busy chasing boys to see it.

It wasn’t until Douglas died that I cottoned on, but by then, it was too late. And of course, in typical twenty-something style I got caught up in my own drama and the thought past out of my head like a sieve.

Until now.

By some sheer coincidence, I just happened to be re-reading H2G2 last week when we were without power. It began to dawn on me as I re-read The Guide how brilliant Douglas Adams was. There was no one else like him. His style, his voice was like no other before him and anyone after would only ever be an imitation. I will always want to try a pangalactic gargleblaster. Or hear some Vogon poetry even if it does indeed kill me. The number of cultural references that Douglas has imparted on us still astounds me. And as a writer, he humbles me.

There are some things in my life that I wish I could take back – that night on the boat would be one of them. I would’ve had a few less drinks and I would’ve listened more as Douglas waxed poetic. Perhaps I might’ve refrained from my joke and said something more gracious and more deserving of his talent.

I guess I’ll never know.

Today, Douglas Adams would’ve been 61 years old. To him I say . . . Happy Birthday and thanks for all the fish.

 

*Too many pints has a tendency to do that to one’s self.

OMG. Dad’s on TV.

image copyright Investigation Discovery

It’s not every day that you’re watching a program in your Netflix queue only to find that your dad’s on it.

I think the conversation with Jon went something like this -

Me: Oh wow. This one is in Portsmouth, Virginia.

Jon: Yeah.

Me: I wonder if my dad’s going to be in it.

(pans to shot of TV where my father’s scowling face immediately appears; camera pans back to my face, immobile with shock)

Me: Holy crap! There’s dad!

Jon: Yeah.

Me: No, I’m serious! Holy crap! My dad’s on this program! Your father-in-law is right there.

Jon: Um, yeah.

Honestly, Jon isn’t normally that wooden and it’s probably not even his original reaction, but I was so shocked with mine that I kinda forgot what he said, but you get the point.

I just saw my dad. On the Discovery Channel. On a detective crime program.

Okay, so yes, Dad had told me way back that he was being filmed for some program or another and I thought it was some program like I don’t know public access or something. I’m pretty sure we tried to tape it, but got the program wrong. I had completely forgotten about it.

Until now.

So my dad’s talking head showing up on my television in the comfort of my living room wasn’t what I was expecting . . . so how does this tie into my blog post?

As a writer, some days I think I’ve hit the genetic lottery so to speak. I feel humbled to have grown up with a father who’s been a forensic detective my whole life and a mom who knows her way around just about any medical conundrum (my mom’s an awesome nurse practitioner). I mean, could you ask for any better parental background than crime and medicine. I mean talk about an unfair advantage, right?

I don’t blame you. I think it’s unfair, too, but I’m not complaining. In fact, I’m just now appreciating that normal kids didn’t grow up knowing what blood spatter meant or how to create a tracheostomy out of a ball point pen. I’m not kidding. If the zombie apocalypse had happened in the ’80s, I would’ve been covered by all the angles. Bullets check. A bad ass dad who knew how to use said bullets and could also give you at least a half dozen trajectory hypotheses for which way the blood would go when you shot said zombie in the head. Yeah, pretty cool, eh? My mom is also right up there in terms of coolness, but this post isn’t about her. *Sorry, Mom!

Right so where am I going with this?

Some days I forget about all that extraneous information that was lying around when I was growing up and how I can utilize it in my stories. And that’s a note to all of you other writers out there. The old adage of “write what you know,” should be amended to “write what you know or about anything that your family might be experts in”. Because alot of times, I think we forget about them. Or at least I do. Not in the “forgot to send a card” way, but more like I’ll be writing a chapter where there’s a crime scene and I’m doing internet searches to make sure that I’m staying true to actual forensic procedure.

I’m not making this up. This actually happened to me while writing a scene in Watcher. Ask me if I called my dad even once? Nope. Nada. Didn’t even cross my mind. In fact, it didn’t sink in until my dad had read the book and called me up to say that my crime scenes were pretty realistic. Did I get that from him via osmosis? I’ll never know.

So when planning that next book or scene, take a moment to to think about how someone you know may be able to help you. I know it seems so simple of a concept, but you’d be surprised how many times you forget this when you’re in the zone. That little bit of extra thought might’ve save me some time if I had remembered about my dad.

I’d like to think that seeing my dad’s face on the TV is a good reminder of this. Maybe now I’ll never forget that lesson.

And dad, that was crazy cool. Who knew you had it in you?

Jane Green: a Blast from the Past

Author Jane Green 

Once upon a time and several decades ago, perhaps even in a country far away, I was a web developer. In those days, I think you called us HTMLers or possibly web monkeys, maybe even new media people – you know those angsty people in black who smoked and bitched outside of some London pub about how slow people were to get on this thing we called “the web”. Sheesh, we didn’t spend all day hand coding those pages just so we were the only ones to look at them . . .

Anyhow, I was in my twenties living in London, wearing black, and working at what I can only describe (looking back at it), as an extremely wacky and creative new media house called Online Magic. Our first office was located in Kennington (not to be confused with Kensington), one stop from Elephant & Castle. We were all hipsters and oddly enough, surprisingly functional for a group of ambitious go getters fresh out of university. Even today, I still keep in touch with the majority of them through FB even though we’ve scattered to the four corners of the globe. But before I start to get super nostalgic and wax poetic about days of playing Quake and making desks, I’ll say that this is only meant to set the setting of what’s to come.

You see, anyone who’s lived and worked in London will tell you that you spend a lot of time on public transport. I mean A LOT. I didn’t live close enough to the OM offices to take a bus so more often than not I’d have to get the train to Waterloo, change for the Northern line (before the Jubilee extension) and make my way as best as possible to Kennington. That meant dallying in Waterloo station many a night waiting for that elusive Platform number to come up.

I’m not a patient person on the best of days so I would inevitably wander into the WH Smith’s kiosk under the pretense of buying a paper, but more often than not, perusing books that I had no business buying. This was in the days before Amazon where, God forbid, you paid full sticker price for a book. So on like £15K a year, books were a luxury that I couldn’t really afford when making a flat payment. That didn’t keep me from buying them, of course, and one of the first books I bought from WH Smith’s was Jane Green’s Jemima J.

Wow. I couldn’t get enough of Jane Green.

I think I literally bought every book she had through that kiosk, sort of stealth-like, but not really (you don’t get goth points for reading Jane Green). I was blown away, really. Here was something that had some of the elements of a romance, but had a fiesty yet realistically neurotic female protagonist. It wasn’t your grandma’s large print romance novels where some heroine’s pining away in the top of a god forsaken castle waiting for an overly aggressive Prince Charming. No way. This was a sassy modern working girl who had problems in love, which we all could relate to. Man, I ate that crap up.

And Jane’s success spawned a bunch of other authors to write books in the same vein, much like the ’90s version of Twilight. Between Helen Fielding and Jane Green, a whole slew of authors picked up on that best seller’s formula and ran with it and that’s how we ended up with the Chick Lit genre. (ed. – At least it’s not vampires, right?)

Well, recently Jane and I ended up being FB friends.* That’s kinda surreal in its own way, but what it ended up doing was making me very aware of how Jane’s early books had an impact on my psyche. I can even see that now as I try to make Poesy more accessible to a younger audience like I was when I first read Jane’s books, but hopefully not making her so neurotic that people can’t deal with her hang ups. It’s a fine line and I’m still learning. Trust me.

That aside, I wanted to take a moment to re-live my early Jane Green days and thank her in my own person way (through this blog) for keeping me entertained as I trudged through tube station after tube station and for making it okay to read romance again.

So Jane, thank you.

* It only takes one author friend in common to set off the whole six degrees of separation thing although sadly, Kevin Bacon is nowhere near this chain of events. I did go to UVa which may or may not count on that front.