Kory M. Shrum's Blog, page 32
November 6, 2014
The Many Faces of #Procrastination #amwriting (sort of)
(Day 4 of my November Journaling Challenge!)
With all this introspection, I'm becoming super aware of something:
For someone who is a writer, I sure to try my damnedest not to write!
The King says that the scariest moment in writing is right before you start, and that must be true. After all, I sure am proficient at not starting. There are many people out there with crazy work schedules, children/family, or any number of things that interfere with their writing time. I wish I could say the same. But the fact is that I worked really hard the last couple of years to carve out a schedule that was conducive to writing.
But then what do I do?
I go and find 10,000,000 ways to procrastinate! Here are a few examples that I've recorded just from the last couple of days:
I just woke up but god, I'm tired. Let's take a nap.
I'm not ready to get out of bed yet, what can I do on my phone?What's happening on Twitter?
Yes, before eating, I should absolutely reprogram the thermostat. Yay, energy savings!
Sure, all the couch cushions need to removed, vaccuumed of dog hair and replaced.
What will my neighbors think of me if I do not bag ALL THE LEAVES and put them on the curb
neatly in little brown bags?
Who else is going to sort this recycling!?
I wonder what <insert random friend> is doing right now. *types out all the texts*
God, I'm hungry. Is chocolate a breakfast food?
You are right, I should absolutely google this very moment what Shiloh (Brangelina's cutest baby!) is up too.
I need to make a facebook post about my cute Halloween costume
The dog looks sad. *Cuddle time*
When was the last time I watered the plants?
I hate that this handle wiggles...where is my toolbox?
Why is everything so disorganized in this basement? *clean, clean, clean*
Oh, it looks like I have enough to do a load of laundry--almost--*washes all the things*
God, I'm hungry again but too lazy to cook. Where are the chips and salsa?
Man, I've been eating unhealthy today--where are my vitamins?
I haven't been out of the house in two days. Maybe I should sit outside for awhile.
Fuck it was cold out there. I should take a hot shower.
Oh my god, Kim will be home in two hours! I'll never get anything done once she comes home!
Ok, I need really need to write something. *Turns on music*
God I love this song. *starts jamming and googling*
Rereads last sessions writing--"Oh that's right--I really need to research craft beer"
2 hours later...Rogue, definitely. He will drink Rogue. *makes note*
Wrote one sentence...Crap, forgot to walk the dog.
Friend finally replies to texts sent this morning. Must respond to all the texts!
Oh crap, I forgot to check my students/online classes today and it's already like 6PM--they must be freaking out.
**does all the emailing/grading**
Oh man, where was I? *Rereads one sentence written today* "This is a terrible sentence. *Deletes.*
*Goes to see what the dog is barking about*
Opens all the mail/packages.
Oh man I have one hour to write! The blog post counts, right?
So this is example of "A Day in the Life Of..." is pretty accurate unfortunately. But what does it say about me? If I find everything to do but write, does this mean I don't want to be a writer? I truly feel like it is my purpose--the thing I do best--but what does it mean when I do everything but? I should get up in the morning and walk straight from the bed to the desk and write my 2000 words, rewarding myself with food only after I've completed this most important task. But I seem unable to do this. But why...why?
With all this introspection, I'm becoming super aware of something:
For someone who is a writer, I sure to try my damnedest not to write!
The King says that the scariest moment in writing is right before you start, and that must be true. After all, I sure am proficient at not starting. There are many people out there with crazy work schedules, children/family, or any number of things that interfere with their writing time. I wish I could say the same. But the fact is that I worked really hard the last couple of years to carve out a schedule that was conducive to writing.
But then what do I do?
I go and find 10,000,000 ways to procrastinate! Here are a few examples that I've recorded just from the last couple of days:
I just woke up but god, I'm tired. Let's take a nap.
I'm not ready to get out of bed yet, what can I do on my phone?What's happening on Twitter?
Yes, before eating, I should absolutely reprogram the thermostat. Yay, energy savings!
Sure, all the couch cushions need to removed, vaccuumed of dog hair and replaced.
What will my neighbors think of me if I do not bag ALL THE LEAVES and put them on the curb
neatly in little brown bags?
Who else is going to sort this recycling!?
I wonder what <insert random friend> is doing right now. *types out all the texts*
God, I'm hungry. Is chocolate a breakfast food?
You are right, I should absolutely google this very moment what Shiloh (Brangelina's cutest baby!) is up too.
I need to make a facebook post about my cute Halloween costume
The dog looks sad. *Cuddle time*
When was the last time I watered the plants?
I hate that this handle wiggles...where is my toolbox?
Why is everything so disorganized in this basement? *clean, clean, clean*
Oh, it looks like I have enough to do a load of laundry--almost--*washes all the things*
God, I'm hungry again but too lazy to cook. Where are the chips and salsa?
Man, I've been eating unhealthy today--where are my vitamins?
I haven't been out of the house in two days. Maybe I should sit outside for awhile.
Fuck it was cold out there. I should take a hot shower.
Oh my god, Kim will be home in two hours! I'll never get anything done once she comes home!
Ok, I need really need to write something. *Turns on music*
God I love this song. *starts jamming and googling*
Rereads last sessions writing--"Oh that's right--I really need to research craft beer"
2 hours later...Rogue, definitely. He will drink Rogue. *makes note*
Wrote one sentence...Crap, forgot to walk the dog.
Friend finally replies to texts sent this morning. Must respond to all the texts!
Oh crap, I forgot to check my students/online classes today and it's already like 6PM--they must be freaking out.
**does all the emailing/grading**
Oh man, where was I? *Rereads one sentence written today* "This is a terrible sentence. *Deletes.*
*Goes to see what the dog is barking about*
Opens all the mail/packages.
Oh man I have one hour to write! The blog post counts, right?
So this is example of "A Day in the Life Of..." is pretty accurate unfortunately. But what does it say about me? If I find everything to do but write, does this mean I don't want to be a writer? I truly feel like it is my purpose--the thing I do best--but what does it mean when I do everything but? I should get up in the morning and walk straight from the bed to the desk and write my 2000 words, rewarding myself with food only after I've completed this most important task. But I seem unable to do this. But why...why?
November 5, 2014
The First Five Pages #amwriting
(Post 3 of this month's challenge. More on that here).
I have heard many arguments made that the first five pages of a book are the most important. There is even a whole book, aptly named The First Five Pages, dedicated to making sure that you can snag an agent with that magical first taste.
To put this theory to the test, I am sharing the first five pages of my next book, Dying for Her: Brinkley's Story. You tell me how effective they are. :)
1 It should be illegal to tell a man when he will die. “Caldwell kills you himself,” she said to me. In that dank basement of hers, Jackson dropped this on me. She showed me the picture she sketched. Like any AMP, she is only supposed to know the day of my death, not particulars. But this is a detailed fucking sketch if I’ve ever seen one. In the picture, my Python revolver, my favorite, was pressed to the side of Caldwell’s head. In the background, a 1940s farm house was on fire. Other mysterious shapes pooled around us like ghostly spectators. People? Animals? Whatever the hell they were, they sent a chill up my spine. My eyes fixated on the gun. The .357 magnum told me everything. That’s my lucky gun. If I took that gun out of the steel box I kept it in, let alone pressed it to the side of a man’s head, I did it believing I wouldn’t make it out alive. I’ve only taken the gun with me into two fights and I’ve always said that I intended to die with that gun in my hand. When I lowered the drawing, I saw Jackson’s face. The single yellow bulb made the oil slicked across her cheekbones shine. She waited for me to say something. “I brought you a goddamn turkey and this is what you give me? Some Thanksgiving,” I said. I meant it as a joke, but it came out harder than I expected. “I mean, I deep-fried it in peanut oil.” “Jim—” She used the old familiar nickname. I hadn’t heard it in a while. God, if that didn’t add a sense of severity to the conversation. “Gloria,” I replied, not ready to give up the ghost just yet. Only a handful of times in the ten years I’d known her had I called her by her first name. The furnace kicked on behind me, rattling awake. The house creaked above us, groaning under the weight of the evening hours. She looked away then and let the yellow pencil fell from her fingers and rolled across the table top. “I made a green bean casserole,” she said and the metal chair screeched across the concrete as she stood up. “I’ve also got a six pack of Rogue.” “Thank God for small mercies,” I said, relieved she was going to let this lie. For now. Upstairs, I put a turkey leg on top of a heap of casserole and as promised, Jackson handed me a cold beer. Across from her at the squat card table, I turned the slick amber glass in my hand to read the label. A skeleton perched on a barrel, taking a shit for all I knew, and he wore what could only be described as a party hat made of bone. I ripped the hot flesh free from the bone with my teeth and the grease melted on my lips. “Dead Guy Ale,” I read aloud and turned the label face out so Jackson could read it. “How fitting.” I burst into a loud laugh and she followed, unable to help herself. “Death,” I said, pointing at the little skeleton man. “Shitting on my beer. How fucking true is that?” We laughed so hard tears rose in our eyes and blurred out Gloria’s squash-colored kitchen. Her little table wobbled between us as we rolled in our seats. Until the laughter died away. I lifted the bottle and Jackson clinked hers against mine. “To the second loneliest holiday,” I said. It was the best toast we had, a couple of middle-aged, childless soldiers, because we were soldiers. And there was no room for a family in this kind of life. “It’s been a wild ride,” I said between gulps. Then I set the emptied bottle on the table. “It sure has been that,” she agreed, inspecting the bones of her devoured bird with dark fingers. “I thought I would see it to the end. Sorry I won’t.” It surprised me that I really was fucking sorry about it. I didn’t realize how sorry until I apologized to the one person who’d been in on this with me since the beginning and was probably just as exhausted as I was. Jackson shook her head. “Don’t say that.” “All right,” I shrugged. “I won’t say it. But I’m really sorry to leave you with this shit. The good guys were already on short supply.” She looked up then. I thought, no need to be a dick to her now. Giving me the news couldn’t be any easier than receiving it. I sighed. “I won’t say it for a third time then.” I didn’t. In fact, neither of us managed another word that night.
2 I stood in the dark outside Jackson’s house and schemed. On one hand, I was surprised that I’d lasted this long. I’d been stabbed, shot, tortured,--just about anything that happened to a man in war. It was a miracle I even opened my eyes in the morning. On the other, I couldn’t believe it. October 3. Forty-four weeks from that moment, I’d be dead. The old survivor in me searched for the loophole, the clause, and the fine print. He was a weathered bastard and damn good at dragging me out of the trenches for the last 56 years. Old habits die hard I guessed—just like old dogs. Get the kid to replace you, the survivor said as callused as anyone willing to step on the head of a drowning man, if it meant getting to the surface faster himself. I sank onto the sagging stoop. My worn out boots—a great pair of Bates 922s—crunched dried leaves into powder, while Jackson’s words replayed on a loop in my head. “Caldwell kills you himself.” I fished pieces of fat out from between my teeth with a toothpick and considered this while Jackson slept in an old, stained armchair in the living room, the blue TV light and game show voices as good as any lullaby. I wasn’t such a bastard that I’d wake her to talk about this. The tryptophan was the only reason she’d get a few decent hours of sleep. Her relationship with the Sandman was about as shaky as my own, so my questions would have to wait. What could I ask anyway? I saw it for myself. My gun pressed to Caldwell’s head. That was the clincher really. If I could get that close, actually put the old Python to Caldwell’s temple, it would be the closest I’d managed in the ten years I’d hunted him. Ten years. Ten years since Memphis walked into my office and started all this. I tilted my head back and looked up at the sky. It was clear and I saw a few of the brightest stars. My breath came out hot, rising in white puffs. Hell of a night, Thanksgiving. The day to be grateful. And what are you grateful for, you old bastard? This beer. I took another swig of the Rogue. That the kid is still alive. That I’ve still got 44 weeks, which is better than 44 days. That I’ve still got a chance to end this. I pulled my leather jacket tighter around me but was unable to shake the cold. I leaned my head way back and finished the beer. Then I went inside and put the empty bottle on the kitchen table beside the three I’d already drained. I tried not to make much noise as I did up the dishes with the pink sponge left by the sink, warming my icy hands in the hot tap. When I decided that it was time to hit the road for the night, I peeked into the living room one last time. Jackson was still asleep in the chair. Her dark face calmer than I’d ever seen it awake. I pulled the rainbow afghan off the back of the couch and draped it over her. Then, just before the television show faded to credits, I slipped out the front door. Sitting at the Harding Place and Danby red light, I sent a text to Sullivan. Happy Thanksgiving, kid. Back at ya, boss. Nearby? Ally made ALL THE FOOD. Maybe next time. Knowing this Thanksgiving was my last. Even dead guys need to eat, she quipped. The shit. But what she meant as a joke rang heavy. I was dead, by most accounts, since it’d been nearly two months since I faked my death. I wanted the freedom to go deeper into my investigation. To finish what I started. I just didn’t realize then I had a deadline. I parked the truck on the topmost hill at Mt. Olivet’s cemetery. It was hidden enough by the large weeping willow above it to protect me from view. No cops checking the grounds with search beams would see me standing over my own grave. James T. Brinkley. Veteran and friend. I stood there until I couldn’t feel my face anymore, the icy wind pulling tears from my eyes, my hands cold and stiff again, even in my pockets. Where would they bury me the second time, I wondered.
After all, this grave was full.
I have heard many arguments made that the first five pages of a book are the most important. There is even a whole book, aptly named The First Five Pages, dedicated to making sure that you can snag an agent with that magical first taste.
To put this theory to the test, I am sharing the first five pages of my next book, Dying for Her: Brinkley's Story. You tell me how effective they are. :)
1 It should be illegal to tell a man when he will die. “Caldwell kills you himself,” she said to me. In that dank basement of hers, Jackson dropped this on me. She showed me the picture she sketched. Like any AMP, she is only supposed to know the day of my death, not particulars. But this is a detailed fucking sketch if I’ve ever seen one. In the picture, my Python revolver, my favorite, was pressed to the side of Caldwell’s head. In the background, a 1940s farm house was on fire. Other mysterious shapes pooled around us like ghostly spectators. People? Animals? Whatever the hell they were, they sent a chill up my spine. My eyes fixated on the gun. The .357 magnum told me everything. That’s my lucky gun. If I took that gun out of the steel box I kept it in, let alone pressed it to the side of a man’s head, I did it believing I wouldn’t make it out alive. I’ve only taken the gun with me into two fights and I’ve always said that I intended to die with that gun in my hand. When I lowered the drawing, I saw Jackson’s face. The single yellow bulb made the oil slicked across her cheekbones shine. She waited for me to say something. “I brought you a goddamn turkey and this is what you give me? Some Thanksgiving,” I said. I meant it as a joke, but it came out harder than I expected. “I mean, I deep-fried it in peanut oil.” “Jim—” She used the old familiar nickname. I hadn’t heard it in a while. God, if that didn’t add a sense of severity to the conversation. “Gloria,” I replied, not ready to give up the ghost just yet. Only a handful of times in the ten years I’d known her had I called her by her first name. The furnace kicked on behind me, rattling awake. The house creaked above us, groaning under the weight of the evening hours. She looked away then and let the yellow pencil fell from her fingers and rolled across the table top. “I made a green bean casserole,” she said and the metal chair screeched across the concrete as she stood up. “I’ve also got a six pack of Rogue.” “Thank God for small mercies,” I said, relieved she was going to let this lie. For now. Upstairs, I put a turkey leg on top of a heap of casserole and as promised, Jackson handed me a cold beer. Across from her at the squat card table, I turned the slick amber glass in my hand to read the label. A skeleton perched on a barrel, taking a shit for all I knew, and he wore what could only be described as a party hat made of bone. I ripped the hot flesh free from the bone with my teeth and the grease melted on my lips. “Dead Guy Ale,” I read aloud and turned the label face out so Jackson could read it. “How fitting.” I burst into a loud laugh and she followed, unable to help herself. “Death,” I said, pointing at the little skeleton man. “Shitting on my beer. How fucking true is that?” We laughed so hard tears rose in our eyes and blurred out Gloria’s squash-colored kitchen. Her little table wobbled between us as we rolled in our seats. Until the laughter died away. I lifted the bottle and Jackson clinked hers against mine. “To the second loneliest holiday,” I said. It was the best toast we had, a couple of middle-aged, childless soldiers, because we were soldiers. And there was no room for a family in this kind of life. “It’s been a wild ride,” I said between gulps. Then I set the emptied bottle on the table. “It sure has been that,” she agreed, inspecting the bones of her devoured bird with dark fingers. “I thought I would see it to the end. Sorry I won’t.” It surprised me that I really was fucking sorry about it. I didn’t realize how sorry until I apologized to the one person who’d been in on this with me since the beginning and was probably just as exhausted as I was. Jackson shook her head. “Don’t say that.” “All right,” I shrugged. “I won’t say it. But I’m really sorry to leave you with this shit. The good guys were already on short supply.” She looked up then. I thought, no need to be a dick to her now. Giving me the news couldn’t be any easier than receiving it. I sighed. “I won’t say it for a third time then.” I didn’t. In fact, neither of us managed another word that night.
2 I stood in the dark outside Jackson’s house and schemed. On one hand, I was surprised that I’d lasted this long. I’d been stabbed, shot, tortured,--just about anything that happened to a man in war. It was a miracle I even opened my eyes in the morning. On the other, I couldn’t believe it. October 3. Forty-four weeks from that moment, I’d be dead. The old survivor in me searched for the loophole, the clause, and the fine print. He was a weathered bastard and damn good at dragging me out of the trenches for the last 56 years. Old habits die hard I guessed—just like old dogs. Get the kid to replace you, the survivor said as callused as anyone willing to step on the head of a drowning man, if it meant getting to the surface faster himself. I sank onto the sagging stoop. My worn out boots—a great pair of Bates 922s—crunched dried leaves into powder, while Jackson’s words replayed on a loop in my head. “Caldwell kills you himself.” I fished pieces of fat out from between my teeth with a toothpick and considered this while Jackson slept in an old, stained armchair in the living room, the blue TV light and game show voices as good as any lullaby. I wasn’t such a bastard that I’d wake her to talk about this. The tryptophan was the only reason she’d get a few decent hours of sleep. Her relationship with the Sandman was about as shaky as my own, so my questions would have to wait. What could I ask anyway? I saw it for myself. My gun pressed to Caldwell’s head. That was the clincher really. If I could get that close, actually put the old Python to Caldwell’s temple, it would be the closest I’d managed in the ten years I’d hunted him. Ten years. Ten years since Memphis walked into my office and started all this. I tilted my head back and looked up at the sky. It was clear and I saw a few of the brightest stars. My breath came out hot, rising in white puffs. Hell of a night, Thanksgiving. The day to be grateful. And what are you grateful for, you old bastard? This beer. I took another swig of the Rogue. That the kid is still alive. That I’ve still got 44 weeks, which is better than 44 days. That I’ve still got a chance to end this. I pulled my leather jacket tighter around me but was unable to shake the cold. I leaned my head way back and finished the beer. Then I went inside and put the empty bottle on the kitchen table beside the three I’d already drained. I tried not to make much noise as I did up the dishes with the pink sponge left by the sink, warming my icy hands in the hot tap. When I decided that it was time to hit the road for the night, I peeked into the living room one last time. Jackson was still asleep in the chair. Her dark face calmer than I’d ever seen it awake. I pulled the rainbow afghan off the back of the couch and draped it over her. Then, just before the television show faded to credits, I slipped out the front door. Sitting at the Harding Place and Danby red light, I sent a text to Sullivan. Happy Thanksgiving, kid. Back at ya, boss. Nearby? Ally made ALL THE FOOD. Maybe next time. Knowing this Thanksgiving was my last. Even dead guys need to eat, she quipped. The shit. But what she meant as a joke rang heavy. I was dead, by most accounts, since it’d been nearly two months since I faked my death. I wanted the freedom to go deeper into my investigation. To finish what I started. I just didn’t realize then I had a deadline. I parked the truck on the topmost hill at Mt. Olivet’s cemetery. It was hidden enough by the large weeping willow above it to protect me from view. No cops checking the grounds with search beams would see me standing over my own grave. James T. Brinkley. Veteran and friend. I stood there until I couldn’t feel my face anymore, the icy wind pulling tears from my eyes, my hands cold and stiff again, even in my pockets. Where would they bury me the second time, I wondered.
After all, this grave was full.
November 4, 2014
On Compulsion and Self-Restraint #Addiction
(Day 2 of my November Journaling Challenge!)
I’ve become addicted to many things in my life. I’m a passionate person, so when I get into something, I really get into it--until I can convince myself to get it together. I have what you might call an addictive personality. I have become addicted to really innocuous things (Sims, Starbucks lattes, etc.) and significantly more harmful things (bad relationships, eating disorders, drugs).
fire, fire! I love to play with fire!
The good news I suppose is that I am also a person who loves challenges. And this is probably the single most reason why I’ve been able to break every addiction I’ve ever had. Because for every addiction I’ve picked up, I also relish the opportunity to prove that I can live without the thing that has turned me into a total mush of a person!
Upon realizing I shouldn't sex everything that moves... Oh wait, what?
So as I work through my latest addiction, it is giving me the opportunity to explore two aspects of addiction: compulsion and self-restraint.
On compulsionThe simple decision to not do something doesn’t break the chain automatically. And it certainly doesn’t override the desire to do <insert addiction here>. Completing an act out of habit is usually so habitual that you can be halfway through the process because you realize what you are doing. So unconscious is the desire to fulfill yourself that it is easy to get through the first few steps before realizing the danger of “completion” you’ve put yourself in.
*****SHARE TIME******
For example, many years ago when I had an eating disorder, I would already have 1) gone to the grocery 2) bought all the things I planned to binge eat and 3) be in the car on the way home to do so, before I realized what was happening. And unfortunately, for addictions like this it is easy to commit fully to the act once you are through these first few steps. It was super easy to say “Well I’ve already bought ALL THE DONUTS so…”
Then again, is eating 20 donuts REALLY a sign of addiction?But even if you keep working hard to break the chain and eventually get to a place where you can simply avoid the bakery section ALL the time, it is harder to be aware of all the little triggers. People do unhealthy things for all kinds of reasons and so ALL KINDS of triggers can set you off---even ones you didn’t expect.
Eat a salad!?!? *Buys 15 donuts on the spot*
Almost anything can remind you of the pleasure you feel when indulging your compulsion. For example, today I read a super hot sex scene from Monica La Porta’s Broken Angel book (not yet released, sorry.) and it “triggered me”. One minute, an angel was so horny that his wings were glowing and the next, I’m like talking myself down.
Making out with your mirror-self is a safe alternative to inappropriate behavior.
Which brings me to “self-restraint”….
On Self-Restraint
Actually, my opinion of self-restraint diminishes daily. So much so that this is currently all I have to say on the subject. Maybe I'll come back to this when I'm feeling a little more fortified...until then, if you need me, I'll be eating donuts and making out with myself.
I’ve become addicted to many things in my life. I’m a passionate person, so when I get into something, I really get into it--until I can convince myself to get it together. I have what you might call an addictive personality. I have become addicted to really innocuous things (Sims, Starbucks lattes, etc.) and significantly more harmful things (bad relationships, eating disorders, drugs).
fire, fire! I love to play with fire! The good news I suppose is that I am also a person who loves challenges. And this is probably the single most reason why I’ve been able to break every addiction I’ve ever had. Because for every addiction I’ve picked up, I also relish the opportunity to prove that I can live without the thing that has turned me into a total mush of a person!
Upon realizing I shouldn't sex everything that moves... Oh wait, what?So as I work through my latest addiction, it is giving me the opportunity to explore two aspects of addiction: compulsion and self-restraint.
On compulsionThe simple decision to not do something doesn’t break the chain automatically. And it certainly doesn’t override the desire to do <insert addiction here>. Completing an act out of habit is usually so habitual that you can be halfway through the process because you realize what you are doing. So unconscious is the desire to fulfill yourself that it is easy to get through the first few steps before realizing the danger of “completion” you’ve put yourself in.
*****SHARE TIME******
For example, many years ago when I had an eating disorder, I would already have 1) gone to the grocery 2) bought all the things I planned to binge eat and 3) be in the car on the way home to do so, before I realized what was happening. And unfortunately, for addictions like this it is easy to commit fully to the act once you are through these first few steps. It was super easy to say “Well I’ve already bought ALL THE DONUTS so…”
Then again, is eating 20 donuts REALLY a sign of addiction?But even if you keep working hard to break the chain and eventually get to a place where you can simply avoid the bakery section ALL the time, it is harder to be aware of all the little triggers. People do unhealthy things for all kinds of reasons and so ALL KINDS of triggers can set you off---even ones you didn’t expect.
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Eat a salad!?!? *Buys 15 donuts on the spot*Almost anything can remind you of the pleasure you feel when indulging your compulsion. For example, today I read a super hot sex scene from Monica La Porta’s Broken Angel book (not yet released, sorry.) and it “triggered me”. One minute, an angel was so horny that his wings were glowing and the next, I’m like talking myself down.
Making out with your mirror-self is a safe alternative to inappropriate behavior.Which brings me to “self-restraint”….
On Self-Restraint
Actually, my opinion of self-restraint diminishes daily. So much so that this is currently all I have to say on the subject. Maybe I'll come back to this when I'm feeling a little more fortified...until then, if you need me, I'll be eating donuts and making out with myself.
November 3, 2014
#Mondayblogs: Why #Werewolves?
Today is the first post of my November challenge (more on that here).
On Halloween, I did the usual: eat copious amounts of candy and watched scary movies. One of my favorite campy movies is Cursed, featuring Christina Ricci and Jesse Eisenberg. It was in the throes of this guilty pleasure that I did quite a bit of thinking (definitely not for the first time), on the appeal of being a werewolf.
In other news, I need to not eat so much sugar before bed. ALL THE DREAMS!
What is it exactly about being a werewolf that is so damn cool? Is it the idea of being bigger, stronger, tougher or more invincible?
Because that could explain why being werewolf is cooler than say a were-kitten or a were-fox--as natural badassery is not guaranteed in such forms.
Just wait until I get ahold of you! Oh the pain!!!
Or if it isn’t the joy of being stronger is it the sexual allure? Are shifters actually sexier?
And why exactly? I mean, I don’t see wolves running around and think, “Oh my god! Come back my fine furry friend! I’ll totally get grass stains on my knees for that!”
Or maybe it is the excuse to rely entirely on instinct and impulse without question? After all, being human can be really troublesome! There are all these expectations and social customs to adhere to! Maybe humping whatever I want, eating whatever I want, and hiking my legs up behind my ears for a good scratch--without the risk of being called unlady-like--is exactly the kind of freedom I need. Maybe the coolest thing about being a werewolf is the ability to literally rip your head off with my teeth, should you cross me.
Werewolves everywhere just saying a big "*&^% you!"
So what is it about being a werewolf (or any shifter) that interests you? Or if it doesn’t, why not?
On Halloween, I did the usual: eat copious amounts of candy and watched scary movies. One of my favorite campy movies is Cursed, featuring Christina Ricci and Jesse Eisenberg. It was in the throes of this guilty pleasure that I did quite a bit of thinking (definitely not for the first time), on the appeal of being a werewolf.
In other news, I need to not eat so much sugar before bed. ALL THE DREAMS!What is it exactly about being a werewolf that is so damn cool? Is it the idea of being bigger, stronger, tougher or more invincible?
Because that could explain why being werewolf is cooler than say a were-kitten or a were-fox--as natural badassery is not guaranteed in such forms.
Just wait until I get ahold of you! Oh the pain!!!Or if it isn’t the joy of being stronger is it the sexual allure? Are shifters actually sexier?
And why exactly? I mean, I don’t see wolves running around and think, “Oh my god! Come back my fine furry friend! I’ll totally get grass stains on my knees for that!”
Or maybe it is the excuse to rely entirely on instinct and impulse without question? After all, being human can be really troublesome! There are all these expectations and social customs to adhere to! Maybe humping whatever I want, eating whatever I want, and hiking my legs up behind my ears for a good scratch--without the risk of being called unlady-like--is exactly the kind of freedom I need. Maybe the coolest thing about being a werewolf is the ability to literally rip your head off with my teeth, should you cross me.
Werewolves everywhere just saying a big "*&^% you!"So what is it about being a werewolf (or any shifter) that interests you? Or if it doesn’t, why not?
Why #Werewolves?
Today is the first post of my November challenge (more on that here).
On Halloween, I did the usual: eat copious amounts of candy and watched scary movies. One of my favorite campy movies is Cursed, featuring Christina Ricci and Jesse Eisenberg. It was in the throes of this guilty pleasure that I did quite a bit of thinking (definitely not for the first time), on the appeal of being a werewolf.
In other news, I need to not eat so much sugar before bed. ALL THE DREAMS!
What is it exactly about being a werewolf that is so damn cool? Is it the idea of being bigger, stronger, tougher or more invincible?
Because that could explain why being werewolf is cooler than say a were-kitten or a were-fox--as natural badassery is not guaranteed in such forms.
Just wait until I get ahold of you! Oh the pain!!!
Or if it isn’t the joy of being stronger is it the sexual allure? Are shifters actually sexier?
And why exactly? I mean, I don’t see wolves running around and think, “Oh my god! Come back my fine furry friend! I’ll totally get grass stains on my knees for that!”
Or maybe it is the excuse to rely entirely on instinct and impulse without question? After all, being human can be really troublesome! There are all these expectations and social customs to adhere to! Maybe humping whatever I want, eating whatever I want, and hiking my legs up behind my ears for a good scratch--without the risk of being called unlady-like--is exactly the kind of freedom I need. Maybe the coolest thing about being a werewolf is the ability to literally rip your head off with my teeth, should you cross me.
Werewolves everywhere just saying a big "*&^% you!"
So what is it about being a werewolf (or any shifter) that interests you? Or if it doesn’t, why not?
On Halloween, I did the usual: eat copious amounts of candy and watched scary movies. One of my favorite campy movies is Cursed, featuring Christina Ricci and Jesse Eisenberg. It was in the throes of this guilty pleasure that I did quite a bit of thinking (definitely not for the first time), on the appeal of being a werewolf.
In other news, I need to not eat so much sugar before bed. ALL THE DREAMS!What is it exactly about being a werewolf that is so damn cool? Is it the idea of being bigger, stronger, tougher or more invincible?
Because that could explain why being werewolf is cooler than say a were-kitten or a were-fox--as natural badassery is not guaranteed in such forms.
Just wait until I get ahold of you! Oh the pain!!!Or if it isn’t the joy of being stronger is it the sexual allure? Are shifters actually sexier?
And why exactly? I mean, I don’t see wolves running around and think, “Oh my god! Come back my fine furry friend! I’ll totally get grass stains on my knees for that!”
Or maybe it is the excuse to rely entirely on instinct and impulse without question? After all, being human can be really troublesome! There are all these expectations and social customs to adhere to! Maybe humping whatever I want, eating whatever I want, and hiking my legs up behind my ears for a good scratch--without the risk of being called unlady-like--is exactly the kind of freedom I need. Maybe the coolest thing about being a werewolf is the ability to literally rip your head off with my teeth, should you cross me.
Werewolves everywhere just saying a big "*&^% you!"So what is it about being a werewolf (or any shifter) that interests you? Or if it doesn’t, why not?
October 23, 2014
#NaNoWriMo & What I Will Be Doing Instead #amwriting
First of all, yes, yes, I will be writing a novel during November along with the rest of my writer friends. But it will be a novel I have already started and I suspect it will continue long after November has ended.
I imagine, like most things, I will start off strong at least...
So instead, I have decided to give myself a NEW and unique November challenge. I pulled from my ever-growing list of "Oh I wish I did more of this" and "I should really be doing this". (We all have those lists, I'm sure.)
So in addition to being a better French student (studying more) and reading more (the pile beside my bed it out of control),
Bedside books= war zone
I want to use my blog to fulfill my very own November challenge: I want to keep a journal EVERY DAY for 30 days. Part of what I will be journaling is simply The Artist's Way morning pages (which I have heard from reliable sources is a sure fire way to stimulate creativity) and I'll also journal any and all observations, thoughts, ideas, or writing prompts/exercises that I play with.
Hopefully, there isn't much of this....
...but rather deep revelations like this.
And so how does the blog come into this?
I plan to make a post of my best/most interesting journal snippets,
FIVE DAYS a week, for ALL FOUR WEEKS. Weekends will be considered an optional bonus round. If I post on the weekends too, even cooler! So that means I'm aiming for 25 posts in November!
I can guarantee that my idea of "best" will be highly subjective
You'll probably be like "how did she come up with this s*&%??"
But like all things, I hope you will participate. If you want to comment on my "journal" entries, or if you want to play with a prompt that I used and share your own outcome, that would be awesome.
And if you just want to be a voyeur, that is cool too! :) What I am really hoping to get out of this is a new, positive habit (carrying around a journal and writing in it!).
Small victories ya'll. Small victories. :)
I imagine, like most things, I will start off strong at least...So instead, I have decided to give myself a NEW and unique November challenge. I pulled from my ever-growing list of "Oh I wish I did more of this" and "I should really be doing this". (We all have those lists, I'm sure.)
So in addition to being a better French student (studying more) and reading more (the pile beside my bed it out of control),
Bedside books= war zoneI want to use my blog to fulfill my very own November challenge: I want to keep a journal EVERY DAY for 30 days. Part of what I will be journaling is simply The Artist's Way morning pages (which I have heard from reliable sources is a sure fire way to stimulate creativity) and I'll also journal any and all observations, thoughts, ideas, or writing prompts/exercises that I play with.
Hopefully, there isn't much of this....
...but rather deep revelations like this.And so how does the blog come into this?
I plan to make a post of my best/most interesting journal snippets,
FIVE DAYS a week, for ALL FOUR WEEKS. Weekends will be considered an optional bonus round. If I post on the weekends too, even cooler! So that means I'm aiming for 25 posts in November!
I can guarantee that my idea of "best" will be highly subjective
You'll probably be like "how did she come up with this s*&%??"But like all things, I hope you will participate. If you want to comment on my "journal" entries, or if you want to play with a prompt that I used and share your own outcome, that would be awesome.
And if you just want to be a voyeur, that is cool too! :) What I am really hoping to get out of this is a new, positive habit (carrying around a journal and writing in it!).
Small victories ya'll. Small victories. :)
October 17, 2014
Congrats @AngelaRoquet! #Read the newest Lana Harvey book #amreading #urbanfantasy
I'm about three days late on this post, between my anniversary plans and renovating the gym, but better late than never!
I'm very excited to announce the release of Psychopomp, Roquet's fourth Lana Harvey book. (For those of you who are clearly behind the rest of us fans, you can get the first book in the series free here.)
Personally (and I may be biased since I pretty much haven't stopped SQUEE-ing since she agreed to blurb my book), but I think Psychopomp is the best Lana book yet. Here is my official review :
This book is my favorite Lana book so far! I’ve been a fan of Roquet for awhile now, thought her writing good, but this book absolutely slayed me! The emotional energy in several of her scenes (I won’t give away spoilers, but let’s just say there’s some awesome fight scenes, a super tragic sex scene, and a death scene that broke my heart) was just amazing. I think it is pretty clear that Roquet’s writing is just getting better and better and I’m so glad I stuck with the series!
There is also some good development in characters that were mentioned/used before but didn’t get much screen time (I love Jack, the demon butler!) and I’m happy that Gabriel got a little bit of screen time, even though he’s all upstanding now. ;)
Keep those books coming, Ms. Roquet!
***
So if you like urban fantasy, mythology, hot demon sex, or just a lot of general badassery, what are you waiting for?
Urban Fantasy Author Angela Roquet lives in Sedalia, Missouri with her husband and son. When she’s not swearing at the keyboard, she enjoys painting, goofing off with her family and friends, and reading books that raise eyebrows.
You can find her on Twitter, G+, Facebook or her blog.
Her official author website, book trailers and more can be found here.
Share the love!
I'm very excited to announce the release of Psychopomp, Roquet's fourth Lana Harvey book. (For those of you who are clearly behind the rest of us fans, you can get the first book in the series free here.)
Personally (and I may be biased since I pretty much haven't stopped SQUEE-ing since she agreed to blurb my book), but I think Psychopomp is the best Lana book yet. Here is my official review :
This book is my favorite Lana book so far! I’ve been a fan of Roquet for awhile now, thought her writing good, but this book absolutely slayed me! The emotional energy in several of her scenes (I won’t give away spoilers, but let’s just say there’s some awesome fight scenes, a super tragic sex scene, and a death scene that broke my heart) was just amazing. I think it is pretty clear that Roquet’s writing is just getting better and better and I’m so glad I stuck with the series!
There is also some good development in characters that were mentioned/used before but didn’t get much screen time (I love Jack, the demon butler!) and I’m happy that Gabriel got a little bit of screen time, even though he’s all upstanding now. ;)
Keep those books coming, Ms. Roquet!
***
So if you like urban fantasy, mythology, hot demon sex, or just a lot of general badassery, what are you waiting for?
Urban Fantasy Author Angela Roquet lives in Sedalia, Missouri with her husband and son. When she’s not swearing at the keyboard, she enjoys painting, goofing off with her family and friends, and reading books that raise eyebrows.You can find her on Twitter, G+, Facebook or her blog.
Her official author website, book trailers and more can be found here.
Share the love!
October 13, 2014
#MondayBlogs: A Free Marketing Service for #Writers Thanks @booklaunch_io!
Ben De Rienzo of Booklaunch was kind enough to get me started with two awesome book pages--for Dying for a Living and one for Dying by the Hour.I love the designs of these pages. They are clean, easy to read, and look so cool! It is pretty awesome that I now have somewhere to direct readers that isn't this blog--so people can be spared my mental ramblings if they want! (Not that I don't appreciate you, faithful reader! ;)
I also love that these pages are more customizable than the amazon author pages. I like my amazon author page and the convenience that it is linked to my books for sale, but the design feature (IMHO) is better with Booklaunch.
This is also good for authors who don't blog or don't have a space to advertise their work. Furthermore, for those of you who have your work in many places--maybe not just Amazon--then this sort of page would be good for you, with its cute share widgets and direct links to sales channels.
Most importantly, it is free! Authors do not have to pay for a standard booklaunch page at all!
Ben has also given me a special coupon code of DYING for my readers who are interested in the premium tier page (which has email capture, detailed analytics, integration with mailchimp/google analytics and all that).
The code is good for the next 30 days and once you start, you'll have 90 days of free premium tier service. But regardless, your standard page will be free! :)
If you do decide to launch a page, let me know what you think. Or just give me some tips on improving my own Booklaunch page.
Thanks! :)
October 10, 2014
Monster Mash: Kory's Top Monster/Horror Picks
This is my favorite time of year. Since I could appreciate stories, I’ve always loved a good scary tale. I read all the Goosebumps, Fear Street, and admittedly less age appropriate renditions of all that goes bump in the night. Campfire stories, ghost stories, monsters under the bed-- to this day, I can’t get enough. So here are some of my favorite tales of the macabre in celebration of my favorite month:
The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
Starting old school. Classic Haunted House and the (I’m betting) inspiration for…
The Shining by Stephen King
King acknowledges his love for The Haunting of Hill House and we can see the influence here. And a house (or hotel) that wants to kill you? Anyone who pays an electric bill in the winter can relate.
Dracula by Bram Stoker
The original blood-sucking non-sparkly king of the night. I’m pretty sure he’d try to recruit me for his harem. Other than that, what’s not to love? (Oh, oh. And are you guys going to go see this new Dracula movie?)
H.P. Lovecraft
The master of madness himself needs no introduction.
Edgar Allan Poe
If he’d been born this millennium, we’d call him emo. But lucky for him, being born in the 1800s and having that hair, actually came together all right for him. Most of the time.
I am Legend
Forget the movie with Will Smith. Be sure you read this. It's a stellar piece of writing.
Heart-Shaped Box by Joe Hill
This was a recent discovery. I like King so I thought I’d give his son a try and see if the apple really does fall right under the tree. I was pleasantly surprised. This was a good ghost story with a modern twist. I listened to it on audiobook, and I think that always helps to bring the story alive even more.
The Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice
Because this is how I like my vampires
Nancy A. Collin’s Sunglasses After Dark
Probably my favorite horror books of all time. I love Sonja Blue unlike I love any other vampire. Sorry, Lestat.
Anita Blake, Necromancer and Vampire Hunter Books 1-10
From Guilty Pleasures to Narcissicus in Chains, we see it all: succubi/incubi, werewolves, vampires, zombies, ghouls, necromancers, shifters--and all kinds of monster goodness.
Now tell me your favorite horror/monster reads. And check back in a few days for my fav horror/monster movies.
October 6, 2014
#MondayBlogs: When I'm Not Writing #Reblog
because who can bear to be in the rain sans Starbucks?Many of you know that my adorable partner is also a blogger. Here is our recent adventure kayaking in the rain. Enjoy!
Kory
