Beyond the Sunshine Skyway

1 May is a great holiday.  This used to be considered the first day of summer, until those commie pinkos decided to make it a day to celebrate labor, and damned if the US didn’t have to turn around and say, “Nope, not gonna play that game!”  So they created two new ones of their own, just because . . . well, they could.

But the truth is, like just about every other holiday, the present era ripped it off from ancient people who had made Beltane the first day of summer something to be thankful for–and still do, for that matter.

I have a lot to be thankful for.  ’Cause it’s May, and you know what that means?  May flowers, did you say?  Where’s my stick?

No . . . I have a story being published this month.  A short–for me–story called Captivate and Control.  It’s special for me, and not because it’s just erotica, or because there is a meaning behind the story, but because it was the first story I’ve sold to a publishing company.  It’s the one thing I’ll be able to look at forever and say, “Yep; that was the one that got me started.”

And really, how I got to that point–it really didn’t take as much work as one might think.  I was fortunate, though:  I managed to have a very sympathetic publishing house in my corner–

To be honest, I’m not sure how I met Gina.  My memory is foggy, but then that’s normal.  What does matter is that we befriended each other, and sort of talked about non-literary things before we ever got into the story telling things.  I can say she’s been one of my longest fan, and that means a lot to me.

She had a publishing company:  Naughty Night Press, a house that made no bones that it was publishing erotica.  ”Oh, sure,” some will say, “That’s just smut, right?  Porn?  That sort of shit.”  Wrong-o, people.  Gina knew he kink, and so did the people around her, and if you understand erotica, you’ll understand it’s not porn, it’s not smut–hell, it doesn’t even have to be about sex.  The thing to remember, however, it that it has to make sense.  It’s just like any other kind of story: you need plot, you need characters, and you need to make it all believable.  Of course, you can make it fantasy, with sexy vampires and hot werewolves, and the like, but all the previous stuff still applies:  whatever rules you set up, it better all make sense in the end.

Gina was also good too me.  Even though I wasn’t, at the time, writing erotica–or much of anything, really–she brought me into the Facebook groups and let me hang out.  Most of the time I didn’t have anything to say, and I’d watch and listen–and learn.  In this time I met other people affiliated with NNP.  I met Penny from Australia, and Tessa from England, and the woman who would eventually be my editor on Captivate and Control, Annabelle, who didn’t live that far from me.  Gina lived up in Canada, so in a very short time I made friends with four different women in four different countries on three continents.

It was great hanging with them, because I was learning things–and, because, I was slowly getting . . . I guess you could say I was becoming part of the family.  I was ask to do a guest blog post with Tessa, and that was one of the first moments when I started to feel as if I was getting somewhat established, because here I was, pretty much a nobody, and I was talking BDSM fantasies with one of NNP’s published authors.  I have to say, as we were Skyping that Sunday morning (for me), I was enjoying the vibe I was getting.

I would get kudos from Gina ever so often, particularly when she’d read something on my blog.  I didn’t bug her too much, but then I’m like that.  I was just happy to hang out, and be a very small part of the party.

Then 9/20/2011 came around, and that’s when I thought things might get a little . . . different.

It was then that I told a friend, “Hey, you know, I can write good erotica, I’ve just never really tried,” and it was then that I opened up a Scrivener file I called Erotic Nights, and that later became Captivate and Control.  I started in, then got side tracked a little by getting ready for NaNoWriMo, then I got into it again and finished it off before I put myself through the insanity of writing a novel in 30 days–excuse me, 25 days for me.  Actually, I had enough time to get the story edited, because it was short–again, for me–and I did have help.

But I was done with it–what next?

The thing was, I hadn’t sent a story out in a very long time–like 25 years.  I just wasn’t sure if I should submit it anywhere, or not.  I thought, I don’t have anything to lose, and I contacted Penny, and asked her to read the story and give me an honest opinion.

She got back to me a few days later with a very short comment:  ”Submit it to Gina.”

Well, thee you go.  I thought, “Okay, this could be good enough,” and I got the submitting guidelines from the NNP website.  The funny thing was I had found out that, at the time, they were accepting submission for an anthology, so that was another push for me.  I spent a day or so getting the manuscript in shape, then, with everything as good as I thought it was going to be, I sent it off to Gina.

Then I got into NaNo and didn’t think too much about anything else.

One day, 12/01/2011, I’m sitting around, on the computer–where else?–and I see an email pop in.  It’s from NNP.  I open it up . . . and it took me a few moments to realize there was more to the email than just, “Hey, thank you for the submission . . .”  It was an acceptance letter, and there was a contract attached.

I was really sort of in shock.  I knew what this meant, and yet . . . it took me about ten minutes to totally comprehend what was going on.  I knew the moment I signed that sucker, things would be different for me, like it or not.  I read it.  And read it again.  And again.  By the time I signed on the line that is dotted, I knew what I was getting into.

And I knew what I wanted.

I did thank Gina, because this was a break for me.  I knew  it would take some time before the story saw the light of day, but that was fine–there were always going to be things to work on.  I eventually discovered the story would be published in May, and so I semi-held my breath and waited for May to roll around.

It’s rolled, baby.  It is here.

Since the first of the year, I’ve pretty much uprooted my life in a few major ways.  I’m working again, but I’m writing like mad.  Since signing the control for Captivate and Control, I’ve written another novella, a second novella that is now a novel, and I finished a novel that had been sitting for a very long time.  I’ve had an interview; just last week I did my interview with NNP, which should be released on the 12^th of May.  I’ve got the cover of my story on my computer, on my author’s page on Facebook–oh, and let me tell you, when I saw it, I wanted to jump up at start yelling, because it was a thing of beauty.  Maybe that’s just me, filled with newbie juice, still hyped up over it–but every time I look at it, I wanna go and find My Muse and fill them with a little something, if you know what I mean.  It gets me that stoked.

And now, very soon, I’m gonna see that story up for sale, and I’m gonna post those links and say, “Hey, buy my story!”  And the fact it’s erotica–who cares?  It’s my story, and it’s a good story–

Gina felt the same, and that’s why she gave me the chance to publish with her and NNP.

Now, about some things I hinted at yesterday . . .

Yeah, there have been some . . . things going on of late.  Things that only an anti-matter fueled ninja douche rocket could contemplate undertaking.  Sure, I was planing to rant; I so wanted to rail.  I wanted to say some nasty things, and jump up and down on bodies with really cool looking but overpriced Doc Martins.

But, you know what?  Screw it.  I mean:  why?  Why give anyone who is hell bent on being a jag the satisfaction of maybe finding this post and thinking, “Oh, fantastic!  I’ve pissed off another of the minions!” as they rub their hands together and cackle wildly like a bad Venture Brother’s villain.

Some people are very unschooled in something I have learned over the years, which is:  ”Don’t believe your own hype.”  See, I might think I’m a cock-eyed wonder, that I can sling killer-ass stories with the best of them–nay, with the Upper One Percent of the Writing World!  Those who can walk into any publisher and say, “I want my next book set in 18 point Urdu!” and the editors and suits and everyone else in the office can’t bend over fast enough to kiss your ass.  Stephenie Meyer, move your ass out of that chair!  I’m takin’ over!

Naw, what we see every so often are fools behind the wheels of lorries carrying a big, full tank of petrol.  And they’re driving said lorry over a bridge the size of the Sunshine Skyway, dumping petrol the entire way, and laughing like a maniacal jackass all the way to the end, where they’re going to put a match it all.  They just don’t care what happens after the match drops:  as a famous butler once said, “Some people just wanna watch the world burn.”  (You know, come to think of it, in that movie, for the main characters you have a Welsh guy, two English guys, two Australian guys . . . can’t we get any Americans to act in our superhero movies any more?)

As for me, I’m beyond the Sunshine Skyway.  I’m published, folks.  It’s just a start, but it’s a start that Gina and Naughty Nights Press gave me.  So, in a few years, when I’m rolling about in a Stephen King-ish sized pile of money, and someone goes, “Hey, you started in erotica, right?” I’m gonna say, “Yes, I did.  You looking to break in?  I know just the place to start, let me see if I can hook you up . . .”

I don’t need to rant to those out there who may or may not have their noses out of joint over something that, in the grand scheme of things, are pretty insignificant.  Instead, I’m going to let someone else get naughty with the blue words–that someone being comedian Patton Oswalt, who, in the process of destroying a heckler who’d screwed up one of his bits as it was being recorded, delivered about as brutal a kill shot as anyone has ever delivered to a clueless bastard:

 

“You stupid douchenozzle. You truly don’t fucking get it, do you? You poor motherfucker. You’re gonna miss everything cool and die angry.“

 

Yeah . . . that’s pretty much says it all.

The Lord of the Little People

I like to get into discussions from time to time with my Muse.  Why her?  She always listens, and she’s pretty sharp.  And she doesn’t steer me wrong.  So when I get confused, I know I can speak with her, and she’ll not give me a non-answer.

I don’t remember if I’ve spoken to her about this subject, though, because my mind is all over the place these days.  Finished the Couples Dance revised edit; found seven possible suckers–I mean, publishers that might be good fits; needed to write queries; started editing Echoes–busy day since late Friday night, and yesterday.  Barely found time to eat . . .

Here goes:  what is it about writers who say their characters are telling them what to do?  Not to sound too much like a guy who collects Porches like I might collect bad habits, but what’s up with that?  ’Cause the last time I looked, my characters, while they live with me, they’re not telling me what to do.

And I have a very long history of jerking my characters around.

Allow me to explain:

It helps if you know that, besides being a writer, I’m also a gamer.  Now, there are very many different kinds of gamers.  Some like cards, other board games, other table top RPGs.  I was in that last category.

When one says, “Table top RPGs,” most people go, “Huh?”  If I say, “Dungeons and Dragons,” most people will usually go, “Oh, that crap.”  Like a person my age could never play that.

Well, really, I didn’t.  I usually played games that were much cooler.

To give you an idea of what it looked like when I played, let me lay it out for you.  You have a group of people sitting at a table.  There are numerous folks all staring at one person sitting at one end, who may or may not be sitting behind a paper screen so players couldn’t see his or her evil die rolls.  That person was the Game Master.  That person was usually me.

The Game Master (or GM, as we like to say), tells the story for the other players, and that allows their characters to frolic and go forth and have fun–and usually kill a shitload of people in the process.  See, the GM is nothing but a story teller, and the telling of the tale determine just how good the game is going to be.  Some GMs will put their story on a rail and let that big train roll on.  Others put a hell of a lot of work into their craft, and come up with wonderful locations and interesting characters for the player characters (everyone else) to interact with and within.

That last sort of GM was also me.

I had a lot of great characters for my games.  There was one couple, they were my favorite, and over the period of a couple of days I ended up with closer to 40 pages of notes about them.  By the time the game was over, that collection of notes had expected to almost 60 pages–all of which are, alas, forever lost, as they were on another computer that suffered a dying drive.  But I’ll keep that memory alive up in my head for as long as I keep that memory going.

See, the thing I usually do when I hear the, “My characters are telling me what to do!” line, is to scratch my head, because my characters are my creations, not the other way around.  I’ll spend time getting into the heads of my characters and try figuring out where they are going, but I’ve yet to have one jump up and go, “Hey, doofbag!  If you think I’m going out with that guy, you’re nuts!  No, no, no!  And when you going to write me up a laptop that rocks?  The one I have is shite!  I’m gonna–ymmmmhmph!”

Yeah, shut your yap, you.  You’re not the boss of me.

Maybe I feel this way because when I was running games, there was something I’d always tell my players.  It was a simple statement, but it was true.  ”In this game, I’m God.  And God will crush your asses if I feel like it.”  See, the game being run was my creation, and my imagination, and all the characters the players would meet were mine . . .  It was my world, and it was all my call when it came to laying a smackdown upon the characters the players were running.

I feel the same way with the characters in my stories.  It’s my world, and they are my puppets–more or less.  I love my characters, though I will put them through a ton of crap if it’s demanded by the story.  And I have killed one character twice–in the same story!  But you know medical technology; she keeps coming back.

I think the biggest different is that I’m not the sort of person who writes by the seat of their pants.  I’m not suddenly ceased by the urge to jot things down.  When I get an idea I’ll make note of it, then start thinking it out in my head.  When it comes time to open up a file on the story, I’ll start doing a little plotting on cards.

It’s during this time that I begin getting into the heads of the characters.  I think about what they are like, what they like, I try to develop their personality . . . it’s all a process.  Maybe I don’t do it as much for some characters as others–I mean, I know my main characters in Couples Dance are no where near as developed as they are in my other two novels–but I put them together just as I would a story–

Which is probably why before I wrote my NaNo Novel I spent almost two weeks on research, and a lot of that research was, one, getting the ideas for how magic worked in my world; and, two, getting into my characters.

Hey, doesn’t mean I’m right, you know?  It could just be my characters are scared of me.  As I’ve had a goddess (yes, a real one) tell someone in a story I wrote long ago, “We’re capricious creatures.  You never know what we’re going to do, or why we do it.”

Maybe it’s not that my characters are afraid of me.

It’s just that they understand I know what’s best for them.

Letting Go

One of the hardest things I ever had to do was let go.  Let me explain:

Last night I caught up with Annie, who has been around but very unavailable for the most part.  You know, that real life thing, it’s a pain in the ass sometimes, and at times it’s worse for some than others.

But we were back on the air together–Again, for the First Time!–and we talked about role playing, and writing, and all around things like that.  While we were talking, by the way, I was pulling down old posts we’d made for our characters from another role playing board–run by some notorious psycho bitch who some would call Jill–and I wasn’t paying attention to little things like when those post were made, because I was chatting with Annie and doing a lot of formatting to take the stuff I was clipping from an internet board and put it in Scrivener so it was readable.

So in the middle of our conversation, I decided to sneak a peek at when the post I was clipping was made, and I was totally shocked.  ”Holy shit,” I said, “this thread was created April 1 last year.  We were in the owlery a year ago.”

The Trip to the Owlery was an important milestone for these crazy kids, for that was the first time shy, reserved, somewhat unemotional, and totally clueless to the ways of women Kerry gave Annie a very simple, single, kiss on her cheek.  And what was the end result?  Annie swooned, and went right off her heels and onto her back into the straw and owl poop.

Yeah, I know how to win them over, don’t I?

I mentioned just the other day that Annie was very responsible for getting me to write, to bring me to this point where I am the writer I am today, so I feel a connection to her.  Which is why when she mentioned that she was ready to write again, but she was also a little scared because . . . to put it bluntly, it would mean “putting herself out there” again, and she was a little scared that she couldn’t.

I know that feeling very well.  You have things you want to say.  You have things you want to put on paper or screen or even scribbles in the mud if that’s what you liked to do–and you have the feeling that the moment you start putting those words down, and you read them, and you see where you are going . . . you get this sensation in the pit of your heart that feels like rats are trying to chew their way into your left ventricular.

Do I know this feeling well.

Writers deal in words, but they also deal in emotions.  As with any artistic endeavor, you are often tearing out itty bitty chunks of your soul and arranging them in a way that will make sense to others.  And the fear you have is that, after all that hard work, some mouth breaking cretin is going to come along, look at the results of self-mastication, and say, “LOL, u r so stupid!  This story suckz!”

You see some shit like that, and you want to jam your head through the flats screen where you gave birth to that story.  It forces you to reevaluate what you’ve done, and it’s going to leave you very gun shy when the time comes to do your next story.

If you ever get to that point again.

I’ve done the Woody Allen thing, where I was of the opinion that everything I’ve done is total crap, and there’s maybe one of two things I’ve done that are okay.  Yeah, I’m crazy–but I’m not that crazy, not anymore.  I’ve let people read my work, and some of them have actually been crazy enough to pay me for it!  I’ve gotten feedback, and the majority of it is good if not great.  I’m not one for believing my own hype, but I have come to the conclusion that while I might not write as well as the greatest, I can write.  And it’s something that, in its own way, is good.

You get there by letting go, and not in a Venus and Mars sort of way.  You open up and you, as dangerous as it might be, you put your heart on the page.  I did that with Transporting.  There were things I had to write that, from an emotional standpoint, I could not write, I could not face.  Annie helped me understand how to open up, and I was able to finish that novel.

So, Annie, when you read this–and I know you will, because I’ll be linking it to you–don’t be afraid to go there again.  Don’t be afraid to let go and put it right out there on the line.

Because if you fall–

Kerry will be there to catch you before you hit the owl poop.

Adventure Time and the Living is Easy

Yesterday was one of those days where I’ve finally said, “The hell with it,” and started doing things at work.  ”Things” mostly came down to reading, since I needed to do something in the office and I couldn’t because it seems like the people I need to make them happen are not there.  Ah, such is life and work.

I told my Muse yesterday that my day is full:  blogging in the morning (it’s 4:45 AM for me right now), then “The Day Job”, then home, dinner, working on whatever thing I’m working on that evening, then I get to play.  Although sometimes play is also writing, because I do things that aren’t always all about the stories.

I did not work on a story.  Well, I did, but didn’t.  Yesterday the first edits on the erotic story I sold back in December came back from my editor.  There’s a nice phrase:  ”My editor.”  The Amazing Annabelle is a wonderful person, even if she does come from a state now covered in Santorum.  She gave me my markups, had me look through everything, gave me notes on why things were marked up the way they were . . . it was a lovely thing, to be able to work with someone like that.

Not that Trusty Editor^tm never treated me like that.  Oh, yes, she did.  This is a little like our relationship, but then . . . not.  It’s a difficult thing to explain, but the moment we started working, it was like magic.  I felt totally at ease about my work.  I didn’t get nutty like some writers have been known to do–and believe me, I can get nutty.  I guess I’m at that point in this development as a writer that I want to learn, an not have a shit tissy because someone changed a word in my prose.  I know what to fight for, but what I saw yesterday–it was all about the learning.

Then once I’d reviewed the edits and made what changes I wanted to keep, it was on to Adventure Time!

I’ve got the role playing game I’m suppose to be in, and the GM has been bugging me for my character’s history.  Most of the time people, if they do these, will throw together a page or so about all the crap a character has had happen to them.  Oh, not me.  Of course not.  I’ve got to write a goddamn story.

I’ve got to talk about how she was found, how she was pulled from a secret lab in Oregon, how she is all on her own with everything thinking she’s dead, how she’s discovering all the neat and nasty things the Evil Corporation did to her (no, there were no anal probes involved–that I know of!), and how she’s learning to deal with this life.

She’s great fun, even if she’s not Marceline the Vampire Queen.

The GM is, I think, a little miffed because I’ve spent about a week on this, and I seem to be the last person to get their act in gear, but screw him.  I’ve already had words with him once, and I’ll drop his game like a bad habit if he gets in my ass once more.  I’m having fun, and some of the other players seem to enjoy my writing–even if one play did already ask me to stop, because I was making her character seem so lame.

Oh, my love: you haven’t see anything yet.

Ghost Train on the Big Wheel

If you follow the rhythm of this blog, you’ll know that right around the time of full moon I’m out late, visiting a friend, and last night was no exception.  Headed on down to his place to eat pizza, drink coffee, and enjoy visual entertainment.  For the evening it was Babylon 5 and a former Prophets of Science Fiction on the life of Philip K. Dick.  Great fun, a chance to BS, reminisce, talk about my new job . . . stuff I don’t normally get to do, because I’m such a solitary creature.

(Oh, and for the guy I met online who said he couldn’t watch Babylon 5 because he just didn’t “get it”, suck it.  But I wouldn’t worry; I’m sure you’ll find something less mentally challenging to watch–notice I didn’t say, “read” . . .)

Then it was time to head home with the near-full moon keeping me company.  February’s full moon is known as that Snow Moon, but damned if we have any snow around these parts.  Which is just the way I like it, because it means I don’t have to shovel that shit.  Doesn’t matter, ’cause I’ll drive, snow or no snow.  You don’t live for over 50 years in the Lake Effect Belt and not know how to drive in snow.  Okay, some people are like that, but I ain’t one of them.

Driving along near midnight, Making Movies playing once again, my mind on a lot of things.  I thought about the game character I was creating, and how I was past all the posturing from the other night, and how I’d done something in my posted character’s history that seemed to have disturbed someone–something about a spike heel in a guy’s groin.  Yeah, that’s gonna hurt.

I thought about Couples Dance, how much I liked the story even though it’s about to take a very sick turn for the worse here, literally after I finish doing this blog post.  Since some of you (yeah, looking at you!) might be curious about what I’m writing there, here is an entry from the private journal of Frazier Byrom, 12 July, 1932:

 

G— refused to be consoled tonight. M—’s death two nights ago—just the eve of her return to Château-Thierry—is affecting her greatly. Most likely it has to do with them being together the night of M—’s death. G— told me she had kissed M— goodbye that night, before returning to her flat, and then, only a few hours later, she was discovered murdered, her body lying in the street beneath her balcony. The police say it is a suicide, that there was evidence that M— had partaken of laudanum before her body was found . . . I know M— to use the drug quite often, and she had, on occasion, turned up on my doorstep sheathed safely within its vaporous hold.

G— refuses to believe this. She knew of M—’s use of laudanum, but insists she was excited to be returning to Château-Thierry, that there was no reason for her to become so forlorn as to anesthetize herself with an overdose before flinging herself from her 5th Floor balcony. She said that it was all foul play, that someone killed her before throwing her from her balcony. She insists her head did not snap around because of the impact with the street, that it was that way before she left behind this wretched dream of life . . .

 

 

This is really nothing, ’cause I’m going to finish off the chapter today, or at least try; what I don’t do today I’ll probably finish when I arrive at The Undisclosed Location later tonight.  But Chapter 8, which is now 6,160 words long, will come to a very bloody end soon.

And then, on the very empty stretches of road leading home, my Muse showed up to ride shotgun.  And we didn’t talk current game characters; we didn’t talk Kerry and Annie; we didn’t talk Works in Progress.  We got on the ghost train and rode it along the big wheel, and returned to the past.

She told me when Couples Dance is finished, it’s time to get back into Transporting.

I’ve spoke about this a few times before, but Transporting is my very first novel, written in the dark days of the early 1990′s, when my first marriage was started to split at the seams.  It’s been a work in progress for two decades, having been through a couple of re-writes and even some added material.  I moved it all into Scrivener a few months back and began plotting out the end . . . and I need something like nine chapters to finish it.

My Muse is saying, “Enough fooling around, Mr. Writer.  Time to get to work.”

I’ve heard that voice before, and it’s a serious voice.  It’s got serious tone.  She’s telling me I should take a novel that has a lot of great concepts–at least to me–and make it so it’s publishable.  Finish it, edit it . . . get it to the public.

This doesn’t means I won’t do a new story when the urge hits, but this novel thing, it’s been waiting for a long time to see the light of day.  And now that 2012 is here, and a good 20 years have passed since I started this sucker, maybe it’s time to kick it off the computer and into the the hands of other people.

Hey, when the Muse speaks, I gotta listen.

The Vanity of the Ensorcelled

Strange night, yes it was.  Spent an hour or so working on a history for my role playing character while chatting with a friend; then cranked out 1,050 words on my Work in Progress, then started having issues with people I know from my online community . . . and the night ended with me zipping off a very snarky comment to the GM of the game I’m getting into.

Oi.  How does this happen to me?

Couples Dance was the very definition of white hot writing.  I cranked through 750 words in like 25 minutes, then said, “Hey, go on, I gotta idea here I’m trying to work out,” and rolled another 300 words in about 10 minutes.  It was one of those grooves that writers get into now and then when it seems like everything that’s entering their mind is going onto the page verbatim, and they can’t stop with the typeafying.  (Is that a real word?  Maybe.  I own it now.)

With this chapter it seems I’ve hitting that a lot.  And this part of the story, it’s very funny, because I’m going from hot, kinky sex of a slightly disturbing nature–is there any better kind?–to my main male character thinking about money, inflation, and compound interest.  That, my friends and dear readers, is an interesting dichotomy, when it’s all said and done.  But it fits with my main character, who is something of a money geek, and for him to sit in a library reading the private journal of some over-sexed guy from the 1930′s, and getting excited by it at the same time, while thinking about the possibility of mondo cash residing somewhere . . . only a writer could come up with shit like this.

I’m liking the story more and more, but I have a feeling the next chapter is going to be hard to write.  Why?  Because I gotta crank the Strange-o-Meter and hope what I see as being something very creepy-sexy, it could come off as something like fanboy Internet fantasy wanking.  Hey, I can’t be a genius all the time; sometimes I’m gonna be Jethro Bodine.

The stuff with the game character–it’s going in an interesting direction.  I’m doing her history as a story, and I like how it’s proceeding.  She’s a sweet person, but really lost by what happened to her–kidnapped by unknown evil corporation and experimented upon–and she’s discovering what happened to her little by little.

However, it seemed the GM had a problem with one of her abilities: he felt it was overpowered and under priced.  He wanted to up the cost–no problem.  Then he wanted to futz with the power, and I got pissy.

Normally, when I’ve GMed, I’ll lay out, up front, what you can and can’t do.  That’s normal with games, because there are rules that GMs love and hate.  This time, however, I’d already created the character, and was getting into the history, and he’s had a few days to look over the sheet . . . and that’s when he said, “Oh, I don’t like Power X, it’s too Big and Powerful, you need to change it.”

Ehhh . . . don’t tell me that.  Not after I’ve given you the character, and you’ve told me to do history, and once I’m into that last you’re saying you got a problem.

So I got a bit pissy, schooled his ass a little by giving him 3 or 4 very simple ways to beat the power (which, to be honest, he should have figured out on his own), and then ended the conversation with the, “I’m not changing, so take it or I’ll walk,” ultimatum that I usually don’t give, but that happened to slip out.

Of course, he said I could keep the power, but at the same time he gave me the “I don’t respond to threats well” comeback, which I sort of expected.  I’ve offered an olive branch to let the whole thing pass, which I hope ends it all at that point.  ’Cause if it doesn’t, I’m likely going to have to school him again.

To put it bluntly, I’m not hanging around a game just so I can engage in a game of Dueling Egos.  Should he press the issue, I’ll tell him what I had one character say:  ”Threats are made by people who can’t back up their words with actions.  I don’t make threats.”  After all the shit that’s happened in my personal life over the last 5 or so years, hanging out in a game where I’m being bitched at for one thing or another is not high on my list of things to do.  Like the honey badger, I don’t give much of a shit for that sort of thing, and waltzing away is a very easy thing to do.

I look at it this way: if I’m not gaming, I can be writing.  If I am gaming, I can be writing.  I enjoy both, so I want to do this and have fun.  And that last is the most import for me, since the moment you stop having fun with writing, or gaming, or both, it’s over.  Why keep going?

It’s really a win-win for me, as long as I maintain balance.  Is it my fault I have such poor coordination?

Detours Along the Routes of Imagination

You might say I was a bad boy yesterday.  I didn’t do anything with my story.  Nope, not one word.

But that’s not the bad part, oh no.  The bad part is I didn’t care.  I didn’t worry.  I didn’t get bothered one bit.

That doesn’t mean I have given up on the story.  It’s just that yesterday was something of a story holiday.  I was off on different tangents all day yesterday, and my mind was all over the place.

You can blame gaming for that.

When I speak of gaming, I don’t mean the video stuff.  I’m just not good enough for that.  My daughter will sit and play Left 4 Dead all day, blowing up zombies left and right.  I can’t do that; I just don’t have the hand-eye coordination for that stuff, not the stamina.  (I also think zombies are really, really stupid.  But that’s me.)

On the other hand I love driving simulations, but that’s because I love driving and going fast, and spinning out some asshole who is trying to get around you.  So I can do video, but I usually don’t.

I’m talking table top games, where you have books and dice and you sit around and BS half the night while a story is told.  I’ve done those for a very long time–just over 25 years–and I hope to keep going for a while longer.

So I’ve been roped into a game that you play online–Play by Post, as we say–and I’ve created a character.  I love character creation; it’s the writer in me to make something and turn her into a believable person.  Yes, a “her” again, because I love creating female characters.

Believe it or not, this has a lot to do with writing, though.  How, do you ask?  Because there is always something that comes into play with a character: a character history.

Like the nut I am–or maybe it’s because I’m a writer?–I started getting into the character history in my head a few days ago.  Actually, I didn’t have a choice; I’d finished stating out the character, getting all her skills and abilities and putting a numeric value to them, and I’d finally finished buying all her gear.  So now . . . why is she the way she is?

History time!

The thing I have to watch is that I’m a wordy bastard, and I can’t spend 15,000 words describing her.  Otherwise I’m screwed, because I’m spending all my time writing about her and not writing about the character in Couples Dance.  Yes, when I wasn’t working it was a much easier time, because my work was my writing.

At the moment, though, I’m stuck in the drudgery of looking through hundreds of lines of code trying to figure out why a file isn’t getting data (yep, that’s my day yesterday), so it’s really hard to find a couple of hours to sit and explain why my gaming character was kidnapped and held in a secret facility for 4 years; why she’s now on the semi-run; why she’s into BDSM (oh, yeah) and female domination of others (and even bigger yeah!), and that she’s something of a freak sexually; and most of all, why she had killer instincts coupled with superpowers.

I’m already three pages into the “Why” of her, and it’s a nice diversion.  It’s a different sort of writing, just like this blog is a different sort of writing.  It allows me to go off in a different direction, get away from something that is very heavy and have a little fun.  Not to say that Tammara, my character for this game, isn’t going to get into some heavy stuff.  Nope.  She’ll be up to be up to her rather pear-shaped butt in it.

But it’s a different sort of heavy.  And it’s going to be fun–I hope.  I’ve started out with high expectations for things like this before, only to see them crash and burn in short order.  But the good thing this time around: if she gets thrown into a game that isn’t going to last very long, I can throw her into another story.

Because when you meet a girl this good, you never let her go.

Dancer in the Dark

I promise you, there will be nothing of Björk naked or spitting on anyone–except for this comment.  That said, onward.

I’ll tell you, it’s been a while since I’ve created a new character for a role playing game, and I’ve forgotten just how time consuming that endeavor can become.  Particularly if you have a lot of equipment to buy, and said equipment is spread out all over the place in different books.  You start out thinking that you’re going to knock this sucker out in maybe a couple of hours, and before you know it–BAM!  It’s about 7 hours later and you’ve while you’ve got most everything physical tapped out for said character, you have to start in on their history.

Oi.  It’s a real time consumer, and it does eat into the time you should spend writing.

Then again, coming up with a great character history is writing, which you would know if you have ever created a great character for a role playing game.

Trust me, I did write some serious stuff last night, once I got past all the distractions.  Ah, yes: I’m back on the air at The Undisclosed Location, and with Internet comes all the distractions.  And there is something else here in the mix, and that’s work.  Because for the last year, when I’ve been heavy into writing and game playing and character creation for both, I didn’t have to worry about work getting in the way, I just got up, flipped on and started working.

Writing was my work.

Right now, however, I’m back to earning a pay check to cover the bills, and that’s taking a huge chunk out of my life.  Which means lest time to write and do all the other things I want to do.

This is known as time management.  Last night my time wasn’t managed that great, but I did manage to get it done.

I actually surprised myself by knocking off 950 words for Couples Dance.  I got into the chapter with the reading of this journal from 1932, and I was off–really.  I began putting my thoughts together and realized that what this journal needed was just a touch of offness, and since it was about 9:30 PM, and I was already writing about unusual sexual encounters, I conjured up a few disturbing scenes in my head, and . . . yeah.  I decided that, within the story inside the story, I was going to go there and show people what happens when you mess with a couple of my now-long dead characters, and put it out there for all to see.

It was like, the moment I created this one character, I needed something bad to happen to them, and instantly I went there.  And since it ties into something that will happen to another character, it’s sorta gonna make sense in a way.

That’s what happens when you start dancing in the dark: your mind goes places you maybe don’t want it to go, but it does anyway.  And Couples Dance is a strange story, so what I found sitting in the deep parts of my brain doesn’t surprise me one bit.

I just hope when I can find someone to publish it, because it’s truly not the sort of story that’s going to appeal to everyone.

In the meanwhile, I have to start working on my game character’s history, which is probably going to take up about a 3,000 words chunk.  All I need now is to figure out if she’s going to spend $15,000 in-game money on a pickup or the ability to become invisible like a Predator–

Let me get my dancing shoes . . .

Death and the Act of Self Love

It was one of those nights.  Time to sit and reflect, and that’s not always good, because when you reflect you don’t always like what you see in the reflection.

After I did the research for my current work in progress I got sidetracked.  That happens, because my mind wanders.  I should have been writing, and, in a way, I was.

I was working on a character for a game.

I can hear you saying, “What?”  Yes, see . . . I got roped into a Play-by-Post game and I was in need of making a character.  This happens with me, so don’t be too surprised.  It’s for a game I’ve wanted to play for a few years, so I thought I’d give it a shot, because the worst that can happen is that I’ll get bored and throw my character off a building and call it a day.

But the act of creating a character can be time consuming, and it can involve a lot of imagination–particularly where the character’s history is concerned.  See, there is this thing called “Character Development” that tends to get ignored these days: in movies, in games, in stories–big time in stories.  And I love making characters with great backgrounds; it gets the mind going in ways you usually never see it go, and you let it run when that happens, because what you’re going to come out with, in the end, isn’t some two dimensional trope-ridden placard.  Oh, no.  You do it right, you’ll have a real person.

So as I put the numbers together, I developed my character, and one of the things I came up with for her (yes, “her”, cause I do roll that way.  Hey, if I can write female characters well, I can damn sure play them, too) is that she was kept in a form of suspended animation for 5 years, and that everyone who knew her thinks she’s dead.  No, not thinks:  knows.  They know because three weeks after she initially disappeared her body was found floating in a river, and the autopsy indicated she’d been raped and stabbed before being weighted down and dumped.

It doesn’t matter how her body was found, and how she’s now in a lab being told this story by two other people.  The hard truth is she has nothing to go back to, because to show up on her parent’s doorstep and go, “Naw, what you guys found was probably a clone”, would likely find her ass right back in a lab in short order.

So, with her death, she’s finding her way in the world as someone completely different that who she’d been before.  One of the aspects about her is that she’d a bit into BDSM, and is something of a domme.  I can just imagine what the other players are going to say when they see that–and it better be, “Yes, Mistress.”

But then . . . shit got real.

I was out on Second Life for a bit.  It’s a place where I’ve hung for almost 5 years, and I have a number of people who are friends of one sort or another.  One of these people, who happens to be someone I’ve known almost the entire time I’ve been is SL, is a therapist.  Really.  I sort of suspected about 2 years after a met her, but last year she told me for sure that, yeah, she has a private practice, and yes, she’s been watching me all the while we’ve known each other.

Watching me because I do have issues.  Lots of issues.

She wasn’t actually treating me last night, but it became a session.  Mostly because she was asking me questions, and then hit a point where she felt it necessary to call me on my bullshit.  And the gist of the message was this:  ”You’re always looking for something from someone else, and they can’t give it to you because you’ve yet to care for yourself.  Until you love yourself, you’ll never find happiness with others.”

Well, now, that didn’t leave me in a happy place.  In fact, it left me a huge mess.  Mostly because the message hit home hard.

Yes, I am always looking for something from others.  I want to feel wanted, and even loved–but I’ve yet to come to grips with the fact that I can’t stand myself for the most part.  And when I feel that I’m not getting the attention I need, I pull away.  I’ve done it before in the past, and I’m doing it these days as well.

It’s not right.  It really isn’t.

I’ve felt love before.  And I’ve felt it go away.  I’m a head case, but I do try to get better.  I am creative, but sometimes I not only suffer for my creativity, but my characters do as well.  Oh, yes, they do go through some hell.

And when it comes to hell, I turned to another character for comfort.

As I was getting ready for bed, I started thinking on another scene, and this one involved someone from another game–my “friend” Erywin, whom I’ve talked about before on this blog.  The scene that came to mind wasn’t pleasant: in fact, it was very upsetting.

Things always come to an end, and I was working out the event that, for her, would be the hardest: the death of her long-time wife and the love of her life.  She’s gotten on for almost 55 years with her “pretty girl”, and now, in the scene I envisioned, her wife Helena is gone, and it’s her and Kerry’s wife Annie, and my character, all standing outside Helena’s family crypt in New Zealand–the same crypt that Erywin will share with her when it’s her time to cast off this moral coil.

It’s in that moment, with the sun going down behind them, that Erywin finally tells her friends of the time Helena and she met.  It was hinted at many times in the past, but now, for the first time, she speaks about what happened, how they came together in a girl’s bathroom at their school.

Here are Ewywin’s words:

 

“Four girls came in and cornered me.  One of the girls was the one I’d approached a few days before, and confessed my love to.  She was the first one to hit me . . .

“She slapped me hard.  One of her friends grabbed my hair as she slapped me again and called me a ‘dirty lez’, and how dare I tell her that I loved her.  Then a third girl kicked me in the leg and I fell and . . . that’s when they all had a go at me.

“I was on my knees.  I was being kicked in the stomach and the groin.  The one who had hold of my hair kept yanking my head back, and the one girl kept slapping me, calling me ‘dirty lez’ over and over.  Then, finally, she hits me right around the eye, and everything went red, and I fell over–

“And they kept at me.  I was kicked all over.  I covered up my face to kept from getting hit there, but they got me everywhere else.  They spit on me a couple of times.  And then they stopped and someone–I think it was the one who stated it–she stand over me, straddling me . . .

“She urinated on me.  God, the sound of the splatter on my uniform:  it was so loud.  No one said a word, they all stood and watched as their mate pissed on me, like I was nothing, like I less than human.

“When she was done she stepped back and kicked me hard in the arse; it felt like she’d broken my tailbone, I was in so much pain.  I remember screaming and crying as they walked out.  They left me there, not saying a word.  It was as if they’d come in to use the loo and freshen up, and with their business done it was time to head off to class.

“I didn’t move for a few minutes; I just lay there and cried.  Then I crawled up into a stall and sat back against a wall.  I was hurting everywhere and just crying up a storm.  Damning myself for coming out, blaming myself for the attack.  I hated myself, because I’d been struggling for two years over who I was, what I was, and here was the affirmation that all I’d ever encounter would be hate.  And because they hated me, I couldn’t help but hate myself.

“I was really, at that point, considering going up to the Astronomy Tower and throwing myself off; I mean, how could I ever go back to my House and face everyone knowing what had just happened?  The alternative was simple:  a few seconds of falling, and then there’d be darkness and peace, and I’d never need worry about being the school lez ever again.

“And then I looked up . . . and there she was, standing in the entrance to the stall, staring at me with the most curious look on her face.  I can’t blame her: there I was, moaning and crying, my face all red, my hair everywhere, wet and stinking of urine.  I was such a fucking mess.

“She asked, ‘What’s wrong?’ and I said, ‘I just got beat up by four girls’.  And she tilted her head just an inch to the right–like she used to do in class–and asked, ‘Why did they do that?’.  I was afraid to say, because I expected her to walk away the moment I spoke.

“But for some reason, I did tell her.  I said, ‘I told one of the girls who beat me up that I loved her’, and left it at that.  I thought, ‘This bird is gonna leave now’, and when she did I could go up to the Tower and leave . . . leave for good.

“But she didn’t leave.  She knelt down and sat back on her heels.  And she took my hand and held it, and said, ‘That’s not right.  Why would they do that?’  She brushed my hair from my face and she smiled, and my heart just shattered.  ’No one should suffer because they love,’ she said, and I started crying so hard, and she held my hand the whole time I cried out.  When I was done she helped me to my feet and cleaned me up and got me to the hospital wing–”

With that Erywin takes my character’s hand and, while crying softly, says, “That’s how I met my Pretty Girl, Cass.  That’s how I met the woman I knew I’d be with forever.  That’s how I met the one who showed me how to love myself as much as I’d love her.”

 

I’m learning that one can’t go forward if they can’t find love within themselves.  I have spent a lot of time looking for something from others, but I never find it because I can never find that same thing within my own being.  There are those I love, and who love me in return, but I know I have to find that same love for myself, or it’s nothing.

It’s really nothing at all.

Through my writing I’m finding so many feelings that were never there before–or were so submerged I had forgotten they existed.  Through my characters I’m letting out parts of my being that I’ve kept out of sight for so long that I’d not wanted to admit they were there.

Writing and creating characters helps me.  It’s part of a voyage of discovery.  In a way it’s my own self therapy.  It’s made me examine myself and it helps understand who and what I am, and what I need.

Maybe, in my own time, and with some help from others, I’ll find the love inside that will finally make me whole.

Wolf Moon and Lesbian Teachings

It was another night under the full moon for me.  Last night’s full moon is also known as the Wolf Moon, because it was during this time when the hungry wolves could be heard howling in the distance.  The wolf was out with me, though it wasn’t howling.  Hell, there isn’t even any snow on the ground, but this is the Midwest–give it a week.

So there I was, driving along just after midnight–it was that time exactly when I left my friend’s apartment last night–and thinking and, as always, talking to myself.  I do that, but I’m not really talking to myself, I’m usually speaking in the voices of characters that I’ve made.  I know, that sounds strange, but it’s one way I work out scenes in stories.  I’ll wait until no one is around and I’ll talk in their “voices” and see how a story should sound.

Last night I was with Kerry, my role playing character, and one of his instructors, Erywin.  She’s actually one of my favorite characters, which, if you knew about the times I’ve spoken of her, then you’d know how I feel about her.  I sort of see her as the friend I would love to have, but don’t.

She’s had a very troubled, tortured past.  Erywin is a lesbian, and came out as such at school, as a young girl, in 1979.  Not a good time to stand up and say, “I’m gay and proud,” and she ended up getting her ass beat not long after her pronouncement.  Of course, said ass beating led to her meeting the Love of her Life, which eventually became a very good thing.

The conversation was a simply one: it was just Kerry and Erywin sitting and talking about Kerry’s and, by this time, his wife Annie’s, graduation from school.  He was asking about when Erywin graduated, and it brought back a painful memory of how, in 1985, her girlfriend, the Love of her Life–who is a year younger–stayed around to watch Erywin graduate.  When Erywin went to introduce her Love, Helena, to her parents, her father walked away, still refusing to accept that his only daughter loved another woman.

In the course of the conversation it was reveled that Erywin’s father died of a heart attack in 2003.  He told her a few year before that he could almost accept that she was a lesbian, but he never apologized for the way he snubbed Helena.  It lead Erywin to say:

 

“Friends say I have unfinished business with my father, and the only way I’ll put this behind me is to forgive him.  But how do you forgive a dead man?  How do you forgive someone who grew uneasy the moment you entered his presence?  How do forgive someone who hated your friend, your lover, the woman I wanted to spend my life with?  How do you forgive someone who never apologized for his hateful behavior, and now can’t?

“No, the business with my father is finished, well and good.  I won’t forgive, but I don’t ever dwell.  I’ve moved on.  And so should everyone else.”

 

It is true: sometimes you have to put the past behind you, accept that things were never good, and keep going.  Believe me, I understand where she’s coming from.  And one should, at times, forget the past and keep looking to the future.

But I came up with something even more interesting from her.  Something that applies to writers in particular.  Because there was a question that Kerry asked a few minutes later.  It was an innocent question, and one that he could ask as he is a good friend of Erywin’s.  And at the same time, it’s one of those questions that, the moment it leaves your mouth, you wish you could recall the damn thing:

 

“Do you ever wish you were straight?”

 

Yes, 17 year old boys know how to bring the awkwardness.  But Erywin likes Kerry; she likes him a lot.  And her reply–as I remember it–was simple:

 

“Oh, now that’s a conundrum, isn’t it?  Hum . . .

“I’ve never been interested in men.  Never.  When I was younger it was always the girls, and as I grew older it became women.  But men?  I can have them as friends–as I am friends with you–but as an object of desire?  (shudders)  It would be all wrong for me.  The sight, the touch, the smell . . . the taste . . . (thinks for a moment)  It’s so . . . alien.

“But most importantly, I couldn’t ever know how to love that person, not the way they should be loved.  And without love, everything else is so empty.  I can certainly love a man as a friend–as I love you, Kerry–but I can’t see how I would ever love beyond that.

“I could never wish to be straight, because how does one wish for something they can’t ever imagine?”

 

And there is a conundrum as well, because, as writers, you’re always having to imagine those things that, frankly, you may never know.  How does one, who isn’t a lesbian, get into a 51 year old lesbian’s head, and imagine them thinking about something that is really kinda foreign to a man?  As someone who’s written erotica and fetish fantasy fiction, how do you take something that’s truly alien, something that’s way, way, ’round the bend, and make it “real”?

For some reason I think this conversation will stay with me a while.

This is what I get for being out with the Wolves, howling at the moon when I should be sleeping.

All the Lies That Seem to Be My Life

Welcome 2012!  The Countdown to Death begins!

No, not really.  If you’re in that group of people who believe we’re coming to an end on 21 December of this new year, then do me a favor and off yourself now–but send me your money, the titles to your house, your TVs and computers . . . in other words, all the stuff you’re not going to need on 22 December.  Trust me.  Your karma will thank you.

You will also notice that I didn’t straight-up rip off the title of one of Harlan Ellison’s stories, “All the Lies That Are My Life”, because it would never be my intention to rip off Harlan Ellison.  And my story isn’t always his . . . not by a long shot.

So what does it mean?  That’s a good question.  I seems like there are tons of barriers we put up to create a facade for all to see.  I’ve done it a lot with my depression, and it wasn’t until a few years ago I started to get some treatment for it.  Of course that all ended when I joined the ranks of the unemployed, but I deal the best I can.  That’s really all we can do.

This weekend has seemed to crawl, even more so than Christmas.  I can’t say why, but it’s feels like forever has passed since 30 December rolled into town.  Maybe it’s all the editing I’m doing.  The edit of Kuntilanak goes well, and I think I’ll finish that today and get it uploaded.  I can’t say if it’s going to be a better story now, but I’ll be a cleaner story.  And it did teach me a lesson about editing.

And speaking of edits . . . as I knew I would, I finished the first edit on the NaNo Novel.  Her Demonic Majesty is through the first draft and revised edit stage, and I’m ready to have someone else proof the work.  This is the one that I hope to publish this year, I mean really publish though someone else.  I’ve already developed some ideas for continuing this story, one of which involves having to get some information from my gaming site that, unfortunately, has sat fallow for so long, but holds such great memories.  May it open again with renewed vigor soon, for I miss my Annie.

I can also finished my work in progress.  A few thousand more words and it’ll be finished, and I can edit that.  And then . . . who knows?  Before I can publish that, I have another novel to edit, and that’s going to be a project and a half.  Trust me: 275,000 words to look at ain’t a thang to scoff at.  That’s probably going to be the project of 2012 for me.

Yesterday was my 200^th post, and strangely enough, someone yesterday read my 100^th post, Centennial.  On that post, a comment was left by a person I consider my “best fan”, Marissa.  She said:

 

“I can’t wait to start on the journey of the next 100 with you, Ray. Keep pushing forward because every exit is an entry to somewhere…“

 

That 100^th post came almost 3 months to the day before my 200^th post; funny how that works out.  I haven’t seen much of Marissa this last month–holidays and all, you know–but I know she’s there.  I know she’s following me.  I know she’s on the same journey as me.

I know it because I feel it.  And I feel it that way with just about everyone who has ever done something good for me.

It’s also true that every exit is an entry to somewhere.  I will have many exits this year, and they will leave behind all the crap I don’t need.  I’ll leave them behind and move on to something new.  Frankly, I need that.  I’m coming up on 55, and I’m damned if I want to keep on living as I have, because it sucks.

I had a long conversation with myself yesterday, and I had to beat myself about the head and get serious about my writing.  I had to remind myself that I do this for me, that I do it because it’s what I want to do, that I do it because I do enjoy the story telling.  Yeah, the editing is a tedious pain in the ass, but then, the only people who say writing is easy are those buttheads who’ve never written anything.  I mean, I’ve never been to the moon, so how hard can it be, right?

I had another strange dream last night.  The funny thing is, while I was running around and having to deal with people who seemed to have strange requests, I felt good.  I felt happy.  I was doing something I liked–damned if I know what, though–and I felt like life was being good.

I was also a girl in the dream.

Does it mean something?  Probably.

After all, that’s why it’s a dream, isn’t it?

Bittersweet Me

Post 199, and the penultimate for the year.  The name of tomorrow’s post will be easy; you may have even guessed it already.

As much as I’ve hated 2011, last night I felt like something was ending that has made an impact on me throughout the year.  As I said, some thing that went down in 2011 were horrible, mostly due to the crushing depression I felt.  Believe me, there were times when things got so bad you just wanted to find a meat grinder to shove your head into.

But there were also things that happens that made it all worth while.  They brought me joy and a bit of happiness when I needed it, and I’m very thankful for those.

Like all good things, though, you wonder if they are lasting.  I know one will.  I know it will always be there . . . but for the moment it’s in flux.  Right now it’s all different.  And how will it be in the future?  Who knows?  You can never tell what tomorrow is going to bring, and if there is one thing I know, it’s that 2012 will be a lot different for me.

I do know I will push on with my writing.  Though after the marathon I was on yesterday, today I feel like I need a break.  Finished up a part of the new story, knocked off another chapter for the NaNo Novel, and ended up editing some 20 or so pages for my story Kuntilanak.

Oi.  Did I find a few errors.  Not a lot; maybe 7, 8 of them, but one was so bad . . . jeez, I don’t know how we missed it.  But I’m not gonna beat myself up over it.  Just make some changes and move on.  And hope it’s going to go easier the next time.  We’ll see.  All I know is that idea I had about self-publishing a novel?  Not without a couple of people helping with the edits.

The biggest project I have for 2012 is going to be getting my first novel finished and edited.  It’s such a monster, and working through that sucker is going to take a large block of my time.  I also want to find a publisher for my NaNo Novel.  It looks good and feels good and reads good, and gosh darn it, I think people will like it.  Does that mean anyone wants to read this stuff?  Who knows?  But I want to see it out there.  I want to see people reading it.

And if I can get it published, I can continue writing about the characters I created.  I know of at least two stories that can follow the original novel; one idea that I had a while back while I was still in the process of writing my NaNo Novel, and another that I just came up with a few days ago, where I saw my role playing character, and his girlfriend, being a part of the world where my novel takes place.  I would love to write these, in particular the last, if for no other reason than I have stories I want to tell, and this is my way of telling them.

At least I have ideas bouncing about inside my head.

Just a matter of whipping the suckers out into the light of day.