Angela B. Macala-Guajardo's Blog, page 7

Riddick Fanfic Up for Free on Smashwords

Riddick Fanfic Up for Free on Smashwords.

Riddick Fanfic Up for Free on Smashwords

With the release of another Riddick film in less than a month, I’m expanding the availability of my fanfic works beyond fanfiction.net. The trio of short stories flow like a trilogy, so please read them in order!

Here is the link to the first one:

The Chronicles of Riddick: Ghosts of Furya

First Sergeant Jade Waters and her squad have been deployed to investigate rumors surrounding Necromogers and what took place when they invaded Furya years ago. Many rumors exist but whatever the truth is, they need answers so they can better protect themselves in the inevitability that the Necromongers will discover Earth one day.

Learning Who You Are

*Image from http://www.ilmfruits.com *

Right before I left for Arizona, I received a few cards with notes inside. One family member wrote:

“… None of us get to start life over, but we do get to write new chapters in the Book of Life. So I wish you much health and happiness as you put pen to paper (or keyboarding) with the creation of your novels, and the continuation and growth of the Book of Angela.”

I still tell people I’ve come to Arizona to start life over, but I have to admit it feels like a new chapter. Maybe not quite a new chapter; more like new scenery and company, but still the same goal. I think it’d feel like an official new chapter if I’d actually start getting somewhere in life. I feel so ashamed of my lack of having anything to show for my efforts that I apologized to my maternal grandfather for it. He gave me some money each of my first four years of college. I in turn worked hard on making the Dean’s list and such, and after seven years of college and two years since, I still have no job to show for it. I wanted him to be proud of me and be glad he helped, but there I’ve been, stuck living with my mother, like 70% of all college grads, and this mountain of college loan debt just accruing ungodly amounts of interest while in forbearance.

When I said my apologies and such, he dismissed them. He’s proud of what I’ve done and knows I’ll continue to work hard, knows I’m not some freeloading leech (something along those lines said in his own words; I don’t remember what was said, just how I felt). So yeah, his reaction threw me. I don’t feel as bad but I wish I knew how to feel as proud as myself as my family does. 

Life is about the journey, not the destination. Life is about the journey, not the destination.

Well, this leg of my life’s journey fucking blows.

Anyway, this leads up to another note I received before Arizona:

“I say that I am a weaver and a gardener and an editor and a researcher. Those are things I choose to do, that I enjoy, that help define me. But, at some level, they are just things I do. On another level, I am a wife and a sister and a friend. These are roles I inhabit, some voluntarily, and some as a birthright. Beyond that, maybe deeper than that, is who I choose to be, the impact I choose to have in the world. I have chosen to love and learn, to walk lightly on the earth and to have joy in my presence. These are things i can experience no matter what I am doing, no matter who I am in a relationship with, no matter what is going on around me.

I know, I know, just fascinating. I tell you this because all any of us can know is our own experience; I can’t know what you’re going through. But I hope that, in addition to finding a way to make a living as a writer, you will pay attention to who you are and who you can become–those things that include your writing but are not limited by your writing. [...]“

I’ve been mulling over these words on and off over the past two months. I’m reminded of a class exercise I did for Theatre in undergrad, where we made a circle, then one person stood in the middle and declared an “I am” statement. You could say anything. I said, “I am an observer.” The person in the middle then says “I am” to each person in the circle while the circle finishes the statement. It was a surreal experience. By the end of it, everyone remarked on how dark my eyes are. I struggle with holding eye contact, so that exercise was very challenging for me.

I am… well obviously I’m a writer and author–a no-name author, but I’m working on getting four books out, then probably pausing to promote them. I don’t know how describe how painful it is to watch something you’ve put your heart and soul into just get ignored by the rest of the world. It’s going to be a full-time job marketing those damn things. It has to get done.

I am a sister, a daughter, a cousin, a niece, a granddaughter, a friend. Gamer, nerd, thinker, learner, problem solver and motivator (more for others than for myself), and beyond that not much else. It feels like there’s a huge piece missing. Sure, you could add “wife” to that list but good luck with that. I lack the motivation to get my jobless ass into dating, just to look like a gold-digger. Just no.

I guess I’ve been snagged on this letter because I don’t feel like I know who I am. I’m almost 30 and I feel like a ghost. I have so many hopes and dreams but I feel so disconnected from the rest of society. Everyone else follows this pattern, but here I am, this broken piece getting lost in the murky unknown. I don’t care to be one of the flock, but I still yearn for my niche, to have a meaningful life. Just gonna keep at it with my writing and hope something pans out.

Does anyone else know this lost, disjointed feeling?

 

 

The New York Times Best-Sellers List is a… Prediction?!

The New York Times Best-Sellers List is a… Prediction?!.

World Building: An Insight from Both Sides

So I finally got that feedback I was hoping for and I wasn’t disappointed. In fact I was floored by how much I got, all of it useful. I shared it with my ePublisher and I think he had an epiphany. But lemme back up one quick sec.

I’m about to expose my weaknesses as a writer and storyteller but I want this to a statement that I’m open to feedback and direction, that I’m eager to learn, not just be told I’m fantastic over and over. While compliments are great (and appreciated), they more motivate me to keep working hard and let me know I’m doing something right, instead of groping in the dark.

“For being a 18 year old production it’s quite good. Now, I can’t really write you row by row or page by page what I didn’t like. 1st I don’t have time, 2nd I really don’t have time. So let me point out major points.

***WORLDS BUILDING ***

Considering that in your book each world has been created by a different god, I’d expect that when you go to different worlds life would not resemble much that on Earth. Why is the sky of the same color (is the atmosphere the same composition of azote and oxygen)? Why is there the same gravity, green trees or grass? Why do people need to drink water as well and as much as here? How many moons are there? How does that influence the world (tides, hair-growth, mating habits)?

The culture for example. I suppose you’ve been born and bred in america. There’s not much of a variation in culture when changing world in your book. Ok, some people live in a city surrounded by wall in hot temperature, and in the other world cat-like people live in little “clan-like” villages. You could find this without even leaving USA….

Considering each world creatures, if feels to me like you’ve kept the tipical american guy/girl and just added a tail or a cat-like feature. Do they have the same xy cromosomes? Do they procreate the same as here? Are their internal organ the same as ours? If you consider just earth, there are so many different cultures like, for most of usa monogamy is a must (one man – one woman) where there’s poliandria (one woman more men) like in some areas of Africa and Tibet or poligamia (one man more woman) like in most Muslim areas.

What if they have only females and they get pollinated by breathing? What if they need to have three sexes to have children born? What if they’re like snails that both partners are at the same time male and female? What if it’s a world without any earth (only air) and it’s all flying creatures?

**ROMANCE**

I suppose I don’t have to tell you much about the romance, now that you’ve grown up and you’ve had more emotional experience you might already know what’s wrong with it. I wouldn’t change much the behaviour of the heroine (who better than your 18yo american girl person can describe the 17yo character behaviour?). But why would the 3200 years old man behave like a horny 20 yo guy? Especially considering that she looks like the only woman he’d ever loved? Wouldn’t he hate her in the beginning? Wouldn’t he avoid her for that reason? Wouldn’t he see her like a very very young little girl?

**EVIL GOD**

About the evil characters…. while I don’t expect gods (neither did the greeks btw) to be really mature, I would expect an evil god to be a little more complex than “I want to destroy all your worlds because you didn’t let me have my own…” spoiled-child attitude. And if you want to follow the spoiled child god, how did it happen? Where was his father? And what about his mother? And how the all-knowing good god became father of such a spoiled brat?

What about his minions? All that.

Anyway, I found this list a while ago and it made me quite smile and also think at how difficult it is nowadays to build a good evil lord, people are quite jaded, and the usual mistakes of a overlord must be well explained. (The Top 100 Things I’d Do If I Ever Became An Evil Overlord)

**TEMPO (rythm, breath, call it what you like) **

This is quite personal. That means that everyone has a different tempo they like or not. The tempo of your story, for me is way off.

Take for example about location 3785, it’s the beginning of the race, the two walk to the start line get a hug, discuss something, walk some more, see loads of people and flags, find support character and sons, stretch, discuss politics of race organizing, meet god… It takes like 30 pages, most of it is useless to the storyline, but at the same time it’s useless to describe the world. What’s written on the flags? why would you spend an entire paragraph describing a hug?

*** Shortening up everything ***

Most of your writing style is based on the concept “two short phrases is better as than a long one”. While that is a valid general rule (especially for italian writers *sigh*), as a result your book is almost twice as long than it could be, and most of your phrases have the complexity of a 6yo what-did-I-do-last-weekend composition.

Example, you write, “They caught up with Yayu nead the starting line, which lay between the village and the Oromo River. The starting area was packed tighter than a pickle jar.” You could have written. “The starting area, which lay between the village and the Oromo River, was packed tighter than a pickle jar.” Or instead of repeating twice pennants here: “What Roxie could see of the dirt race route was lined with colorful pennants atop tall poles. The pennants waved about in the breeze.” Instead: ”What Roxie could see of the dirt race route was delimited with colorful pennants that waved in the breeze atop tall poles.”

The continuos repetition is redundant and really tiring after a while.

***DIALOGUE***

All character talk the same. Everyone talk slang American, but there’s no different accent, different inflection. All dialogues are flat and quite “obvious”. Shouldn’t old people talk differently than young people? Shouldn’t people with a lot of culture express themselves with more difficult words and kids with easier words? I understand that aigis have some kind of power that translate automatically from one language to their birth one, but shouldn’t they at least feel some inflection? If the mouth of a cat is made differently, I would expect cat-people to have problems pronouncing certain letters, like “r” or “g”… Chinese people cannot pronounce the R, even after years of studying occidental languages… And do try to get a Brazilian to feel the difference between b and v…

***LANGUAGES ***

Again I understand this magic of universal translation, but…

Take earth for example. When you translate from Italian to English, which are both languages that evolved mostly from Latin, there are many words that are the same or similar, but there are words that are untranslatable from one language to the other (like “it”). Some concept cannot be translated from one language to the other. If we go from English to I don’t know, any non-Latin language, like Inuit language for example, the cold and continuous winter are influencing the language. Like the classic example, they have 20 different terms to say snow. Some african desert languages don’t even have the term do define it, they have to borrow from other languages. This words, even in english are not usually translated (think pasta or pizza or sushi… there’s no english term for those).

I repeat, I read only up to 62% of your book. And I’m no writer, just a very avid reader, so don’t take whatever I wrote above as the final judgement. It’s just my opinion based on my experience reading. Some of the things I wrote can be wrong, so take whatever I wrote with a pinch of wisdom ^^. Also, as you might have noticed, I’m not mother language English so please be kind with my grammar mistakes, and if a phrase makes no sense to you, ask me, probably it got lost in the translation

The idea behind the book is good, and some of your characters are cute and lovely, they feel alive, real people (like the owner of the boat, the aunt, and the first hunter). Let me know what you think.”

My ePublisher’s epiphany:

“I read through what he/she said and it is very interesting. I’m definitely noticing a trend here. World-building issues and less being better than more. This is interesting to me, particularly the world building complaints because I know that my world building isn’t even close to yours, but after some thought, here’s what I think happens with your readers.

Because your books are so lengthy, and because they are written in a more literary style, I believe that your readers expect more out of you and want you to address all of their world building questions down to the smallest detail such as air, culture, language, how society changed a character’s outlook on things, etc. Though I know I need to world build more, and better…I’ve never received a complaint (that I know of) about world building because I think they just don’t expect it from me. I’m like the summer blockbuster movie guy. They expect a good time, some fun, a fast paced story and so on, and therefore, they forgive some inconsistencies in the end. You, however, are the movie going for the Oscar nomination. The result being that your story might be better received by critics, more solid cohesively and better made, but you’re also up for more scrutiny on a technical level. I’m not saying to change up your style, or write shorter books, but this is definitely something to keep in mind when writing your next book. Cut out what’s not necessary and expand on what your readers want.”

Meesah gots lots of interesting work to do I’m also going to attempt to approach an author I like that uses the world-building style I need to emulate. Hopefully this will go well. Haven’t had much luck with the pros up to this point, but I have to keep trying.

Teach Me, Please

Struggling with the whole “not good enough” mental demons as of late. Sometimes I feel like I’ve made leaps and bounds as a writer. Other times I feel like I’m just not getting it and skirting around drafting a story correctly, like I’m creating an outline of the right approach while hopeless stuck in the muck of bad writing. Like, I see the right way to write a story, but every attempt just doesn’t quite peg where the story truly lies. I’ve doodled a visual that hopefully helps you understand how I feel, how frustratingly close I seem to be but can’t get it right.

Boo hoo, poor me aside, I know I’m getting better. I’m learning to write character-driven stories, instead of ones where the characters get jerked around by the plot. I know I’m good at character creation. Sometimes I create too many and have to nix a few before the final draft, but I think that goes for any fiction writer. I know I’ve gotten better at letting characters decide what they want to do, instead of doing what I need them to do for the sake of plot. One of the most magical parts of writing is letting your characters take control of the plot. You just never know where they’ll take your story. They often come up with better ideas than you, even though these people exist only in your head. Yep, another “chicken or egg” scenario.

I know I’m good at world-building. Sure, I bounce between giving too much or too little, the good ole info dumps or readers going “huh?”, but as I keep writing/practicing, I get better at it. I draft to get all the ideas down on paper, knowing some parts need hefty work, but I leave those areas to test readers before I start revising. I just need to get the entire gosh darn story on paper before I worry about flawless grammar and such (pfft, my grammar goes in and out from time to time). In the end, I believe I create worlds readers will enjoy escaping to, no matter how scarred and imperfect they are. There’s a beauty to these blemishes.

I also know I’m good at description and writing action scenes. Yes, I get wordy. Yes, I tell instead of show. But this is all practice, practice, practice. You can always see the action, see the scene. I just need to tighten the writing and learn to always show and never tell. That right there is probably the hardest thing to do.

So, with all that said, what do I need to work on? Oh, all the aforementioned and more. I’m 28. I’ve been reading since I was 16 and writing since age 18, and even then I went years without doing much writing. I self-defeat easily. But at the same time I feel this dire need, this desperation, this hunger to get better at writing. I feel so far behind anyone my age who’s been reading and writing all their lives. I’ve worked so hard to try and catch up. So hard. Yet I feel left in the dust, gasping for breath with an arm stretched towards the obscure figures in the dust cloud. I don’t know how to stop running, the words “wait for me!” lodged in my throat. All I need is one person to turn around and see my sorry ass. Just one that possesses enough compassion to see the potential I see in myself, take my hand, and give me a chance.

I’ve reached out to so many people for help, advice, guidance, and constructive critique, gotten an array of feedback, and then said people go in and out my life like seasons. Right now I have two very helpful people that I’d have lost my sanity right now if they weren’t there. Seriously, I’d be locked up in a room with padded walls. I’m so passionate about my writing that it can’t be adequately expressed in words; only action. I’m sure that sounds cheesy, but it drives the point home, I think.

I honest to goodness wish I could do my MFA over. I feel like if I repeated those two years several times, I’d make amazing progress as a writer. I learned so much during that time that I realized just how much I have to learn. I don’t feel like my skills are respectably good, compared to other dedicated writers. Yes, I’m a much better writer than the average person since I put forth the effort to set myself above average, like a professional athlete, but the real competition trounces me. I just want to be good enough. I just want a chance.

In the name of this passion, I recently approached two people for feedback on my writing. The first one was from some stranger on goodreads.com who stumbled upon Shield of the Gods. I’ve gotten nothing but 4 and 5-star reviews on amazon.com, but I’ve gotten ratings from 1-5 on goodreads.com. Said stranger gave me a 1-star and said the following:

“It was interesting in the beginning but got extremely boring really really fast. I dropped reading around 60% after discovering myself skipping more lines than what i was reading.”

Well that’s quite the sucker punch, especially when I have contrasting reviews like this one:

“I started this book around 9:30 last night and finished it at 3:30 am. I simply could NOT put it down. S.M. Welles really knows how to draw in a reader and keep him/her hanging on for the ride!”

So the other day I sent this message to the unsatisfied reader: “I was wondering if you would have a minute or two to help me become a better writer. My book definitely tanked in your eyes. I know I have to work on wordiness and over-description. I was wondering what else you’d like to see in a revision that would make Shield of the Gods a book that stays as good as it started. Hope you don’t mind me approaching you.”

To which I received: “I’m really surprised and pleased by your contact, I love people that try to improve themselves. At the moment I’m at work, but I’ll go back tonight or tomorrow and try to explain to you what got me lost and blocked me from getting “into” the book…”

So yay. I believe either one of two things will happen: 1) I’ll rapidly discover that this person isn’t my audience, or 2) There’s truth in this person’s complaints and I’ll be submitting a revision to my ePublisher and get the book updated. Shield of the Gods has been updated twice for typos and grammatical errors. I have no problem editing for content, so long as what this person feels needs to be fixed meshes with the story I’m trying to write. It’s so easy for me to take every bit of feedback as gospel, but I’m learning to keep all of it in perspective and analyze who’s saying what, and possibly why. Sometimes I get useless feedback. All us writers do.

So person number two I reached out to this week: an accomplished writer in paranormal romance. While I got useful feedback, I didn’t quite get the feedback I was looking for. To Ocean’s End contains a bit of romance content in it. I never intended to write that but two of my characters insisted on it. I’ve read three paranormal romance books–well technically one since I skimmed through the other two after reaching a breaking point in bad writing–and I didn’t find them overly useful. Two characters randomly fall in love or are even forced to by the author for the stupidest of reasons, and my brain just starts hurting. So yes, I developed a headache or two while trying to research how to write romance. I did learn a couple useful things but overall, I still needed more guidance, so I reached out to someone from my MFA who writes romance and she forwarded me to someone who writes paranormal romance. I have mixed feelings about the feedback I got (on her reading just the first few chapters):

1)  Either remove the 1st person and make it 3rd person or make the hero female. No one writes romance from the hero’s POV in 1st person.

2)  BUILD YOUR WORLD! You’ve got an interesting concept. Expand it. Use it. There’s an enormous amount of imagination that’s not reaching the page.

3)  SHOW DON’T TELL! Too much narrative, too much introspection. Find a balance.

4) Secondary characters- right now they’re name’s on the page. they’re all cardboard. And you’re introducing too many of them all at once so its confusing. Introduce them slowly and WITH A PURPOSE.

5) Your opening scene has to be IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ACTION. A suggestion would be to start as your hero hears the sound of the grappling hooks hit the gunwale of the ship.

6) Don’t TELL me how the quasi’s came about. SHOW me. Have them become part of the opening scene with the gun. Let them speak (either verbally or telepathically).

7) Your language fluctuates from ‘pirate’ to ‘you’. Watch your dialogue.


NOW TO THE GOOD STUFF!

The fight scenes are really good.
The concept is good. I’m hoping there’s more to these quasi’s than we see in the beginning.
Your world can be phenomenal with some planning and some rewriting. Get what’s in your head down on the page!


LAST BUT NOT LEAST….

BRAVO! You’ve written a 456 page book. Do you realize that only 8% of all writers who start a book finish them?
Throw your arm over your shoulder and pat yourself on the back.

Most of all, Good Luck with this and keep writing!!


Um… well I feel like some child that just got handed a cookie and told to go play, even though I wasn’t asking for a cookie. It was probably wrong of me to assume I’d be handled like a student, instead of businesslike.


Now, this author’s feedback is good in a very general sense. Numbers 1 and 4 (and sort of 7) were the most useful, numbers 2 and 5 left me scratching my head,  number 3 is a stock thing to say, and 6 I threw away. I had to go back and ask for some specifics, which I got an attached documents with comments throughout the first two chapters and the first paragraph of chapter 3 which were immensely helpful, minus her somehow missing the clarification that Dyne is a male character in the very first page, which she got hung up on for quite a bit.


This author did some work for me, and for that I’m thankful, yet still no closer to resolving my concerns I wanted help with: writing romance. I don’t read romance, fiction or paranormal. I’m just not into it. I’m reading one more romance novel that’s pure fiction, no fantastical components present *sniff*, and now I’m finally seeing what I need to emulate. Will I keep reading romance after this book? No. I like my dragons. And no, don’t give me a romance novel with dragons in it =.=


So, in conclusion for this particular post, I think I’m going to pull a George R. R. Martin and categorize the book under speculative fiction/post-apocalypse fantasy, and if the readers don’t want hot and heavy, then can just skim those parts. In the meantime I will research and practice the use of romantic language so an avid romance reader won’t get mad at me. And I will keep reaching out for people willing to mentor me.

Jesse Villareal: A Tribute

This past weekend I attended a funeral with my roommate and his family, one of the toughest things I’ve ever done, but I’m glad I went. So was he and so was his family.

I’ve attended only one memorial service so far in life, for my great grandmother on my mother’s side, and that wasn’t until after the initial sting of her passing subsided. On top of that, she’d died of old age. Jesse Villareal died at 51.

When Simon, my roommate and one of Jesse’s nephews, came home before half the workday was up, I was terribly confused. When I noticed his emotionally upset state, I was thrown into the realm of the unknown. Simon is such a positive, happy-go-lucky, go with the flow kind of guy. I’m the high-strung stressaholic. When he’s stressing out, my rock of stability gets shoved out from under my feet. So yeah, I paced around the house and asked him what I could do to help him–leave him alone or give him a hug? Talk to him or be quiet? Go on as normal or match his subdued energy? Ultimately, I told him about my lack of knowing what to do and he set the pace for how he wanted/needed in order to absorb the loss. We got out of the house for a bit that day and he made an effort to go on as normal. It was a major relief to see him smile again and laugh at my corny jokes and deadpan humor. Me talking about my Superman-like reflexes, then dropping an egg on the floor with inadvertently flawless comedic timing helped.

After one flat tire to Simon’s truck, along with another part needing replacing, we drove a rental car eight hours to Hemet, California, passing through a depressing-looking Indian reservation (I argued that they’re called Native Americans, only to be reminded that they’ve been called Indians for 500 years; whatever), beautiful stretches of desert and mountains, over the Colorado river, a “real river, like the ones [I'm] used to,” as Simon put it, and finally down and around some more hills to a beautiful American town that hasn’t forgotten it’s near the Mexico border. We stopped at Simon’s cousin’s grandmother’s house in Phoenix, originally to leave his truck behind there, but Simon’s dad ended up driving it to Tonopah for minor repairs to the 22-year-old thing. We also stopped someplace west of Phoenix to say hi to some of Simon’s nieces and nephews, one niece who’s in the process of reading Aigis 1 and thinks I’m a celebrity. I kinda froze up at the thought of someone having such high views of me. Hopefully I didn’t disappoint.

The tired arrival was bittersweet. I was finally meeting the mom’s side of Simon’s family, but not under the most cheerful of circumstances. Still, they were full of smiles, Spanglish, good jokes, and humor, including a “boy, you’re tall” comment aimed at me. Yeah, Mexicans hover around five feet tall, while I tower at the above average 5’10″, so the first family member I met that stood at over six feet got an “oh my god, someone taller than me!” comment.

It was easy to forget we were all about to attend a memorial service first thing in the morning. I met Little Martin, his wife Hama, and their son, Vinnie, who accommodated us with a place to sleep and such. They were welcoming and genial, and explained how their swamp cooler works (had never seen one before that day), then saw us off as we headed to Simon’s grandmother’s house for several minutes, and then one final stop at Uncle Martin’s to see the bulk of the rest of the family, who all assumed Simon and I are boyfriend-girlfriend, and wouldn’t believe us when we both insisted we aren’t. We don’t kiss and hug and such, and we don’t go on dates. We just live together. I take care of  him, the house, and his dog. In turn, I get a roof over my head and his calm, positive energy, and lots of thanks for all the cooking and cleaning I do. He would quite honestly be better off living out of a hotel if I wasn’t here.

Anyway, the family welcomed and treated me like I’d always been a part of the family, and they acted like they weren’t about to formally bid farewell to one of their family first thing in the morning. I did my best to keep up with their wit and humor. We visited for less than an hour since it was closing in on either eight or nine, and we’d left our house at 6AM just to make the trip to California. On top of all the driving and visiting family, we’d also burnt four hours in Phoenix because genius me didn’t grab my credit card for the car rental we’d scheduled. Simon doesn’t own any credit cards since he knows he can be an impulse spender. Thankfully, his dad was able to come to our rescue and get us back on the road with a rental vehicle that would fit the two family members we were planning on giving a lift home on Sunday.

Friday, the morning of the memorial service, the mood shifted. Simon and his family made idle chat while he and I prepared stuffed jalapeños and everyone ate breakfast burritos (a first for me but they tasted very good). The family was and wasn’t going through the motions of a normal day, the normalcy dampened by the emotional pain and tears waiting below the surface, waiting for their cue to burst forth. I let them know I wasn’t sure what to do, but that I was there for all of them in any way I could. I wanted to escape back to their happy, carefree energy, and possibly even avoid going to the memorial altogether, but I quietly accompanied Simon in our rental once Little Martin announced it was time to go. I listened to Simon swallow down tear after tear all the way to the mortuary.

I didn’t start tearing up until after we walked around to the front of the building and took in the double doors with colored glass. As soon as I stepped onto the final stretch of sidewalk leading up to the entrance, it was like every last drop of emotion from all the tears shed in that place hit me like a wall. I unexpectedly choked up–I didn’t think I’d cry at all, since I never met Jesse–but I started crying and sniffing right alongside everyone else. Every few minutes I’d get my tears under control, but every time more people filed in and added to the crying, I shed a fresh wave of tears. It hurt so much to watch such a welcoming, genial family endure their loss, and what got me the most was watching Jesse’s mother, Manuela, whom I twice watched approach the casket I dared not get anywhere near, along with another family member who took one look and lost it. I don’t want to imagine what it must feel like for a parent to outlive their own child.

After over an hour of all that, Simon drove us to Uncle Martin’s house, where we recuperated from the emotional drain and encouraged other family members to go. Many weren’t sure they wanted to go through what we just did, but Simon and I both insisted it was the right thing to do. The hesitant ones mustered some courage and headed out, and once it was close enough to one o’clock, Simon and I headed to what used to be Jesse’s house, where everyone was to gather to eat and drink, and celebrate Jesse’s life. I don’t know how they all wanted to step foot in that house, but no one hesitated showing up for a mix of American, Mexican, and local Chinese food.

I discovered I like carne asada but can’t handle the spiciness of stuffed jalapeños, and that no one in the family does much baking. Everyone gradually recuperated from the memorial and began laughing and smiling again, and that night I treated everyone to my signature chocolate chip cookies from scratch, the ones my grandmother taught me how to make.

Saturday, Simon and I hit Oceanside, just north of San Diego. Now I can officially say I’ve been to America, coast to coast. We ate lunch at Andy’s, a restaurant at the end of a pier, while watching people catch mackerel and two other types of fish we both considered just more bait, but were considered food to those fishing ‘em up. After lunch, I boogie boarded for about two and a half hours in 67-degree water, a temperature New Englander me rarely gets to enjoy, while Simon got joy of watching me catch wave after wave with a perpetual smile on my face. Didn’t even notice I was smiling through it all.

Saturday night was one final party held in Jesse’s honor. Hamburgers, hot dogs, BBQ chicken, and some more carne asada, along with lots of social drinking. I had one strawberry margarita, and then goaded into having a shot of something called a fireball. They poked fun at me while I downed it in 5-6 sips, then chased it with some more of my margarita. They tried to goad me into another but I’m not one to cave under peer pressure, nor am I much of a drinker. The family didn’t try to pressure me any further, and even admitted that getting me drunk for the first time in my life on shots wouldn’t be the wisest thing.

Now, I was fairly warned that everyone has at least one nickname, in addition to their given name. Some have a few nicknames, creating enough confusion to not know who’s who when using real names on Facebook, resulting in even more confusion when family doesn’t accept friend requests. Here are their names and nicknames:

Nini (Natisha), Nani (Jody), Nina (Minerva), Nunu (Uncle Junior), Nana (Adriana), and Nana (naw-naw; Grandma). Booboo (Sal), Goodies (Gloria), Crazy Mary (Mary), Lelee (Adela), Kongi (Jessica), Chachi (Luis), Pucky (Martin), Tubba (Vinnie), Yaya (Rose), Pali (Uncle Jesse), Tonos (sp?; Little Rudy), Rudy (Raul), Tina (Christina), Rolo (Rolando), Andy Man (Andy), Hama (Josie), Bash (Sebastian), and Beto (Stella).

That night, once people started feeling partied out, so many people thanked me for being there with the family, and especially for being there for Simon and helping take care of him day to day. They are all very welcome. And no, we’re still not boyfriend-girlfriend.

Time for New Sneakers

Usually when I’m talking about my sneakers, it’s because I’m throwing them at teenagers–ones I know. I used to be a Track & Field coach for a local high school and, since I didn’t want to be just another adult that goes “blah blah blah, listen to me, blah blah blah”, this somehow translated to throwing my sneakers around when I needed to snap kids out of stupid (100% satisfactory effectiveness rate). Long story short: throwing my footwear got teenagers to ask questions, which is one of the most beautiful things you can hear. Questions beget learning. Learning begets smarter individuals. Smarter individuals begets a richer, happier society, and so on. The other part of this is that teenagers recognized that I wanted to stand out from the other adults, that I wanted to understand and listen to them, yet have them listen to and understand me. My approach worked. Never even lost a shoe.

Anyway, I have commenced morning walks since I’m not cleaning 6-10 hours a day anymore. My waistline needs work, and I think my teenage metabolism bid me adieu a few years ago. Either that or I finally lost all my muscle mass from fourteen years of soccer and such. One of the perks of leaving the student life for the work force. Oh well. I also started the walks just to explore my neighborhood. I’ve discovered I live within half a mile of at least six churches, four schools, a library, and one delightful bakery that I will probably become a weekly patron of. It’s this tiny place that makes everything right inside, so yeah, if you want to spontaneously develop an appetite that causes you to buy one item per shelf, go there. All of it tastes as good as it smells. The place is called Cottage Bakery, and it’s only one street and a few blocks down. *rubs hands together*

I haven’t taken any pictures of the neighborhood since I’d feel silly for photographing random strangers’ houses, then posting them onto my blog but, just to let you know, this neighborhood’s aesthetic ranges from stunning to fugly. Yes, fugly. Said latter ones look like dumping grounds for skeletal cars, parts, furniture, plywood, and broken kid toys. It’s rather common for people to have couches and lay-z-boys in front of their houses, along with three dogs per yard, horses, chickens, the occasional cat, and colorful gardens. Some homes look like the tenants went a little overboard at Home Depot and came home with way too many lawn ornaments. Others are tastefully spectacular, yet complete with a dry water fountain.

The houses themselves are made out of stone, brick, clay (I think), and cinderblocks. It all looks like a blend of Arizona, Mexico, and Florida. Two-story homes are rare as rain. There are ant highways all over the sidewalks, roadrunners, falcons, turkey vultures, pigeons, mourning (morning?) doves, gophers, ravens, humming birds, and many others I have yet to identify. Green lawns are more common than anticipated; however, yellow lawns are common, as well as gravel or stone. Our front yard is half green, half dust. We’ll be able to throw some grass seed down in the fall, I think, when the sun won’t bake the seeds into a ballpark snack fit for birds.

Landscape aside, I’m finally reunited with both my cats. One of my cousins kindly flew down with Sweetpea last Saturday, and after about 24 hours, Sweetpea settled right in. At first I was worried because she was hissing at Tilly, whom she’s known and cuddled and groomed and wrestled with for three years. Poor Tilly wanted to jump right back to being friends but received hisses and a few swats in response. I used treats, catnip, toys, and soothing tones of my voice to coax them into getting along again. And now all is well. On top of that, I’m not the only one getting groomed regularly by a certain white fluff ball.

The only thing left to complete my material life is to go back for my car and maybe 20 boxes of my belongings (mostly books and clothes), and make the 38-hour trek back to Arizona. Looks like the opportune time will be at the end of August, since we’ll finally be going to Kansas at the beginning of that month.

In the meantime, I’m attempting to get into shape again not only for my health, but also so I can hike Mt. Graham regularly. There’s a manmade lake near the top that’s stocked with fish, along with an observatory. I can take a car up the 36-mile road, but that takes so much fun out of it. But still… that’s 36 stinkin’ miles one way. My goal is to restore the girlish figure I didn’t even know I had back in high school. I was too busy hiding it under hoodies, sports bras, and baggy t-shirts. Right I look like someone who eats well yet doesn’t exercise.

And right before I finished writing this blog, Simon mysteriously returned home from work wicked early. He just found out that an uncle from California died last night. To be continued…

Doing the Tourist Thing in Tombstone, Arizona

Overall it was a wonderful trip. We have to go back to see a few other things we missed, along with some more money to do more shopping. I saw so many great gift ideas that weren’t your standard t-shirt. My only mixed reviews revolve around guns themselves, since I still feel like I’m sitting in the wake of the Newtown shooting, which I used to live an hour away from. Now, in Tombstone’s defense, they didn’t glorify guns. And when we watched the reenactment of the infamous O.K. Corral shootout, one of the characters doubled as a narrator, pointing out how the shootout didn’t resolve or change a single thing that day. That reminder resonated with me.

Gosh flippin’ darn it! I left the USB cord to my cam corder back in Connecticut. I had many more photos and some video to share. At least I was able to procure a few extra shots from my cousin.

Anyway, Tombstone had a lot more to offer than anticipated. There are reenactments all over destination, which consists of several blocks of original and renovated structures, many places to eat and drink, horse-drawn carriages, a couple of theatrical performances, a reptile exhibit (which had tarantulas, too), a kid-friendly shooting gallery, historically informative tours, ghost hunting, and lots of little stores to shop in. And I mean lots. For the full scope click here. It’s free to park and walk around, but costs a few bucks here and a few bucks there for certain shows and tours.

The reenactment of the O.K. Corral shooting was… okay. The acting needed some work. Overall they were good, but the line delivery was agonizingly slow at times, like they were making sure they were about to say the correct thing. The audience itself was a little unenthusiastic, too, which I’m sure didn’t help. It reminded me of my Theatre days in undergrad where I learned that each audience has its own personality and energy. Some are wicked enthusiastic. Others leave you wondering if they’re alive anymore. Despite that, we followed two of the actors to The Crystal Saloon, where they performed foot-tapping songs while we ate a tasty lunch. Their songs were humorous, energetic, and entertaining.

After lunch we shopped around a bit, watched more reenactments performed on the streets, visited the reptile exhibit, which was full of almost exclusively native Arizona creatures. Simon tried using me as a human shield to protect him from the tarantula cages, while I could only think of the story about my brother where he had a tarantula crawling across his face while he was trying to sleep. The grey one was actually kind of neat but, I think, if it’d moved at all, I probably would’ve screamed like the girl I am.

I did walk into the Birdcage Theatre but I didn’t take the tour, which is one of the things I intend to do when I return. Next time I’ll be prepared for all the tour and attraction fees, which ranged from only 5-10 bucks apiece. And next time I’ll be prepared to give out tips to the actors, along with donations to other causes, including local animal shelters. One of the performers informed us that they’d helped raise money for other causes, like hurricane Katrina, so really, all money spent that day is money well spent.

The last event of the day was Helldorado Town, which was hands-down our favorite. Great show, great laughs, great actors. The one performance I highly recommend to anyone who stops by Tombstone. The cast worked amazingly well with and off each other, and their improv skills were top-notch. My only disappointment was that the show ran just half an hour. I could’ve watched them all day.

After all my hoping and waiting, I saw so many dust devils on the ride home. I also learned that they pop up and dissipate at the drop of a hat. My next goal is to stand in the path of one with a camcorder and get sandblasted. Yeah, I’m weird like that. When we finally get Brewski, (my roomie’s Springer Spaniel), I should be able to do that over in Tonopa. Should be fun.

One of my cousins flew in with my other cat Sweetpea, over the weekend, so I am finally reunited with both cats. Sweetpea is settling in and acting like herself already: cuddly, friendly, just chillaxin’, and trying to groom us all when we try to sleep. She’s hissing at Tilly a bit, though, who’s acting a bit wary of her, yet wants to be friends. She goes near Sweetpea, only to be hissed at now and then, but I’m not afraid of any fights. I’m already able to feed and pet them together. They probably have to get acclimated to each other’s scents and reestablish their territories. Annoying, yes, but this is how cats function. They’ve gotten along before. They’ll get along again.

Coming up, I hope to hike up all 7,000 feet of Mt. Graham, which I’m told houses seven ecosystems. The peak sits around 10,000 feet above sea level and has an observatory the public can pay to stargaze with. I just want to view the world from the peak of the Swift Trail, along work off my birthday cake, ice cream, and leftover frosting. Also coming up will be some fishing time on the Dankworth Pond for bass and such, once Simon gets a stinkin’ day off, which won’t be until July 4th, since the mine now has him in charge of preventing all the workers from getting electrocuted to death.

I have my Arizona license, which doesn’t expire until 2050 and only cost $25 to acquire. If I was still in Connecticut, not only would it have cost me $66, I’d have to renew it again in just six years. Laaaaaaame!

And one last bit of news: I invited the neighbors over for cake and ice cream for my birthday this past Thursday. It was very enjoyable and they even gave me cards and five bucks. I just wanted their company and conversation. I got that and then some. I still can’t get over how nice people are around here, which reminds me: I got into a conversation with one of the employees back in Tombstone and she told me my cousin and I were some of the nicest people she’d met from our region. I still can’t get over how nice people are. Nice feels good, so I happily do my best to be nice back. I have to combat my shyness, though. Inviting the neighbors over got my heart pumping. Striking up conversations with strangers is hard, too. I have to remind myself not to mumble and talk slower. I’m slowly getting better. I’m surrounded by a bunch of lovely people who just want to be happy and enjoy life.

A Lifetime New Englander Moves to Arizona

Been here a few days so far and have had quite the enjoyable culture shock. Still, it didn’t really sink in what I’d done, until I raised a window on my layover plane and saw endless Arizona terrain splayed out before me. Dusty shades of reds and brows, a scorching haze over the clear sky, mountains and rock formations I’ve never seen firsthand before. And when we came into final approach: cacti. Lots and lots of cacti. I ogled at them like, probably, a kid seeing a tiger in a zoo for the first time ever. I’ve seen cacti in little clay flower pots, on TV and in movies, but right there in the dusty, rocky round? Their hardiness fascinates me. Arizona is unforgiving climate. Welcome to the desert!

The heat I’m game for. I hate cold, the snow, the shoveling, the ice, driving in snow, etc. I braced myself for the heat, but its intensity still surprised me. Standing there in excess of 100F, sweating, but not sticking to my clothes or chair. I’ll so take it over humidity. Funny thing is, one day I stood near a door with a glass window and it felt like I was standing near an oven. It hit 107 that day. And what was I told? Wait until the temperature rises above 120. Hoo boy. Thank goodness the house has central conditioning and plenty of window shades.

New England has its own beauty, as does Arizona. I’m not used to seeing for miles in every direction. I’m used to lots and lots of trees, the cycle of seasons, wicked late summer nights, spring allergies, and hilly terrain. Now I live at the base of Mt. Graham with more mountains all over the horizon. It’s new and exciting, and the ground is covered in more green than I was expecting. My roomie insists he will have a full green lawn with time, patience, and persistence. In a region where people go for pretty gravel over pretty grass, we’ll see.

The people here are so friendly. I’m used to purposely avoiding eye contact and ignoring others so everyone can go about their business unbothered. Here people wave to complete strangers. It’s what they do. It’s what they’re used to and totally cool with me.

I got one of those assemble-it-yourself desks, only to find out I needed tools I didn’t have on hand to do that. As per suggestion from my father, I asked the neighbor across the street, whose name is Debbie. Just a few minutes after meeting me, she invites me into her house, points out her two sleeping grandkids on the bed, and hands me over the hammer and screw drivers I need, and tells me to just return them two days later. I was floored by how kind and welcoming she was. Everyone in the neighborhood knows everyone and even spends holidays together.

Tools in hand, we go back outside and chat some more, and then I notice some guy watching us from his back yard. Typical northern me just ignores him at first, then, after waving to several people who drove by us standing at the end of Debbie’s driveway, I decide to wave to Mr. Staring Man in his Asian getup. He doesn’t wave back, so I revert back to northerner mode and ignore him. But he’s still standing in the same spot minutes later, so I ask Debbie who that is. “Oh, that’s a statue.” Yay, my first attempt to be voluntarily sociable falls short on a statue.

I also got Debbie’s life story in a nutshell. She wants to turn said story into a book but, like so many people, doesn’t know where to begin. She’s getting her tools back with a journal and a couple of Sharpie pens. The best way to start writing a book is to get in the habit of writing regularly.

I’m slowly settling down in my new home and with my new company. I flew in with one of two cats (go look up pet travel guidelines) and she was so terrified the first night that she lay plastered to my side under the sheets all night. Three days later, she’s freely roaming around, sitting in windows, meowing just to hear herself talk, and playing fetch. And she’s finally let Simon pet her. I’ve also got my personal space back on the king bed.

This coming Saturday I get to meet my roomie’s family. He has two family members with birthdays within nine days of mine. Might bake an extra cake and bring it with me.

Habits I need to learn so I survive in the desert (which is harder to remembe than you might think):

-check my sneakers before putting them on (scorpions)

-don’t tread on gravel at night (more scorpions)

-don’t stick your hands anywhere your eyes can’t see (now this may sound easy, but after a lifetime of not giving a wood or rock pile a second thought, all those hidey-holes are difficult to remain mindful of)

-sip at water ALL DAY whether you’re thirsty or not (my lips have already gotten  bit chappy, even though I’ve been inside all day. This is how dry it is here. Also had a slightly upset stomach I couldn’t correlate with food, another indicator that I’m not drinking enough. *holds up a 24 pack of bottled water* cheers!)

And in the word of my writing, revision on To Ocean’s End will begin by the end of the month and put onto digital bookshelves. Right now it needs three major issues addressed, along with a few minor ones, and it’ll be a solid book. Sure, I had that aw, it’s not perfect in one try moment of self pity, then I gave myself a mental slap and started devising a plan on how to fix the issues. Now I’m eager to make the story better.

Aigis 2 (no official title yet) will get the same editorial feedback this month as well, and we are considering putting Shield of the Gods up for free for an indefinite period of time, but no decision will be made on that until the aforementioned books produce their preliminary results. So, after that, I’ll be finishing the Aigis trilogy hopefully in time for Christmas. Good stuff.