Darren Endymion's Blog, page 34

The Snow Queen Blurb and Excerpt

So, my next published, uh, thing comes out this Thursday, April 24th. As opposed to my full, fat, overweight first novel, Winter’s Trial, this will be a short story fitting a direct theme. The them was fairy tales and, as one might guess, I decided to do The Snow Queen. It tried to get away from me and twist itself to something very long and probably fun, the backstory kept spinning itself out, the creatures became fleshed out, but in the end I thought it was best to keep it as is.It will be in the middle of the Torqued Tales anthology.

I will be back on Thursday with more links and information. My story will be available separately and as part of the thole anthology.

So, here follows the back of the story synopsis:

Gavyn’s childhood love, Kain, is enchanted by the shards of a vile mirror and flees to the mountains with a mysterious woman. Visited in the night by the mirror’s bestial creators, Gavyn realizes Kain has been bewitched and sets off to rescue his beloved.

On his journey, Gavyn encounters magick, danger, friends, and allies as he uncovers depths of strength he never knew he possessed. Yet, as Gavyn journeys toward Kain, sinister tendrils of magick suffuse his travels, and the Snow Queen herself may bar his way. If he survives, Gavyn will never be the same.

And a blurb from the text:

Gavyn pushed his blond hair back, buried his head deep in the pillow, and tried to reclaim sleep. Just when a light doze claimed him, a scuttling from overhead woke him. First, his mind was filled only with wonder at the floating opalescent orbs reflecting the patchy winter moonlight from his window. Two rows of varied sizes of orbs seemed to float above him in the darkness.

The orbs blinked. Sleep and all thoughts of it vanished.

His mind filled with horror as he heard, then saw, the swift clacking of mandibles above a maw filled with sharp, pointed teeth. “Ssssssshard,” the creature hissed.

Gavyn threw himself to the side and rolled off his bed, bolting for the door. The beast dropped in front of him, all mottled green and misshapen, long, jointed fingers like angular spider’s legs. Something dribbled from its hissing maw.

“Ssssshard,” it said again. It reached for Gavyn, clutching his arms in its grotesque hands. Panic blinded him as the creature pierced Gavyn’s flesh with its sharp finger-talons.

Gavyn fell backward as the loathsome thing scuttled up the door, tethering itself with claws and a thin, shimmering rope. No, not rope: a web. Gavyn’s blood dripped from two of the four hands. The scaly body convulsed and the creature tried to wipe the blood off as though it burned. It let out a shivering, vibratory sound like a knife sharpening on an old whetting stone.

Its six limbs flailed, reminding Gavyn of a half crushed spider, dancing in agony. It convulsed; its alien repugnancy somehow terrifying and sad. The scabrous creature fell with a resounding thump. Gavyn snatched a pewter pitcher — a birthday gift form Kain — from his bedside table and brought it down on the flailing creature’s head. Once, twice, three times, yet the thing still twitched, filled with hideous vitality.

“Please,” it said as Gavyn raised the pitcher for another blow.

Startled at the clarity and pain in that one syllable, Gavyn paused…

 

I hope it sounds a bit interesting. I should be back on Thursday with more information. *nervous*

String of Lights

I debated posting anything about this because it can seem anywhere from unbelievable to a type of mental whoredom. Still, writing helps make sense of things, so I decided to do it anyway. I swear to anyone reading this that this is 100% true. Every bit of it.

Last night I was feeling very melancholy, so went for a walk very late at night. It wasn’t a normal sort of malaise, but something that ended up with me contemplating life — where I’m going, my current job, my location, my writing, my social interactions, pretty much everything. I couldn’t make peace with any aspect of it, but realized that I am at a sort of crossroads where some decisions need to be made. The only resolution I could come up with was to make a list of the positives and negatives and compare them to the proposed changes. I was literally unable to focus and the malaise persisted. I couldn’t really identify the source. It was nebulous and fleeting.

I came back home and watched the latter half of The Desolation of Smaug, and went to sleep around 2am, because I had today (Monday) off. I woke up around 6am, used the bathroom, and went back to sleep.

Between 6 and 9 I had a very vivid dream. It was entirely in sepia tones and was about a young male with dark, curly hair thinking about his grandmother. He was thinking that she was very fast and liked to run a lot and that he hadn’t seen her in a very long time. He decided to go see her at her home, but her bedroom was shrouded in white sheets and white drapes. The bed was made, but his grandmother wasn’t there.

Worried, he decided to look for her in a classroom (for some reason which made sense in the dream but which has no significance to me now). As he was about to enter the classroom, he saw a streak, sort of like someone running with a strand of white Christmas lights trailing behind. The man tried to chase the strand of lights but was way too slow.

He started to cry, knowing that the lights were because of his grandmother. He ran into the classroom and asked the teacher (who was dressed as though it was the 30s) if she had seen his grandmother. The class was watching a film from an old projector and the stream of lights passed over the film. The teacher laughed at the boy and said that he would never be able to catch her — everyone knew she was too fast.

The stream of lights passed by again, this time staying in place so that he could follow. They changed from the angular Christmas lights to large orbs as he followed them. He went up a rope ladder, sobbing now. He ascended to an attic and saw his grandmother running past. Sprinting after her, he almost caught her but she slipped away. The whole attic was lit with this never ending strand of white lights.

Finally, his grandmother appeared in a doorway, looking way too young to be a grandmother, but he recognized her nonetheless. She stepped forward and told him that he couldn’t follow her. He said that he wanted to talk to her. She ran around him, wrapping him in the strand of lights, tripped him, and knocked him to the dusty wooden floor of the attic.

She leaned down, kissed him on the cheek, told him that she was proud of him, and ran off. Bound by the lights, he couldn’t follow her, so he lay there and cried.

I woke up at about 9:30, almost in tears. About 15 minutes passed during which I calmed down and shook the dream off.

My cell phone rang.

It was my uncle, which I thought was weird because he didn’t know I had the day off. He hung up, left a brief message, which I listened to. He was saying something about not wanting to say it on a message and that he would call back. He did just then.

My great grandmother died this morning. My uncle was calling to tell me.

She just turned 104 years old last month and had been in a nursing home for about 8 years, having only just started to lose her memory. So, her death wasn’t a shock, but…I mean, she was 104. It was expected for years and years. Why would I have a dream like that now? She wasn’t on my mind particularly. I hadn’t seen her in a while. Why now?

The woman seemed eternal to me. She was a generous, feisty French woman, full of love and wiry humor. My favorite story about her was that, when she was in her mid 80s, she was diagnosed with breast cancer (which claimed her daughter, who was more like my mother, almost three years ago), the doctor gravely told her that they would have to perform a mastectomy.

She said, “Fine! Take them both; I don’t need them!”

She fell in her early 90s and fractured a hip — while gardening in her backyard. She was ordered to use one of those four-footed canes to get around while she healed. More often than not you would find the cane in the middle of the room somewhere, where it had begun to irritate her or get in her way, and you would have to track her down. She was usually in the kitchen, making stew, baking cookies, cleaning cupboards, etc. The woman would not slow down. Ever.

She survived for 20 more years after cancer, and more than 10 after the hip issue, and I think it was that kind of scrappy attitude that kept her going.

I’m not a particularly religious person, and can be somewhat of a cynic, but I can’t help but wonder if I had this dream for a reason. Did she visit me? Did part of me know about her passing somehow? Was it just some random coincidence?

But I can’t bring myself to believe this latter part. Maybe it’s just me wanting to believe that my great grandmother is streaking around the afterlife, both breasts in tact, cane forgotten, wrapping people in strands of light, tripping them, and dashing off to some divine garden somewhere. I imagine my grandmother looking up from whatever book she is reading, seeing her mother running around, roll her eyes, and go back to reading her book.

Whatever the reality, my world is a little more empty for having lost them both, and I think the universe has gained more than it bargained for. =)

 

I Did it Again

Anyone remember all my babbling about working on a new writing project to make the transition easier? How it took me so long after Winter’s Trial was finished and published to get into the mood to write again? How I didn’t want to fall into that rut after my new project was finished? How, as someone who wants to write as more than just a hobby, I should — you know — actually DO it more? Remember all that?

Yeah, I failed.

I turned in my dreaded marketing form for my short anthology story “The Snow Queen” on Thursday and experienced that floating, empty feeling again. “When the hell am I doing? Don’t I have something due? There’s got to be a deadline or something. Something with work? Taxes? No…what the hell is it?”

Nope, nothing. I have nothing due. No little sources of nebulous anxiety or fun hovering overhead. And so, I realized in a roundabout way that I have done it again, despite my hopes not to.

However, if there is a difference, it is that the thought of beginning something, of going through this process again, of starting over, did not fill me with dread. This time was pleasant, smooth, and as easy as it could have been. I know that a short story for an anthology isn’t the undertaking or deserving of the attention a novel could produce, but this whole experience makes me want to slap the hell out of myself for not writing more. Writing and editing doesn’t have to hurt.

In fact, I am beginning to think that it shouldn’t. There are subject matters that will hurt, situations that will be hard, and criticism from several sides, but the act should remain unpolluted. I think that was the most valuable lesson I learned this time. Combine them and I can now get through the tough stuff and enjoy everything. If the first was supposed to be the hardest, then the second was bliss.

Regardless, I’ll bet that I don’t wait so long to get into my next project. *looking at the notes I already have* Maybe less than even I think.

Here’s hoping I don’t do it AGAIN. haha.

Novel vs. Short Story

I work in Corporate America in a swiftly growing department in an ever-expanding industry. Within this subset, we have almost every negative stereotype of the Corporate world: aloof upper management, the villainous and heartless vice president making ill-informed decisions, the lazy slacker with an excuse for everything (including why he will take up to three 30+ minute lunches in a day), the two workers who cannot stand each other, changing loyalties, the shrew who thinks everyone is out to get her (which is true — she’s a psychotic burden to the world at large), another upstart department trying to steal our work, and one particular team member (aforementioned shrew) personally attacking yours truly because she wants my position.

To get away from the stress of such a terrible situation, I will play video games, watch a whole lot of movies, daydream, read, and write. I love to read, yet I frequently get wrapped up in the stories I make up in my head.

Writing to escape stress isn’t always effective. My first published novel was a nightmare. It was a terrible experience, sometimes so bad that I wondered if publication, a lifelong dream, was worth it. My escape, my joy, had become the very thing I was trying to escape. I loved what I had written, but all the joy was being sapped out of it. There were formatting changes which were my fault but needed to be corrected. Whatever style I had was constantly challenged in an effort (I thought) to homogenize my novel to the expected audience.

Sometimes, these challenges were totally correct. I can get wordy and may have some sort of synesthesia, so that letters and words have colors, textures, tastes, and feels. So do emotions, music, tastes, etc. It’s been that way my whole life. When I was a kid I was surprised to find out that some people actually saw nothing but black and white letters when they wrote and read. I was teased when I mentioned that the letter A, for instance, was red. T has an orange color. Words will combine the colors of the letters to take on a varied hue which represents the feel of the word to me. Made up, psychotic, neurological syndrome, whatever…it happens. But, as an honest child with no filter, I mentioned this to the other kids and was teased horribly. Thankfully, I changed schools a lot when I was a kid and so I left the teasing behind but kept with me the thought that I should suppress this “weird association problem” (as my insensitive step-cousin described it when we were very young).

It comes out in my writing. And that was seen as a stylistic blight, a parasite which needed to be suppressed. The horror was that I WAS suppressing it. Was my editor right? Probably. Well…no. Almost certainly she was right. Given the reactions I experienced when I was a kid, I imagine that few people would understand that “sorrow” has a feeling, a texture, and a color. The word “parcel” feels good on the sides of my tongue and has a light metallic taste and (not surprisingly) feels like the crinkling of brown paper. This sounds like LSD-induced insanity. I realize this. (Look up synesthesia on Wikipedia. It’s a real thing I only recently found out actually has a name and wasn’t necessarily a “weird association problem”) But suppressing this and reeling it in was smart but painful. I know that it swiftly reaches the point of absurdity for a reader.

What made it worse was the conclusion that, given the genre I was writing in, I would never be able to let go. I did partially, and a lot of it made it in the novel, but it was a learning experience. There were other things, not all learning experiences, that reeked of pointless, arbitrary dogma. I still feel that way and, when talking to another highly regarded author in this genre, I had my feelings validated. But, I realized that I had to play by the rules my publisher set, and that while I didn’t expect to make much money off the novel, that they needed it to be as lucrative as possible. They didn’t publish me out of pity. They did it because they thought my novel would sell a reasonable amount.

I was disenchanted, but I still love to write. I was caught in this place where writing, previously my beloved escape, was as stressful or more so than my hateful day job.

Fuck that! Why would I willingly put myself through that bullshit when I wasn’t exactly going to make a living off writing gay novels? I didn’t need to do it, so why would I put myself through some crap just to see my (fake) name in print?

Well, the answer is that I love writing. I would do it if I never published another sentence in my life.

So, when inspiration hit, I knuckled out a short story, submitted it, and had it accepted. I was really scared about the editing process, the marketing process, and have approached the whole business with fear and suspicion.

I don’t know what has changed. Did I reel it in? Did I know what was expected and so automatically moved toward that while keeping my stylistic integrity? Was the short story format allowing me to funnel everything? Was it the editor? Was it all dramatics? Or was it experience and my love for writing that helped me out?

Whatever combination of these things it was, this short story process was ridiculously easy, freeing, happy, and a pleasure. I learned without getting all butt hurt and sensitive or feeling that I was being shoved into a box, homogenized, and made to be like everyone else. In truth, I never lost the desire to write, but it was beaten down quite a bit. This has revitalized me.

I hope the short story, “The Snow Queen” on sale separately and in the anthology in late April (23rd), is well liked and well received. I hope it leads to many more with this publisher, with other publishers, and even helps me break into mainstream (as part of a hopefully growing and improving body of work). But in the end, I wrote it for me. And it was not like my day job. It wasn’t painful. It was great. It was, essentially, like that perfect job you always daydream about but don’t think actually exists.

Now, if I can only manage to make this my day job, all the colorful, tasty words can flow forth from me. And I will love every second of it.

Ancient Evils Revisited (or my old roommate)

For those (very) few who have been around for a long time, you may remember my old roommate, Stacey, who I fled a little over a year ago. He’s the one who told me that I should do yoga…when not two weeks before I had literally had part of my intestines ripped out and had a bit of them removed. I nearly died, actually. Afterwards, I was home on leave, high on Oxycodone, healing from the staples and trauma, watching Spongebob, and my single greatest achievement was walking to the mailbox and back and only stopping one time. My roommate, Stacey, was not suggesting that I do yoga in the future, but that I go that week with him.

And that was the least of his stupidity.

He was one of those people so desperate for attention that he would do anything to get it. He was socially retarded, saying and doing totally inappropriate things, thinking he was funny when he was actually lame (best) or friendship-ruining offensive (worst). He started losing weight, though he was never fat a day in his life, and decided that he was a heath guru and it was his duty to instruct others. He talked about yoga like he was a young high school girl and yoga was his new boyfriend. He did stretching exercises in front of the TV (scooting forward when we ignored his desperate pleas for attention). He was exceptionally needy and, after a billion years of fading friendship, I could not get away from him fast enough. I moved in to my own apartment and he moved in with this cute little gay boy he met at work.

In the small world that we live in, I ended up being friends with said gay boy who we will call Josiah. I had all but stopped talking to Stacey, but my friendship with Josiah was growing. I was very careful to not prejudice him against Stacey, because they seemed to be getting along.

As time passed, Stacey became increasingly needy and more socially reprehensible than ever. He was jealous of Josiah’s looks and youth, that his boyfriends were super cute, and that Josiah was young and together and was kicking life’s ass. Stacey and his Quasimodo boyfriend-adjacent thing eventually hit on Joseph and suggested a 3-to-4some. Josiah turned him down flat and, to his credit, was able to suppress his surging gag reflex.

To make a long story short, Josiah began talking to me about how irritating Stacey was becoming. He asked my advice, as I had lived with and been kinda friends with Stacey for a very long time. I suggested that if it got any worse, Josiah say something and then begin planning to move away from Stacey. Stacey began being jealous of Josiah’s time and was wondering why they never hung out anymore. Josiah finally told Stacey.

Stacey was good for a whole week. Then, desperate to prove that he was a good friend, he began clinging to Josiah like an octopus coated liberally in superglue and jam.

Both Josiah and I were very busy for a while and we didn’t talk for several months. I got a text from Josiah as I was packing, telling me that he missed me, that he was moving in with his boyfriend, and that he getting the hell away from Stacey. They had the talk about three months before they were going to part ways.

Flash forward two months and my other friend e-mails me, asking if something was wrong with Stacey. Apparently, Stacey posted on Facebook that he doesn’t like asking for any help (which I laughed long and hard over), but that he had less than a month to get out and needed a place to stay. He made it seem like Josiah had only just told him that they were parting ways, which I don’t believe, but it would serve him right, with all the bullshit he pulled on me when we were living together (a month before the lease was up, he would inform me that he wasn’t going to renew…and then waffle for a few weeks. He did this three times.) Stacey made himself seem like a victim, which he could get away with because none of his friends really know Josiah that well. He could also pretend that he was unable to find a place, that he was totally out of ideas, etc.

False.

He was out of friends who would put up with him. I’m only proud (and envious) that Josiah got out after only a year. The quasi-sympathy poured in and Stacey reveled in it. Now, let me be honest: Stacey is full of rancid bullshit and gopher entrails. When it looked like things weren’t going to work out for me in my new place (mostly due to the shock of living totally alone for a year and now having two roommates), I popped on Craigslist and found about 5 places with good prices (not as good as what I’m paying now), in the same area I left and Stacey still lives in. I found these listings within 30 minutes while watching a movie.

Simply put — Stacey didn’t look. He wanted sympathy. He wanted to seem like the victim. He was on the stage as he always is. The “sympathy” consisted of “That sucks. I hate moving! Good luck!” and not one offer. Nobody suggested anything. Stacey’s moment to shine is over. He’ll find a place. He’s not a genius, but neither is he stupid. He wanted attention because he drove yet another person away with his stellar personality.

Standing apart from my time as his roommate, I can honestly say that I feel sorry for Stacey and wish him the best. And I wish, deeply and with all the sincerity that I can muster, that this thirty-seven year old person can finally grow up and realize that, when he doesn’t try so much and stops acting like an obnoxious twat, he is actually a good person.

Upcoming Anthology Entry

Just before the brutal schedule and editing process for my first novel, Winter’s Trial, I found an anthology call  on my soon-to-be publisher’s web site for Torqued Tales, a retelling of fairy tales.

As a kid in private Christian school, we had to do some lame project where we essentially wrote up Fisher Price’s My First Criminal Profile for our best friends and presented them in front of the class. (Imagine the public shame if you picked someone as a “best friend” who did not do his/her report on you.) The rest of the class had to guess who we were talking about, as if a class of 15-20 students in an incestuous, insular private school was also profoundly retarded and didn’t know who was friends with whom. Pointless busy work, potential public humiliation, and a quiz show whose answers depended solely on not being totally blind and otherwise damaged. All for a grade.

While I was distracted making up lies about my home life for any potential interview questions, I distantly heard our teacher suggesting questions and topics. “This person likes sports, this person has brown hair, this person was responsible for the massacre of Jesus Christ, this person is part of a Russian drug cartel, this person likes video games, this person eats flies, this one likes fairy tales…” At this last one, the whole class groaned and said my name, “Daaaaaaaaren.” They giggled, totally without malice, and even our curmudgeon of a teacher laughed, which was like watching stone split and chuckle. Terribly, terribly frightening.

Frankly, I was shocked. I didn’t realize that I liked fairy tales and fantasy, and certainly not that it was so obvious. I just read what I read. It was this weird, defining, self-realization moment, and it has held true my entire life. What I read coincidentally before, I began to search out.

So, when I saw this anthology call, I thought that I should try for it. I did, but I had never successfully written a short story. Everything becomes longer or falters. Usually, it grows. This story was mostly narrative, little dialogue, and was okay. I submitted it at the last possible moment and it was rejected. I was asked to run it through a beta reader and send it back, not for the anthology, but for a stand alone short story. I never did.

That anthology was called Torqued Tales and was so popular that they decided to do another one. I had no intention of submitting anything, as the story I had submitted had (of course) grown and changed, and if it is ever written will likely be a novella with passing resemblance to the original fairy tale.

For the second one I had no intention at all of doing anything for it. Randomly, about 2-3 weeks before the due date, I got inspiration. I decided to revisit The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Anderson, just for the hell of it. If it was good, I would submit it. If not, I would have fun writing it.

It turned out better than I expected. I could feel it trying to grow and become something out of control, but I didn’t let it get into the actual story. Consequently, several people have back stories that didn’t really contribute, nor did they fit into the word count allotted.

It was fantasy in a way that Winter’s Trial, while dealing with werewolves in the current world, did not. It felt right, like home. I know that as a potential fantasy writer I need some work, but wonder what my version of The Snow Queen would have been like if it had been allowed to expand.

Still, I liked it quite a bit, as did my beta readers. In fact, I created these odd gremlin-spider hybrids and named them Mutop. They wish for nothing more than the degradation and petty pains of mankind. One of my coworkers/beta readers and I now refer to certain vituperative, abnormally hateful people as Mutop. My other beta reader wanted to know more about them, as she said it seemed like I spent a lot of time and thought on them.

Quite the contrary — I didn’t think the trolls from the original fairy tale would be clever enough to build a mirror with that kind of magickal power. I thought about horror and what would creep me the fuck out, and the Mutop were born. I thought about how the Mutop, clear abominations, could come into being, and I decided that a giant spider and a gremlin would never willingly mate. So, I thought about who or what could have created them, and I got the thread which connected the whole story together.

I already had the clues in the story and sitting in my head, but the creator of the Mutop, even though briefly mentioned, is what brought it all together. It reminded me of Stephen King’s theory that stories are artifacts waiting to be uncovered. Maybe for him, but never for me. Yet it happened with the Mutop and once before in Winter’s Trial with the connection between two antagonists.

The original fairy tale The Snow Queen has inspired many, many fictional characters, novels, movies, and full books/series and I hope that my own spin on it is well received, and I hope I did well.

The second Torqued Tales anthology will be available on April 23rd, 2014 from Torquere. My story will be sold separately, as well as with the full anthology itself. I will post a snippet and blurbs another time.

Heat, Allergies, and The Golden Girls

So, I’m here to give a little advice.

When trapped in one room during a random heatwave with nothing but your boxes, a wavering Wi-Fi connection, and an urge to clean, do not give in. And certainly do not decide to watch an episode of Hoarders which takes place in the very city you want to move to early next year. A city where the temperature is a lovely 30 degrees lower than the allergy-inducing sauna you are currently suffering in.

Just walk away.

There was nothing good about it.

Said heatwave is caused by winds coming off the desert. I have compared that in the past to the foul winds from Satan’s anus blowing over his pestiferous, diseased taint to poison and pollute our lives.

No, seriously. This is a real picture of what these winds have done in the past.

My ex suffers from the worst allergies because of these winds. I was getting over being sick when the winds came to kill us and my allergies kicked up (usually induced by these winds and/or large, sudden changes in temperature). I was snorting, sweating, sniffling, and coughing. This all led to my voice dropping over an octave, and me giving off most of the signs of possession.

I went around, alternating between singing Ol’ Man River and emulating Dorothy Zbornak. I felt hideous and troll-like.

I whispered quotes from the Exorcist. I rolled around in my bed. I watched no less than five episodes of Hoarders, which made me anxious to clean, but it was too hot to actually do it. I don’t think that a weekend in Shady Pines could have been worse.

Instead of cleaning, I took a nap, ate pizza, watched The Golden Girls, and then played the long awaited South Park: The Stick of Truth.

I think I might have just come up with the ultimate definition of a gay geek…

*confetti, faint*

I’ve been busy and missed my normal Monday posting day. So, here we are.

The move is over. It went as smoothly as it could have, which is not very. Part of my crappy Ikea bed fell off the back of the truck we were using. We flipped a quick U-turn, were coming up on the board in the road, slowed down, my ex put on the hazards…and some idiot whizzed around him, cut back in, and drove over my bed. Another person did the same, splintering what might have been salvaged. We picked up the pieces and saw that they once formed the section that held the mattress up. Since I do not relish sleeping at an angle, rolling over and over, and bashing my face into the wall, I elected to just throw the goddamned bed away. I am consequently sleeping on a mattress on the floor. For anyone who has seen Absolutely Fabulous, I feel like Eddie when she finally got her Japanese-style bedroom. *rolling to the TV, rolling back, unable to get up*

I got back to work and everything had changed. We use headphones to drown out the chatter and to help us focus. The junior vice president came up, saw us, waved and said hi, and left. 15 minutes later we got two messages, one urging us to work more, the other telling us that headphones are suddenly punishable by being written up. Apparently, her idea of motivation is to take away privileges. This is also not the first time. May she fall down several flights of stairs strewn with tacks.

Also, they totally changed the way we do stuff, then pulled the whole team off our specific work to focus on something anyone could do and we already had helpers for. Then they threw everyone back and threatened us with 6 day work weeks unless one of the tasks is done.

I got back to a chorus of, “Did you hear what they did to us?!” I heard this for an hour until our supervisor came in. Then they pulled us for the most patronizing meeting I have ever been part of — someone who has been with the company for a year or so, trying to “train” us on stuff we pretty much created. I told the trainer to wrap it up, that this was old news. She then told us that our team was doing things wrong and provided us with examples. We proved that she hadn’t done her research on every last one.

Let’s hear it for Corporate America. *confetti!*

Remember those cheap puzzle games where you had to slide those little pieces of plastic to un-mangle an ugly picture? Meanwhile, I’m playing the real version of it with the boxes in my room, trying to organize things and make things pretty. I’m in a new place where I am feeling the weird alienation of not being alone anymore and hanging out with my ex all the time.

I also handed in my edits for the most recent short story, and it was totally, utterly painless. It was great.

Needless to say, I need an adjustment period. I’m sure I’ll be fine, but…we will see how it goes.

Edits and Moving and Overtime! Oh, Hell!

Yeah, that has pretty much been my life. More purging, getting extra days to move out on the weekend, and being generally frantic. And the things I am taking with me! My video games alone…if I considered them a waste of time or money, I would be concerned for my mental stability. As it is, I have no more thoughts for my sanity and value system than I normally do.

The overtime at work is still ongoing. On Friday we discovered that we had one ray of hope for reprieve — five full time helpers. Today I found out that this was foiled and the offer rescinded by the doom-sharting cloud of upper management.

Only meaner.

What sent me into a spiral of neurotic panic was that on Friday I got the anticipated e-mail from the short story/anthology editor. I guess I didn’t fully appreciate the strain my first novel, Winter’s Trial, put on me. Yes, I know I’m a guppy in a thimble. I haven’t even made it to the pond or the river or out into the ocean, or even evolved Pokemon-style into a bigger fish.

Here’s hoping…

Yet, Winter’s Trial was my first published anything and the editing process was very challenging. I did learn a great deal, but most of that was in the way of personal revelations about people, demands, the highs and lows of the reading public my current work is thrust toward, expectations, and my sense of my own work.

I learned a great deal about being a writer (on a very small scale), but I don’t feel I learned much about the, uh, art of writing. I think this was the harder lesson and something I will continue to grow with. After Winter’s Trial, I sort of became an abused turtle and pulled inside to evaluate everything.

I finally came to the conclusion that I very much want to write and I want to do it for me. I want people to like what I write, because though I write for me, I wouldn’t seek publication if I didn’t want to share a little bit. And, of course some small success is necessary or nobody will continue to publish me. Self-publication is a viable, honorable option, but I do like the intervention of a learned, focused, fair editor who can be a positive influence.

So, I wrote a short story for an anthology I originally had no intention of writing for. I just had too much going on. But I got inspired, wrote it, sent it to beta readers, cleaned it up, submitted it, and had it accepted, all in about 2-3 weeks. It’s much more fantasy than Winter’s Trial and I like that.

Then I got my edits back.

My learning experiences with Winter’s Trial were not painless ones. Quite the opposite. Before even looking at the edits, I started feeling all fragile and whiny again.

I opened the document like it contained plauge-bearing spiders the size of Shetland ponies. I quickly scrolled through…and laughed. Nothing. Nothing bad, anyway. There were few marks and they were all reasonable, logical, and were all phrased with professional kindness and courtesy.

I was an idiot. I totally psyched myself out…and for abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

Me.

I finished the edits in an hour and will go over them again later. It was actually pleasant. I had a severe moment of typical self-doubt, but I got over it with a nap and some Nutella. I’m more than okay. This time was nothing. Either I’m stronger (after getting over my embarrassingly lame expectations), or prepared, or both. Am I more experienced? Jaded? Hateful? Who cares?

I have to turn in my edits by this weekend. Then the dreaded blurbs and taglines and marketing sheet needs to be done. But, I can handle that, too.

The publication date is set for April 23rd, 2014. I will mention more about the meat of it later, when I have more polished (read: any) blurbs about the anthology and my contribution to it.

On Being a Flabby Weakling

There are certain stereotypes about both writers and geeks being underdeveloped and scrawny, or hugely obese, squealing in excess Dorito dust when their troughs are emptied of Mountain Dew. These are cruel, demeaning stereotypes — but after a weekend of more sorting and moving some stuff to my storage, I feel there are nuggets of truth to them which need to be addressed. Using myself as an example, of course.

I’m freakin’ sore! My friend and I moved my sectional couch, more books, CDs, etc. I mentioned in my last post that I have recently lost some weight, but this weekend made it clear that it had nothing to do with anything resembling exercise.

Now, I’m an odd juxtaposition of my parents (as opposed to a combo of the homeless woman with the swollen leg-foot I passed the other day and Grover from Sesame Street, I suppose? If not my parents than who would I be a mixture of? Whatever. Work with me here.) My mother is a tiny, petite, intelligent woman who reads often and eschews any physical activity, relying on her hummingbird metabolism to keep her thin. My dad is a tall jock and always has been. He’s always outside, playing sports, and doing active stuff with his stupid mesomorphic body. I got my mother’s relative shortness, but my father’s body type — balance, potential athletic ability, and strength. Unfortunately, I do absolutely nothing with this body or ability other than throw it on the couch to read, play video games, or watch movies (something that has frustrated my father my entire life). I also look just like him (pretty much, I’m his mini-me). When my friend first met him, she freaked out at just how much we look alike. She still brings it up years later.

Coming from these parents, thin islands in an ocean of obese relatives, I have never been more than 15-20 pounds overweight. I’ve also gotten quite cocky, relying on what is frequently described as freakish strength and the body/metabolism I inherited.

Until I need to DO something.

My arms, shoulders, and back are sore, screaming at me of the abuse I have heaped upon them. If they could call Amnesty International, they would have done so yesterday. I was forced to use said muscles this weekend and they are not happy. I’m eating Advil like Skittles. My shoulder blades sound like they have giant Rice Krispies under them (partially due to work, I’ll admit). My forearm muscles feel like they are going to snap, rebound, and take out my eyes. I would say that I’m a flabby girl, but that would be a gross insult to our sedentary, chunky sisters everywhere.

I have thought of my father often today, and I can’t help but wonder if he is onto something with all that wretched activity. I don’t have to be the jock that he has always been, the beach bum he was, or the athletic beast he could still be. But getting off my couch once in a while might be recommended. I walk to and from work, a total of about about two miles every day, but as I’m not walking on my hands, my upper body is lacking, whereas I have muscled legs, thick calves, and could kill a man with them (look out, Chun Li! Lightniiiiing KICK!). If I could have donkey-kicked my belongings onto the truck and into storage, I would have done so.

In fact, I may try it next weekend. I will let you know how it works out. *moving my desk*

Spinning Bird KICK!

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“Get in my storage. YAAAAAA!”