Who Are What I Am

I was a bad girl.  I was suppose to be writing last night, but I found myself caught up in some online . . . stuff, shall we say?  Stuff that kept me away from what I should have been doing, which was adding hundreds of words to my novel.  Bad, bad Cassie.  This means I gotta stay out of the social media and do what I’m here to do, which is the writing things.

Though, some might say I did a lot of writing yesterday.  Seven hundred or so words on this blog, another five hundred and fifty on another blog–hell, that’s more words than some people write in a week.  So I won’t beat myself up too hard, but I will remember:  no fooling around tonight.  Get the words in the Scrivener file, and then chat away.

The last few days I’ve been in rant mode.  Can’t say for certain why, but it happened; it all builds up after a while, and you gotta cut loose and say what’s on your mind.  I’ve done this a few times in the past–after all, this post is number 669, and I haven’t spent the whole time talking about cats, so I must have ranted now and then–and for the most part people have either said, “Right on!” or not said a word.

A few times, however, I’ve generated a bit of negative feedback.  Which I’m entirely cool with because–I’m a writer!  By their nature, writers say thing, and sometimes what they say generates emotions in others that cause them to feel like you’re the greatest thing that’s ever lived, or that you are, as one person called me, “an asshole” who is consuming your unfair share of air.

There was on moment yesterday, however, where someone took umbrage with my post where I said people who say they argue with the characters they’ve created, and who say that it is they who write their stories, are delusional, and that this is something that other professional writers have said as well.  They were . . . upset is the best word.  They felt I had no reason to question their creative process, that I came across as one of those people who act as if they know it all, and on two occasions, demanded to know just who I was to say these things.

Well, then . . .

First off, who am I?  That’s a good one.  I could say I am Susan Ivanova, commander, daughter of Andre and Sophie Ivanov; that I am the right hand of vengeance and the boot that is going to kick your sorry ass all the way back to Earth, sweetheart; that I am death incarnate, and the last living thing that you are ever going to see; and that God sent me, but I’m hardly as good looking as Claudia Christian, and I’m not in command of a White Star fleet.  So that’s out.

What I am is a writer.  I write; I share my thoughts.  I put down a semi-coherent thought or two in a medium that it understandable to other, and hope others who don’t do this gig read them.  I’m creating, realizing as I do that some who read will enjoy, some will get pissed off, and others will simply never give a shit.  And I do this every day.  Every.  Single.  Day.  So there exist the possibility that something I say will go sideways, and that’s fine, because that’s how life runs.

Who am I to question another’s creative process?  I’ve had mine questioned before, so why not return the favor?  Since I’m a bit nuts–anyone who has been a long-time reader of this blog knows I’ve discussed my off-and-on struggles with mental illness–I’m probably in as good a position to recognize crazy as anyone, particularly in other writers.  And if I see something that I looks a little nuts, and have tried to speak with said person who is saying these things that maybe they’re mistaken, that they only think they’re fighting with their characters, in which case they may want to seek help ’cause something else is going on–but, no, said person comes back and tells me to fuck off because I don’t understand anything, well then . . . I’m gonna call crazy.  And I’m going to call it on anyone else who says the same thing, ’cause I don’t believe it to be true.

Which brings up the question of, “Well, I believe in muses, so are you going to say I’m delusional?”  That begs setting up a definition:  what is a muse?

Is your muse like Erin, the muse in my story Suggested Amusements, a creature who isn’t human, who has lived for thousands of years and has interjected herself into the lives of tens of thousands of creative people?  Or is your muse like my muse, who is a real person, who is there to encourage me, to give me advice and ideas, who virtually holds my hand when a rejection comes through, and who cheers when I publish?  Or is your muse pretty much the sister of Tinkerbell, flapping about your head, whispering sweet nothings into your brain while you try to advance your plot?

Of the three examples above, one is fictional, one is reality, and one is delusional.  Which is yours?  Chose one, and chose wisely . . .

While I know a lot, I don’t know everything, which is something I’ve learned over the course of nearly fifty years of reading the works of people who have known, or do know, more than me.  That’s never bothered me, because I accept that a whole lot of people know more than me . . .  as there are those who don’t know as much I moi, and I can usually sniff them out pretty quickly.  I had an argument with one of those later types a bit over a month ago, and it is true:  it’s easier for them to be fooled that to convince them they’ve been fooled, and they like it that way, so why bother exposing them to reality?

Every once in a while, however, you’ll find yourself in the same position as Neil Gaiman, and you know it’s best to leave such ranting alone, because that sort of person won’t be receptive to anything.  They got you pegged, and anything you say will only reinforce their opinion that you’re too cool for the room, and you need to be knocked down a notch because you’re really not as clever as you believe.  No problem, Tyler.  I’ll keep doing what I’m doing, and you do yours.

I am who I am.  Do you find me entertain?  Fantastic.  Am I an annoying pain in the ass?  Probably.  Am I talking out of my ass?  At times it’s likely, but I try hard to keep those emissions to a minimum.

Will I please everyone?  As Harlan once explained, it’s not the writer’s job to please everyone; it’s their job to entertain.  Just as I don’t get how people can be entertained by things that I find fairly lowbrow and, nay, imbecilic, I understand that I’ll be viewed through the same filter.

Which is the way of the world.

But, hey:  if this scree still has you mumbling to yourself about how I’m a big meanie and a hurtful bitch, Stephen Fly will turn his big puppy dog eyes in your direction and give you some advice about that lingering butthurt . . .

You’re welcome.

How’s That Apocalypse Working For You?

If you’re reading this, you didn’t die in a massive conflagration of natural disasters that has even bored Roland Emmerich to death.  The world didn’t end at 5:11 AM Chicago time, which was when the last Mayan cycle ended, and the next began.  Nothing bad happened that wouldn’t have happened anyway, and things move forward.

Life goes on.

So does the stupidity.

It amazes me how people are so taken in by utter bullshit every day.  A few years ago it was the Rapture that was, for sure, gonna happen in 2011.  People sold off their possession, convinced they were off to meet the lord, but the only way that was going to happen is if they got personal with a Guyana Cocktail.  Before that it was the Heaven’s Gate yahoos, who at least had enough fortitude to carry through on their insanity and leave the world a little more sane.  And before that . . . hell, people, too much, because it seems like someone thinks the world is going to end at any moment, and only the faithful are going to survive–or, if nothing else, be rewarded with a trip to Heaven Land, or some such stupidity.

And you think this is the end?  Not a chance.  We have another Rapture coming up in 2015, because British Methodist theologian Adam Clarke said so, and no other than Sir Issac Newton, claimed that his studies proved that the Rapture couldn’t possibly occur before 2060, so look for the Raptors (Can I call them that without pissing off the real raptors?) to get all jiggy over that one, because, hey, Sir Issac said so!

People are a gullible lot, and the majority of them seem to be on Facebook these days.  Even today I saw another of those, “Can you believe THIS?” memes going around about there being “December 2012 will feature 5 Saturdays, 5 Sundays and 5 Mondays, a combination of days that occurs only once every 823 years,” and you better pass that along so you can make money.

Pure bullshit.

I mean, it only takes a close look at calendars, and a little common sense, to understand that the whole, “I happens once every 823 years” is total crap.  But it’s easier to believe the crap than it is to call it out as illogical claptrap.  Why?  Because of Sturgeon’s Revelation, I suppose.  Harlan Ellison suggested that the Revelation applied to people as well, and in the forty-five years since reading that, I’ve seen little to suggest otherwise.

It’s far better, it would also seem, to just make fun of the lunacy of the event, rather than tell people who appear to even the smallest belief that the End is Nigh, that they are crazy and should either get their head straight, or to keep their insanity to themselves–or, better yet, get help for their delusion.  Because you aren’t helping anyone by professing your opinion that the end of the world is coming, and we gotta get ready.  You’re a problem, and it would be best if you leave us alone.

Oh, is that too mean?  Just ask a “prepper” if I’m wrong, and they’ll tell you I’m the crazy one.  They’ll tell you the end if coming, and you need lots of things:  clothes, food, guns . . . lots of guns.

Just ask Nancy Lanza how that worked out for her.

Roundabout Gibberish

Nothing starts off your day like waking up to the memories of dealing with idiots from the night before.

Let me tell you, I have this idea for a movie:  Thirty Going on 13!  The story of a woman who doesn’t work and still lives with her mother, and apparently hasn’t had an original idea in her head for most of her life, who likes to take to social media to throw out random shit with this hope it will stick among the few friends she has, and who–upon the moment someone dare question her incredible assertions–begins screaming that she’s being ATTACKED, and that you’re MEAN, and finally, she tells you she doesn’t have to tell you ANYTHING about why she believes what she says she does, I don’t want to talk to you any more, you’re always mean–

And then deletes her entire, foaming at the mouth, oh-I’m-sorry-I-called-you-a-lazy-government-soaking-bum-which-isn’t-the-same-as-me-’cause-I-still-live-at-home-with-mommy-forgive-me-I-say-bad-things-when-I-get-angry, batshit insane tirade of a post, because once it’s down The Memory Hole, it never existed, right?

Good thing they’re a writer (I should put that in quotes, but that’s being mean), ’cause that just means they’ll have time to work on getting that drinking at 8 AM routine, so they can damn everyone else who has done something worthwhile and pass out at three in the afternoon, secure in their knowledge that once they scamper back to the computer at 10 PM, they can get on and Post While Shitfaced, and find the few friends that remain who do enjoy listing to her Crazy Cat Lady polemic.

Seriously, there are enough negative vibrations floating about my life that I should know better than to get suckered into hair-pulling scree that are the 21^st Century equivalent of standing upon a soap box in the local park, and going on about the mind control chemicals hidden in fluidized water, and if you continue allowing your children to drink said water, eventually they’ll turn into teenagers and–Gasp!–start talking back to you!  Facebook should have a button that says, “I’m Now Writing On Toilet Paper With Crayons!”, which would warn some of us that we aren’t going to engage with people who are interested in honest debate–we are dealing with fools who piss themselves at the slightest disturbance of their sheltered lives.

Enough.  Time to move on.

Well, almost . . . the problem here is one that Isaac Asimov pointed out some time ago.  Let him speak his case in his own words:

There is a cult of ignorance in the United States, and there has always been. The strain of anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread winding its way through our political and cultural life, nurtured by the false notion that democracy means that “my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge”.

I am nowhere near The Good Doctor’s intellectual equal.  I do my best to stay informed, find out what’s being said on both side of the issue, and make up my mind using the available facts.  I may not always be on the correct side of opinion, but I’ll do my damnedest to support my side of an argument.

But for many people, like The Lead Paint Eater from last night, they seem to believe that the Sagan Standard doesn’t apply to them, that they are able to voice the most extraordinary claims without having a shred of evidence to back them up.  To paraphrase Harlan Ellison, this is the Clarion Cry of the Yahoo, the person who doesn’t care if you don’t like what they have to say, they going to damn well say it, because it’s what they believe to be the truth–and if you try to bring facts to the discussion, they’ll cry foul and accuse you of everything from genocide to forced sex with their goldfish.

Really, the train wreck aspects of watching an ass like this crash and burn in spectacular fashion is far outweighed by their ignorant, petulant, and at times borderline-racist screaming on any shiny thing that happens to catch their attention for the moment.  It’s not worth the hassle; it’s not worth allowing one’s brain cells to witness such a calamity, and to anguish over whether the choices available are fight, flight, or shotgunning Drano in order to end this exposure to terminal stupidity and bring about the peace of sweet, sweet death.

One should learn from their mistakes.  I have from mine.

At least until next time.

Damn.  I should stick to writing novels, you know?

Guilt and the High Cost of Annoyance

Okay, kiddies, I’m going off the rails this morning and I’m riding the crazy train straight into Rantville, so you may wanna jump off as soon as possible.  Why?  ’Cause things will be said, and there will be . . . language.  I usually leave something for those who jump in and see the warning, and decided they don’t want to go on, so here:  read about how Natasha Kerensky helped The Motherland during the 1917 Revolution.  You’re welcome.

For the rest–onward.

The election hasn’t turned me into an old, nasty person who’s opening my door every few minutes to get you damn kids to get off my lawn, but find there are fewer things these days that prevent me from getting pissed off.  As I told someone the other day, “I don’t have a temper, just a low tolerance for bullshit,” and said tolerance is growing lower by the day.

For example, there is social media, and what happens when you discover your friends think you should like what they like.

I was keyed up over the election, and I breathed a sigh of relief when they finished late last Tuesday night.  I even got in a few digs at the losers, which I have to admit wasn’t nice, but I was in a “Don’t give a shit” mood, and that’s never pleasant.

Then I went to bed, and woke up the next day to a barrage of petitions.

Most of the time I ignore petitions.  If I want to get on something I’m there, but for the most part I’m passionate about those things that touch me.  But the petitions were coming:  Tell Harry Reid That We Want Elizabeth Warren on the Banking Committee.  Tell The President to Have the DoJ Decriminalize Marijuana and Let the States Decide.  Draft Rachel Maddow to Run For Senate–

Hold on there, people.  You’re serious about this?  You’re saying, right now, a couple of days after the 2012 Election is through, you want me to get on a petition draft to get Rachel Maddow to run for the Senate?

Now, I like Rachel.  She’s likely one of the smartest individuals on television, and knows a great deal about how public policy and government works . . . but I’m thinking she’s not the sort of person who’s gonna wake up one morning, log onto Facebook, and go, “Hey!  16,000 people signed a petition to tell me I need to run for the Senate!  I’m on this shit!”

In other words, not going to happen.

Then I got the word that I needed to hop onto a Cause, which is more important than any silly ‘ol petition, because . . . it’s a Cause, and that makes it the Eleven of Petitions.

Most of the time I ignore these as well, because as with petitions, I get on what I want to get on, and most of my feelings do not follow yours, just as yours don’t follow mine.  But when I get a Cause sent to me, where we just have to nominate Malala Yousufzai for the Nobel Peace Prize . . . I don’t want to bang my head on a desk; I want to find the person who started the cause and slam dance their noggin.

Not to take anything away from Malala Yousufzai, because any person who stands up to religious extremists who are so pants-shitting scared of anything that doesn’t fit their limited world view that they will try to kill young girls who are flippin’ them off with a book needs all the support they can get . . . but if by now you aren’t aware that you can’t nominate anyone for a Nobel Peace Prize, you need to get some schoolin’ as well.

This happens every year.  People get together and say, “Hey, you know who’s done a lot to promote world peace?  Glenn Beck!  He needs a Peace Prize:  let nominate him!”  And then three thousand yahoos send off their “Nominating petition” and sit back all fat and happy that they’ve done something good.

Then the others come:  Rush Limbaugh!  Harry Reid!  Sarah Pallin!  Morning Joe!  Dr. Oz!  Tony Stark!  Natalia Romanova!  Nick Fury–no, not the black one, the other one.  It comes every year–

And every year the Nobel people say, “You’re wasting your time; we don’t take nominations, because . . . damn.”

But, hey:  better to take that shot that your Cause might just be the one that gets read, than not take any shot at all.  After all, it’s the Internet:  what’s the harm?

Though this is just small change in a world of Big Internet Money.  For if there is one thing that drives me even nuttier that the few items listed above, it’s getting hit upside the head with following:

Abused animals and military personnel.

I have never abused an animal.  Never.  Been pissed off at them from time to time, and have been annoyed at the neighbor’s dog barking its ass off at 2 AM, but I’ve never abused an animal.  I love cats, and it hurts me greatly to even to think of anyone being able to hurt, torture, or even kill such as creature.

That said, I really enjoy logging onto Facebook at 6:40 in the morning and discovering that one of my friends has decided I need to know that there are all sorts of scumbags out there who hurt animals, so here’s a picture of a dog that was tortured to the edge of death, send some money to keep this from happening again–you’re welcome!

Over the years I have donated money to shelters and organizations to fight against this sort of thing.  For a while I owned five cats, and four of them were rescued from shelters.  So the history is there, and I feel that I’ve done what I can to help animals short of becoming a Crazy Cat Lady.

Then the following happened, and I don’t believe I can sum up my feelings, in words, any better than this:

I love you, Sarah, and I love your music–but it used to be when I’d hear that song, and see those pictures, I either changed the channel, or left the room.  ’Cause as nice a person as you likely are, I knew you were going to show me why I should help this cause–and if it was necessary to guilt trip my ass into forking over the cash, so be it.

And it went on for years.  It’s still going on, but with a different actress, and different animals, because lets be real:  a couple of years after the first, “I’m Sarah McLachlan,” ad went out, the animals you were seeing in that ad were, in all likelihood, dead.  Probably because you–yes, you!–didn’t send money.  Probably because you changed the channel . . .

But now we move over to the world view of military people on social media–and I feel the need to place a little personal information here . . .

I grew up during some of the worst parts of the Cold War, and during the height of the Vietnam War.  The majority of the people in my family were pro-military, and supported the Vietnam War–though I’m not sure if it was because they felt we needed to prevent the Domino Theory from becoming a reality; or, as my grandfather put it, “We need to show those gooks who’s in charge.”  I tend to think it was more of the later than the former, but that’s another story.

When I was eleven I joined the local chapter of the Civil Air Patrol.  The CAP was not just a paramilitary organization for kids then:  it was considered part of the U.S. Air Force Auxiliary.  I was, from eleven until just after I turned fourteen, in the Air Force, more or less.  I wore a uniform for meetings, I went off to a few Air Force bases in my time, and I did my share of saluting people who were of a higher rank than me–which was most everyone.

But I also learned first aid; I watched a child birthing movie twelve; I figured out how to navigate an airplane–and I was the go-to kid when you needed to know the effects of a near-by nuclear detonation (in other words, it didn’t kill you right away), because I was about the only one who knew how to use the circular, handy-dandy, nuclear bomb calculator.  Yep, if you needed to know when you were about to get dosed with lethal fallout, I had it down.

I could have even attended the Air Force Academy and graduated in 1980, and if I’d put in my thirty years I’d have gotten out two years ago, probably around a Major or a Lieutenant Colonel, or maybe even a Full Bird, and found out, for sure, if that broom closet at NORAD was really a utility closet, or if the back was another door that only looked like a wall, and that was the real entrance to the SGC.  But that didn’t happen, and there are reasons for it–most of which I really don’t have time to go into right now . . .

That said, every time I get a post from someone on Facebook saying I have to Like this picture of our people in uniform, ’cause if I don’t I’m not supporting the troops, I want to find the person that sent the picture, and stick a heel from one of the boots I’m now wearing up their ass.

Back in the early 70′s, Harlan Ellison used to call it “Flag Waving Patriotism”.  It’s the attitude that the mere fact of  hanging a flag in front of your house, and talking up a good game about how we need to “kill commies”, you were supporting your country and your troops.  In today’s vernacular, it was my earliest exposure to the “America!  Fuck Yeah!” syndrome, which one can find all over the Internet–and you don’t even have to try looking.  It’s right there.  Trust me.

So I get pictures saying that I need to like them if I support our troops; that I have to like them if I defend those who fight for my freedom; that I better like them, otherwise I support the terrorists, and I probably shouldn’t even be living here–

Stop right there.  You do not get to tell me I’m some kind of terrorist because I don’t like your picture.  Ever.  Because I’m not buying your arguments . . .

See, when was the last time the troops really fought for our freedom?  As in, “You’re protecting my state from the Big Bad.”  Invasion of Grenada, 1983?  Don’t think so.  The peacekeeping forces in Beirut during the Lebanese Civil War, in 82′ and 83′?  Not really.  NATO intervention in the Kosovo War in 98′ and 99′?  As noble as that effort was, I’d have to say we’re very selective in which ethnic cleansing we try to stop, which raises another set of questions . . .

We have lots of people still in Europe, South Korea, and Japan.  The European forces were meant to stop the Soviet Union, but unless you’re Mitt Romney, the U.S.S.R. ain’t been rattling many sabers of late.  The troops are in South Korea because there’s still a war going on there–really–and there are crazy assholes running the North . . . but the reality there is, North Korea has about a half-million artillery pieces pointed at Seoul, and if they wanted to reduce that city to rubble, about the only way we could stop them would be to invade, or light them up with napalm, but still–not protecting anyone here.  And the forces in Japan were originally put there to keep Japan from attacking anyone else.  These days, it’s more like the Japanese are worried about service personal attacking their daughters . . .

Then there’s Iraq . . . yes, we got rid of a bad dictator, a guy who killed, what?  Killed four hundred thousand of his own people?  Yeah, that is bad . . . ‘cept Saddam would have been the first guy to tell you that the Kurds weren’t his people, just as Suharto, the second President of Indonesia, would tell you those six hundred thousand people that died after the September Revolution in 1966 weren’t really his people; they were Chinese, and more than likely members of the PKI (the then Communist origination in Indonesia), which made them even worst . . . and the million or so people he killed while he was in power, using  weapons we supplied, and done with the training we gave to many of the officers in charge of the military at that time–hey, you know, shit just happens, ‘kay?

But, I will argue, at no time was Iraq ever a threat to us.  We got Saddam, but we also got a trillion bucks run up on the credit card, and we ended up with four thousand dead–which, if not given the state of body armor used these days, would have been about five times that number–and we now have thousands who are in need of physical and mental health treatment . . . only, that’s something that’s really kinda hard to pay for these days, it would seem . . .

And just as a bit of a head’s up:  if you’re going to remove a bad dictator who kills four hundred thousand of the people living in the country they run, try not to kill six hundred and fifty thousand of the same civilians you say you’re saving.  Kinda bad PR, in case you weren’t paying attention . . .

When it comes to supporting the troops, I do this:  I try to support people in the government, or who want to get into government  who aren’t going to send those the troops off to some conflict that’s gonna run up another trillion, and maybe another five or ten thousand dead, on a war that isn’t needed.  Like, say, a country that might have one nuclear device in a few years, who don’t really have a delivery system for said device, who could be turned into a sea of glass in thirty minutes time due to the numerous SLBM boats slinking about in the Indian Ocean–but which is sending a lot of politicians, and other crazy-ass Amurcans, into a pants-pissing frenzy because this is the end of the world as we know it, and it needs to be stopped now!

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I’ve heard this shit for fifty years, and I’ll probably hear it for another thirty if I live that long.

You want to do something, get off your butt and do something.  You wanna send me pictures of tortured animals and suffering troops–

I’m all full up with taking care of crazy shit this week.  Come back next week–

You know where to find me.

Down in the Konro

Oi.  The horror, the horror . . . the horror of word count!  Well, it’s not that much of a horror, but sometimes it just drives you crazy enough that you want to go, “Hummmm . . . why am I doing this again?  I could be doing something worth while like cooking meth.  Or selling myself an S&M club.  Or hanging on Facebook making fun of people–oh, wait:  I do that now.”

You get the point.  Sometimes even the best person who’s doing this work wonders why they bother.  ’Cause lets face it, if you ain’t a writer, you are mystified by this thing called, “Story Tellin’,” and it tends to bend your little mind.  (Notice I didn’t say, “Bendy Wendy,” because there’s no timey whimey involved.  Straight up cause and effect, ya understand?)

Unless you’re a “name author”, you’re toiling in obscurity.  And I do mean that:  friends almost never ask me what I’m working on, co-worker give less than a single shit about my stories, and even here at home, the family unit doesn’t ask about about anything beyond, “Are you still writing?”, or “How is your writing?”

To be honest, I get it easy on the family front.  A lot of people I know talk about how the Other Halves are in their shit a lot, arguing that they’re wasting their time with something that isn’t bringing in money, that they should be working on something worthwhile.  It’s always that little dig at the end that puts the cherry on the top of the You’re Disappointing Sundae, because if you aren’t living up the expectations of others, why then, you must be screwing around.

I got two words for these people, and they aren’t “Happy Birthday.”

Yes, what I do with this writing this involves doing something that isn’t bringing in money on the spot; it takes time that means I’m often away doing something that prevents me from doing something else; and it will involve being alone and misunderstood, because if you have months to spend putting words into a computer, and then fixing those words, and then fixing them some more before you send them off without any expectation of getting paid–then why can’t you do something useful?

Oh, piss on it:  Fuck You.  Got it?  Or as Pete Townsend told Abbie Hoffman at Woodstock, “Fuck off my fucking stage!”  Now, I’m not gonna hit anyone in the back of the head with a guitar, but you get the point.  You’re in my world now, Susie Sunshine, and tread carefully, because I will throw your ass in a story where your character is emasculated by insanely vicious chihuahuas, and I’ll love every second of the ongoing groin chewing.

Yes, I’m not generating money with my writing.  Yes, I might not ever generate any money with my writing, and the time will come when I’ll say, “The hell with it,” and stop.  And, yes:  this writing thing mean that I won’t have time for whatever stuff you–and you know who you are–think I should be doing.

I’ve been writing through issues that should block me.  I’ve had headaches that have been blinding enough to make it impossible to think.  I’ve heard bullshit from people that has set my teeth on edge to the point that I think my head is on sideways.

I’m still here; I’m still writing.

No, the payoff isn’t always Sunshine and Unicorns and Lady Fans who want to take us to their boudoirs so they can make us writhe like we’re possessed by demons.  Sometimes you make zip.  Sometimes you make a little, just enough to keep teasing you back to the computer.  If you do make bank on your work, you might clear $50 thousand after your expenses.  Might.

Chuck Wendig has laid out the smack for NaNo, not once but twice.  He talks about prep; he talks about number; he talks about doing it every damn day, ’cause that’s the only way you’re gonna get better.  But he lays out this little gem, and it’s worth repeating in its entity because it is too damn awesome (From 25 Motivational Thoughts for Writers, by Chuck Wendig, from Terrible Minds):

20.  How To Image The Haters

If there is one thing we have learned upon this old Internet of ours, it is: haters gonna hate. You will ever have disbelievers among your ranks, those who pop up like scowling gophers, boring holes through your well-being, your hopes, your dreams. It is very important not to prove the haters right. It is very important to know where to place the haters in rank of importance, which is to say, below telemarketers, below any television show on TLC, below crotch fungus and garbage fires and anal cankers. Imagine the haters herded into a pen. Eaten by the tigers of your own awesomeness. Then digested. Shat out. And burned with flamethrowers. The only power you should afford the haters is the power to eat curb.

 

I’m working on a story that requires a lot of work, a lot of research.  Last night I finished a chapter that wasn’t easy to write, because I found it hard to get into writing.  I ended the chapter, which involved my character being questioned with a police officer, with one of my characters saying she could stand a little more konro, which is a beef rib soup dish one finds in Makassar.

I screwed up that word “konro” maybe six or seven times, and only today got around to fixing it.  This after having looked it up maybe four or five times since Monday.  But I finally got it right because–I’m a writer.  And I’m writing.  This is what I do.

So word to the haters:  get off my tits.  I am me, you are you, and I’m not asking you to pen a novel.  I’m decided to do this insanity on my own, and if, per chance, you find it strange that I’m not down with what you think I should do, tough.

‘Cause if you’re not careful, one of my characters is gonna get dressed in her finest Lolita outfit, dig out those platform goth boots she loves so much, buckle them on, then find you and curb stomp your ass into the nearest hospital.

Only because, you know, I’m totally into non-violence.

But my characters aren’t.

The Torture Muse

Last year, this was a time of wonder for me.

I’d finished the story that would become Kuntilanak (still for sale, still good, still a good slice of horror from across the seas), and was in the process of doing the first edit on it before giving it to the public via the self-publishing route–and learning a hell of a lot of things about self publishing alone the way.  I was working on another story that would eventually become Captivate And Control (also for sale, if you like a neat little slice of adults having a bit of a go with each other, say what?), and would finish that up in the months of September and October.

I was spending time reading, role playing online with sweet Annie, talking about ideas we had about gaming and our characters, and where they were headed.

To paraphrase a line from Goodfellas, it was a glorious time to be an up and coming writer who has the world ahead of them.

A year later, I’m a lot wiser, a little better with my writing, and a whole bunch of more tired.

I am getting more sleep these days, and I’m dealing with my personal issues a great deal better.  The panic I felt the last few months has pretty much gone away, and I’m discovering a better balance throughout each day.  Still not happy with the job, and I do wish The Undisclosed Location would just up and piss away for good.  That’s not happening yet, and it may not happen any time in the near future, so right now it’s deal, deal, deal.

As for the writing . . .

It seems as if the moment I finish one story, and decide to step back so I could recharge my mind, spirit, and need to do something creative, I get hit with ideas.  I have an idea for my NaNoWriMo 2012 novel.  I have ideas for a new novel based on a character design I did for a writing class two years ago.  I have an idea for a Halloween story a friend suggested I write. And I’m getting hit with images of an old story I started some twenty years ago, a trilogy about a ship, a mission, and a group of people who have to made a very hard decision about their duty . . .

I won’t lie:  I struggled writing Diners at the Memory’s End.  It was hard.  It was hard trying to write while feeling as if you were going to fall asleep at any moment.  It was hard writing with tension and anxiety from the moment I got up to the moment I finally crawled off to bed.  It was hard writing when the words were in my mind, but my fingers just wouldn’t work the way I needed.

The story took a long time to write because I couldn’t write.  It was shear will that allowed me to finish the story.

Now that it’s out of the way, is my Muse now saying, “You’ve cleared out all the crap while doing that last sucker, but lookie here, dude, I got somethin’ sweet for ya . . .”  It’s strange that I was so totally blocked up with a story that I wanted to do, and now that it’s out of the way–everything is dumping on me creatively-wise.

I swear, my Muse is one jacked up creature.  She whispers that I need to do things, that I need to write even when my heart isn’t in it, because . . . who the hell knows?

If I didn’t love her so much, I’d kick her ass outta my head.

Into the Haze of Life

This is one of those days that I know will redefine one.

The last few days have been sorta crazy.  I don’t mean crazy as in, “Oh, wow.  Wild stuff going on; better get goin’ on this.”  No, it’s more like, “I’m totally losing it; I should see about getting checked into the facility.”  As in, I’m really on my last good thread, and if it’s cut, I’ve got serious stuff to deal with in a major way.

Last night I tried writing.  My heart didn’t feel as if it were in it.  I did my best, but these things that are happening, it’s eating me alive.  Maybe I’ll get more done later, because even when I’m feeling as if I’m going to have a heart attack at any moment, I need to do something towards my craft.

For if I don’t have my craft, then I have nothing.  There is nothing else waiting for me.  Give up my writing, and I might as well start looking for a nice place to rest for the last time.

I know that sounds extreme, but there really isn’t anything else at this point.  The Undisclosed Location has become less of a place to crash between trips to the job site, and more of a prison of them mind.  At this moment, I’m not there, I’m at The Real Home, though a return to TUL is likely tonight.  Maybe.  Possibly.  It all depends on what transpires during this morning.

There are things to do today.  I’m dealing with things the best I can.  I’ve got support on this end, and I’ve been getting support from other people as well.  I’m not completely alone at this point–which is something that I do feel when I’m at The Undisclosed Location.  It’s nothing but alone there.  It’s the feeling of nothingness, of being isolated from everything but the local Wal Mart down the street, that’s one of the things putting a lot of strain upon me.  It’s helped to be a great writing local, but it’s not helping with anything else.

So many things to deal with:  the job, loneliness, isolation, fear, the feeling that I’m screwing up everything . . . oh, and one other thing.  Something that’s really defining me at the moment.  But nothing I’m ready to speak of yet.  That time is coming, but it’s not yet.  Just like all the events that are surrounding this little episode, I have to leave it for another place and time.

I have to conclude that one of the reasons this current work in progress is taking so long is because I’ve got entirely too much shit on my mind.  My plate is full, and I can’t seem to clear it these days.  There is more calling for my attention, and I don’t have the means to fit it in right now.

Bouncing off the walls, I am.  It’s not quite gotten to where I feel like I’m about to do something totally stupid, but it’s feeling very close.  Objects in the rear view mirror are always closer than they appear, and this one has been tailgating me for a few weeks.

Okay, I’m off.  Even with everything swirling about my head like mad, I can still write.  At least I write here.

See?  Everything’s okay.  Really.  It is.

Four on the Floor

No, this isn’t a confession to the Wonderland Murders, though you never know, do you?

A friend of mine, Peneleope Price, the very nice author and owner of the Priceless blog, tagged me in a post.  She tagged me and said, “You have to do this Meme of Four, Ray.  You have to write out four things in each group and tell people about yourself.  You must do it!  Do it, or your immortal soul is mine!”

Well, now, not that I wouldn’t hand over my soul to Penelope–only because that’s such a sexy name–but (1) I don’t have a soul to give, and (2) if I did have one, My Muse took it, long ago, she hides it in her heart, and she will kick your ass to keep it there.  So, nah!

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to talk about these things.  After all, my life is both interesting and boring, and some people may get a kick out of the answers I set out below.

So, without further ado . . .

Four Places I’ve Worked/Jobs I’ve Had:
a. Akzo Chemicals, North America
b. United Technology Corporation
c. Hover Trucking
d. Playboy Enterprises

Four Places I’ve Lived:
a. Cedar Lake, IN
b. Hammond, IN
c. Merrillville, IN
d. Indianapolis, IN

Four Movies I Could Watch Again & Again:
a. Forbidden Planet
b. Them!
c. Apocalypse Now (either version)
d. Inception

Four Television Shows I Watch:
a. Doctor Who
b. Project Runway
c. Sherlock
d. Real Time with Bill Maher

Four Authors I Enjoy:
a. Arthur C. Clarke
b. Stephen Baxter
c. China Miéville
d. Charlaine Harris

Four Places I Have Travelled To:
a. Hong Kong
b. Amsterdam
c. Paris
d. Bruges, Belgium

Four Websites I Visit Daily:
a. Facebook
b. The Mary Sue
c. Cracked
d. The Rude Pundit

Four of My Favorite Foods:
a. Cheesecake
b. Steak
c. Peppers stuffed with black beans and cheese
d. Italian sausage and peppers.

Four Places I’d Rather Be:
a. Working on a novel
b. In the mountains
c. Hanging with my Muse
d. Gaming (yes, I am a gamer; yes, I’ve been doing it since 1974; yes, I haven’t went insane and killed dozens of people because the devil managed to get to me through my D&D dice and tell me how I can rule the world . . .  though I did date a gamer girl once.  Does that count?)

Four People I Want to Tag:

Ah, and here’s where it gets tricky.  I’m not much for tagging, and I really want to know a blogger before I go laying the tag on them.  For now I’ll say, “I’m thinking about it,” and leave it at that.

Thunderstorm Interludes

I can understand Thor being happy his movie made a butt-load of cash over the weekend, but that doesn’t give him a right to keep me awake most of the night.

The weather around my Real Home has been crazy most of the weekend, but since about 5 PM Sunday afternoon, we kept getting thunder.  Not a lot, but it was becoming a very constant thing.  When I finally headed off to bed with eyes swollen from sneezing, sometime around 11 PM, the thunder was still there, off and on, like background music that the people down the street were playing in their back yard, and that you’d catch when the wind was right.

Then right at 12:30 AM, it just kicked it hard.  Thunder, lightening, and lots and lots of rain.  Enough to get me out of bed and having me checking the time (I always do that), then wandering off to the bathroom before finding my way back to a fitful sleep.

It was like that until I finally said, “Screw it,” and crawled downstairs for coffee at 5:20 AM.  Fall asleep, dream a little, wake up when the night time outside the bedroom window lit up like a Tesla Coil.  Real pain in the butt.

This whole weekend was a pain in the butt.  I’m coming up on being sick for almost a week, and I’m that point in the illness where I feel like I’m getting over it, then it comes back and reminds me that I’m wrong.  Saturday was weakness; yesterday was a whole lot of sneezing and coughing–and eyes swollen and sore.  This morning I thought, “Hey, this might be just about over,” then I was hit with massive sneezing.  Damn you, cold.  Damn you to hell.

I haven’t been able to do much writing at all.  I finished Echoes, and then . . . really, nothing.  As I just told someone on Facebook, since I haven’t been writing I’ve been going a little nuts, and last night I pulled out Her Demonic Majesty, and began doing the last pass polish on it.  I only made it through the first third of the first chapter, but I needed to do something . . . I needed to look at some words and get into a story.

And I ended up rewriting more than a few parts of the section of the chapter.  I haven’t actually looked at it in months, and as I read it, I was shaking my head.  No, no, no.  Parts of it felt very clumsy.  So it got a make over–one of the better, I hope.

Getting this last edit in will become my current project.  I have lots of notes to make for a couple of stories, and as much as I’d like to start on something new, I’m not there yet.  Research, baby:  that’s what I do.  So I still have that to do before I can really get into those stories.

But Majesty . . . I’ve been sitting on that for a while, and it’s time to finish it up.  Time to look for publishers.  Time to get it out there.  There’s no point in letting it collect electronic dust.

Maybe getting sick and taking a little time off is a good thing.  Because it’s given me time to think, and to suffer.  Well, the suffering I can do without, but thinking–always a good thing.

Just need to channel that into something that’s going to be good further down the line.

The Serpentine Dragon’s Flight

Despite the title of this post, you’ll likely be dismayed to discover nary a dragon in sight.  So is there any significance to those four words?  Maybe.  You’ll just have to roll along with me and find out.

Originally I was going to go off on someone.  There was a set of comments I saw the other morning that sorta rubbed me in the wrong way, and I felt like I needed to get on and rant about stuff.  Because that’s the way I am; every so often my bullshit detector red lines and I gotta say something.

The comment had to do with someone who’d apparently seen The Hunger Games, and who’d become upset that people could find a movie about a group young teens being forced to kill each other for the entertainment of others–the others in the movie, that is, not the people in the theater–to be, well, in a word, entertaining.  This person was upset that people were clapping at the end of the movie, and this was, again, another in a long line of indications that there no morality in our society–as, it would appear, there was also no sense of morality in the main character, Katniss Everdeen, either–and it was criminal that a story like this could be considered suitable for young adults.

All they needed to say was, “This is indicative of the Culture of (name of whatever thing it is that pushes your moral buttons) we live in!” and they’d have pretty much hit the trifecta.  Although a comment seen later–”As long as you are doing it (participating in The Games) to protect your sister, it’s okay to kill”–is pretty much a deal sealer.

But there’s no need to get too caught up in this hullabaloo, or spend a lot of time ripping someone apart for a couple of inane lines.  My twelve year old daughter has read the trilogy, and I’ve yet seen her preparing to go after the neighbors with a bow and arrow, nor is she in need of extensive waxing.  If fact, good person that I am, I gave her my copy of Battle Royale to read, telling her, “You might enjoy this.”  I don’t expect her to get into a life-or-death struggle with the kids at school welding only a cooking pot, though I would give her odds to come out on top were such a conflict to occur.

Nor is there any reason to speak extensively upon the morality of Katniss, either.  If you know anything about the story, you’ll know Katniss is directly responsible for keeping her mother, younger sister, and herself feed.  She is, eventually, the breadwinner of the family, and without her they all starve.  She doesn’t go willingly into The Games; she does, indeed, enter in order to save her sister, who was originally chosen by the government to be one of the contestants to fight to the death, and Katniss knew if her sister entered the Arena, she’d quickly end up a bloody statistic.  But the idea that it’s the kids who want to do this, and are okay with the killing?  Please.  This is something forced upon the people by the government, teaching them a “lesson” about what happens when you fight the power.  And the idea that The Games are being used for entertainment is sick?  Um, read a little history, and then tell me that Fox wouldn’t be the one hosting this show if it were allowed.  Come to think of it, American Idol would be a far better show if the Sword of Damocles were hanging over the heads of each person being sent home every week.

And just so we are straight on this, lets go right to a direct quote:  ”The idea for the trilogy was based in part on the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, in which seven boys and seven girls from Athens are sent every nine years against their will to be devoured by the Minotaur, a cycle that doesn’t stop until Theseus kills the Minotaur. (Author Susan) Collins, who heard the story when she was eight years old (about the same time I heard it), was unsettled by its ruthlessness and cruelty. Collins said, ‘In her own way, Katniss is a futuristic Theseus.’  Collins also characterized the novels with the fearful sensations she experienced when her father was fighting in the Vietnam War.”  So much for the story being another example this murder-fest being endemic of our immoral culture.

I know the point the person who made the original declaration was going for:  that these stories happen, and people are entertained by them, because there is a singular lack of morality brought about by a singular lack of religion.  I’ve heard this point made a lot, and I’ve been hearing it since I was about 7 or 8 years old–which is to say, I’ve been hearing it for close to fifty years.

And it was as much bullshit then as it is now.

Morality is learned, that is true.  It is also true you can be a pious person and about as immoral an individual as one can imagine.  As an Indiana native I’m very much aware of one of our favorite sons, Jim Jones, he of the People’s Temple and Guyana Cocktail fame, and it’s pretty easy to say he was both a pious man and as immoral and/or crazy as a shithouse rat.  It doesn’t matter how moral you believe yourself to be; if you’re a sociopath, you’re living your own version of morality–and the odds are ever in your favor you’re extremely eager to get other people to bend to your idea of morality.  Ricky Santorum, I’m lookin’ at you, babe.

By the same token, it’s easy to say one can develop a sense of right and wrong while not being very religious, or religious at all.  I have to put myself in this category, as I’ve been an atheist since I was a teenager.  This downward slide stared when I was kicked out of Sunday School when I was 8 or 9, because I kept asking why no one was upset when Lazareth started walking around after having been dead a few day.  Nowadays he’d get a guest shot on The Walking Dead, but back there–you’re telling me no one freaked out?  After class was over my parents were asked to speak with the sister in private, and when they came out they were pissed, because they’d been told I was “disruptive”, and that it would be best if I not return to class because I was “upsetting the other students with my lack of faith.”

Hey now!

I can tell the difference between right and wrong, and do what I can to help others where it is necessary.  And as far as the characters in my stories go . . . well, a large part of Transporting–the whole third book, in fact–deals with helping people out of something that will eventually become, in a massive case of understatement on my part, “very bad” for them.  The person who instigates the action to save these people–she’s an atheist, as is her eventual partner-in-crime, who is not only also a person who lives without faith, but a lesbian as well.  Yeah, I know.  I should burst into flames right now, shouldn’t I?

Strangely enough, I have written about characters who had considerable faith, and used it to guide them.  You can find them in my story Kuntilanak:  Buana, a traditional Balinese healer, and Indriani Baskoro, a paranormal investigator who is also a Muslim.  Yeah, sorry about that, folks, but when one is writing about people in another country, the chances are good they might just have religious views a little different than what might be considered the “norm” here.

I suppose I have gone off on a rant, but it’s not the sort that I have been known to do.  In part because, from my point of view, I only need state my point of view, enter in a few facts, and be upon my way.  It’s not necessary to jump into the fray with both feet, and slaughter the innocent at the Cornucopia, much as Katniss didn’t do when she first entered The Arena.  Personally, I’ll live how I like, because I find it works for me, and I’ll try to ignore the rantings of others who feel we are like the very Worst Culture EVAR, because there is a whole group of tweeners and teenagers out there who are getting enjoyment from reading the modern retelling of a three thousand year old myth.

Hang on tight to that dragon, baby.  It tends to be a bumpy ride.

Interview with the Puppet Master

That would, um, be me.  If you’d like to check out a quick interview I just did, you’ll find it here.

Enjoy!

Sucker Punching

Here we are, 1 April, and the first quarter of the year is already behind us.  I was seriously considering giving this post the title, The Killing Joke, but if I did that, I was gonna be forced to go out and shoot some girl in the stomach and paralyze her, after which she’d become a genius hacker.  Can’t be doing that; it’s way too early in the morning for mayhem.  At least let me have one cup of coffee.

I didn’t go out last night, which was a shame because I needed to do something.  I was suppose to do a few things yesterday, but didn’t, because when I’m back at The Real Home, I feel like a bum and not in the mood to do much of anything save work on my stories.

But, I can do all those things this upcoming Friday, because I have the day off–yay being a state employee!–so I’ll put that day to good use.  I also have to do my taxes this week, which is going to suck, because I know I owe a lot–

Enough of that.  Let’s talk writing.

In 91 days of writing, I’ve created two long stories–twenty two and thirty six thousand plus respective–and knocked off another forty three thousand finishing an old novel.  If you add up the numbers, you’ll see that once you add in the little “overs” for each piece, we’re talking around one hundred and two thousand words have popped out of these fingers.

But let look at something else:  this blog.  I always made an effort to get in at least five hundred words a day, never less, but sometimes more.  The average is probably around five hundred fifty words a day, so doing some quick math . . . I’ve written about fifty thousand words within this medium alone.

And to believe that, at this point last year, writing was one of the last things on my mind.

Yes, I’d taken some writing courses at the end of 2010, and the beginning of 2011, but I wasn’t feeling like writing.  Take that back: I didn’t feel like I could write.  Big difference.  Anyone can put words on a screen–or paper, if you still roll that way–but having it make sense is the mark of someone who wants to write.

The thing was, I didn’t want to take anymore courses because I knew I could write, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  It was a horrible time in my life, what with depression and a very bleak future laying ahead of me.

The only thing that was really saving me was someone I knew, someone I like to call Annie, who pulled me into a world of online roll playing, and who, through very subtle–and sometimes not-so-subtle–encouragement, got me to come out of that depression, little by little, and not only had me write some pretty good scenes between us, but helped her develop our own little role playing world.

It was only a matter of time before I got an idea for writing, but not before I did my damnedest to toss myself back into the pit of despair and not think about writing–again.

That’s always been my biggest problem.  Its not the people around me who have very often not given even a single shit about my stories, or me as a writer.  It’s always been me kicking my own ass, or coming up from behind and sucker punching myself in the back of the head, trying my best to deliver that one blow that’s going to put me down and knock me out of the writing game for a while.

It is said we are all our worst enemies, and in my case that’s very true, though I’ve called a cease fire to all this bullshit.  I can pinpoint when it happened, because it was during NaNoWriMo.  It was at that point, when I was streaming through my novel, that I realized I’d promised to do a blog post for someone, and I also owed someone an article for another blog.  Not to mention I was doing this blog . . . on top of all that, I was blogging here, and with all this insanity going on, I decided to write about it, and was in such a hurry to get the post out and jacked up the title in a very humorous way, and left it wrong to this day.

It was at this point that I knew I was not only writing, but I could write.

So, 91 days down, another 91 to go for this quarter.  I’m editing Couples Dance, with the hopes of getting out for sale very soon–which is going to happen because I’m going to be researching places to send it over the next couple of weeks.  I’ve got another 400,000 thousand words to edit beyond that, and I’m certain I’ll get the urge–very soon–to create something new.

And next month the erotic story I sold in December will finally see the light of day, and I’ll step into another role:  that of the author being interviewed.  Oh, joy.  I have no idea what that’s going to be like, to be very honest.

But we will see, won’t we?