Angela B. Macala-Guajardo's Blog, page 10

The story of a sea-faring captain who can never find a moment to eat a cheeseburger in peace…

Yep, that’s the fast pitch of the post-apocalypse fantasy novel I’m working fast and hard on. Being jobless has its perks, haha. Here is chapter one. 8 of 26 projected chapters  have been drafted so far (100% chance of them changing around and spawning more; the drafting of a chapter list helps me with story flow). I will most certainly need test readers in the near-ish future.  The following content is rated M for Mature due to language.

Chapter 1

The Infamous Captain

What remained of Newport, Rhode Island’s streets did its best to break both my ankles as I ran. Chunks of pavement unglued themselves from the mud with a squelch, making it feel like each foot was treading on separate decks in high seas. The mud itself sucked on my boots, trying  just as hard to pitch me face-first into what passed for roads for the past three hundred years now. Why did unwanted company have to arrive every time I wanted a cheeseburger?

One of the largest steam frigates I’d ever seen had made berth next to mine sometime in the last hour. Not good–not because of its harpoons, but because of its mere presence. There were only about a hundred frigates left cruising the entire Atlantic, each with their own territorial port. Newport was sort of my territory–only sort of–and that’s the way I wanted it to stay. And right now half of my crew was either grabbing supplies or filling their stomachs.

Homes and stores whipped by, a clash of lumber, stone and some plywood structures patched with scraps of aluminum siding, and I slipped more than ran into the open port. Resonant voices rang out, advertising fish, beef, vegetables and whatnot to the grey and brown masses slinking from one open stand to the next. Geeze, what a contrasting picture from the 2100’s.

“Out of my way!” I pushed through the crowd, practically doing the breast stroke with my arms, but not hard enough to knock anyone over. I’m a jerk; not an asshole. People turned and voiced their anger, but no one got beyond “Hey!” or “What the heck, man?”

One said, “It’s Dyne! Let him through!”

The sardines parted for me as if I were a marlin charging through their school. One of the perks of infamy. Much better.

“Captain!”

I shot a glance over my shoulder. Mido, my ship’s cook. Hopefully he’d been fortunate enough to finish a beer before glancing out the bar window. I slowed my pace, and sure enough I could smell beer and barbecue sauce on his breath. Lucky bastard.

“How long have they been there?”

“Too long.”

Mido nodded and began out-sprinting me. Didn’t help that I had a leather trench coat and steel-toe boots weighing me down. My cook ran more freely in his cargo jeans and a hole-plagued tank top. His arms, which caused girls to flock to him, pumped hard.

Mido came to a sudden halt on the dock when the crowd stopped parting for him. The massive sterns loomed just below the early afternoon fog. Everyone was ogling at the most recent “clash of the steam frigates” as two crews gathered on their respective decks. These people couldn’t wait to see my undefeated streak for Newport come to an end. But if these people wanted to see a more interesting clash, they needed to get out of my way first!

“Captain, it’s Tethys’ ship!”

I swore. “How the hell did they find us?”

“I guess we didn’t put a big enough hole in their hull.”

We shoved our way through the crowd, earning more infamy points, and after Mido had climbed the rungs I leapt onto the stern’s ladder. Contact with Pertinacious’ rusted steel brought some relief. My ship. My physical soul, and it looked as ragged and fucked up as I was. But she was just as stubborn and hardy as well.

I heaved myself onto the open deck with a grunt and strode over to port side, where Tethys’ crew was throwing grappling hooks onto my railing. A bold move. But stupid. “All hands to arms!” Three men already had their swords drawn and glass grenades belted around their waists. Three more stomped up from below deck and joined Mido in collecting their weapons from the trunk stowed against the wheelhouse. They fastened them around waists or over shoulders kept strong and lean from years of labor at sea. The rest of my crew popped over the starboard railing one at a time, each weighed down by duffle bags of provisions. They dropped their bags by the ladder and grabbed more swords and glass grenades. “Scully, man the Harpy.”

Scully, the last one to board, dropped his sack next to the rest and ran for the harpoon gun mounted on the bow. Two of Tethys’ most eager crew members zip-lined their way to my ship.

“Hold your positions!” I drew the knife I always kept inside my trench coat, marched up to the railing and cut the nearest rope. A scream reached up through the gap between ships, and then a splash followed. I picked off the hook, aimed it for the middle of the splash ring, and let it fall.

Another unfortunate grappling hook attached to a trembling rope waited ten feet away. I stood before it and let the guy pop his head over the railing. He pulled his sword out of his mouth and swung at me as he roared. I leaned out of the sword’s arc and gave the kid a left hook in the nose. He reflexively let go of the rope and covered his face, then saved me the effort of throwing him into the ocean. Mido and the rest of my crew lined up along the railing, swords and glass grenades in hand; an odd combination, but it was all anyone had these days. Guns were rarer than frigates. I held out my arms and ordered my men to back up. I backed up with them as a dozen more grappling hooks with steel leads arced into the air and clanged onto the deck, right where we had been standing. “Hold!” I didn’t need anyone losing fingers or hands. The hooks zipped back towards the other frigate and pinned themselves against my railing with a discord of clangs. The ropes tightened. “Advance!”

My more ballsy crew members stood ready for a fight as they waited for the opposition to zip over. Tethys’ men tied the ropes to their wheelhouse, providing them with a downward slope to propel them onto my ship. They clipped zip hooks and rode over like a bunch of laundry being hung out to dry. Except this bit of laundry needed to either be rewashed or burned. Where was their sense of pride in their appearance?

Boots and sword points led the way as Tethys’ men swung themselves over my railing. Swords clanged and scraped, and meaty fists bashed into equally meaty heads and torsos as I hung back. I waited for the only man worth fighting as he climbed onto a crate and hooked himself to a taut rope. Tethys was a huge man in both height and girth, but most of that girth was muscle flexing under his sleeveless leather jacket and black shirt. The rope sagged under his weight, dropping him to eye level with my railing. I put away my knife and drew my sword as his weight sunk him below my line of vision. I flinched at the sound of a huge, heavy clang against the side of my ship. The shouting and sword fighting sagged as well, then resumed when one of Tethys’ hands gripped the lower rung of my railing and his face, topped by the worst widow’s peak I’d ever seen, hoisted up over the railing. He hurdled the railing, his landing making the deck vibrate under my boots, and stomped towards me.

Good god, this fucker’s huge. My eyes were level with his collar bone. I’d never noticed before since we’d only yelled at each other from the safety of our own decks.

I glanced at the battling crews. A fair few had sustained injuries on both sides, and a few more were down, probably dead.

“It’s time someone took Newport from you, Dyne,” Tethys said in a gravelly voice. His voice was as intimidating as his sheer size, like a father’s whose calm voice scared you straight more than his raised voice.

I put up my sword. “Not you, bud.”

Tethys stood just outside of my sword’s reach. “You and me: one-on-one duel right now. For the port.”

“Do I look like some sort of honorable mercenary who duels?”

Tethys looked at me blankly, then roared and came at me, steel first.

I barely slapped his sword away as I fell into a backwards roll. As soon as my feet were back under me, I popped up and ran for the bow, sword in my left hand. The muscle-brain stomped after me as I cut every rope linking our ships. I realized my maneuver was a bad idea when I heard a grappling hook whiz by my head, its steel leader just missing my ear. The hook got snagged in a tarp covering a lifeboat. “Scully! Take aim!”

Scully spun the harpoon around and aimed the man-sized spear just over my head.

I passed it off as an honest mistake made in the heat of battle. “That way, you idiot!” I pointed at the other ship’s hull with my sword, more specifically at the bad patch job in Tethys’ ship’s hull that a bunch of morons called welding. If I wasn’t still fifty yards from the Harpy, I’d have hopped in it and fired the thing myself.

Even though Scully had the best aim of my entire crew, even me, and even though I trusted him to be able to pick off a moving target right behind me, I didn’t feel like having to patch up large holes in three decks. From forty yards away I could hear the hiss of hydraulics spin the Harpy and Scully into position. The spear dipped a little, ready to punch through eight inches of steel.

The heavy pursuit of boots stomped to a standstill. I turned around to see Tethys glaring at the Harpy, his sword arm hanging low. “Bastard,” he muttered.

“You mean ‘asshole.’ ‘Bastard’ is a compliment in my book.”

He snarled, then turned and stomped away and sheathed his sword with a stiff thrust, his overly long ponytail swishing behind him. I ordered Scully to keep his sights on the enemy’s hull, then headed for the stern.

Tethys bellowed to his men to stop fighting and jump ship. Part of me thought it would be amusing to have my crew chase the others and force them to jump into the ocean, but that would make it take longer to escort them out of Newport. Instead I ordered them to stand down but keep their weapons drawn.

Fighting came to an awkward halt. Tethys’ men kept their swords up as they cautiously backed or sidestepped towards my starboard ladder. One by one they sheathed their swords and descended the ladder. My crew inched closer as their opponents left. Three of my men stared over the railing, hopefully to make sure none of the sailors vandalized my ship during their retreat. Tethys descended last and I hoped my ladder could support his weight. He could probably undo a good welding job with just one arm. The other captain smirked at me right before his balding head disappeared over the side.

I sheathed my sword. “Lou, get to the Harpy. Tell Scully to fire if I send anyone running to the bow.”

“Yes, Captain,” Lou said, then took off for the bow. He was like a small version of Tethys with a smaller ponytail and more hair on his head. And more brains.

“Sam, get O’Toole.”

“Sir?” Sam raised an eyebrow that disappeared under his mop of sandy hair.

“Just in case.”

The crew that heard me tensed up. I didn’t blame them. But a man who has just parleyed doesn’t smirk.

Sam hesitated, then sheathed his sword and ran below deck.

“Mido, come with me.” I hurried to the ladder and looked down. It was still perfectly attached, and devoid of Tethys and crew. I grudgingly descended the ladder, not wanting to part with my physical soul once again. My feet belonged on deck. Dry land, and even docks were eerily inert and dead-like. You could walk all over such places as you pleased. The ocean never lets me forget who’s boss, and often takes lives as it sees fit. But that was another battle for another day…

Just as I feared, Tethys’ crew wasn’t scurrying back to their own ship; they were closing in on Newport’s civilians. I let myself drop the last three rungs and hit the dock running. “Tethys, just board your own ship, damn it!” Newport would both thank and hate me for protecting them. Tethys was a less welcome captain than myself.

The locals nearest Tethys lost their scowls when he drew his sword. An audible gasp ran through the crowd. It started dispersing, but the docks were too congested for everyone to get away. I pulled out my sword and intercepted the other sword’s downward arc as I pushed a lady out of its way. She hit the ground pretty hard, then scrambled to her feet and took off without looking back. Smart broad.

Tethys rounded on me and next thing I knew I was looking at the sky and couldn’t breathe. I had fallen spread-eagle onto the dock. I let go of my sword and clutched at my sternum. Mido appeared over me with my sword in one hand. He faced Tethys, his face hardened with determination. Mido charged in but Tethys used his weight to send my cook onto his back right next to me. Tethys and his crew begin to chase down civilians with swords and glass grenades, while all I could do was lie there, propped up on one elbow, and force air into my lungs.

Three glass grenades shattered against the sides of buildings. Screams of agony pierced the air as the grenades’ acidic contents burned people alive. More screams join the first round, but were cut short. Seagulls took off squawking.

I pushed myself to my feet, even though it felt like it made my lungs smaller, and reached inside my trench coat. “Tethys!” He ignored me and grabbed hold of the elderly man who ran the cod and haddock stall. “Get on your frigate or I kill you where you stand!”

Tethys turned, then lost his sneer and went pale when he saw the handgun I held pointed at him.

The fish vendor eyed the gun’s barrel and screamed. “Put that thing away!” He struggled so hard he ripped his shirt from Tethys’ grasp and fell on his bony ass.

Before he could get up, the air got intensely cold and the wind died. The seagulls fell silent. No one moved. Not even Tethys or me. Then, as if they came out of the docks, the air, the fog, or the ground itself, the quasi-children arrived, just as I’d expected and more or less feared. These kids were the reason guns were rarer than frigates and swords had made a comeback, and why Tethys had gone pale and the old guy had yelled at me. These kids were the only other type of being on this planet almost as old as me. But unlike my longevity, theirs was one of the hundreds of side-effects of a global nuclear war.

The quasi-children encircled me, paying the rest of humanity no attention whatsoever. They stared me down with their black eyes and pale, serious faces. They all looked no older than ten, had no hair as if they were cancer patients undergoing chemotherapy, and were all just above bone thin inside their tattered clothes. They looked like they should be dead. Many people believed they were ghosts or zombies, but I knew better. Ghosts don’t appear just because you draw a gun or try to employ any form of energy-using technology that’d harm the environment. Yep, those kids were Mother Nature’s latest way of protecting herself.

I held my gun aimed at Tethys, struggling to keep my arm raised. The will of the quasis was trying to get me to hand over my gun. Having seen the eerily silent death of the gun’s previous owner for firing the gun, I was more than willing to oblige, but I feared Tethys would go right back to slaughtering people if I did. A gun was the fastest solution to needless slaughter, even though it gave me a new problem to deal with.

Knowing I had only a few more seconds to make a decision before the quasis made it for me, I hid away my gun and let my arms, which felt like two blocks of ice, hang at my sides. The gesture was enough to stop their creeping closer to me, but not enough to get them to disappear back to wherever they came from. They stared from four feet away on all sides.

Tethys looked like he was about to be sick. His crew of typically superstitious seamen ran for their steam frigate and started boarding. One of the crew called to their captain, which snapped him out of staring at the quasi-children. He ran off and didn’t put away his sword until he’d reached his ship.

I headed for my own with the quasis still surrounding me from exactly four feet away.

Mido spoke, his voice subdued. “Why don’t you just give them the gun?”

“Why don’t they just let me keep it?” Considering all the trouble the weapon caused, I should have never claimed it. But I’m obstinate like that. I deal with it.

Mido shook his head then jogged to Pertinacious. Once again, I followed my cook up the ladder, but this time with the quasis surrounding me, ascending the ladder or crawling up the sides as if the laws of gravity didn’t apply to them. They never took their eyes off of me, which kicked in my fight response, urging me to punch the nearest one. Those emotionless eyes and cold faces wouldn’t stop staring. There was no point in punching them though. Bullets wouldn’t do the trick either.

The quasi-children encircled me once again, their presence having the same effect on my crew as they had Tethys. More quasis rose into existence all over my stern. I trudged towards my wheelhouse. “Sam, let him loose,” I said calmly as I passed him. Sam let go of O’Toole, a short Irish man with curly orange hair. I’d picked him up on a trip to Ireland two years ago. He was a mute with the intelligence of a one-year-old, but he served his purposes, one being the ability to get rid of quasi-children.

O’Toole charged the circle of quasis with his arms up by his head, and cackled and whimpered like a chimpanzee. The quasis looked at him and vanished one by one, like a thin patch of fog you’ve gotten too close to as he ran through where they’d been standing. He made what sounded like imitations of speech as he zigzagged all over the stern. Once the last quasi-child was gone, I ordered Sam to round up O’Toole, then told the rest of my crew to disembark in an hour. My crew slowly got back into motion, then we all went below deck to shake off the chill left behind by those damned kids.

Ever Gone Back to Read What You Wrote in Your Journal?

The other night I leafed through my superbly sloppy handwriting that filled the pages of my journal from all the way back to September 2012. As gripping as most of the content was, I was surprised at how far I’ve come as an individual these past several months. I’ve gone from this bitter and cynical person stuck assuming the world would forever reject her, to this scared yet hopeful person taking things day to day, working diligently towards the goals she intends to achieve.

Between all that has been much despair, hopelessness, frustration, tears, failure, hard life lessons, talking, learning, listening, growing, a revitalizing lifeline, and new hope.

Even though I’m jobless right now, I’m waking up every day, pretending to be a full-time author. I won’t be job hunting all of March. Depending how that goes, it might carry over into April as well, or at least until I completely draft a new book I’m working on. I’ve put aside book 3 in the trilogy for a standalone post-apocalypse fantasy one that’s been waiting its turn for years. The book is called To Ocean’s End. It’s the story of a seafaring captain who can never find a moment to eat a cheeseburger in peace. Lots of comedy and deadpan humor, and strangely some Greek mythology has snuck its way into the tale. Twas never my intention but things like this happen when a writer lets a story and the characters come to life on their own.

For those of you who don’t keep a personal journal, you should. They’re an amazing learning tool. They are doubly useful for writers. They teach you to just write without editing yourself as you go, no worries about the perfect sentence or word choice. No grammar or wordiness issues either. Just write, just pour your heart out.

Pour my heart out I do. I’ll never blog all the content in mine. I value some privacy. I’m sharing my personal journey and transformation to let others know that you’re so far from alone when it comes to not knowing what to do with one’s life when it feels like nothing’s panning out, like everything has been one big failure after another. I have great passions and huge aspirations. This blog has helped me connect with so many people with the same thoughts racing through their heads.

It’s finally clear that I’m moving forward in my personal journey and as an individual. Instead of checking amazon.com every day and frowning, I’m asking myself what can I do to get the word out that I and my first book exist? What can I do to have my writing succeed? Where do I have to focus my hard work? What’s in my control? Now let’s do that. I simply don’t bother thinking about the rest–well most of the time I don’t. I sucker myself into stressing about things out of my control. Who doesn’t? But I’m training myself to waste less and less time doing that. My creative energies are better spent elsewhere. And so are yours. Aren’t they?

Here is page one of chapter one to the novel. I will post the entire chapter soon enough. This is just to grab your attention:

What remained of Newport, Rhode Island’s streets did its best to break both my ankles as I ran. Chunks of pavement unglued themselves from the mud with a squelch, making it feel like each foot was treading on separate decks in high seas. The mud itself sucked on my boots, trying  just as hard to pitch me face-first into what passed for roads for the past three hundred years now. Why did unwanted company have to arrive every time I wanted a cheeseburger?

One of the largest steam frigates I’d ever seen had made berth next to mine sometime in the last hour. Not good–not because of its harpoons, but because of its mere presence. There were only about a hundred frigates left cruising the entire Atlantic, each with their own territorial port. Newport was sort of my territory–only sort of–and that’s the way I wanted it to stay. And right now half of my crew was either grabbing supplies or filling their stomachs.

Homes and stores whipped by, a clash of lumber, stone and some plywood structures patched with scraps of aluminum siding, and I slipped more than ran into the open port. Resonant voices rang out, advertising fish, beef, vegetables and whatnot to the grey and brown masses slinking from one open stand to the next. Geeze, what a contrasting picture from the 2100’s.

“Out of my way!” I pushed through the crowd, practically doing the breast stroke with my arms, but not hard enough to knock anyone over. I’m a jerk; not an asshole. People turned and voiced their anger, but no one got beyond “Hey!” or “What the hell, man?”

One said, “It’s Dyne! Let him through!”

The sardines parted for me as if I were a marlin charging through their school. One of the perks of infamy. Much better.

One of My First Ever Attempts at Short Story Writing

I actually consider this short story an actual short story, instead of my “chaptory.” This is a work of pure fiction I wrote I think all the way back in my Community College. I welcome any and all critiques!

Here’s a downloadable version if it please thee: the witness

The Witness

It was late at night and Sarah was finally going home. She threw her winter jacket on and got her keys ready, and then walked outside along the parking lot. It was deserted, except for her little red car sitting under the dull light of a tall lamppost. Next thing she knew: she was already sitting in her chilly car, trying to get the key into the ignition. There was also someone outside her door, trying to open it. A jolt of fear got her adrenaline going. Sarah fumbled for the lock and was safe.

The dark man gave the door another good yank, then cursed and walked away. Sarah sank into her seat and sighed with relief.

In the next instant, she was walking through the parking lot again, from a different direction, but still towards her car under the lamppost. This time there were a handful of other cars and dirty, tire-trodden snow everywhere. The dark man was also there, too, but this time he had an accomplice. The stranger muttered something to his friend and then Sarah bolted past her car. The two men ran after her as she told herself to stop running, but could not.

She didn’t get very far when things changed again. Now Sarah stood in the corner of a dark room with Gollum from The Lord of the Rings trilogy standing in the doorway. They bickered back and forth for a little bit, and then everything went black.

Sarah woke with a start and took a deep breath, eyes wide open. It was just a dream, she reassured herself. Very strange and very much a dream. Her familiar room came into focus. Her heart rate and breathing slowed, and she tucked her hair behind her ears as she got out of bed. Sarah slipped on some pajama pants and Happy Feet slipper, walked over to her laptop and turned it on. The digital clock sitting on one of her stereo speakers read 9:22 in bright red numbers with a little red dot in the upper-left corner marking ‘A.M.’ Sarah walked up the basement stairs to the kitchen. Her morning routine had already begun without her noticing: get up, turn on her laptop, go some tea, check the day’s schedule, and then go have some tea and breakfast. Sarah liked her routine and she also liked performing her routine at her own pace. It was definitely one of the joys of college.

Back downstairs, Sarah double-clicked on the palm pilot icon. It was Friday, and she had no classes and no work. She was unemployed again, but at least she enjoyed college. It was far better than working at some crappy place, doing boring work and helping stupid people all day. That was what the men in her dream were: anxiety, not only about a job, but also about getting a job, keeping it and going to school at the same time.

Sarah grabbed a throw-blanket from her bed and wrapped it around her arms and torso like a cape. It being the end of January in New England meant very cold weather, and the house she and her family lived in was getting old. She could feel the cold air seeping through the windows. She headed upstairs again and threw a bagel into the toaster. Before she could turn on the television to watch whatever, the doorbell rang.

What the heck? Who could that be? No one in their right mind knocks on people’s doors at nine-thirty in the morning. It wasn’t any family because they knew better to go to the back door, and it wasn’t the mailman or upstairs neighbors. Sarah lifted the blinds to the big living room window and eyed a short lady standing on the porch. The old lady turned and saw Sarah looking through the window. Crap, she saw me. She was about to ignore the weirdo standing in the frozen air, but it was a little late now. She sidestepped to the door and opened it, though her more reasonable half yelled at her to just ignore this person.

There the little lady stood, wearing a black coat and a black hat. Sarah thought the hat looked a bit ridiculous: very poofy with a black flower on top. The lady was over fifty and wore glasses with thick lenses that magnified her eyes slightly. She held a thick book with a thin paperback cover with two ribbons sticking out. Bookmarks. Tucked atop the gargantuan book were a bunch of pamphlets and, clearly marked at the top, it said ‘Jehovah’s Witness.’  Go away, lady. Sarah only had time to think it.

“Hello,” the short lady began in an annoyingly cheerful voice for so early in the morning, “My name is Mary and I am wondering if you have heard the call of the faith.”

“Oh, you’re a Jehovah’s Witness,” Sarah said in a displeased tone. Yes, she already knew it, but Sarah hoped that playing dumb would make this lady go away. She looked up and noticed another woman in a black coat across the street, knocking insistently at the front door. Why do these people go door-to-door, anyway? It’s such an invasion of privacy. Sarah shook her head, but the short lady acted as if she didn’t notice.

“Yes,” she replied with a smile that was more annoying than her cheerful tone. “Would you like to follow the ways of Jesus to help save yourself and the world?”

“I’m agnostic,” Sarah replied curtly.

Not very much, but something along the lines of mental process went on behind the short lady’s eyes. Her smile waned slightly and she spoke again. “I’ve heard the word before, but could you please tell what agnostic means?”

You’re joking! “It means,” Sarah began, purposely sounding impatient, “that I don’t believe in organized religion, but I still believe there is something out there.” Sarah had very good reasons to believe what she did. She didn’t care what other people believed, so long as they left her alone.

“So you do believe in something,” the Witness said passionately, inching uncomfortably closer in the freezing air.

There was a distinct ‘pop!’ of the toaster. Sarah was reminded both how hungry and cold she was. She purposely looked longingly at her kitchen, hoping the lady would take the hint without making Sarah have to verbally shoo her away.

“That ‘something’ must be Jesus!”

What?!

“You can find your faith by become a Jehovah’s Witness.”

Are you kidding me?Did she not just hear what I said? Sarah kept a straight face, not wanting to be outwardly rude.

“Why don’t you believe in organized religion? I’m very interested to hear what you have to say.”

Sarah fell for the subtle catch in the last line Mary spoke, and she started speaking before she could stop herself. “First of all, I think the whole concept is stupid. Second of all, you have no proof that these holy people ever existed. Thirdly, I don’t need invisible gods telling me what to do or how to live my life, what I can and can’t do and so on. I do what’s right because I believe it’s right. Hopping on an organized religion wagon just doesn’t mesh with me.” And fanatic people like this one standing before me. “Besides, religions have a bunch of dumb rules, like you can’t accept blood or consume caffeine.” Who comes up with those rules? Sarah wanted to ask the lady that, but she didn’t trust the answer she might get.

“Interesting,” Mary mused, “Very interesting. Drinking caffeine is allowed but accepting blood donations is actually very dangerous.”

“What?”

“Yes,” she said, now grinning a sly grin and inching even closer. “We have very good reasons for all the things we do.” I’m sure you’ve never questioned the reason behind anything you do, lady. “I bet you’d—”

“Uh, my bagel just popped and I am getting really cold.” Why’d she ever answer the door? Sarah did her best to sound really impatient and uncomfortable.

Pretending she didn’t hear what Sarah said, Mary continued, “I bet you’d find being a Jehovah’s Witness really interesting and insightful.”

Maybe I’d learn why you wear stupid little black hats!

“Here,” she gave Sarah one of those colorful pamphlets. “Why don’t you take a look at this? What’s your name?”

“Beth,” Sarah lied smoothly. This person didn’t deserve the knowledge of her real name. She gave another longing glance towards her kitchen.

“Beth? Very nice. Please look at the pamphlet, and I will let you get to your bagel now. You must be getting very cold. Thank you for your time and we’ll be seeing each other again.”

We’ll be what?

“Have a nice day.”

“’Bye,” Sarah said, almost shoving the lady away with the door as she shut it. She was furious and she crumpled up the pamphlet, without so much as looking at it, and threw it in the kitchen garbage. “Ugh, the nerve!” That lady had no idea that she had touched a mental nerve that morning. Memories—bad memories swelled up into Sarah’s consciousness as she put cream cheese on her bagel. She’d affirmed her agnostic stance a long time ago, and for very good reason. Sarah had gone through six years of Catholic school and she and her parents were treated poorly for the duration of her attendance. She was singled-out, picked on and left behind, even by the teachers. Her third-grade teacher went as far as having someone test her for mental retardation. Apparently people who weren’t rich and had divorced parents weren’t intelligent or worthy of god’s love. Her only friends were the kids at the daycare who went to public school, along with the staff. This led to the idea of going to public school, which was the best thing in the world for Sarah and her divorced parents. Once she went to high school, Sarah began to think about religion again, and that was when she claimed her stance on the matter. At first it was strong and she tried to make others see the way she did, but stopped not long after. Sarah realized that everyone had free will to believe whatever.

Free will! That’s it! Everyone had it, and wasn’t free will god’s greatest gift to every living being? Just realizing this now, she was captured by the urge to write, to create. She would create her own idea of faith to whatever was out there. Sarah grabbed her bagel and tea, then fled down the basement stairs and started scribbling notes in a notebook.

Her bagel got stale, the tea cold, and much time wore away before she realized what she had done. Pages upon pages of ideas, thoughts, concepts and even some philosophy had been written down. Without so much as a second thought, she gulped down the bagel and tea, picked up her notebook and sat at the laptop. Sarah typed well into the night, stopping only to go to the bathroom and eat the dinner her mother was kind enough to bring without asking any questions. Sarah even fell asleep typing, but would begin anew with refreshed vigor every time she woke back up. For the entire weekend, she organized everything she wrote down and putting it all together in a comprehensible logic.

On Monday morning, she was done. She had created not a religion, but a theory of faith and she felt relieved to have it completed, not to mention exhausted. However, her present job was not done as she took her printed copy to Kinko’s and made over a hundred more. From where to next, she did not know, but five minutes later she found herself parked in a grocery store and got out of her car, copies in tow. From there she walked to a bench between the entrances/exits and stood on it, holding one copy of her work and the rest at her feet. What to say? Picking no one in particular, Sarah pointed at a guy and yelled. “You there! What religion do you follow?”

The average-American guy stopped in the middle of the road and stared at Sarah. “Me?”

“Yes. Answer my question.”

“I’m Catholic.”

He didn’t answer her question right, but close enough. “Do you believe everything they teach you and the rest of your followers at church? Do all of you?” Sarah yelled loud enough for everyone to hear.

The middle-aged man thought about it. More people stopped moving and looked at Sarah. “I…I don’t really know,” he shouted back in a gloomy voice. “I would like to believe that it is all true, but I can’t.”

“Of course it’s all true!” an old man from the gathering crowd said, “It’s all in the Bible. What more proof do you need?”

“Really?” Sarah turned her attention to the elderly man. She was equal to this man. “Can you really prove to me that a god that no one has ever seen really exists?” The two stared at each other a moment. “Can you?”

“You’re wasting everybody’s time, you child! Go home.” The old man pulled some keys out of his pocket and started to turn away, but was stopped by Sarah’s words.

“You cannot prove your invisible gods exists, but neither can I prove that your god does not exist. So, what do we do now?”

“Find our own faith,” a woman in her late forties said.

“Not exactly,” Sarah said. “Let me explain something first.” She paused to make sure she had everyone’s attention. She did. “We all have free will to do good or evil and the definition of good and evil itself varies from person to person. For example: people who steal see it not as wrong, but a way to get by and survive. However, those who do not steal find such behavior evil. What I am getting at is a little complicated. What we do now is search; we search for happiness through our own individual means. If this is done right, all life will work together and we’ll all be happy.

“I have one thing that I believe will help us all find happiness.” She held the pamphlet in front of her. “There are no rules, there are no invisible gods and there is no hell. Everything you need is right here. There is nothing to fear, nothing to lose and nothing to hate. All you need is an open mind. Who’s with me?”

Everyone stepped forward as if they were taking their first step into heaven.

Often Bad Things are Good Things in Disguise

As of March 1st I joined the unemployed masses. I knew it was coming all year, despite my dad’s and wee mum’s valiant efforts–and they were valiant–to keep me employed until I finally found a job elsewhere. Working for them was never intended to be permanent, but at least now I have more incentive to job hunt harder.

I admit I got complacent. Not proud of it. I have my excuses surround how much of a pain in the ass and how stressful the whole job hunting process is, but really, it’s “Oh, well. Too bad.” This headache-inducing misery is part of the perks of job hunting. Yeah, I cried the night before my last day at work, but the next day I was fine. Sure, my chest hurt (not ached) from stress and fear, but I was able to put on a genuine smile, hum to my music, and get some writing done. I also prepared for a job interview at Fenway Park for Friday. Yes, all you lovely Boston fans, Fenway.

The job is called Fan Photographer, something I think would be an absolute blast. You walk around with a camera for up all 80 home games. You also work on tours and special events, and there are two other jobs besides roaming photographer. It’s $8-9/hr plus 4% commission, and bonuses employees compete for. A modest living in an amazing environment you won’t find anywhere else.

I made that paper pin you see. The lady who interviewed me liked it so much that I offered it to her and she took it. The exchange surprised me. I’d been so afraid it’d come off cheesy, despite the strong encouragement from a family member who retired from a career of marketing. Yeah, them voices in yer head can be quite meddlesome.

I drove 1 hour 45 minutes to Boston and had a good laugh when the GPS pronounced Brighton as “brig-teh.” It gave me pause when I first heard it, but when it repeated the exit, the lady’s voice confirmed I’d heard her correctly. I showed up 75 minutes early and discovered that there’s never free parking around Fenway. At least it was $15, instead of 30-40, but I wasn’t in a hurry to fiddle with parking meters, much less find a place to parallel park and traipse around in dress shoes not meant for long walks.

Half an hour before the interview (still an ungodly long time) I entered Fenway via Gate D with an equally scared and excited interviewee named Irene. Both of us got blasted by a space heater that no amount of hairspray could pull your hair back into place, but at least it was cool to be standing inside the park while it was almost empty. You could feel all the excitement and energy. You just had a skeletal crew to share it with. I had to resist the urge to explore and potentially get kicked out and miss the interview. So I behaved and chatted it up with my new acquaintance, who, after some discussion, downloaded the Kindle app along with a copy of my book onto her phone right in front of me. That floored me, but at least I retained the mental faculties to thank her a few times in about the space of a minute.

When it was almost time for the group interview, I inadvertently walked up to who I thought was a fellow interviewee but turned out to be the manager of fanfoto. I smoothly introduced myself and shook hands with her, who looked to be no older than me, then stood in line right outside the gate.

There were about 20 interviewees. We started off with 45-second introductions of ourselves. We weren’t allowed to talk about Red Sox, baseball, or photography. Easy enough for me. I just talked about launching my author career and was candid about how humble my beginning is without downplaying such a feat. Then the two ladies conducting the interview talked about the company, the jobs they’re hiring for, and answered all our questions. After that, we broke off into groups and took turns using a Nikon camera. Yes, I got my hands on that camera first, haha.

After that, they interviewed us individually for 2-5 minutes apiece. No clue how long mine lasted. The lady I shook hands with before everything started interviewed me herself. She took the version of the résumé with the watermarked pictures on it, along with the five photos I printed out and the button I made. I was prepared to answer more questions than she asked, but all we did was discuss what was on my résumé–mostly my ability to take photos and what customer service experience I had, and if I’d move to/near Boston if I got the job.

I know I did very well during the interview but now I have mixed feelings about the job after learning how modest the pay is. Still, it’s Fenway. It would be a blast. Now I just have to figure some things out and weigh whether the job is smart or not.

What are my living options? Rent a room? Rent an apartment? Suck up having roommates? What about my cats? Can I move within half hour of the park and take a bus? We don’t even get parking passes to work there, which is rather insulting from my perspective. Yes, they mentioned one place I can show my employee badge and they’ll give me free parking, but I was expecting something more organized/professional. But… it’s Fenway. The Red Sox. All those lovely people excited to be at my workplace. The pay feels geared more towards college-age kids looking for part-time work. There were two high schoolers and I don’t think there was anyone above age thirty in that room. Do I get a second job–technically a third? I really want to push my writing, but I still need a reliable income. How fast would I wear out with two jobs and a closet writing career? Am I underestimating commission? Can I negotiate a slightly better starting wage, considering I have a car payment to make? To me, this feels like a once-in-a-lifetime type of job. Even with the crap pay, who knows what kind of doors and paths it would open up?

So, if they offer me the job, I’ll have some questions. And on top of that, who knows how my novel will fare?

On a more writerly note, here is one of the three short stories I’ve written so far. I’m very open to feedback before my ePublisher presents it to the masses on amazon.com. Happy reading and critiquing!

A Question of Morals

The Reality Behind Getting Published

I don’t know how I still manage to sucker myself into delusions of grandeur but I do. One little success and my imagination speeds through this fairytale dream life of a writer. Book signings, millions of copies sold, movie deals, meeting famous people, never having to worry about money again, living next to the beach and swimming every day, and being loved all over the globe–or at least my writing being loved all over the globe. I just want people to like me.

Reality set in just a few days after a successful free book promotion. I went from 11th in fantasy in free book sales to all over the place when it cost $3.99. It takes breaking the 10k mark to make it into the top 100 in your genre, I made it all the way up to 28k before my rank plummeted without any sign of returning to better numbers. My mood soared and imagination rampaged through delusionville as my rank improved, and then I fell face-first into depression mode by the time I sank past the 100k mark. I didn’t get it. I’d worked so hard. My book was failing. Writing is my calling so why am I failing again? Why? Why can’t just one thing go right in my life?

After ending my pity party and leaving delusionville, I faced reality. 320 free books aren’t enough to kickstart an author’s career. I did a second free book promo last Sunday and dished out 385 more copies and received a second review from a person I don’t know. The review’s amusing. Adores and slams me at the same time:

 

Even with the hypocrisy with the wordiness, I catalogued that and the other complaints to apply them to my future projects. The only thing I think is a stylistic preference is the complaints about the fight scenes. I like blow-by-blow descriptions. I like to see what’s going on. Sure, I’m probably overdoing it in a few places but overall I want fight scenes to be as cinematic as possible. I don’t want to write “The duelist crossed swords, and then their weapons sang as they clashed repeatedly.” Too abstract for my taste. My taste. Remember, storytelling so mercilessly subjective.

Anyway, my mood has lightened back up. Last week I felt so helpless as I watched myself slip towards the person I never wanted to be again. Now I have a plan of action to help generate exposure, since that’s a debuting novelist’s greatest challenge. I’ll be posting short *cough* short st– *cough cough* well they’re supposed to be short stories, but good look with that. I’m a natural novelist. Some people are natural short story writers, but not me. I can turn every short story I attempt to write into a chapter as I find ways to keep the story going. So we’ll see how writing short “chaptories” helps my writing career. Heck, maybe the right people goad me into turning my “chaptory” into a proper novel. But maybe I’m sneaking towards delusionville again. I don’t know. How can you achieve big without thinking big?

One more free book promo is comping up. This one’ll last three days. Putting all the chips on the table, as my ePublisher said. Even though I’m in a calm, content mood, there’s still this ache in my heart I can’t seem to ease. I want to succeed so–maybe I should start saying “fulfill my dreams” instead. I just had a thought: success feels too abstract a concept to chase. My dreams are these concrete visions with specific goals. I want my dreams to be fulfilled so bad. I’ll work as hard as necessary for that. However, I’m in a zone where there’s only so much I can do. I’m at the mercy of opinion and others’ willingness to spread the good word about my books.

I honestly believe I’ve written two great books in what will be a great fantasy trilogy. It must sound so conceited of me to say but I still believe it. I don’t write stories just to write them. Every story I tell has my heart and soul in them, along with themes pertaining to what is universally human that I’ve dealt with. I’m not sure how to explain it well but reading in any genre is magic.

That Crazy Stock Market Figure Known as the Amazon.com Bestseller Ranking

I have a video I adore that a friend of mine shared on Facebook that apparently has been getting around. It’s been getting around so much that a fellow blogger picked the same week to share it. Haha. (The artist is Ludovico Einaudi btw)

I had to share this because of how much it validates my decision to forego so much misery in the name of following my writerly dreams. I sacrifice a lot–a LOT–to focus on just my writing. There are so many ways I could make more money, but all of them would make me miserable. I’d rather be broke and happy, than rich and miserable. Think money buys happiness?

What, never watched any of those horrible reality shows that follow famous families? They struggle to find happiness as much as a welfare family, maybe even more. Heck, I have a family where financial wealth is all over the board, yet the happiness level is pretty much equal. Having the most stuff and the biggest stuff… to what point and purpose? If you aren’t happy with what you have, then how do you expect to be happy with more? I know I’ve said this before, but this is something always needs a healthy reminder.

Anyway. The video…

I admit it made me cry. Tears of joy and relief. I’ve been focused on succeeding with my writing since age eighteen. Been blowing out every last birthday candle in the hope that one day my writing will be my job, that giving people much-needed breaks from reality via my books is what the world needs from me. I’ve had so many jobs in customer service since age sixteen. I just can’t suck them up anymore. The sheer amount of misery and selfishness, the lies and greed. No more. Please, no more. I’m burnt out for good. Consumerism and corporate mentality… they’re just not me. I have other morals and priorities.

Still, I’ve been told time and time again to just get a job that pays the bills. Um, what? You want me to wake up every day dreading having to go into work, dread standing alongside the people I have to work with, dread the sales quotas they want me to meet for the day? Then go home feeling drained and more miserable? Sure, I enjoyed people every week, but I always had to wind myself up to tolerate it, especially when I worked as a barista fueling America’s horrible caffeine addiction. Even my own boss would suck down at least ten shots of espresso a shift. Holy hell.

Screw pot. Regulate caffeine. It’s a drug, remember? Anyway, I don’t want to waste time ranting about that.

Ever since I got a taste of the working world, I’ve felt this need to wake up every day looking forward to working at my job. I want it to be a career, not work–not even feel like work but a passion. The two jobs I enjoyed most were working in the pizza shop for a grocery store called Big Y, and waitressing for Ground Round. Both places had a wonderful working environment, and my hard work felt appreciated by both customers and coworkers. Ground Round met an abrupt and unforeseen end six weeks after I was hired. Another restaurant bought the place out and hired only one manager back as a bartender. The pizza shop came to an end because I landed my self a job at Games Workshop (tabletop gaming; pleasant nerdy stuff). That job was okay. I was great at teaching people how to paint models and play the game, but getting people to spend money? Not so much. Still, tabletop gaming was dying out to online gaming. I got swept up into WoW shortly after parting ways with GW. Saddening.

Bearing all that mind, I’m glad I’ve stuck with my writing. Sure, it has been anything but fun sometimes. Hopeless, pointless, a vain effort, a waste of time, a joke, etc. No matter how much other people and even myself tried to talk me out of focusing on writing and doing something more practical, I just couldn’t do it. It was like there was this invisible wall or something repelling me from swaying. I still have this inexplicable panic rise in my chest every time I consider giving up, that same panic when I was wondering what to do about going to the career institute I got accepted to.

My book launch was successful. No, I’m not in the top 100 yet, but I’m slowly working my way towards there. We did a promo last Friday. For twelve hours the book was free, and during that time period 320 copies of my book were downloaded. Holy crap! My ranking in free downloads shot up to 11th in fantasy and 1094th in all of amazon.com. Pretty cool. On top of that, it netted me my first book review from someone I don’t know:

 

So yeah, I’m one happy Angie

Even though I’m finally getting off the ground as an author, I’ve found a new and exciting way to stress myself out: compulsively checking my amazon.com ranking at least hourly. Bad. Idea. That number goes all over the place like crazy. Ever since it’s stopped being free my ranking has sunk as low as past 200k, and rose as high as 28k. It takes breaking the 10k marker to reach the top 100 in fantasy. Once that day comes, my publisher and I will commence getting book 2 ready for release. Oh how this excites and stresses me at the same time. I so badly want to break into the top 100 but all I can do about that is wait and hope. And keep writing of course.

I’ve managed to drop the number of times I check my ranking to less than ten times a day. My goal is 3-4. The real goal should probably be never but… yeah. I’ll work on it.

How do You Define Success?

This question seems to have a slippery answer. Every time I come up with something my gut says is true, another though zips in and alters the answer I just formed, adding a whole new perspective to things. And then I lose track of the thought I just had, even though I wouldn’t have arrived at my current thought without the one before it. It’s like trying to hold onto every last detail in a photograph. Our brains just can’t do it. We have to look and look, and look again. Let me see if I can adequately express my ever-changing concept of success.

Trying to grasp the full scope of success flung me down memory lane. How simple life is when we’re little/young. Everything’s simple. Everything focuses around what feels good and makes us happy. Truly understanding the question “what do you want to be when you grow up?” is never fully grasped until you are a legal adult. Sure, we begin to explore that answer in earnest as teenagers, but we change our minds as fast as a cast die bouncing around on a gambling table. There’ so much to learn, so much we  can do, so much we want to see, and we want to do it all at once. And then reality slaps you in the face and tells you to straighten out your priorities. Reality doesn’t work the way you see it in your head, kiddo.

You are quite right, sir. *rubs cheek and nurses injured pride*

In all, it wasn’t about success. It was about always doing one thing or another I enjoyed. Then somewhere along the way, it became all about having a career and succeeding, becoming financially independent and waking up every day doing what I enjoy. And while all that was going on, other people’s realities pushed and pulled at mine. And while I was slowly embracing my calling as a writer, the reality of how to achieve success as a writer slowly became clearer and clearer. Still, to this day, I’m learning what it takes, but I’ll get back to that in a moment.

My preconceived notion of what being a successful author was evolved over the years. At first, I assumed that, once you made it to bookshelves, you were golden. It’s hard enough to make it to bookshelves, so there had to be no more struggle once people could buy your books. Oh, naivety, how you love to rear your head so often in my life…

Authors rise and fall. Some never make it big. Some have their books returned to the publisher with their covers ripped off after years of collecting dust on shelves. Crappy books are published and do insanely well, yet some wonderful books fall through the cracks. The rest fill out the spaces in between, never quite making it big, but not quite slipping into failure’s void. And now here’s my first book added to that intense, subject mix. I’ll elaborate  on my debut in a moment (haha, just tried to use “deliberate” instead and it took me a moment to figure out why that word didn’t sound right).

Before finally getting published my whole personal concept of success was finally making it onto bookshelves. After that I’d have no worries. Went to grad school to improve my writing and meet the right people, yada yada, and from there everything would turn out all hunky dory. Yeah… no. I did meet great, wonderful, helpful people, so many of them with the same dream as me, and at the same time me wondering how on earth every last one of us could possibly all have their dreams realized? There’s just not that kind of room at the top… If there was, then the top wouldn’t seem so grand. So what about me? What do I do if I don’ t make it?

No. I must keep trying. I can’t stop until I succeed. Like Morgan Freeman once said about his journey to become a famous actor that he’d either succeed or die trying. I feel the same way. I don’t know how to explain it. I probably can’t. You either know the feeling or you don’t, this ache in your chest, this need to follow your heart, this drive to do whatever it takes, this feeling of being fully alive when all your energies are poured into your life’s passion. There is no “what else” if my writing fails.

April 2012 I’d technically succeeded by my own definition. I launched my first eBook through an independent publisher and… watched sales go nowhere. Twelve books in the first month, a dozen more over the next three months, then I don’t know how many after summer passed. My former ePublisher never informed me, nor did he produce the pitiful sum of royalties I was owed. And over the course of those humiliating nine months, friends and acquaintances assured me they’d grab my book, but never did. I told so many people, handed out postcard-sized flyers with my book cover and synopsis on it, and got my hopes up over and over. I couldn’t believe people would lie to me, instead of just be honest about their reading habits and the likes. For my personality it’s easier to take a “no, thanks” than it is words intended to be kind/polite, yet with no action to back them up. It’s taken me a while, but I’ve let go of the bitterness borne from that. I’ve learned to say “oh, well” and just let it go. Sure, the memories still hurt, but all I can do is learn from it. Now I’m focused on getting people I don’t know to pick up my book. So much easier on the psyche.

I had to fall on my face a few time to accept that my publishing success was actually a failure. I bounced off rock bottom a good few times last year. I didn’t start bouncing up for real until you saw that shift in my blog posts. I’m still bouncing but I’m bouncing a little higher each time, falling not quite as low between bounces. I’m still thinking about how I define success for me personally. During my thinking/introspection a simple answer presented itself. My ultimate preconception of success is simply this: I want to be able to start every day with boogie boarding for an hour or two at the beach just outside my house. That’s it. Catching waves. And to be able to catch them every day in a climate that allows for such a schedule.

This isn’t the answer I expected, but the thought of it makes me smile. I love the beach as much as I love writing. I’ll take the threat of hurricanes and dangerous marine life in the name of good surf, the sooth sound of crashing waves, a salty breeze, ample sun, and of course sand everywhere you don’t want it. There are so many ways I want to achieve this goal, but my heart yearns for my writing to build this yellow brick road to the beach.

This picture is from my freshman year of high school. It’s survived several computes, being on a floppy disk, and traveling memory cards. What a view.

February 2013 Book Relaunch

Friday was an exciting day. My new ePublisher and I put my relaunched first book up for free on amazon.com for the entire day. It turned out way better than I expected. It came in at 1094 in overall free book downloads, and 11th in scifi/fantasy. Still, that took no more than 300 copies to achieve that, but now those 300-ish people have my book in their hands and the seed of word-of-mouth is ready to bloom. Word-of-mouth is an author’s best friend. No matter how much advertising and marketing poured into a book readers are what make or break a book. Shield of the Gods is back on at 3.99 and it’s not even in the top 100. It’s circa 60k overall. Now all I need is time. I can’t wait to see my first review from a reader I don’t know. I want that unbiased feedback from someone who’s never seen me, doesn’t know anything about me. Yep, my heart is pumping, but it’s all good.

My First YA Fantasy Novel Launches!

I am finally a proudly published author! Here is the link to the eBook:

Shield of the Gods

And here is a free sample of the entire prologue. It’s funny, even after all this, I just want to drop the pages in front of you and run away while you read them. You can’t do that with a blog, haha! The book opens with a short prologue that sets the stage for the entire trilogy. It’s a gamble I’m taking, having a prologue that is. Hopefully it’ll be well received (I struggled with the formatting for about half an hour. Apparently blogs don’t like paragraph indentations. I stopped trying for fear of breaking my spacebar):

Prologue

Baku floated just a few feet above the lake floor with his eyes closed, head bowed, and limbs hanging limp. Every few hours, exotic fish and water-dwelling creatures would swim up to check on their maker. Baku opened his eyes just enough to see which creature it was each time he felt a small water current swirl across his bare torso. He spoke telepathic words of gratitude to them, then resumed concentrating on recuperating. His fish darted out of his pale, glowing aura and back into darkness. A large current passed over him. By the feel of the warmer water, one of his surface creatures had come to visit.

‘Wake up, Baku,’ a booming voice said. ‘We must talk.’

Baku flinched, then rubbed his face with sore hands. None of his creatures spoke in words. The pale glow emanating from his aching body revealed a gargantuan green snout bigger than his six-foot-tall frame. That snout belonged to Leviathan, a allying god that liked to take on the form of a dragon. The dragon’s reptilian eyes, which were half as big as him, reflected Baku’s glow, making the eyes look nocturnal. ‘Hello, Leviathan,’ he said.

‘Are you well enough? Your body looks aged like one of your mortal men.’

‘Do I, now? I’m not surprised.’ Baku held his arms out. Sure enough his muscle mass had shrunk from solid to sparing. He pulled at the tanned skin covering his triceps and it stretched a good inch from what muscle he had. Disheartening, but still not a surprise. Being a god, his chosen appearance was at the mercy of how he felt, along with how he acted. Right now he felt old. Old and weary. Baku maneuvered into sitting with his legs crossed and began rising toward the lake surface.

‘Others have questions as well,’ Leviathan said, rising with him.

‘Who else knows what’s going on?’

‘Just you. But everyone knows something is up.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Baku said as their heads broke the surface. He stopped glowing. “I’ve put off enlightening all of you long enough.” He now hovered inches above the surface of his lake, dripping water as he sat with both elbows on his knees, his goateed chin resting on one fist. He fanned his other arm absently and became dry in the next instant.

The dragon rose higher and higher into the air, twisting his snake-like form. Baku looked up at his ally and felt the size of a flea. Leviathan was hundreds of feet long. No matter how many times Baku saw Leviathan, his sheer enormity left his mouth ajar. He swallowed humbly.

“Baku?” an energetic voice said from the distant shore, “is that you?”

Baku twisted around. “Din! What a pleasure to see you. How have you been?” With a thought, he flew towards Din and alighted on the pale sandy beach. A grassy field splayed out beyond the small beach.

“Quite well, old friend,” Din said and they pulled each other into a one-armed embrace. Din was a little taller, had bright blue eyes, and orange hair that stuck up like  dancing flames. “How many centuries has it been?” They let go and stepped apart.

“More like eons.”

“Close enough,” Din said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “How are you and Kara getting along these days?”

Baku frowned, remembering Kara and Nexus leaving his realm after the last exhausting skirmish.

“That bad again?” Din rubbed his chin. “When are you two going to finally decide whether to love or hate each other? This game you’ve got going is getting tiresome for—”

“It’s not a game,” Baku snapped.

“Then what is it?”

He thought a moment, his heart aching. “A complication.”

Din laughed.

“Savor what laughter you can. We’re going to need it to help get through our newest problem.” Din’s smile shrank into a serious line. Leviathan drew his head closer, the rest of his serpentine body coiled over the lake. “Not too long ago we all felt the energy of an incomplete prophecy being released.”

Din nodded somberly. “I thought it was a prophecy, but I wasn’t sure.”

‘It did feel different,’ the dragon said.

“Almost like a death sentence.” Din waved a hand at the sand. It swirled and rippled, then pockets of it rose and formed into miniature replicas of armor-clad mortals facing off in two small lines. The lines charged each other but before they could clash, Din let out a frustrated sigh and wiped them away with another wave of his hand. The sand rippled to stillness like a water surface after being hit with raindrops.

Baku knew prophecies usually had an energy that felt like the winner of a contest had been called out. This one, however had felt like a judge banging his gavel, filling him with dread. The entire universe had echoed with this ominous prophecy, but only gods were sensitive to such energy. “Nexus, my son, has prophesied a war. That’s why it felt different.” He paused to let the other two voice their outrage, but his words were met with a pregnant silence. This is more serious than I thought.

Leviathan said, ‘He has no worlds of his own. How does he know how to create a valid prophecy? He shouldn’t be able to.’

“I know. Which is why I believe someone has helped and tutored him.”

‘We don’t just declare our will and force it to be so through a prophecy. And we definitely don’t teach those who haven’t proven themselves worthy enough to become Creators. What plans could that boy have that are more vital than the natural flow of life?’

“None, I believe. Which is why the energy it released felt so foreboding. Our only saving grace is that gods can only foretell events, not the desired outcomes. However, such things have a tendency to fulfill themselves the way we want them to. We shouldn’t take this prophecy any lighter than the rest. If we accept this war as unavoidable, we need to gather our allies and agree on counter-measures against the enemy.”

‘Are you sure it isn’t too late to talk Nexus out of it?’ Leviathan hovered motionless, his huge belly feet above the lake. The energy emanating from him made the surface ripple.

Baku bowed his head. “I have tried. Goodness knows I have tried. He wants what he wants, and that’s that. To risk his own sanity to employ a prophecy is proof enough.”

Din spoke in a voice almost empty of hope. “Do you think this war can be stopped before it starts?”

“That’s what I’m hoping to accomplish,” Baku said.

“How?”

A menacing voice reverberated throughout the realm. “That’s a good question now, isn’t it?”

“Nexus,” Baku breathed between clenched teeth.

The air swirled and billowed high over the lake, then began to take shape. Two great eyes and part of a transparent face appeared. The dark eyes were clearest, and next the vague mouth. The astral projection of Nexus’ face was larger than Baku and Din. “I have plans and you have counter-plans, my dear father. But this time I’ve finally outmaneuvered you. This isn’t a war between gods, by the way. What would be the fun in that?”

‘Why have a war at all?’ Leviathan said, his gargantuan frame dwarfing the face.

“Simple, my ancient dragon. It is a war of prophecy and cannot be undone, unless you care to forfeit here and now. I highly doubt you’d want that, but by all means go right ahead. It would save me a lot of trouble.”

“What do you want from this war?”

Nexus grinned, his ethereal eyes full of malice. “You’ll see. You’ll all see in time, so listen real carefully to what I’m about to say, for I speak with the Voice of Prophecy—which, as you know, makes my prophecy is legal and binding. Here it is in full:

Unconsciously every god has chosen a side.

Now they shall choose one thousand lives.

The worldless watch with the young at their side.

For with them this war does not abide.

Then time will come when all gods are done

building armies in hopes of this battle won.

Then the battlefield shall be revealed

and with a word, life’s fate is sealed;

the war will begin.

Yet, despite two-hundred thousand lives,

the fate of the universe shall reside

only on the shoulders of two warriors unrealized.

Hope is never lost, keep up the fight.

And prophet: beware the sword of light.

“And here’s a twist—it wouldn’t be as interesting if there weren’t. If any god’s army on either side gets wiped out to the last warrior, their worlds will become mine. And if you think you can avoid participating, you are gravely mistaken. Your worlds by default will become mine the minute I initiate the war, so don’t take too long to build your forces.

Nexus’ projection began to fade. “The warriors will be assembled on my chosen battlefield after I eliminate two particular mortals first, one I know, and one I do not yet know.” The realm echoed with hollow laughter as he disappeared.

“Uh oh,” Baku said, unable to move.

“Uh oh, what?” Din asked.

Baku looked up and saw his fear mirrored in Din’s wide eyes. “He knows.”

Think Smaller–in a Sense…

Book 3 is coming along slowly and surely. It sure is a gripping tale. Chapter 8 is proving to be emotionally challenging to make myself write. I don’t know if it can stay Ya but what do I know? If the “Twilight” saga can have sex whatnot, and the Harry Potter books so much violence, then why not mind and my–I’m going to say “tough” character journeys? I fear alluding to the content if I use a more specific word.

February looks to be an interesting month. My book will finally be relaunched. I’m hopeful, yet my excitement has been waning as of late. However, I’ll certainly rally once the final cover art is revealed and release date announced. Right now it’s just a limbo with no control.

I’m trying to unlearn being a control freak of sorts. Still, there are some things I think I’ll keep, and take the good with the bad because they are far too advantageous and deeply intertwined with my ambitions. It’s like being stubborn. Sometimes it translates to determination. Other times to obstinance. I can’t be one without the other from time to time. It’s a balance of sorts. Hopefully others can understand this. Bearing all that in mind, I feel like I’m learning to level out the negative. Maybe it’s the thyroid meds, maybe it’s my personal journey to be a better person. Maybe a bit of both.

I am a better person now. Happier, too. I have developed techniques I’m doing my best to solidify into habits as I constantly remind myself that this is a process; not some magic wand waving of insta-fix. I’m trying to think smaller in a sense. I’ll never lose sight of my grand writerly dreams. I mean more narrowing my sight to take things day to day, instead of suffocating myself with thoughts of how am I ever going to find a job, move out, become financially sound, get my writing off the ground, etc.? Instead, I humbly go to work every week, keep my bills under control, keep job hunting, keep writing, keep accepting what’s not in my control, and keep maintaining what is, instead of crying over how my life isn’t where I want it to be. This isn’t easy because I want what I want, and I don’t want to feel satisfied until I earn it.

Sadly–or simply quite honestly–this approach won’t bring me happiness. I need to learn to be happy with what I do have.

This thinking still frustrates me, and it annoys when people point out others who have it worse than me. It’s like a pitiful game of seeing who’s suffering the most. I see what I do have and can’t help but admit I’m quite fortunate, so why do I still feel unsatisfied? Yes, this leads to the question of what exactly is good enough if I’m not happy now? How will this thinking not lead to becoming like a corporation fervently pushing for greater and greater profit margins year after year? I will come to know only greed and gluttony, so I must learn to accept what I have as satisfying/good enough.

I’ve thought on this long and hard. There seems to be a grey area smudging out the distinction between healthy goals and an unslakable hunger for more. Maybe this is where the whole slowing down and enjoying life thing comes in. I have myself thoroughly convinced I can’t enjoy life the way I want to until I have a more stable income that grants financial independence. In other words, I have excuses. I can’t deny my strict need for frugality but at the same time there are so many simple things to enjoy that make my excuse irrelevant. So… filing this personal challenge away to be tackled at a later date. Right now, I’m pouring all I’ve got into rewiring my thinking around daily stressors, along with sustaining job hunting efforts.

Okay, I’ve been having exceptionally weird dreams lately. Weird is normal for me. So is vivid, and so is having multiple dreams a night. I go in and out of remembering them well. As of late I get so frustrated because I just want to understand what they mean.

Want something freaky? Hopefully you recall how I blogged about how I dreamed I was chatting with Vin Diesel’s sister, yet didn’t know if she existed. Whelp, last he week posted a picture of him giving his sister a one-armed “big brother hug” at some formal function, and then this week a picture of him, her, and her newborn. Holy f@#$ing s*&$s and giggles! I dreamed up a real person! This is f@#$ing weird! Weird enough to make my hands shake and Twilight Zone music go off in my head when I saw the first picture. I don’t if any of you can possibly understand how weirded-out I feel.

eHarmaNO strikes again! Here are the featured rejects of the week:

-Dotman: Filled in all the blanks with nothing but dots. Sir, I don’t read morse code that looks it was tapped it with your face passed out on the code tapper outer thing–whatever it’s called.

-Smoky: Guy says he never smokes, yet his feature profile picture is one of him with a beer and cigarette in one hand. Good job. I award you even more genius points if that was actually a joint.

Dr. Thoughtless: he’s in school for his Doctorate’s. Apparently it fried his brain. He fills in the first box with “I do not know what to write.” Thank you for your efforts.

Papa Priorities: His answer to “What are the most import traits you’re looking for in a woman?” Looks and money. Thank you for your honesty.

Mr. Kidding: Profile says he has no kids, nor does he want any. Right below it in the “more about me” section says that his daughter is his world. Um… okay.

On top of those are the ones that have cropped their pictures to block out, I’m guessing, their exes. Really, sirs? Really? Oh, and anyone holding beer in the feature photo gets booted to the reject pile, too. It’s a turnoff of a first impression.

Okay, to end a positive note, I’d like to share this lovely piece of Michael Jackson music that’s a an excellent parallel to my life at the moment:

My New Mantra Feels the Pressure

Okay, this past week I felt myself trying to slip back into my old ways of negative thinking and driving in mindless circles of hopelessness. These moments were recognized, acknowledged, and stopped in its tracks. These moments are expected. I’m just disconcerted I had so many inside a week. Yes, I’m acknowledging right now that I’m letting all that disappoint me but that’s okay. There are so many parts of my brain that need rewiring. Being this hard on myself is one of them.

The thing is I can only work on so many things at a time. I’ve adjusted my attitude about my writing, my bill-paying job, the job hunting process, myself, my life, my accomplishments, and I’m sure a few other things I haven’t consciously noticed I’ve changed for the better. Now I have to incorporate a calmer reaction to hearing nothing from all those jobs I’ve applied to. I just keep reminding myself that their responses are out of my control, I’m doing everything I can do, and that’s all I can do. Keep job hunting. Sure, I want to whine and pout, saying, “I don’t wanna” and moan and gripe about how stupid this whole job hunting business is, but that impulsive want to complain and feel like a miserable reject won’t make me happier, much less present myself as a person desirous to hire. So, the latest thing on the forefront of what needs rewiring (I just had two but the first thing I was going to type down just mysteriously flew out of my brain. Oh well, haha): learning to let go of what I can’t control.

That reminds me of what’s called the Serenity Prayer:

God grant me the serenity

To accept the things I cannot change;

Courage to change the things I can;

And wisdom to know the difference.

I don’t hate the Bible. It’s bursting with nuggets of wisdom. It’s the preachers/pastors who corrupt it. I don’t hate them; I pity them and hope they’ll open their minds one day. But anyway, I don’t want to get into religion today. Enjoy this nugget of wisdom. May it help you sort out your life, let go of what’s dragging you down, and make room for where your attention needs to be.

And as I’ve been writing this blog post, I just remembered something that helped bring me back to center: “this too shall pass.” My mood was low, frustrated, anxious when I sat down–more like slipped out of bed and into my computer chair–to start this post. I was having a case of oh, no, I’m unhappy! I can’t write a good entry while unhappy! No one will want to read it! So I took a break after the nugget of wisdom bit  and took a shower, and that’s when I realized that my bad mood will pass. Good moods come and go, and so do bad ones. Funny thing is, as soon as I acknowledged this, I felt better and relaxed. I mean immediately. The immediacy surprised me. I’m thankful for this small yet significant victory.

So, on to a bit of comedy that is my life.

I have renamed eHarmony to eHarmaNO. I don’t think comedy writers could’ve come up with a more disastrously comical first impression of this dating site.

I know I mentioned match.com a couple of posts ago. I switched to eHarmaNO within three days. The first site was too cluttered and confusing, and I think it secretly linked my Facebook page to my profile, so I got a text message from some random person at 5:16 in the morning, saying, “Hiya I like your F.B. profile! please add myaahoo so we can chat a bit, its [redacted] .” I have included his exemplary texting skills for your reading pleasure. This “gentleman” never identified himself when I asked profanity-free via text. Pity.

It gets even better with my first impression of eHarmaNO. After all the profile building and initial batch of matches zinged my way, you go through three rounds of back-and-forth Q&A before directly emailing through the site to launch a potential relationship. He gave me a good first impression, so I move the conversation to messaging via Skype. I chatted with him for about an hour, but fifteen minutes into the conversation he unloads all his anxieties about sex and his inability to maintain arousal, and how he’d like me to have a “sugar daddy” while dating him to fulfill all my sensual needs.

I was floored by this forthrightness. At the same time I felt bad. This guy needs help. I tried suggesting he go see a counselor but he had already settled in seeing that this was how his life was. I didn’t want to be mean and throw him in the reject pile so fast, but I felt like I’d be constantly living around his neediness if I stuck around. I gently told him to not unload the aforementioned anxieties on the next girl so fast. He insisted he was just trying to be honest. I informed him that it was a bit much up front. And when he asked about the “next girl” part, I told him that I didn’t think I was the girl he’s looking for. He disagreed with a smile emoticon. Oh, dear god, help me please! After asking two friends and my mom what to do (I didn’t want to crush his heart), I winced as I blocked his Skype ID and his eHarmaNO profile. Bittersweet relief. Good bye, Mr. Kinky.

eHarmaNO has been pretty quiet since then. The biggest problem is that the site keeps trying pair me with short men. My challenge is that I’m 5’10″ but I’ll still take someone who’s at least close to eye-to-eye with me. The record shortest man they zinged me is 5’4″. *sigh* I tried overlooking the whole height difference in the last relationship, where I was five inches taller than him. I had that down pat literally, but not figuratively. I just want to feel safe in a nice pair of arms, not feel like a great dane trying to sit on a five-year-old’s lap. I emailed the site staff asking for a heigh requirement option. This is the response I got:

“I can certainly understand your concern regarding the height of your matches and I would like to provide you with some clarification. While we understand that height is an important thing for a lot of people when considering a partner, it is not something that has been found to play a significant part in compatibility over the long term. Height is a physical attribute that falls under chemistry which is something that cannot be pre-determined for you. Therefore, it’s not a factor used in our matching process. Our mission is to find individuals who are compatible with you on deeper dimensions. We encourage you to keep an open mind about your matches and take some time to communicate with them. You never know who might be the one.”

I hear you eHarmaNO. You make valid points. But at the same time you didn’t listen to me. This is one of those times I just have to say “oh, well” and continue doing the work myself.

The last thing I’m struggling with in this whole dating gig is the intelligence of those presented to me. Mr. All-caps got the boot before I read a single word on his profile. The people who don’t proofread their information and lack basic grammar skills don’t make the cut. One thing I do know is that I need someone who matches me intellectually, or else he will bore me in a hurry. I’m not some genius with MENSA knocking on my door, but I’m more articulate and learned, and I sorely need someone who can match my intensity.

On a more writerly note, I’ve compiled a full chapter list of book three, so now I have a full story arc I can look at. The chapter count is sitting at 29 at the moment, but I’m pretty sure it’ll finalize around 25 by the time I’m done. It’s a thrilling feeling to draw closer and closer to completing this trilogy that’s been growing and evolving in my head for a decade now.

And February 1st still looks good for the relaunch of book one, titled Shield of the Gods by yours truly, S.M. Welles, a.k.a. Ang, Angie, or Angela. Exciting stuff!