TS Tate

Painting Stories #15

2012-01-29T18:31:00.001-06:00

From me:

But, he thought, if he could skirt the mist, hide beyond the spray of tides and shadows of twilight, and return home, he could forget this man. He would forget the years of struggle. He would forget the heartache of loss, the blackness of disease, forget the labored loves lost, shameless deeds and lustful joy; he would cast it aside and beg his fathers and mothers to welcome him back into the fold. There, he would forget the sorrow of loving Man, forget their vulnerabilities, their weaknesses. There, he would be free to live without heartache.

Teaser Tuesday

2012-01-24T06:00:00.000-06:00

A Teaser Tuesday from me. Huh. I know, shocker, right? The following is part of my WIP. Feel free to rip a part:

His boots clicked against the floor and with each step, the water pooled in the marble's cracks, spit onto the stone wall. He heard the screams, the panic, and it reminded him of Lorelei and his prison filled with the melody of the Muses’ surrender. A fine time for him, before he’d claimed her, before his powers were stolen.

He smelled blood and fear and enjoyed the bitter tang of it. Fae blood, once his blood, smells of jasmine and his stomach rippled at the quick memory. Lorelei was not Fae, not one of the Legion, but their perfected creation made real; favored above all other Muse, blessed with beauty, with tenderness and Ludas wanted her instantly.

He remembers the taste of her--fine like sugar, the gossamer drizzle of honey melting on his tongue. She spent her days in the sunlight of Changeling Fields, her skin shinning in the mild temperatures. He frowned at the memory, admonishing himself for his forgiveness, but it could not be helped. For all she'd been swayed to do-- the theft of his power, his heart-- the memory of her taste is like a sacrament, erasing her sin.

For the love of GOD stop making excuses

2012-01-16T00:55:00.004-06:00

My husband is one of those rare individuals that can do pretty much anything. Seriously. He can fix cars, make beautiful things transform from bare wood; he's an artist that used to draw on people for a living and he can play a song on a guitar after hearing it only once. He's amazing. He's also, God bless him, insufferably scatterbrained. He is passionate about so many things that sometimes it's hard for him to focus. It's hard for him to choose a passion and make it his life's work. He comes up with excuses... "it takes money," "they won't hire me because I'm too old," yadda.

His passions, his dreams are held back by his logic. It's infuriating. So tonight I had a chat with him, funnily enough after watching Johnny Depp read his correspondence with Hunter S. Thompson. I had a minor epiphany: Thompson did something that many are too cowardly to try: he lived. He lived so much, in fact, that when older age and time caught up with him, he got bored, too bored and ended his life. I certainly don't advocate suicide. I've seen its aftermath first hand to know that it's a coward's way out. Life is hard, hard work and those that survive it are the truly heroic.

But Thompson's life can be seen as a lesson. A lesson that I've seen far too many ignore. Myself included.

So I told my husband that he was responsible for the stumbling blocks in his way. He's making far too many excuses, that if he wanted something, wanted it badly enough, he'd think about little else and just get motivated.

This conversation also reminded me of those in my life who practice the same "But I Can't, No Really, I Can't, Though I Have Huge Freakin Aspirations" dogma. I'll admit I'm guilty of that myself. I dole advice to any writer who'll listen about writing, constantly, vigilantly, but I don't always practice what I preach.

That being said, this is my affirmation; a small testimonial to myself, to my peers about what this year will mean for me. In short, it's time to stop making excuses. It's time to stop wishing. It's time to stop dreaming about the books and stories I want to write and finally bring them to life. You hear that, Interwebs? It's time, right now, right in this very second to make it happen. It's time to quit your bitchin.

I've heard the excuses, and though I understand that life, as previously mentioned, is a hard, time-consuming, dream shattering, soul bruising pain in the butt. I understand that we all have responsibilities, that we all have priorities that take us away from our passions. But you know what? So did every other writer/artist/student/parent/doctor/philosopher that came before us. The only difference between them and us is that they stopped dreaming, they stopped wishing and they went for it.

So, you've queried and gotten no responses? Or, you got responses and then rejection. Guess what, so did these people and they ended up okay. So, your relationship crapped out and has left you swimming in depression and despondency. Well, use that. Get off your butt and turn it around, make it work, embrace the pain and bleed on the dang page.

Whatever you do, stop complaining, stop making excuses, for the love of GOD stop making excuses. You are control of your own life and therefore, responsible for what you do and do not make of it. YOU control your future. It's called free will. So decide, right now how you'll end up, what your life will be.

And, above all, quit talking about what you want to do, what dream you have, what you'll do with your eight figure advance. Stop it right now and get on with the business of making things happen.

Painting Stories #14

2011-12-31T01:45:00.002-06:00

What I got:

Its fingertips rest on her forehead, leaving a thin imprint and the memories emerge. Greedy for her thoughts, for the recall of moments that are the crux of the girl, It noshes and tears through childhood- smiling at the sound of a leg breaking, at the ache of baby teeth loosening- then invading her adolescence- the piercing sting of rejection, of awkwardness, of a body plunging onward with curves and swells into womanhood.

Happy Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T02:08:00.003-06:00

I am thankful for laughter, for joy in every moment, for the trials given to me because they have strengthened my faith. I am thankful to family, for the passionate way they support, encourage and endure me. I am thankful for words, for imagination and worlds yet created, for they connect us, free us, make us complete. I am thankful for friendships near and far, past and present. I am thankful for freedom that is never truly free and I am especially thankful for what is to come, for the evermore, and the promise it brings. May your days be blessed...know that you are all in my heart.

Painting Stories #13

2011-11-15T22:13:00.002-06:00

What I got:

That night, the winds were ceaseless, cruel. Like the quick slaps of a thunderstruck wave, it hedged forward, onward until she is consumed by its power. It is relentless, like him, like his lust, his power and she can bear neither.

Picture courtesy of this place.

Painting Stories #12

2011-10-21T23:20:00.011-05:00

Finally, the muse sneaks her flighty little way back into my mind. So...what brilliant stories does the following image conjure? I'd love to hear your blurbs.

What I got:

She swam the black lake. The fight to traverse the endless waters was violent; the sharp licks of waves slapped onto her face, covered her head and filled her nose. But it was the chase that left her gasping, the flight harried by a phantom pursuer she was certain trailed her. The wind picked up, and on its breeze, there came the whisper of his name, her captor, breathing against her wet skin. Ludas, it cried,a weak moan of dying struggle, the wheezing echo of his lost power.

Photo courtesy of this place.

*I hate code and it hates me. No clue why the formatting is all wonky in this post. Apologies*

Phantom Island Pep Rally

2011-10-07T08:00:00.000-05:00

I'm honored that my good friend Krissi Dallas has chosen my little blog for a stop along her Phantom Island Pep Rally. For those of you who don't know, Phantom Island is Krissi's debut novel from Tate Publishing and follows high school senior Whitnee who has spent six years rebuilding her identity after her father’s mysterious disappearance left her with more questions than answers. With her two best friends, Morgan and Caleb, she returns as a mentor to the summer camp of her childhood. Nestled in the Texas hill country, Camp Fusion is everything Whitnee remembers—except for the haunting visions that only she can see. One fateful night, Whitnee and her friends embark on a magical voyage where unexpected adventure and heart-stopping romance collide—a journey that might unlock the dark, complicated mysteries of Whitnee’s family history. But will she find the answers she is looking for?

The official national release date is set for December 13, 2011 and pre-release copies are still selling at The White Island Shoppe. Register for free books and Phantom Island Swag here and join the Phantom Island Pep Rally by following the tour. Next stop, will be the lovely Tina Moss' blog on Monday, October 10.

And now, one of Krissi's good friends, (and a cutie pie), Patrick, has graced this little blog with his take on the author, (and her sense of humor), and the wonderful world she's created:

Hi, Tee! Thanks for letting me visit today and introduce one of my favorite authors (and people), Krissi Dallas. I'm a sophomore in high school and I’ve known Krissi for about five years at church. Countless times she's told me that I'm most definitely her favorite student EVER. (Shhhh.) I've assisted her in VBU (Vacation Bible University) with our new 6th graders several years in a row. She just has a really neat way of connecting with new students – it’s like she gets on their level. She has a sense of humor about most things and I think that is one reason why we all feel comfortable around her. One year in VBU, Krissi was in the middle of an important lesson when one of the other teenage guys accidentally interrupted with a loud fart. You should have seen Krissi’s face! She was so outraged in such a funny way that she made him leave the classroom immediately and march down to the bathroom. I actually remember her yelling after him, "Do NOT desecrate the temple of my classroom with your farts – EVER AGAIN.” She wouldn’t let him come back in until he promised he had “emptied” himself of all gas. It was hilarious and we still laugh about it. Krissi has definitely seen just about everything when it comes to teens. And she just rolls with it.

The Phantom Island books are excellent with imagery – usually from some of Krissi’s own experiences. I’m a high school guy, but my favorite part in the books really is the “exploding kiss.” (You’ll know the part I mean when you get there.) It was intense – and really good at showing the conflicting emotions Whitnee had! But even in the middle of that drama, Whitnee makes me laugh. Like Krissi. I once took the tribal quiz online to see which Phantom Island tribe I'm in and I’m a Geodorian, in the Earth tribe. Not only am I a Geo because I ROCK, but being a Geo means I’m grounded and down-to-earth. Windchaser and Windfall are nothing short of awesome. They make you feel every sort of emotion there is. I was hooked from the very first chapter and I think y'all will be too! But don’t just take my word for it – read what all the other teens said who participated in the Phantom Island Pep Rally. And don’t miss hearing another guy’s perspective on Monday at Tina Moss’s blog!

-Patrick

Painting Stories #11

2011-09-14T11:09:00.004-05:00

What I got:

It was here, in this valley, among the brambles, flowing stream and cascading play of light and dark, where her spirit sprung so high, so present, that she knew she could almost touch the face of God.

The Night Circus

2011-09-02T13:22:00.001-05:00

Are you as excited to read this as I am? The excerpt is fascinating and, perhaps, I'm behind on 'what's coming' in books, but I'm over the moon for this.

Y'all tell me what you think. I would love to hear your opinions.

The Night Circus Excerpt

Painting Stories #10

2011-08-29T22:07:00.005-05:00

What I got:
It was a chrysalis of light and sound, woven together by the brush of energy she felt. The centrifugal force of magic lulled together so quickly that it hummed. It resonated through her fingers, electrified her skin and shown brilliant and burning in her chest.

The Secret Of Spruce Knoll Blog Tour

2011-08-15T08:00:00.007-05:00

My dear friend, (and fellow co-founder of #writersroad), Heather McCorkle, is hosting a wonderful contest on her blog for the release of her young adult urban fantasy, The Secret Of Spruce Knoll, which is releasing this month! To celebrate, Heather is hosting a blog tour and today is my turn to feature this wonderful book and an immensely talented writer! Below is more information about the tour and the wonderful prizes you can win!! Additionally, there will be a a live chat on YA Bound August 30th with a separate giveaway. The blog tour and contest ends August 31st. Here's what you can win:

1st place:

*$50 gift certificate to B&N (or the Book Depository if you're over seas).

*Autographed copy of The Secret Of Spruce Knoll

*Special swag bag

2nd place:

*Swag bag filled with:

*Autographed copy of The Secret Of Spruce Knoll

*Spoiled by Heather Cocks & Jessica Morgan

*Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green and David Levithan

*Hush Hush by Becca Fitzpatrick

*A Need So Beautiful by Suzanne Young

3rd place:

*Autographed copy of The Secret Of Spruce Knoll

*Swag bag

Comment on this post on Heather's blog for your chance to win!

And now, let's get into The Secret Of Spruce Knoll. First, a bit more about this amazing book:

It’s hard enough being a teenager under normal circumstances; imagine being orphaned, sent to live with an unfamiliar aunt—and learning that there really is magic in the world. Following the tragic death of her parents, Eren Donovan moves to Spruce Knoll to live with her aunt. Little does Eren know the entire town of Spruce Knoll is filled with “channelers”—a magical group of people who immigrated to the small Colorado town when they were driven out of their own lands.
Channelers are tied to the fate of the world. As the world slowly dies, so do they—and they alone have the power to stop the destruction of Earth. Now, Eren learns she not only lives among them, but she is one. When she meets local boy Aiden, his charm convinces her that being a channeler may not be all bad.

For those of you paying attention, Eren is sent to live with an aunt she's never met following her parent's death. So I asked Heather, why is that? Why did Eren never meet her aunt prior to coming to Spruce Knoll?

Heather: Great question Tee, amazingly no one has asked that yet! Eren has never met her Aunt Sylvia before because her parents left Spruce Knoll before she was even born. Since her dad is Irish and her mom is Mayan, the people of Spruce Knoll frowned upon their marriage. It isn't that the people of Spruce Knoll are racist, just that they are worried about protecting their dying cultures. More than that though, Eren's parents wanted her to grow up a 'normal' kid so she would understand and appreciate those who weren't like her. Of course there is more to why, but you'll have to read the book to find out. ;)

Buy The Secret of Spruce Knoll on Amazon and Barnes and Noble

Painting Stories #9

2011-08-08T22:17:00.007-05:00

What I got:
In the distant implosions of superclusters teemed with light and darkness, stars died and were reborn in the snowing dust of new galaxies and the debris of supernovae. Never had she imagined that space and time could coexist as it did here. There were flashes all around them, worlds she could not name or clearly identify.

Photo courtesy of this place.

Adverbs, Those Needless Little Buggers

2011-07-31T22:07:00.006-05:00

There are many constants when you're a writer. Some days you will hate everything you write. Others, you'll think what you've penned is a lyrical masterpiece and you will question why other mere mortals dare write while you are. You will discover the necessary evil and illuminating worth of editing. You will face rejection. And, if you work-really work-at it, you'll improve, grow and ultimately thrive as a writer. These are constants. These are the inevitable little truths that you will encounter at one time or another over the span of your writing career.

You will also, I promise, hear many, many nuggets of advice on writing, on character development, pacing, query letter writing and all those dirty little publishing secrets. Those simply aren't avoidable.

What, I think, is one of the most important bits of advice you'll hear is how to structure your narrative so that you avoid any and all instances of The Clunk. Do you know where those come from, folks? Well, adverbs, of course.

Why are they bad?
Well, to the unskilled, they seem like an easy fix, the clearest and easiest path to lazy writing. These little monsters modify verbs and aren't, on their own, so bad. It's when they enable The Clunk, that you have to watch out.

Charlie Jane Anders, with io9.com explains it far more intelligently than I can with this article. Essentially, Anders echoes my long-held belief in why adverb usage is bad.

They:

Cause redundancy- She crept stealthily. He yelled angrily. They ran quickly. As David Byrne says, "Say something once. Why say it again?"

SPEECH TAGS - This is a biggie and a personal pet peeve of mine. When your character is angry/upset/frightened, the worst thing you can do is TELL the reader what they're feeling. "I don't want to die!" needn't be followed by she said hysterically. If we know that the character is scared of death or is in a situation where death is imminent, the emotion is implied. This type of writing reeks of 'telling not showing' and is consistent with lazy, novice writing.

They weaken your verbs or point out when you have a bad one - First, let me explain weak and strong verbs.

Strong verbs = Irregular verbs (generally) that aren't aided by other tense endings (ed, d, t). They demonstrate action. Example: give, gave.

Weak verbs = Regular verbs that cannot form the past tense without the aid of compound endings (ed, d, t). They 'insinuate' action. Example: call, called.

So when you have a weak verb, your sentence structure is passive and the difference is obvious: Weak: She cringed at the horribleness of her long day. Strong: She had a bad day.

A better understanding of why adverbs should be avoided comes from Renni Browne and Dave King’s take on the evils of those ly monsters in Self Editing For Fiction Writers: “Ly adverbs almost always catch the author in the act of explaining dialogue – smuggling emotions into speaker attributions that belong in the dialogue itself. If your dialogue doesn’t need props, putting the props in will make it seem weak even though it isn’t.”

Still not convinced? I’ll give you an example from Noah Lukeman’s The First Five Pages (which includes both poor adverb and adjective usage):

In the bright, shiny sky there appeared two large, massive birds, circling slowly around the young, scared rabbit. It ran quickly, jumping bravely over small, sharp, rocks and trying to make is way desperately to its little hole. The birds dived ferociously and with long, sharp nails grabbed the baby rabbit’s short, white hair and swept him up pridefully into the large, open sky. There flew victoriously back home their wide, black slick wings reflecting the hot, afternoon sun.

And with corrections:

In the bright, ~~shiny~~ sky there appeared two ~~large, massive~~ (large/massive both describe the size of the birds. i.e, redundant) birds, circling ~~slowly~~ (circling implies slow) around the young, scared rabbit.(how do we know the rabbit is young or scared? Because the writer tells us so? No! Bad writing, there. What indicates that the rabbit is young? How does he look? Is he trembling?) It ran ~~quickly~~, (run generally indicates moving fast) jumping ~~bravely~~ (Lukeman says this is an example of the writer not giving enough credit. Let the reader’s imagination work here, don’t do it for him) over small, ~~sharp)~~ (more redundancy here) rocks and trying to make is way ~~desperately~~ (the rabbit is running, trying to escape predators…of course he’s desperate. ) to its little hole. The birds dived ~~ferociously~~ (is there any other way for a predator to dive? cut) and with long, sharp nails grabbed the baby rabbit’s ~~short,~~ (this would have been better served above, when the writer was describing the age of the rabbit) white hair and swept him up ~~pridefully~~ (technically, that’s not even a word) into the ~~large,~~ (we know the sky is large and open, for that matter but I’ll leave that one in) open sky. They flew ~~victoriously~~ (how does won ‘fly victoriously?) back home with their ~~wide~~, ~~black slick~~ (pick ONE description here and get rid of The Clunck) wings reflecting the ~~hot~~, (bright, above, indicated this already) afternoon sun.

Okay, so this is what we have now:

In the bright sky there appeared two large birds, circling around the young rabbit. It ran, jumping over small rocks and tried to make its way to its little hole. The birds dived and with sharp nails, grabbed the baby rabbit’s white hair and swept him up into the open sky. They flew back home with their slick wings reflecting the afternoon sun.

Still not perfect, (the gerund use is ridiculous), but you get the point. The Clunk has disappeared along with the redundant and poorly used adverbs.

Happy writing!

Introducing LitStack.com

2011-07-30T20:46:00.005-05:00

On Monday, our baby will be here! Adrienne and I are proud to bring to you...

LitStack is a new reviews site dedicated to readers of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, short stories, literary magazines, ebooks, manga and graphic novels. (We'll probably even be posting some spoken-word stuff for the super-artsy types.) The site also features indie bookstores and literary landmarks across the world (one city at a time), and cool bookish finds and news we run across online.itack’s diverse staff comprises writers and reviewers with MFAs and various advance
In addition to daily book reviews and regular spotlights on indie bookstores we love, LitStack also features regular segments to promote current titles and build appreciation for older works.

LitStack’s Featured Author- This month-long series of posts includes reviews of previous releases by our Featured Author, along with a current interview and review to coincide with the author’s upcoming release.

LitStaff Picks- Once a week, we feature a collection of books new and old--the favorites of our staff within a specific theme.

ShortStacks - Original short stories and essays by established authors.

Footnotes - Multiple weekly posts highlighting literary events in history, including the birthdays of famous authors, publication and award dates of classic titles, and memorial posts for beloved figures.

Author Interviews - Launch week will feature interviews with Adam Schuitema and Hannah Moskowitz. In the coming weeks, Locus winner Cherie Priest, NYT Bestseller Terry Brooks and Irish Book Awards winner Marian Keyes are scheduled to appear.

The Book Club - Every month LitStack will have a couple of featured titles; a review, open-thread discussion and author Q&A (when available) will be posted for each book so you can read along and share your thoughts.

Painting Stories #8

2011-07-25T21:15:00.003-05:00

What I got:

The path before her was guarded only by a small picket fence, haphazardly held together by vines that twisted from the willow beside it. Beyond the path, the mist, and through it, the way home, the only home she'd ever known. Behind her stood her family, the congregated past that displayed all she had been, all she could be. Despite her mother's warning, she looked back, knowing she could have never resisted. What kind of soul, even battered and bruised, could not look back? What kind of daughter would she have been not to see them, one final time, and know that it would be the last glimpse.

Ending at the Close: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Review

2011-07-15T03:26:00.012-05:00

How do you turn away from something that has altered the paths you take, the flux and flow of how your creative life forms? Do you walk away and not look back? Do you acknowledge the time spent in this imagined world and recall it as only a faded page in your past?

For me, Harry Potter has never been merely a work of fiction. It's been bigger, greater for me than that and to minimize its affect on me would be an insult. Some may call me misguided, perhaps even a little sad for loving people who are not real and admiring the Creator Goddess of this fictitious world. But for me, Potter was the beginning: the beginning of friendships that I am certain will surpass my lifetime; practices on writing that could not be learned in a classroom and lessons of life shown through examples in words, formed in the imaginary.

So when something has meant so much, given so very much, one cannot simply walk away and forget or acknowledge it with little more than a cursory mention.

Rowling's world became, for me, a symbolic realization that dreams are, in fact, anything but impossible...that what one can fathom, can be achieved. She set the bar and dared us to cross it. She gave us a challenge and beckoned us to follow her along the way to greatness.

I've never quite embraced the love of 'fiction to film,' and so, any expectations for films based on books I've adored have been limited. Die hard Potter fans may scoff at missing plot lines, misspoken dialog or purported important details absent from the films. I understand that. But I also acknowledge that the films are not canon. They're simply another artistic expression of Rowling's work. This last film, however, evolves beyond that.

I write this review with a mind filled of chaotic, nearly bipolar emotions, so please forgive me for spoiling you or waxing on less than poetically about things that may, to the typical movie goer, seem unimportant. Ten years of my life, friends. A girl's gonna babble.

This film begins where Part 1 left off and does its best to set the slightly morose tone. Voldemort relishing his theft of Dumbledore's wand and Harry finishing up Dobby's burial with the fitting "Here Lies Dobby, A Free Elf." Yes, that one pulled a little tear-welling from my eyes.

Then we're swiftly off to Gringott's Bank, where Harry, Ron (Polyjuiced into a Death Eater), Hermione (Polyjuiced as Bella LeStrange) and the goblin Griphook sneak into the belly of the bank and fight the single most beautiful interpretation of a dragon I've seen on film and various random characters who try to stop them from pilfering through the LeStrange vault. Oh and that dragon? Beautiful, but very, very vicious.

Once the trio have captured Voldemort's Horcrux (Helga Hufflepuff's golden goblet for those of you taking notes), we see the beginnings of Voldemort's deterioration. In the film, much less so than in the novels, with each discovery of his Horcruxes Voldemort becomes that more demented, that more unstable. He is quickly realizing that he isn't as clever as he once believed and the result is his loosening grip on what he thinks will tether him to life. His psychotic behavior becomes, if you can believe it, more erratic and a random Death Eater or two feel the sting of that.

The trio descend on Hogsmeade and we finally meet the only Dumbledore left: Aberforth. Playing Aberforth is Ciarán Hinds and he is so convincing that I wonder if he isn't really Michael Gambon's (Albus Dumbledore) Doppelganger. We hear Aberforth's argument for 'giving up and going home' and Harry's immediate 'not going to happen' response, but the details of the Dumbledore family's tragic past is glossed over, as is the basis of the two Dumbledore brothers bitter relationship. However, this scene is done in such a way that I don't believe die hard fans will be dissatisfied. Especially since the appearance of Neville Longbottom in Ariana Dumbledore's portrait leads us to Hogwarts and the bubbling action of the film.

Despite the dark tone of the film, there is humor, given to us, as per usual, by Rupert Grint(Ron Weasley), but what brother wouldn't be offended if his sister completely ignored him in favor of Emo-gawking at her long lost boyfriend?

By this time, we are at Hogwarts proper and quickly subjected to the "new regime" of the school: Snape as Headmaster. Students are lined up, military style, and interrogated by Snape and his Death Eater minions about the presence of Harry Potter in Hogsmeade . With brief prompting for anyone with knowledge of Potter's whereabouts, Harry emerges and proceeds to offer Snape a vicious, (and well-deserved) tongue lashing. They do not, however, duel. That small job is taken over by Professor McGonagall, the ever elegant and brilliant Maggie Smith.

Snape flees, (after receiving quite the magical spanking from our favorite Transfiguration professor) and McGonagall directs everyone to "batten down the hatches" and prepare for battle. The castle comes alive...stone guards and imposing statues are animated and students, Order members and staff pull together to construct an amazing protective barrier around Hogwarts.

EDIT: How could I forget? For nearly four books, many true Potter fans have been waiting. There were awkward silences, years and years of innuendo and unresolved sexual tension, jealousies and arguing but finally, finally, there it was: Ron and Hermione, in the Chamber of Secrets, nearly dying and then...a kiss. Well, a kiss, a tiny pause of awkwardness and a giant smiling laugh.

There is so much chaotic activity by now, (the castle prepares for war, Harry searches for the one of the last Horcruxes (Ravenclaw's diadem)), that I almost forgot what would happen next. It nearly slipped my mind that Snape would soon die and when the time came, I was a sobbing mess.

For years, readers wondered 'Is Snape really evil?' Certainly, if we followed Harry's perspective of Dumbledore's death, we assumed that he was; that he was truly a vile creature who hated Harry because he played a hand in making Voldemort vanish when he was an infant. But with Deathly Hallows we discovered things simply aren't black and white. We learned that Snape's animosity toward Harry had little to due with Voldemort's destruction and everything to do with simple jealousy. Going in, I knew Snape's agenda...I knew his unyielding love for Lily Potter was the genesis of his hatred; that he protected Harry only because he was the son of the woman he loved from childhood. But seeing it? Watching it unfold, was something altogether overwhelming. I'd be an idiot to discount Alan Rickman's talent. His CV speaks for itself. But Snape's death, which was violent and made crueler by the fact we saw only its silhouette, was a perfect mirror of Rowling's description in the book. There was a vulnerability never present previously on Snape's face...there was pain and a real sense that he had failed Lily when Harry watched him die. And then, there was the 'take my memories' bit and the heartbreaking 'look at me...you have your mother's eyes.'

In that moment, with Rickman's face scrunched in pain and regret, for just a moment, Snape is loved and perfectly understood. On the background of the slow, haunting 'death music' I guarantee you, the only other sound you will hear in this scene is the mass sniffling of hundreds of theater goers.

From this point, I'd advise keeping a tissue, or several, close at hand.

We see Snape's memories-- his history with Lily and their childhood, his jealously over James Potter and his conversations and dealings with Dumbledore once the Potters are marked for death--all leading up to his mad dash up the stairs to cradle the lifeless body of his one true love. And, of course, the revelation that Harry is marked for death.

More sobbing here, more necessary tissues.

And, finally, Harry knows the truth. He is a Horocrux. He must face death and he must not fight back, not just yet.

The sequence is, perhaps, wrong but it is around this time that we learn the long list of the Battle victims.

Fred Weasley. Well, I defy you NOT to cry when George grabs Ron and then he sobs and wails over his dead brother's body. Just not possible, folks.

Lupin and Tonks. New parents, which was only hinted at during the last film. Harry looks at their still, pale bodies and, though I know I missed the other bodies around them, I was transfixed. They were dead, to be certain. I couldn't say for sure what they looked like because, by this time, my eyes were a clouded mess and my vision was obscured by the ridiculous amounts of tears. So. Incredibly. Heartbreaking.

This emotional display was only made worse when Harry tells Ron and Hermione that he has to face Voldemort, that he must go to the forest. Thank you, Emma Watson, for having absolutely no regard for just how good my makeup looked last night. By the time she hugged Harry and the trio said their goodbye, I was quite clown face-looking.

My husband is a blokey-bloke sort of guy. (Bear with me, I am going somewhere). He's not very emotional, not altogether a mushy type, which suites me perfectly. But when we read the Potter novels, there were certain parts in the books that had him cursing AND crying: when Harry returns from the Graveyard in GoF; when James and Lily emerge from Voldemort's wand, when Dumbledore is murdered and, of course, when Harry approaches the Forbidden Forest on his way to face Voldemort and uses the Resurrection Stone to summon his parents, Sirius and Lupin.

The book chapter is titled "The Forest Again," but I like to refer to it as "The Escort of the Dead." Of all the things I eagerly anticipated seeing, it was this scene. Harry turns the stone over and before him are his family-- those who sacrificed themselves, either indirectly or not, for Harry. At this point, Blokey Husband was wiping his face and my shoulders shook a time or two.

The chin quivering started properly as Harry approached Voldemort and was swiftly 'killed.'

Then there was the all-too-brief exposition at "King's Cross," with a much 'Gandalf The White-looking' Dumbledore, the hideous 'last bit of Voldemort's soul' baby which disgusts Harry and we're back in the forest.

Hagrid carries Harry down the bridge, flanked by Voldemort and his Death Eaters and the Order and the students endure Voldemort's ribbing that he has at last killed Harry. (Bonnie Wright, you're on my pffft list as well for making me more of a sobbing mess).

Have I mentioned Neville Longbottom yet? Let me clarify: Neville Freakin Longbottom. I loved, loved, loved Matt Lewis here. Gone forever is the chubby little guy who was always chasing his escaping toad. Vanished is the idea of a shy, timid little boy bitterly encumbered by his awkwardness. Longbottom is a warrior in this film, as he was in the book, and Lewis shines in this scene, his monologue perfection. And. He. Killed. Nagini. Yes, yes, yes!

More battling ensues, Death Eaters flee and Mrs. Weasley, says 'the' line as she kills Bella. Prepare yourself for the entire theater to jump to their seats and sing out choruses of a resounding YES!!!!

Yates took some liberties with the final battle and the only complaints I heard about the film have to do with that. There is no great reveal that Harry is alive in the Great Hall because he and Voldemort partake in a bit of a cat and mouse chase through the castle, in the skies (sort of weird, that) and finally duel each other in the courtyard, alone, in front of the castle. The Elder Wand flies up and is gripped in the hands of its true master and Voldemort disintegrates into ash and his no more.

Harry walks through the Great Hall, smiling at all those who remain, then he and his best friends end up on the bridge, battle bruised but alive, debating what to do with the Elder Wand. Harry snaps it in two and throws it over the bridge and the trio holds hands, taking in all that the day has brought them.

And then...

Nineteen Years Later

Complaints about the epilogue have sounded since the release of Deathly Hallows. Many hated the quick gloss over what happened after Voldemort was vanquished. Readers were robbed of any real closure. There were no funerals, no memorials and any knowledge we received of what happened to those who survived came in interviews from Rowling. But the epilogue was written some seventeen years ago. Rowling used it as a device to motivate her to end her series. She used it as something to look forward to. I assume she wanted to see the finish line while in the midst of all those writing years.

In any event, we knew that Harry and Ginny married. We knew that their children, (James Sirius, Lily Luna and Albus Severus) would make an appearance. We knew that older versions of Dan Radcliffe and Bonnie Wright would emerge at King's Cross to bring the newest generation of Potters-at-Hogwarts to Platform 9 3/4. I personally had little faith that this would be done precisely and without bordering on a bit silly. I was wrong. The actors were aged appropriately and the entire scene was a fitting, happy ending to what had been an exciting, exhausting film. I was pleased to see an older Harry counseling his son on how to avoid or embrace Slytherin House. I was amused to see Ron and Hermione (and even Draco) saying goodbye to their children. But as the camera panned back and the activity around them faded, we see the trio- older, stronger, survivors-- watching as their children take the trip they'd made so many years before. They were saying goodbye, not just to their kids, but to us as well.

Ten years is a long time to invest in a series. There have been moments of exhaustion (I'm pretty sure there were many times my friends and family wished I'd never cracked open the first Potter book). But it was a remarkable ride and this film, was, I think, a beautiful 'tip of the hat' to all of Rowling's readers, all of us who straddle the threshold of fan and obsessed loon and to the the amazing, amazing lady herself.

All was epically well.

Painting Stories #7

2011-07-13T23:13:00.003-05:00

What I got:
Her vision blurred and the heavy burning in her gut knotted tight. It had not left her in the hours since he vanished and she suspected it would remain ever present. It crested into her ribs, her heart, until she felt the compression of her chest so that a simple, clear breath was impossible. 'Is this heartache?' she wondered. 'Is this what grief feels like?' The sensation was foreign, something her nomadic, sheltered childhood could have never prepared her for.

Painting Stories #6

2011-06-28T20:15:00.006-05:00

What I got:

Through the darkening sky, she could see the shifting twinkle of the stars clearer than any in her realm. They shown like glitter reflected by the sun as it dipped beneath the horizon and it reminded her of the music festivals in Bethlehem and the Karmiel Dancers. The colors were vibrant and the scent of the air was heavy with sweet spice. That night, when she was fourteen, she received her first kiss. The next morning, she and her mother fled the country.

Photo courtesy of this place.

Painting Stories #5

2011-06-23T20:55:00.006-05:00

What I got:

She did not know where the road led, whether it ended like all things in this place, into the whirling abyss. Beyond the fog lay endless twists and avenues left uncharted from before Man's time began on Earth. The air grew thick and she could smell the bittersweet taste of rain touch her tongue. She let the wind blow violently against her face, move her fringe, lift her collar and then, she step forward.

Share Your Heart Auction

2011-06-19T00:56:00.004-05:00

For those of you that don't know, one of genre's best is dealing with a pretty serious illness and, as seems to be the way the industry works, the troops has rallied together to help LA Banks with her medical expenses.

Normally, I wouldn't ask y'all to RT non-chat or BD related things, but I think this one is important. That rallying of the industry is a big one...an auction with some serious professionals with major skills coming together to lend a hand. So do me a favor and RT the following and, if you're the praying sort, send a few words up for Ms. Banks.

Thanks, guys

#ShareYourHeartAuction for LA Banks wonderful items up for grabs! http://www.labanksauction.org/Auction.htm

--

Painting Stories #4

2011-06-16T20:08:00.007-05:00

What I got:

She lay there-- amid the browning leaves and the sweet scent of morning as it came. Another morning isolated from normalcy, another day in Changeling Fields.

Photo courtesy of this place.

Painting Stories #3

2011-06-10T22:48:00.004-05:00

What I got:

Washed away from the streets, from the cool, black pavement was the past- those years of heartbreak, miles of empty promises and, for a moment, I was pleased.

Photo courtesy of Nola.com

The People Who Live in My Mind and...Painting Stories #2

2011-06-02T22:34:00.004-05:00

A friend of mine said to me today, 'your writing output is crazy lately.' I took that as a compliment. I'll let you in on a not-so-secret-secret: I don't write everyday. I'm not ashamed about that small fact. I don't write everyday because when I do write, I generally produce anywhere from 1000 to 3000 words in a three or four hour period. I can't write at work because the distractions of smacking, gossiping, fussing fellow corporate drones is a bit too much for the muse to ignore.

So I come home, deal with my green, furry and real children, get dinner prepared, catch up on any BDCWB duties I didn't get to during the day and THEN I decompress and finally write. Sometimes, when the muse is in a particularly creative mood, that means all other duties are cast aside. That might mean I'm a bad mama or networker or editor. But I simply can't help it.

Fortuantely, during the past month, the spurts have been wonderful and many. I've revised one short, (nearly there), written an entirely new 4k word short and submitted it in addition to writing three more chapters in my novel. Not bad, I don't think, for a month's work. Bear in mind that on top of all the above, we are renovating on the weekends, visiting family and preparing for the forthcoming week.

I am busy...very busy, but you know what? I still find time for my little spurts. When they come, particularly when they compel me to keep writing, they are, for me, bliss.

My muse puts me into these worlds - these fantastic, grand, eerie, mythical worlds that captivate me...that hold my attention so that all I want is to be there, to live and breathe with these wonderfully flawed people who exist only in my mind.

That's where I am now. My thoughts and attentions are focused completely on my young protagonist and the odd freak that follows her around like a puppy. I am right there with her when she runs from mythical creatures who scare the crap out of her. I'm hunkered down and shivering as she leaves her life behind in a futile search for her mother. My heart skips when she realizes, unexpectedly, that she loves that freakish puppy.

This total immersion doesn't happen with every story I write...God knows I wish it did, but I think it's common with stories we write that have greatest potential. I'm thrilled when that happens, depressed when it doesn't.

So, I guess this post has been pointless, but I just wanted to encourage you to continue...to find the story that compels you. My prayer is that you can be immersed in a world of your own design - living lives that shadow those of your characters, even if that immersion doesn't happen every day, it's still nice to visit.

Painting Stories #2

What I got from this image:

It was then- when the road rose up, clear and present, when the winds had died and the light ahead came from a rainbow and not the blazing glare of a bomb - that she remembered hope. She had long forgotten the sensation, but now it came to her and settled over the loss, the danger and covered her heart.

Painting Stories #1

2011-05-29T01:09:00.005-05:00

My writing mentor loved to give our class prompts. She loved 'painting stories' with images...using the most haunting, sometimes disturbing images to awaken our muses. Oftentimes, it worked. Sometimes not, but these small exercises of inspiration never failed to at least get me thinking.

So, I'm going to start a new "feature" as it were, in an effort to help you (and myself) spark the muse. I'll share a picture with you, one that I hope you find inspiring, in an effort to get those creative juices flowing. You're more than welcome to share with me a snippet or even small glimpse of what you come up with and I'll be sure to do the same.

From the below picture I've gotten this so far:

I watched the world end near the gates of Serenity Park.

Photo courtesy of devianart-com.

Ten Things That I Have Learned

2011-05-25T22:34:00.005-05:00

1. Every single person wants to be heard. Not one of us finds validation unnecessary. Listen and you will be heard.

2. Nothing worth having comes easy.

3. The only true failure is the person that doesn't try.

4. There is no such thing as luck...luck is nothing more than many, many, many years of trying, failing and refusing to give up.

5. You are never alone. Never.

6. What you get out of life, is what you put into it.

7. Art suppressed or ignored, is the greatest travesty in life.

8. You and you alone are responsible for your life. Excuses are only acceptable in kindergarten.

9. No one is given a dream without also being given the power to make that dream come true.

10. There is no power greater, more exhausting, more important, more worth it than love.

Short Story Month

2011-05-15T17:57:00.003-05:00

Did y'all know that May is Short Story month? Really? Well, I swear it is.

In an effort to share my love joy fest of the stories that affected me in the most profound way, I'm recommending a few to you now.

Go forth and read and read more and let me know your opinion of the following once you've done so.

My first recommendation for you is not a solitary short, but what for me has been my go-to collection by He-That-I-Fangirl. Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things encompasses courses of his finest works. There is humor, there is fear that borders horror and there is, of course, a snippet into the life of his American Gods' protagonist, Shadow Moon. Gaiman has an ability that hints of the 'not-of-this-world' variety. He paints pictures with words that are in the best possible ways abstract unbelievability of psychedelic dreams. His is not a talent than can be ignored and his stories are not those that will be easily forgotten.

Sometimes you find a writer without ever looking. Sometimes, when this happens, you are pleasantly surprised by the discovery. While purveying several online journals, I came across the work of Cat Rambo. In the three years since stalking her on Twitter (in my never-ending attempt to learn from the pros), there have two of Rambo's stories that have left indelible impressions on me. The first, is the beautifully written story about a brother who attempts the impossible to make his sick sister smile. Magnificent Pigs, first published in Strange Horizons in 2006, breathes life into the importance of sibling companionship and demonstrates the strength of family and how that strength, like faith, can make the impossible real. The steampunker in me fell in love with Rambo's Clockwork Fairies, published by Tor in October of 2010. This story draws an uncharacteristic view of a woman discovering herself, asserting herself and branching out into new worlds while shedding the dead weight of the man who would see her conform. Feminist, fantastic and surreal, Clockwork Fairies will leaving you smiling and possibly, cheering by its end.

Because I'm an emerging writer and because I know talent when I see it (and this is in no way biased), I'm directing you to Pedestal and my friend Adrienne Crezo's brilliant new short Husband-Shaped. It is all thing literary and heartbreaking. Beautifully written and an expression of what some of you may have experienced = art imitating life in the most profound way.

Jeremy C. Shipp is the strangest writer I've read in a very long time. Trust me, that's a huge compliment. His brilliant 'zombie' short- which ain't your mama's zombie story- is evocative, thrilling and heartbreaking. Go check out Those Below.

Also, the lovely Yelena Casale bequeathed to me the honor of being on her "Stylish Blogger" list. As such, I return the favor and, per her rules, name my top five bloggers with the request to give seven "unknown" facts about me. Really, I doubt any of you are interested, but I'll obey the rules.

My Top Five Bloggers:
1. The aforementioned Adrienne Crezo. Shinny bess fran and emerging writer extraordinaire.
2. My #writersroad partner in crime Heather McCorkle who breaks down the big industry news for you every week.
3. Christine Rose. Anything you ever wanted to know about marketing and self publishing, this lady will tell you all about it.
4. Tracy Clark. Cute as a button and criminally talented.
5. Elaine Lowe. The hands down most prolific writer of steamy stories I know. :)

Okay...seven things about me?

1. I didn't start university until I was 23. It took me nine years to finish undergrad and grad school because I kept having babies in the process. I've never regretted a second of it.
2. I have what Himself calls 'Hobbit Finger' toes. He's not as funny as he thinks he is.
3. Himself refers to my husband. (okay, not about me, but ya know...close)
4. Nearly all of my very closest friends live in my computer.
5. I have no patience for intolerance. At. All.
6. I don't write everyday, but when I do write, it's generally in massive spurts...2 and 3 thousand words in one sitting.
7. My ultimate writing goals have absolutely nothing to do with monetary success. I just want to write, as a living, and not have to eat Ramen every day.

Shabby Chic Writing

2011-04-25T22:20:00.003-05:00

You may not know it, but one of my many obsessions is home decorating. I stalk blogs, I learn and I apply that small bit of knowledge to doing my best to improve our little place. It's addictive.

Very.

Being a good little Southern girl in my, well, thirtysomethings, I've discovered that my tastes and interest have changed. And yes, it's true what they say, we tend to revert back to what we know...gasp we become, in some respects, like our parents. For me, that means planting, pruning, decorating, just like my sweet mama. (The sewing, not so much, since I'm pretty sure I'm ADHD and will never have the patience for that craziness).

Regardless , my interests have changed and though my first love will always be writing, I'm discovering that all my little obsessions are converging.

As with writing, with the collection of experience and experimentation, my decorating hobby has grown, particularly in all things Shabby Chic. I love the process of finding some thrift store goody, painting it up to make it look new and then sanding it down to make it seem old again.

I love the process of breathing life into something that has gone dormant.

Writing can be shabby'd and in that process, can be brilliant. I'm not talking about satirical elements in mashups, though many are brilliant. (I adored 'Pride and Prejudice and Zombies' but come on, who didn't?)

I'm speaking specifically about taking a constant, literal or historical, and twisting it into something new, fresh, yet something that seems familiar. Shabbying up fiction.

Rice did it with Christ the Lord, Priest did it with Dreadnought, in a sense, and even OM Grey did it with the Tudor dynasty in Avalon Revisited.

I think the draw is that we crave familiarity while paradoxically yearning for something unique and inventive. If we look to the the past, we see reflections of things that are present in our lives today. Political turmoil, wars, the liberation of nations under tyrannical rule...the evolution of industry and the battle between those who shun that industry in favor of faith. I personally tend to sit in the middle of those two.

But it is this desire, I think, for something old-made-new that attracts readers to mashups. We have this curiosity about the past with the hope that we will not repeat the sins of our fathers.

So, I'm curious...of the deep well of past inspiration, what would interest you the most? Would you read something that dwells on the private life of the Virgin Queen or the how Mr. Tesla came to his theories? Would you like to see the last year of Poe's life or would the genesis of Shakespeare's career be more interesting to you?

Talk amongst yourselves.

Review: Pale Demon by Kim Harrison

2011-03-23T23:53:00.001-05:00

There are a hundred different reasons why we read.

Some of us like the process of acquiring knowledge on a given subject. Some like the escapism provided by an underdog overcoming insurmountable odds. In any given story, the reader can become an active participant. We see ourselves in the characters we read about, or we can at least sympathize with the hero, with the damsel, with the everyday Joe whose journey we purposefully decide to follow.

We read for enjoyment, for the needed desire to feel joy, terror, passion, heartache because those are the emotions that make us feel alive. I read to don the heroine’s vestige, to see what depths of surrealism can be imagined. And when it’s done well, when the writer becomes much more than a mere Creator God of a wholly new world, I continue to read, as I have with Kim Harrison’s work.

I’ve followed Harrison’s Hollows series through nine action-packed, tear jerking, and imaginatively exhaustive books. I started reading about her protagonist, Rachel Morgan, because I wanted to see what antics the white witch would get up to. I continued to read because Harrison made Rachel real.

During the series, Rachel has discovered the secrets of her childhood, has mourned the loss of a lover, has been betrayed, nearly killed (on multiple occasions), and has emerged from each adventure a bit wiser, a bit more cynical. Still, she maintains the heart of who she is: not just a white witch placed in difficult situations, but also a fighter who never backs down.

In Pale Demon, the ninth book in the Hollows series, Rachel is forced into a road trip with Trent Kalamack, the elf she loves to hate and finds impossible to ignore. Through the series, Kalamack has manipulated his way into Rachel’s life, first as a nemesis then as her unwilling familiar. In Pale Demon, he convinces Rachel he’ll be able to get the shunning she received for performing black magic by the witch’s coven removed if she agrees to get him to the West coast so that he can complete a secretive Elven quest.

Blacklisted from all other manner of travel, Rachel has no choice but to take Trent up on his request. With assassins tailing them, Rachel, Trent and her partners Jenks the pixy and Ivy the “living vampire” make the trek from Cincinnati to San Francisco while fighting their attackers, barely surviving eleven magic and running from a century’s old demon who has formed an obsession with Rachel.

Getting to their destination, as the old cliché goes, isn’t the point. In Pale Demon, it’s the journey that matters; it’s what makes Rachel embrace her heritage and the notion that moving forward doesn’t always mean saying goodbye.

With this chapter in the Hollows series, Rachel isn’t the only character shifting focus and altering realities. Trent, the paradigm of a glossy public figure hiding darker, ulterior motives, changes before our eyes. We, right along with Rachel, find the elf’s layers being stripped away and what is left endears him to us, forces us to see him differently as his agendas are revealed.

But it is the revelations that Rachel discovers about herself that brings surprise and intrigue to the forefront in Pale Demon. She discovers more about herself and her magic, still leaving us at the end with the idea that her new realizations won’t limit her.

Like the other books in the series, Pale Demon’s focus isn’t solely centered on plot, but rather on the family Rachel has constructed for herself. It is these essential relationships that make Rachel fight, that gives her the motivation to move forward and, in a sense, the strength to accept who she truly is.

Harrison imparts authenticity into her books, making the world in which Rachel and her partners live a vivid reality separate from ours only by the absence of magic and the social hierarchies of her many mythical creatures. We don’t see these characters as caricatures of fantasy standards, but rather as people with whom we identify and whose plights we draw into our own sensibilities. We like them. We hate them. We feel like permitted voyeurs into Rachel’s world because Harrison has given us an open invitation to live the adventure right along with her characters.

Pale Demon reflects a journey that Rachel undertakes to discover truths about herself and the people around her. But the road is strewn with more obstacles to overcome, more demons to face. A road that, like Harrison’s readers, I can’t wait to travel further down.

Back to the beginning

2011-02-28T21:48:00.002-06:00

Tonight, my sweet friend Bree reminded me of why I started writing.

I didn't begin my journey with dollar signs or Nebula's in my eyes.

I never saw my agenda based upon how many tours I could do or what superstar agent I'd managed to land.

I started writing for the pure joy of it. I started writing because I had to, because there were stories and characters who lived in my mind and demanded to be given breath and life.

But like so many of you, I'm sure, the years of education and experience have shifted my purpose. As of late, I've been writing to fit into a given standard. I've written to fall in line with what others insist is acceptable. In short, I haven't truly written for myself.

I don't blame anyone but myself. You see, I've found that when we begin to focus on the business of writing rather than the art of it, the result is, many times, stories that are only half imagined, that only realize their potential in the vaguest sense.

Now, I don't believe it's a bad thing to understand the way publishing works or what is "publishable." I'm not completely green; I do understand that books need to be sold. But I've become disheartened by the motivation for which I write. It bothers me immensely that I've put aside the joy of writing for the duty of it. Honestly, I can't remember the last time I wrote with raw, unabashed fervor, with the purpose of only writing a story I want to read.

As I told a friend of mine tonight, sometimes the best stories we write are the ones we keep hidden from the world.

So instead of setting word count goals for myself, my intentions have changed. Instead of making myself adhere to some certain genre requirement, I'm going to try to go back to my old love: pure, joyful writing.

#writersroad Blog Post: The Road to Routine

2011-01-24T22:05:00.002-06:00

Since the illustrious Heather McCorkle will be off being proactive this week, I'm going to try my hand at hosting Thursday's WritersRoad chat on Twitter, hence the unexpected and not-related-to-TeaserTuesday-post. Sorry, Judy. I'm still editing and actually making process! :)

It was brought to my attention that many times in our chats, our focus tends to drift toward the act of publishing rather than the skill of writing. Don't get me wrong, I adore all of our topics and chats and I find that the process each published writer takes toward publication is fascinating. It can offer invaluable information for anyone just setting out on the publication journey. But I think as Heather's last post and our last chat demonstrated, the foundation of writing should be more important than the 'business' of publishing and/or the business of establishing a writing platform. With that in mind, this week, I'd like to discuss how to build that foundation by exploring our individual writing routines.

Every writer has a different modus operandi when it comes to laying the basis of their work. Some of you may be early risers and prefer be up before the sun sets to knock out the next Great American/Australian/Canadian/Irish/Scottish/Vulcan Novel. Kudos to you all! I find your ability to wake up and write enviable.

Others, like yours truly, need the still quiet of a sleeping home or the soft whirl of a Cappuccino machine to awaken our muses. Do you use a laptop or PC or is freehand the only way you're able to kick the muse in gear? Can you only write at night and on weekends because, like me, you're stuck in the Seventh Circle of Corporate Hell? Do you steal company time and flesh out plot and character development while your boss' door is shut during lunch? (Guilty of that one).

The point of asking all of this is to illustrate a routine; that indelible little method you implement to get your fingers moving and breath inserted into your characters and their world.

I believe that a routine is the spark that ignites a story's foundation. It is the intrinsic necessity that is required of the writer, the method by which we get the ball rolling.

Now, not everyone will agree with me. Many writers view the creative process as 'feast or famine' in that when they're writing it is thousands of words and hundreds of pages at a time. During the famine, not a single word makes it onto the page for months. That, I think, may be the last luxury of the unpublished writer. Once publication happens, those moments of famine seems to disappear. Or so I've been told.

For me, deadlines are key. I love pressure. I love the anxiety of thinking I just might not make my deadline. I love the idea of sitting down and thundering out something while the minutes slip by too quickly. I thrive on it and, oddly enough, it's when my best work is born. Lord knows that's how I survived graduate school.

Ultimately, I think the way your routine functions isn't nearly as important as the organization and commitment you put into it. My advice (which I'm trying to apply to my own routine) is to make certain your process is attempted at least once a day. I believe that writing, for a true writer and not the writing hobbyist, is make writing a part of your daily tasks. (Though I don't think 'task' is quite the right word). It should be as commonplace to you as brushing your teeth and cleaning behind your ears. If you are a writer, if your intention is to express your passion in written art, then it is necessary to make it a part of your everyday life. If you do that, I think the groundwork for your writing foundation can be laid and though it might not be an easy or convenient process, it is one that directs how strong and sound that foundation becomes.

BDCWB Bookclub

2011-01-17T23:21:00.002-06:00

In an effort to promote great literature and great discussions among readers, BDCWB proudly introduces our BDCWB Book Club. Now, before you start rolling your eyes, thinking that I'm being all sales pitchy, bear in mind that this ain't your Mama's book club. (Apologies to my fellow English nerds for making you cringe).

BDCWB loves to foster communication by and about writers and with the book club, the intention is to continue that productive energy into discussions about great books. This is an effort to not only support the endeavors of some great writers, but to openly discuss the merits or pitfalls of the books we read on a monthly basis.

According to BDCWB:

Members have the opportunity to chose from five of our genre based book clubs: Literary, African American Fiction, Romance, Young Adult and Sci-Fi/Fantasy. And the best part, is that each book club features all of the same great membership benefits:

Moderated chats with the author of the selected books
Q&A sessions with book printers, graphic designers, publishers and agents
Daily open forums and discussion posts
Gift card and book giveaways

Monthly membership to the Best Damn Book Club is $5 (or $20 if you want a signed copy of the book shipped to your house).

So if you're looking for a way to have honest, intelligent discussions with fellow readers while supporting the publishers and writers you love to read, do us a favor and join the party.

We have cookies.

Well, we have metaphorical cookies and, um, there's less calories in those.

Ah...resolutions

2011-01-04T00:50:00.002-06:00

I know. I KNOW. You want an ending to "Wishing Well."

Judy, I know, trust me.

I can only offer you a lame "it was the holidays and my muse abandoned me" excuse.

It seems she deserts me when the leaves turn. It seems my excuses are plenty and my motivation is null, particularly when bombarded with holiday/end of the year responsibilities.

So I won't insult any of you by saying the story will be completed in x number of days, because, to be honest, I'm not certain when the missing muse will reemerge. However, I can tell you that I've been editing it and that I believe I see the light at the top of that dark, freak-ravaged well.

Pun, intended.

This time of year it's normal to see the majority of posts and tweets and status updates that beg the same silly question: "What's your New Year's resolution?"

Generally, I don't make them because I'm SUCH the procrastinator and likely undiagnosed ADHD sufferer that what I've resolved to accomplish in the beginning of the year is forgotten around Mardi Gras time.

So this year, prompted by the wise words of a dynamic woman in my church, I won't make resolutions. Rather, I'm going to choose a word for the year. One simple word that defines all that I hope to accomplish.

That word, for me, is: organize.

Time management has never been a strong quality of mine. I work best at the final-really-there-is-no-time-deadline. I love the pressure. I thrive on it. (Might be why my cholesterol and blood pressure is so dang high). But with so much on my plate (BDCWB, family, job, #writersroad, writing responsibilities AND starting a tiny side business), the time has come to organize the chaos.

No resolutions for me. Just a word, a simple word that I hope directs my path this year.

So, my sweet friends, what will your word for 2011 be?

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Review

2010-11-19T10:07:00.002-06:00

A warning: If you're reading this blog because you found me on twitter and you're accustomed to my teasertuesday entries, I apologize for expressing my inner nerd here. If you're reading this because I linked you from facebook then you are likely well aware of my long-standing nerdom for which I make no apologies.

That said...

For many of us rabid Potter fans, The Deathly Hallows is main course being served in preparation for the delicious, much anticipated desert. It is the first part of what we hope is a true representation of all the lush detailing Rowling gave us in the final book...resolutions to the conflict we'd considered for a decade. It goes without say that if you haven't read the books then the films will leave you will a sense that something is missing. Sadly, that's the nature of the beast. The films, while exciting and thrilling, simply can't compare to the magnitude of plot that cannot be experienced by letting your Potter journey begin and end in a theater.

Many aspects present in the books are, of course, missing in the film and some have previously been glossed over to accommodate time and budget. But the first part of Deathly Hallows, like films past, gets the job done and does it well.

I'll say this first and foremost, this film, as well as the previous one, Half Blood Price, has a decidedly dark overtone. This is not a trick of creative license on director David Yates' part, however, but rather a necessary expression of the tone and feel of the final two books. War is approaching. People die. Communities are seeing the ravages of impending doom because that is what happens when tyrants begin their dance of mayhem and violence.

Harry, Ron and Hermione have a job to do-- to find and destroy Horcruxes, objects containing parts of Voldemort's soul. Without doing away with these objects, killing The Dark Lord will be impossible. Since Dumbledore's death said Dark Lord and his minions have been doing their level best to find Harry, destroying whoever gets in their way in the process. Hence, all the death and violence.

The films walks in the shadow of the books. They skip along in the shadows of the detail Rowling has laid, but essential plot elements are still there: Harry leaves his Aunt and Uncle's home for the last time, though, I was disappointed that it was less dramatic than the Dursley's common muggle reaction in the book. The Seven Potters scene is wonderful, very funny and gives viewers a sense of Radcliffe's comedic timing. George Weasley's injury is verbatum to the book and done justice by Oliver and James Phelps, who are, let's be honest, the truest representation of the Weasley twins we could have ever hoped to see. Much of the film continues in this vein--some being perfect copies of Rowling's work, some skimming the surface of that perfection.

Now, because I was asked to give the goods, I'll say that those hoping for the small subtleties of the Ron/Hermione dynamic will not be disappointed. No, we have yet to see the grand romantic gesture yet (Hermione does not level her snog attack on Ron's face until the second half of the final film), we DO see some very obvious interest between the two. Yes, Juliana, there are many, many longing looks, you will particularly like when Hermione tries to teach Ron the piano and yes, it appears that the "they must have fallen asleep holding hands" bit is there indeed. Also, anticipate a collective "awe" from the entire auditorium when Ron explains how he found his way back to Hermione. Oh and yeah, there are loads of small touches and consolations.

Film Ron did not carry on in the 'exact' manner that book Ron did whilst Bella is torturing Hermione, but Grint was remarkable at expressing his characters desperation. And in that same vein, I'll say that of all the child actors to graduate from the Potter Academy of Film, Grint must be the valedictorian. He can say more with one look than some actors seasoned by fifty years of time and experience. The young man is remarkable, beyond talented and is heading for a lifetime of acting success. I look forward to seeing it.

Another note to my fellow nerds, the Riddle "Harry/Hermione" is astonishing. Trust me, you have not seen a Harry or Hermione like this. They emerge from the locket to taunt Ron in very weird pseudo forms, too perfect, too controlled and niggle Ron into overwhelming fury, particularly when they 'wrap' around each other and begin a smooch that is seductive, alluring and well, let's just say, I found it necessary to cover my seven-year-old's eyes whilst the snog fest went on and on.

Shining in a very tight second to Grint in way of performance is Emma Watson. I completely adore this young woman and have faith that should she decide to continue in her career, she'll thrive and succeed with grace and elegance.

And folks, you are fools if you do not bring along a hankie. Dobby the House Elf. I won't say more to that than, dear Lord, my eyes are absolutely leaking.

So, I'll end my geek fest by saying this: the first part of Deathly Hallows, while not filled with comedy or a large abundance of action, is what I expected, what pleased the die hard Potter book fan in me--the long withheld breath that fills the lungs, that anticipates the thrill ahead, just like a ride on a roller coaster where you can see the plunging dip ahead, where you know you'll soon be screaming and flailing your arms from the thrill of the ride. It's the breath you take before beginning a journey from which you're not certain you'll end unscathed.

Wishing Well, Part 5

2010-11-02T17:45:00.003-05:00

I meant to finish this up today, but NaNo has made me a slave of my muse. Next week should be the last installment of this little story. Please comment!

He looked more human than the others, his skin free of the frayed texture of their gray skin tone. He was clean shaven and the only defect on his face was a wide scar, deep and red, beneath his left eye. He wore a thin white linen suit, crisp and creased as though he’d taken it from its packaging and settle into it right away. His hair was long and black as a crow’s feather. It curled past his small ears and was pulled back by a thin hemp strap.

“Who are you?” I asked. I lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the incandescent brightness that shone from his head and arms. It reminded me of the reflection of lake waves on midday.

“Some call me friend.” He moved around me like the others, draping his body behind my shoulders, around my arms, but he did not frighten me. He smelled of lilies and when his fingers brushed across my cheek, I felt the velvet smoothness of that flower. “Some call me enemy.”

He let his hand rest on the small of my back while he stood at my side. I had long-since stop wondering how these creatures could defy gravity or suspended logic.

“Miss Matthews, do you know why you are with us?”

I was afraid to answer, still troubled by the cruel evidence of my past sins, still consumed by the weight of my shame. Was I being disciplined? Was this man the punisher, set in a fine cast, wearing a warm smile to lessen the shock of my judgment?

I looked away from his face and stared at the fine hairs on his ear. “I was dared.” The words came out weak and low enough that I was certain the man would not hear them.

“A dare? How very odd that you would accept a challenge from such weak-minded, simple girls. Girls who have no hope but what they are told to have from others.” I did not know how he knew of Ruth and her friends or how he could so accurately describe them. The man touched my chin and I lifted my head up to stare into his black eyes. The lily fragrance was diminishing. “You are here, Miss Matthews, to see the truth.”

“Whose truth?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“All truth.”

He turned from me and lifted his hand, waving it once in front of the well wall until that white fog that heralded my past sins, returned and covered me. It shifted around my neck and moved the damp hair from my cheeks.

I saw a green light flash, like the quicksilver of lightening cracking across the black, starless night sky.

What I saw made me hold my breath.

I stood beneath the thin veil of the fog, my hair longer, my breast fuller, my hips rounder. I walked near the bank of Redwood Lake, holding the hand of a child. She was small, no more than five or six, with long blond hair that trailed past her waist. She ran ahead of me, following a golden dog who barked at something in the treetops above us.

“Tomorrow is a gift given to those willing to sacrifice,” the man said. I could not see him, did not take notice of where he stood, too consumed by this older version of myself, took caught up in the beautiful child and her play. “Gifts are not offered so easily, Miss Matthews.” His voice sounded behind me, somewhere in the depths of the well I had no interest in discovering.

The scene shifted and a still older Blythe Matthews appeared. Her hair was graying, but she was not elderly; still firm in her body, still having a solid, straight frame as she danced and twirled with a man. His face was hidden to me though I could clearly see the shape of his head and the length of his hair. His features, however, were blurred as though intentionally blotted out to keep me from a complete image of him.

“Sunshine,” he called Blythe. “My sunshine.”

The Blythe before me smiled and nestled her head against his broad chest. Content. Pleased.

“Tomorrow comes to those who choose it.” The man’s voice now sounded deeper and held a sterner timber. “Only to those who choose well, Miss Matthews.”

Again the green light flickered and the fog became thick, so thick and expansive that I could barely make out the figures that moved within it. I saw myself as very old. My back curved and my hands were twisted by the cruelty of time. My cheeks were heavily concaved and the skin on my face was thin and lined with deep wrinkles. Despite all this, despite the evident twist of my body and the old creases on my face, the old woman before smiled a toothless grin, surrounded by a room of people I did not know.

She laughed and giggled at two young children playing a game. They were all assembled in the front room of a cottage, every inch of the place taken by couples, by children, by an assortment of people that reminded me of my parents, of my brothers and cousins.

They were a family I had not yet designed; a consortium of lives that existed in my future, suspended in wait for the choices I had yet to make.

“Choose wisely,” the man said. The fog lifted and he stood before me. He had grown older. His hair was now thin and gray. His smooth skin was creased and he stood slumping in front of me. The sock of his appearance made me reach out to cradle his face.

“What’s happened to you?”

“Time,” he said, his grin weak, his lips giving a small view of missing teeth, “time transforms us all.” I felt the sting of tears corner in my eyes, not certain why I should feel such worry and sorrow for this strange man. His long fingers wiped back the moisture on my face. “Choose well.”

###

Teaser Tuesday Wishing Well, Part 4

2010-10-26T16:44:00.002-05:00

*This one is a bit out of left field*

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

“Such pity.”

“Such shame.”

When one creature spoke, the other immediately answered. I could not bear to look at them—their stench and the feel of their loose, moist skin was too much sensation for me— but I had gleaned the wide spherical shape of them, the make of their long limbs and the thin texture of their skin.

My descent slowed and I found myself wrapped in their embrace, unable to move my legs or even shrug my shoulders. Their grip was like a slack-fitted vice, not constricting but confining enough that I had no chance of escape.

“We see…”

“Within…”

Both creature slid up my body and rubbed their long noses against my temples and I could tell that they were naked. One female, one clearly male.

“So much promise…”

“So much doubt…”

I felt the cool lick of them pressing on my mind. There came a shudder of my breath and the rasp of my voice sticking in my throat before their grip tightened and I struggled to breathe.

I tried to plead, to mutter “please, stop,” but the only sound I heard was the forced gurgle of air leaking past my lips.

“To dream…”

“Is to die…”

“To die…”

“Is to choose...”

With another squeeze around my chest and the pump of their tongues on my mind, my eyes opened, but I did not see gray, wet well brick or even the queer green lewd figure gyrating in their perversion. I saw, through a mist of white fog my life set present and real. Every sin open to be discovered, every shameful thought tangible.

I watched, horrified, as a younger version of myself lifted three gold coins from my dead grandmother’s jewelry box. That bounty had bought three bobbins of red and pink ribbons despite the winter’s harshness and my parents struggle to keep us fed.

Then I saw an only moderately aged version of myself hiding beneath the cellar doors to spy on William Hunter as he stripped himself completely of muddy clothes near the horse trough. The baker’s coach had overturned, the horses spooked by a painted black rope fashioned to mimic a snake, tied beneath their reins. One horse had to be put down and William lost his job delivering the baker’s orders that summer.

Then, the Blythe Matthews from just two summers ago, holding her father’s whiskey under her arm, already flirting near drunkenness, racing into the Hollows to meet Riley Cormac past a secluded field of heather. Never mind that her father had forbid her from ever seeing Riley. No matter that he was promised to Elisabeth Hillson.

More flashes came, more retellings of all my wrong doings until I felt I could no longer bear the weight of my shame— until I thought I may burst from the heartache I caused and, heartache there was, right before me: my mother crying into my father’s chest, worried at how thin we’d grown; William shielding his face from his father’s fists as he explained he could no longer return to the baker’s shop; Elisabeth staring over the railings of Dunleery Bridge, her belly round, no ring on her finger and a damp letter from Riley telling her he’d fallen in love with a dancer from London.

“Such promise…”

“No doubt…”

The voices sounded proud, indulgent in the reflections laid before me, as though all I had done, all the horrors I had breathed life into, were meant to be praised. I shuddered and pulled my neck away from their embrace, fought despite the guilt I felt to rid myself of their touch. They resisted, gripping me tighter.

“Choose…”

“Choose well…”

“No,” I said. I tugged against the slick surface of their skin and shook my arms until my fingers were free, until I found the rough texture of the rope once more. I lowered my eyes and squeezed them tight, repeated “no, not ever. I will not,” until I felt their embrace linger and fade.

It was moments— minutes, perhaps hours before I dared to open my eyes again, hopeful that the past’s retellings had finally vanished. When I let my shut lids open, lifting them fractions at a time, the past had disappeared, the earlier versions of my sins vacant from my sight. The future, however, was sure to follow, ushered in by the pale young man that stood before me.

“Hello, Miss Matthews.”

Wishing Well #3

2010-10-19T11:04:00.003-05:00

Wishing Well Part 3

Part 2
Part 1

The hag’s laughter echoed against the brittle brick around me. Every loud shriek of the sound pierced my ears and my hands took on a terrible shake, making it almost impossible for the rope to stay gripped in my hands.

She stared at me and moved her head left and right, her eyes squinted as though she could not make out what I was. Her eyes—cold and manic— grew brighter.

“Lower and lower, my pet,” she said, slithering on the brick like a python.

I wanted to look behind her, curious how she managed to move, to wind around me in such a tight space, but my eyes would not leave her, my words froze in my throat.

“Lower,” she said again, still cackling. She looked down, below my feet and nodded, her amusement disappeared at a command I could not hear. She smiled once—several teeth missing and those still left were black and jagged—before she slid down, to stop at my feet.

“Must be lower,” she mumbled. She took the bucket between her hands and turned it, making the already tenuous grip I held on the rope loosen.

“Stop,” I shouted, but only received a frown from the now silent hag. “Please, I’ll fall.” When she continued to ignore me, continued to slap her hands against the bucket, I lowered into a crouch, winding my arms around the rope. “Please,” I said, though I knew she could not hear me. “God, please,” I said as the walls spun and shifted to become a blur of shadows and dizzying, disappearing light.

Before I closed my eyes, the spin of the bucket and rope now so fast that my hair slapped against my cheeks, I saw a cluster of symbols jumbling together—large red and black letters I could not read and tiny green naked figures danced and gyrated together.

I closed my eyes completely. My stomach twisted and gurgled until I feared I’d vomit.

“Lower,” the hag shouted. “Lower still, my pet.”

I chanced one peek, forcing my eyes open despite the heavy fear I felt pumping my heart into double beats.

This time, when I heard the hag speak, the sound came from above me, the distance made her words barely recognizable.

I could not feel the spin of the bucket, but the whirls of the brick and the green drawn figures around me told me I had not stilled. My hair stuck against my forehead and I could not tell if it was sweat or well water that had dampened it.

I stared up to find no light, no shadows and no mad hag anywhere. There was only the dimness of the well and two small shapes slightly lighter than the cavernous darkness.

They whispered my name, calling to me in soothing, sweet tones before I felt the brush of their bodies wrapping around my waist.

Teaser Tuesday

2010-10-12T16:04:00.003-05:00

Wishing Well Part 2
First part is here.

Please comment!

The lower I sank, the higher the smell grew, slipping up my body until the stink of it— dried, rotting meat of some sort and the heavy thickness of curdled milk— penetrated my nostrils. I gagged once and heard Ruth’s voice from above, barely audible against the slow drip of well water.

“Mind all those dead Matthews down there.”

Her taunt was echoed by more laughter and I looked up, eager to glare again, when I noticed only a sliver of light above me. I didn’t know if those horrid girls were sealing me in or if my descent had brought me so far into the well’s belly that the sun was being blotted out with each dip of the rope.

When my surroundings grew dimmer and the smell worsened, I examined the surface, taking in the slimy film on the brick and cool breeze that shifted my hair. The well itself seemed to moan and I knew, logically, that it was only the wind, only the whip of the breeze coming through the cracks and rot of the brick. Still, my heart sped and my grip tightened on the rope. Despite my threat to Ruth, I remembered my old aunt Hilda’s warning; how she made me wary of this place, of its past.

“Never venture to the Wishing Well, dear heart. There are shadows below. Things you mustn’t see. Secrets you will go mad from hearing.”

She was old, I told myself. Old and superstitious and though now, dangling like some tiny worm on a hook, her warning screamed in my mind, I wouldn’t let my fear win.

“Silliness,” my father would say of Aunt Hilda’s superstitions. “ Nothing to fear in the night or in the woods but young boys wishing to lead you astray.”

I smiled, remembering the significant tone of my father’s voice and the deep wink of his eye when he gave me that warning. The smile, however, only remained a second, erased from my face by the slip of the rope. I called above me, shouting to Ruth, but received no response, not even laughter as a reply.

“Ruth?” I called again, this time letting my voice rise to an almost scream.

Nothing.

Then the rope jerked and shifted, twisting me around in a spin. As I turned in the bucket I thought I saw a figure, shapeless and gray, but when I looked back again it vanished. I reached out, trying to grab the thick moss on the well wall, but it broke under my touch. Finally, after the spinning slowed, I dug my fingers in the weathered white mortar between the bricks, my whole body shaking and the rope whining at the sudden stop.

I took a breath, calming, letting thick pockets of air fill my chest before I looked around. The light grew thinner above me. Two black insects I couldn’t name followed one another behind a large fray in the brick then I saw the long face of an old woman staring with wide, colorless eyes at me.

“Lower,” she said before I had time to scream. “Take this one lower.”

Paying it forward

2010-10-06T22:15:00.005-05:00

So, wonders of wonders, I jump on Twitter this afternoon and discover that the flattering Super Daddy has passed on his One Lovely Blog award to little ole me.

About my small little blog home, he said:

T S Tate - is another writer. I have only recently found her blog, but have enjoyed reading her Teaser Tuesday posts…get your mind out of the gutter…teaser as in teasing the audience with an excerpt of her current writing project.

Thank you Mr. Daddy. You flatter me with your generosity, so I'm paying it forward and linking y'all to some of the blogs I stalk most! I should say, some of the writer blogs I stalk most!

Go forth and read and if I've named you, please pass it along.

1. Adrienne Crezo - This woman is a writing/networking/reviewing animal and, thanks to the miracle of the Internet a great friend to yours truly. On her blog you will find everything from some of the best book reviews to the hands down, most delicious peanut butter cookie recipe you will ever encounter. Recently, Adrienne, Dominatrix of Awesome, as I like to call her, was made Reviews Editor at The Best Damn Creative Writing Blog, so be prepared for your world to be rocked with even more wonderful reviews as well as thorough and skillfully written writing articles. Bow down, children. Bow right down.

2. Phoebe North - Watch out for this one, guys, because Phoebe is about to become the literary world's newest rock star. Her blog features expertly written reviews, advice on writing and Phoebe's personal journey to land an agent. Occassionaly, she'll tell you all about the yummy things she eats, which you know...yay food!

3. Lia Keyes - Okay, so the previous link isn't to Lia's blog, but will lead you to her baby. I've exhausted you plenty with my fangirl gushing about #scribechat and Lia is one big reason why I'm one of this chat's biggest cheerleaders. We don't call her the Chat Yoda for no reason. She is witty, clever and has a wealth of writing knowledge to pass on to we feeble mortals. If you want to learn about the craft and how the business truly works, follow our Yoda. Trust me, you won't be sorry.

4. AJ Larrieu - I have a special place in my heart for AJ. She's a Southern girl living in California and her blog is as inspirational as the beautiful stories that are birthed from her vivid imagination. Read her, follow her on Twitter. You can thank me later.

5. Heather McCorkle - Heather loves writing. No, you don't understand. She really and truly loves it. Read her blog as she takes the journey toward publishdom. She'll be your biggest cheerleader and a wonderful source of constant, perpetual support. This is one classy lady, trust me!

Teaser Tuesday

2010-10-05T15:04:00.008-05:00

This is brand, spanking new. No clue where this is going, but it will be continued next week.

The Wishing Well

Sarah’s hair clung around her face, dripping with well water. Her cheeks, normally pale and freckled, were blotched red. She panted, making the tips of her hair against her bottom lip move, back and forth.

Whatever she had seen, frightened her. She would not say what the fates had shown her and seemed unable to meet my eyes, but I knew her greatest fear, heard it every night as she said her prayers.

“Please, God, don’t let me become like mother.”

My turn came and the oldest girl, Ruth, shoved my shoulders, a high laugh coming from her pinched lips as I tripped and fell on my knees in front of the stacked stone.

“Go on then, Blythe. It’s your turn.”

I inhaled, letting the air fill my lungs before I grabbed the rope. The knotted braids were wet and I smelled the bitter scent of rust as I sat on the cracking stone surface and slipped my feet into the wide bucket. I ignored the laughs behind me and looked for Sarah, hoping my friend would offer me a smile, encourage me in this silly venture, but she’d deserted me.

Only her small lace handkerchief was left behind and it skipped with the dead leave across the forest ground.
Another push on my shoulder had me gripping the rope tighter.

“Don’t be a coward. Get on with it.”

Ruth’s laugh died as I stared at her and my chin went up, determination and pure stubbornness fueling my movements. I disregarded the laughs behind me and pushed off from the side, dangling over the vast darkness with only the thin rope and a cracked, damp bucket saving me from the depths below.

Really, I should have not placed so much faith in these girls. They were cruel at the best of times and downright vicious on a bad day. Still, I had been challenged and I was, after all, a Matthews and Matthews never back down from a dare.

The rope creaked and whined as I swung, then my body spun and the descent began. The giggles continued and I fixed a harsh glare at Ruth as she turned the crank, daring her to call me a coward once more.

“If I die, Ruth Carrollton, I will come back to haunt you every night until you are white-haired and wrinkled.”

“Hush, little Blythe. You can’t curse anyone,” Ruth said. Her lips were pulled into a tight, sneering line.

I stretched and grabbed her wrist, stopping the crank. “Do you want to place a wager? You haven’t heard about my old aunt who lives in Redwood Hollows?”

We stared at one another—her eyes narrowing and searching my face, I’m sure, for any waver; mine steady and certain.
“You’re fibbing. Everyone knows your aunt died last winter.”

“Did she?”

She blinked first and I released her wrist letting her continue on the crank, but my eyes stayed wide and staring and before I was lowered, losing sight of anything other than the crawling insects and dripping stone of the well walls, I noticed Ruth’s chin quiver.
Satisfied that my threat was taken for truth, I finally smiled and released the breath I’d been holding, ready for whatever the fates would tell me.

Teaser Tuesday

2010-09-28T14:28:00.004-05:00

Something old, something new, something borrowed...nah, just something old.
Please read and comment:

P r o l o g u e

Périgueux, France 1765

The blood dipped into the hollow of his throat, spilling along his chest so that the ruffle torn from his collar look like a tulip— red bleeding from the center onto the white tips. He could smell the bitter stench, the curdled thickness of his own blood drying on his cooling skin, his breath fading into shallow pants. It would soon end, he knew that, felt it as surely as the cool air whipping through the stone windows and fractured crevices of the castle. Yet his path was certain, his intent sure. He must protect the final Seal, settle his secret, keep it secluded.

He reached the Keep and fell to his knees in front of the statue, its looming height wide and penetrating in white marble. Diana stared down at him, frozen in a cast of etched perfection, as though she knew he were the prey in an unmatched hunt. His eyes lifted through the arch of the windows, toward the horizon and he garnered no joy from the waning moon, no comfort from the dead stillness of the night. He knew his pursuers were close. He could hear the clamor of their voices lifted in anger, rage.

“I smell him,” he heard, the voice thick in its French inflection, drawing nearer. He heard their thunderous approach and he managed to overcome his pain, his impending end, long enough to crawl closer to Diana’s stone feet. His fingers slid across the granite mount and he felt the burning trickle of power, of anointed blessing, shifting through his knuckles.

“So that they never know,” he said, recalling the incantation his mother taught him when he was nothing more than an impressionable child. He watched the blue light encircle the mount, flickering so that the stone melted like wax, the Seal within glowed like tallow ignited in wick and flame. He pressed his bloodied palm against its surface, his pledge preventing approach to its power. “So it remains balanced.”

He allowed himself one small smile only when the soft stone fused and the surface became solid once more. His head pulsed with pain and a small fleck of gray crowded across his vision, unfocused and blurred, jumping like a louse. He smelt them, could taste the sweat from their bodies as they approached, their pallid faces staring down at him, the stern edges of their features exaggerated by their fury. He heard their voices, the bickering internal strife, as conscious thought became dim, as the sounds of the castle beneath him dulled to muffled hums. Just as he lost all notion of thought, all impression of awareness, her narrowed eyes entered his vision. She was beautiful. Beautiful and treacherous and he closed his eyes against the sight of her. He laughed at her anger. He felt the dent of his dimple in his left cheek at his smile as she crouched on top of him, the tip of her tongue a breath from his wet skin.

“Enough,” he heard. The man’s familiar tone almost unrecognizable; it was the sound of friendship, of salvation. “Leave him be.” The words echoed in his mind, cementing into his fading consciousness. He carried them through time, through departure, into infinity.

Teaser Tuesday

2010-09-14T11:36:00.002-05:00

From a horror short I've been working on for some time now...

“Vincent?” she said, uncertain. He didn’t respond. She brought a chair to his side and sat in it, far enough away that he could not reach her if he tried. “Vincent, it’s me, Lisette. Lisette Richard.”

Vincent St. Germaine sat in a wheelchair in front of a window overlooking the courtyard below. Beyond the hospital grounds, the Sister could see the New Orleans’ skyline— the wide expanse of tall buildings clustered around long streetcar cables, roads weaving in and away like blue vessels on pale skin. People walked, ran and careened around each other like ants, intent and purpose obvious in their steps. None of them, the Sister thought, had any notion what a beast the city could be, what monsters lay dormant in the shadows surrounding them— waiting to strike, eager to devour them at the first sign of inattention.

For a moment, the Sister closed her eyes, taking in the last bit of calm she could muster, trying to ignore the fear that settled in her chest the moment she’d touched feet off the tarmac. New Orleans was the violent lover she’d escaped as a girl, one she’d promised herself she’d never see again. The nightmares, the terror of them, however, had made it necessary, had forced confrontation, closure. The only person on earth who understood that terror, sat staring feet from her, numbed by medicine, drugged by chemicals that would force the memories away. She tried to ignore the disgust she felt staring at his bald, raw head, remembering the newspaper article, remembering what Vincent’s father had done to him. A few horrifying phrases stuck in her mind like a horse needle— “multiple arrests for aggravated battery of a child…use of a deadly weapon” and “eyes gouged,” “father arrested… ‘my son was a monster.’”

From what the Sister saw now, his father’s attack had done nothing but give Vincent the cast that befit his actions. His son was truly a monster. His skin was red, with a slight sheen over the surface, as though he’d been newly burned. Vincent’s ears were missing as were three of his fingers, but his eyes, though dulled and vacant, remained as she remembered them— green with hazel flecks and round with the beginnings of wrinkles on the edges. As a girl, she'd been taken by his smile. She remembered how confident and encouraging it had been, how the teeth were wide with a small gap between the front teeth. He’d called her Cher. Vincent had been the only other victim she’d talked to during that week, the only one lucid enough to speak. She’d told him her name, but he’d only ever called her Cher.

The Writing Mentor and Tennessee Williams

2010-08-29T22:34:00.003-05:00

Early on when I was a newbie in college, I met a lady who would change my life. The thing is, I doubt she knows what an impact she had on me or the importance of that influence. I met Bev Marshall during my sophomore year when our English instructor was out and her "writer friend" was subbing. She came in to yes, watch over our chaotic class, but also to read us a few of her short stories. My instructor, Mrs. Bradley told me that when she met Bev and asked her what she did for a living, she responded, without a blink and said, "I'm a writer."

Not many have the chutzpa to say that. So many of us writer types know what we want to be. We all have that dream of being debt free, of having what we write pay our mortgages and beat back our student loan officers. And while I'm pretty sure writing hasn't made Bev a millionaire (who knows, I could be wrong), it is her indelible strength and confidence that has endeared so many to her. She's a classy southern lady and, beyond that, she's an impeccable writer.

Writing in college became commonplace for me. I studied under two great and prolific novelists as I've exhaustively mentioned on this blog. Part of the tutelage I experienced with them both was a certain literary festival in New Orleans. The Tennessee Williams Festival celebrates the playwright's life in the city and the unflappable style with which he created, in my opinion, some of the best pieces of fiction art our country has ever seen.

Sadly, due to the ravages that have fallen on the city during Katrina and the asinine budget cut our "good" Governor has seen fit to institute, the festival is in very real danger of ending. For twenty-five years the festival has ushered in some of the greatest local and international artists, writers, actors, directors and even Williams' one of a kind brother.

Bev showed me, through her active participation on the festival board, that writers need each other. She showed me that whatever stage in your writing career or whether you're simply a fan of the written word, commraderie among the creative must be cultivated. It must be fostered by helping and learning from one another. This festival has done so much for me. I have learned more from the writers on various panels and from Bev than I could possibly express to you here.

New Orleans and our entire state for that matter, has been ravaged quite brutally over the past five years. We have seen life-long residents still absent from the city. We have seen our locals lose so much because of the storm and in the Gulf because of the oil spill. We're still fighting, but sometimes that fight can be more than we can handle.

Pepsi is offering fifty thousand dollars to organizations of the Gulf Coast who have been affected by the damages done on her shores. The Tennessee Williams Festival is one tiny spot away from being among the top ten recipients of this award.

I am asking a favor from each of you. I'm not asking you to give money. I'm not asking for a handout. I am simply asking that you give the festival two minutes of your time. Please vote and share information about this award. Log on here to vote for the festival and help them to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary and the one hundredth birthday of Mr. Williams the way only the Big Easy can.

We appreciate it more than you can know!

Please RT and share!

Review: "Fungus of the Heart"

2010-08-28T22:52:00.004-05:00

Reading, not Red Bull as the company would have us all believe, gives you wings. It’s a fact that may seem horribly obvious, but for many, reading simply is the method you take to vacate the real world and be transported into something powerfully foreign. If it’s good fiction, our perceptions are twisted and changed.

I expect much from books. I expect to be dazzled. I expect to be wrapped up in a story, in characters I either love or loathe. What I don’t normally expect, is to be overwhelmed and awed by what I read. Sure, there are works that have changed my thinking. There are writers whose talent and ability are so awe-inspiring that I feel somehow pathetic by comparison. But reading a collection about relationships shouldn’t have left me gobsmacked. It shouldn’t have left me thinking for days afterward about how these relationships, in their own unimaginable way, shifted my awareness of what fiction should be.

Fungus of the Heart, a vivid, wildly artistic collection by Jeremy C. Shipp, did just that. I sat down and read, watching through lenses contorted to reveal things I could not imagine. I saw through his eyes and the view was distorted and beautiful. It’s a collection about relationships. Full stop. There is no other way to explain it. Now, these aren’t relationships you’re going to hear about on Oprah or hovering around the coffeemaker at work. These relationships run the gamut from misogynistic men and the females they ‘own’ to sprites who think they are jack-o-lanterns and the creatures of death and violence that love them.

In Shipp’s world, we are introduced to characters full of discord, full of self-loathing and the connections they make and are forced into with the world around them. And those worlds? Disturbing, frightening and absolutely infectious. We are drawn in by the conflicts they face, by the horrible sensibilities of each villain and victim and their ultimate desire to bond, to forgive or simply survive. Shipp creates universes where ghosts act as therapists, where an Oak tree makes her daughter promise to save a world she cannot connect with; where vampires take on many identities, but mainly those of, “boy bands and idol singers.”

Shipp told me that Fungus of the Heart was a map to his values— the respect he has for relationships and the importance of those relationships in his own life. But his characters are beyond flawed. They do their best to disrespect the relationships they have and the result is disastrous. He says his characters, “have emotional, physical, spiritual needs, but are often screwed up in one way or another, and so they don’t know how to get their needs met in a healthy way.”

The beauty in all these flawed characters is the way in which their journeys are chronicled. It isn’t alliteration or some sad attempt of using plot devices that gets these stories across. Shipp’s above that. But he has a inimitable voice and that voice comes alive, is made real with every harrowing misadventure his characters take. In all honesty, I’ve never read anything like this. Not ever, and that’s saying a lot. I read far more than I should. But, I was swept up in every war-ravaged landscape, in each village, in every hut I traveled to in this collection. I cared about these haunting characters, wanted to reach out and connect, wanted, sometimes, to give them a smack across the head. Ultimately, however, I know it was Shipp’s very clever, astonishing voice that drew me in, that made me think, made me keep thinking.

When you read this collection, bear in mind that you’re not in for horror stories or stories drawn in a manner you’ve ever read. You’re in for a something surreal, something beautifully fantastic and I promise you, you won’t be bothered by the battle scars you walk away with. You’ll be grateful, satisfied that you bear those marks, proud that you took the journey right along with these misguided, damaged characters.

World Building and a Cure for the b-l-o-c-k

2010-08-20T23:39:00.005-05:00

The good thing about social media, is that you are allowed to surround yourself with like-minded individuals. In my situation, I’ve found scribechat on twitter. It’s a wonderful way to round-table certain writing topics. The folks participating never fail to keep the topics open, the humor constant and the insight compelling. Over the past few months I’ve yet to be disappointed in our discussions and, last night was no different.

The topic was world-building. How important is world-building in fiction? Is it a necessity in all genres? How does one go about describing said world while avoiding info dumping?

Of course, my fellow scribes had the answers we all need and I’d love to share their wealth of knowledge on the topic at hand. (For a more detailed view of our discussion, check out last night’s transcripts which should be up soon).

World-building is important, in my humble opinion, because it grants realism to your story— it puts your reader ‘in’ your story. It gives your characters authority which makes your story believable. Realism, despite the genre, picks your readers up and places them dead center of the universe you’ve created. Description of your world, or place or setting, helps the reader to understand why she should care about your protagonist and the misadventures that happen along in your plot. In short, it makes your reader identify with your characters, which makes them more interested, which garners a base. Quite simple, right?

So, if world building is so important, how can it be done effectively? Last night there were loads and loads of suggestions. All interesting, all valid, I thought, but the one technique, (for lack of better term), that I really found especially helpful, is sensory explanation.

Explaining what a characters feels, sees, tastes, hears, etc, is an open door to relating to your readers about the external influences of your character. It also furthers the inclusion of your reader into the story. I’ll give you an example of what I mean.

I’m going to dork out and use Rowling because, yes, I’m a fan girl, but also because she’s a master at world building:

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

Now, what if Rowling would have given us the bare facts without all of Harry’s sensory interpretations?

Something like…

The last shop was a wand shop. The letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A wand lay on a cushion in the window.

A bell rang in the shop as they stepped inside. Hagrid sat on a chair to wait. Harry swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the boxes piled up to the ceiling.

Clearly, the edited version is extreme, but the gist is accurate. With the second paragraph, which excludes any sensory details, we know only where Harry is and what he sees. But we have no real indication of what to make of Ollivander’s. With the exception of the word “wand” this shop could have been any shop in just about any place. But it is Rowling’s descriptors that give us a real sense of place. We know, from Harry’s point of view, that the shop is a tiny little place, very old and very cluttered. We know that Harry is a smidgen freaked out by the shop and that he feels some odd sense of reverence and déjà vu. Why do we know this? Because we are ‘in’ Harry’s mind and we are seeing, hearing and feeling what he feels.

That, folks, is what world building is all about.

Our readers have to know what our characters know (or don’t know as the case may be). And in turn, we have to know the world we’re building. After all, asking a reader to join you in a world you’ve created and have not fully imagined is like asking someone who has never driven to take the wheel on a road trip. It’s inauthentic and trust me, your readers will know.

And world-building isn’t necessitated only in genre fiction. Literary fiction also requires a unique world. Thinking about ‘Streetcar Named Desire’ anywhere else than in New Orleans. How did the city influence Blanche? Did the sights and sounds of the city lend itself to the overall feel of the story?

There are others of course: Anything Faulkner gave us set outside of the south would have felt awkward, I think. Hemingway’s vivid retelling of the thrill of the safari or McCarthy’s desolate landscape of the world post-apocalypse. World building/setting/place, if done correctly, can and, I think, should be just as important as your antagonist’s motivation or the conflict your main character overcomes. (A more thorough explanation of the importance of place can be found here).

There are other ways to explain your world, ways that take another avenue without sensory overload, but I don’t want to overwhelm you with a bunch of techniques that I’m sure you’re already well aware of. Again, see the transcripts for more.

The two most critical aspects about world-building—the ones that I have found necessary while writing—is knowing, (and I mean absolute knowledge here), the world you are creating and expressing that through your characters point of view. The latter is doubly fun when you’ve got multiple points of view.

So, what if you’re stuck? What if you have no idea how to build these worlds? What if you’ve become clustered in that most loathed place that all writers get in (read: the block)? Well, I hope I can help you with that as well.

The lovely writing mentor, who I’ve gushed about frequently on my little blog, gave me some great exercises for the block. These can help if you’re stuck, as I have been, in the middle. Or if you just need a bit of a boost to get the muse in the mood to inspire.

For stuck-in-the-middle issues:

Mary Gordon said this: "I always know my endings, but mid-way through the book, usually I find out it's not the ending at all." Ask yourself if you are too set on keeping the "nifty" ending you envisioned when you thought up the plot of the book. Maybe you can't write to that ending because it's not the right one. If you're locking your mind into "it has to turn out this way," then you're forcing something on your characters that they don't want.

If that doesn’t work, put the book aside, take some time away from it, don't think about it for a while, then go back and re-read it and sometimes that time a part will help the natural flow reemerge so that you, hopefully, can't write fast enough.

Exercises for the dreaded b-l-o-c-k:

1. First make sure you REALLY know your characters, especially your main character. Use an artist's pad and write down everything about your character: political party, the music they listen to, how much money they have in the bank, etc. Then, cut out photos of what you imagine your character may look like and paste them on the pad.

2. For setting, draw your character’s town, the houses, the workplaces, on and on. Any detail that would spark something for future use in the plot.

3. Have your character write you a letter that begins "What you don't know about me that you need to know." Free write until they tell you the secret they're keeping from you that you didn't understand. Not understanding the character's secrets oftentimes keeps us from understanding their real motivation.

4. Have someone else read your book out loud to you. You hear things that you don't hear when you read it yourself.

5. Play the ‘What If’ game. “What if…she did this or what if so and so said this.” Don’t think about it, just scribble anything that pops in your mind. What if she robbed a bank? What would happen? How would she feel? What would she do next? There are always consequences both good and bad for every action we take. If we overeat, we get indigestion. If we said something mean, we may feel guilty OR if we're not a nice person, we may enjoy seeing someone suffer.

6. Finally, you may do something as simple as change from first person to third and realize that gives you what you're looking for.

One last thought: Sometimes the story that has you stuck, isn’t the story you should be writing at the moment. It doesn’t mean the story is dead and should be forgotten—it just means that at this point in your life, you aren’t ready to write that story. Don’t forget about it. Come back when it’s time and if you, as the writer, know your voice, trust me, you’ll know when the time is right.

*Note* The above exercises came from Bev, for the most part, and not me. Thanks, Bev. You are a rock star!

Teaser Tuesday

2010-08-17T21:54:00.003-05:00

From my current WIP.

In which the MC, Keilee , has just 'met' her first fairy. Let's just say she's a little freaked out. There has been a wreck and her best friend, Cameron and her mom's annoying friend, Wills, have gone to see if they can help.

Comment please!

The growl vanished and Keilee looked up when she heard a police siren, two small beeps that whooped loud over the noise of the rain. She saw Wills leading Cameron back, letting the paramedics work on the injured driver. Then, from the shadow of a wide oak tree, Keilee saw a form, a mass so haggard, that her stomach turned. It crouched behind Wills and Cameron as they watched the police ushering cars around the wreckage. Keilee sat up, resting her elbows against the dash to get a clearer look at the creature, her hands coming up to cover her mouth when a policeman’s flashlight shifted across its body.

Despite the crouch, it was clearly tall, the legs as dark as a tree trunk, as thin as a light pole. It had wide, looming shoulders, odd and disproportional to the frail legs. A thick wool cape with a fur-lined collar draped over the shoulders, the hem wet against the rain-soaked sidewalk. It seemed unable to stay stationary, moving its thick body from side to side as it watched Wills, narrowing its white, bugged eyes at his head.

“Hey,” Keilee shouted, slapping her hands against the windshield. “Look behind you.” She balled her fist and banged the glass hoping Wills would see her. The creature was joined by another, the pair of them intent on Wills, shifting their bodies into a pounce. When one of the creatures extended a claw— no fingers, no hands, just razor sharp claws that were twisted and long— Keilee darted over the seat and slammed her hand against the car horn.

Cameron jumped and Wills’ head jerked up toward her. They both ran across the street, Cameron unlocking the door and sliding in, flinging water out of her hair and off her arms. Wills trailed behind her, then stopped at the back of the car and Keilee watched him fumble with the handle, his eyes focused on the creatures now retracting, shuffling back and out of sight.

Interview with Jeremy C. Shipp

2010-08-11T21:28:00.006-05:00

Some writers just get ‘it.’ I’m sure you know what I mean. You’ve read works, thumbed through stories that make you, the aspiring writer, cringe in jealous envy and bask in amazement. Some writers simply have the ability to fashion a story so compelling, so real, that the only logical reaction is outright adoration. Gaiman did it for me with “Sandman.” King had me with “Salem’s Lot” and now, Jeremy C. Shipp has hooked me with “Those Below” and the forthcoming “Fungus of the Heart.”

Recently, I had the privilege of interviewing Shipp and what I discovered was that the dark wit and brilliant imagery comes from a man intrinsically aware of his own voice. Shipp is the Bram Stoker nominated author of books such as “Cursed” and” Vacation” and has been published (previously and forthcoming) in Cemetery Dance, ChiZine, Apex Magazine, Pseudopod, and Withersin.

In his own words, Shipp enjoys living in Southern California in a moderately haunted Victorian farmhouse called Rose Cottage. He lives there with his wife, a couple of mighty cats, and a legion of yard gnomes. The gnomes like him. The clowns living in his attic--not so much.

You've been quoted as saying of your novels, "Vacation, is a map to my brain. Sheep and Wolves, is a map to my fears. And Cursed is a map to my heart." Does that mean that Fungus of the Heart is a map of your soul? What can you tell us about this book and the genesis of writing it?

You might say that Fungus of the Heart is a map to my values. And what I value most is relationships. And so, Fungus of the Heart is full of stories about families, friendships, lovers. I believe that treating others with respect is the most important thing in the world, and therefore, many of my characters are disrespectful. My characters have emotional, physical, spiritual needs, but my characters are often screwed up in one way or another, and so they don’t know how to get their needs met in a healthy way. Therein lies the horror.

What is your writing process? Are you an organic writer or does there have to be some organization in your process?

I usually start out with a shard of an idea. Maybe an aspect of a character, or a fragment of a plot. Then I brainstorm for a while, and after that, I get writing. I never outline, although I do carry around a notebook with me almost everywhere I go, so I can write down any ideas I have about the story I’m working on. Usually, I know where my tales are going to end up, but I never know exactly how I’m going to get there. I like not knowing everything. I like putting my characters in impossible situations and letting them find their own ways out.

Was there one person that influenced you early on to write?

There wasn’t one person in particular. My fourth grade teacher asked her students write fiction stories from time to time, and I really enjoyed that experience. Also, in elementary school, I loved to read, and I loved when my father read to me. Some of my favorite authors were HG Wells, Alexandre Dumas, Jules Verne. I also fell in love with storytelling thanks to filmmakers like George Lucas, Terry Gilliam, Jim Henson. And so, because of all these books and films and people, I decided to write my first novel when I was thirteen, and I’ve been writing almost constantly ever since.

How different do you think your life would be if you didn't write? Do you think you would use some other medium to create? What would it be?

If I wasn’t a writer, I’d probably snap and become one of the clowns in my attic. Truthfully though, I’d most likely become a singer or a filmmaker. I love singing, playing the guitar, playing the piano. The only reason I don’t sing and play more is because writing is my greatest passion and it takes up so much of my time.

How long into the submitting process did you get your first publication?

When I was 18, my creative writing teacher, Phillip Brugalette, encouraged me to send out my work. And so I did. About two months later, I received my first acceptance letter for a story called “Love Thy Demon.”

How did you/do you handle rejection?

For the first couple years of my writing career, I didn’t handle rejection very well. I was a pimply, shy teenager, and I spent much of my free time feeling sorry for myself, and the rejection letters gave me yet another excuse to be hard on myself. Thankfully, though, by learning to deal with rejection, I became a stronger, more confident person. These days, when I hit a pothole on my journey as a writer, I just thank my lucky stars that I’m alive, and I’m moving forward.

Why don't Rose Cottage's clowns like you? Did you key their tiny car?

The leader of the attic clowns once threw a maggot and broken glass pie at my face. I didn’t laugh at his joke, and so they’ve held a grudge against me ever since.

For those readers who don't know, can you give us the distinction between Horror and Bizarro fiction? Which do you prefer to write?

Bizarro is the genre of the weird. Bizarro fiction tends to be not only strange, but thought-provoking and fun to read. Bizarro isn’t necessarily horrifying, and Horror isn’t necessarily bizarre, but most of my work tends to be a combination of Bizarro and Horror.

If you knew tomorrow was your last day on earth, how would you spend your time?

I would play with my cats, hang out with my family, cuddle with my wife. I would eat a peanut butter and watermelon sandwich. I would tell everyone I love that I love them, and I would thank them for the joy they’ve brought me. Then I would say goodbye.

If any writers inspire or influence you, who are they?

Some authors who inspire me are Arundhati Roy, Lois Lowry, Haruki Murakami, George Orwell, Kurt Vonnegut, Francesca Lia Block, Anthony Burgess, Gregory Maguire, Amy Hempel.

What kind of fiction can you not bring yourself to read and why?

I will not read fiction written by attic clowns. Not because the clowns don’t write good stories. They do. But they print their books using Smurf blood, and that just isn’t right.

I read "Those Below" from Love and Sacrifice and I absolutely loved it. Can you tell us what inspired you to write this story?

I’m glad you enjoyed the tale. I wrote “Those Below” because of the systemic and personal racism that saturates our world. In most stories, the zombies eat the people, but in “Those Below,” the people consume the zombies, in a metaphorical sense.

What can we expect from you next?

I’m working on a new novel, a middle grade book, a comic book series, a horror screenplay. There may also be a stage musical in the works, as well as a film based on one of my books. In addition to all this, I’m planning on forming a yard gnome choir and an attic clown Vaudeville act.

Teaser Tuesday

2010-08-10T13:52:00.004-05:00

More of the "post apocalyptic-love story.” Please read and comment.

Those days were absolute, as vivid now to her as they had been the moment they began. She could still feel the ache of her muscles, the raw strain in her limbs from pulling her father away from the chaos and into the belly of their bunker.

She still saw his weak body dying as she held him in her lap, felt the rattle of gunfire and aggression above ringing into her senses. She still smelled the tang of blood on her hands as they wiped over her father’s wounded temple, still heard his voice harsh and stubborn as he made her promise to leave him, to leave for the mountains were she would be safe. She waited a week, long past the moment her father’s body had grown cold, before she managed to obey him.

Anissa walked away from the darkness of the night, pushing back the memories of the past. Ignoring the chill on her skin, she went into what had once been her kitchen, grabbing what remained of the dried meat she’d brought back with her, thankful for the meager comfort of her father’s home. She heard Harding stirring, and checked him for a fever, relieved to find his skin cool and dry. She pulled the thin blanket over his chest then sat down again, her feet dangling from the large, glassless window.

“It is still night?” he asked, his voice surprising Anissa. The silence had been so profound for so long, that his voice sounded abnormal to her, out of place. She nodded, answering him and attempted to help Harding as he struggled to sit next to her. His color was better and he smelled clean, like the calendula. They watched the moon dip and the fires in the horizon smoldering into thin plumes.

“Can you eat?” she asked, offering him the cold jerky in her hand. He smiled and Anissa tore it in half, turning away from him when their fingers touched.

The silence was something she’d never grown accustomed to. There were no birds, no crickets chirping their songs. All was still, soundless and black. Their new world seemed old and broken. She counted each breath she took and was reminded of her father, of the times they would watch the stars fading.

“My father is buried over there, beneath the ridge,” she said, giving flippant notice to the burn in her eyes.

Harding sat closer, his shoulder touching hers. “Was it the Guard?” he asked and she nodded, not able to find her voice. “I should have been here.”

“Yes,” she said, wiping her fingers against her jeans. “You should have.”

Was it good for you? Satisfying Endings

2010-08-05T21:31:00.003-05:00

Tonight's scribechat focused on endings--those good and bad finales to books that you've invested your time, and for many of us, your emotional energy into reading.

Not everyone loves a cliff hanger. In fact, I'd say that many readers, yours truly included, feel cheated by an evil cliffie. But should satisfying the reader be the primary focus for a writer? I'd guess that answer is subjective, but for me it's two fold. Yes, you need to satisfy your reader. Yes, you want them to feel as though the time they've invested in your characters and their stories has not been an empty waste. However, you also want to tell the story you intended. You want to the plot to unfold, the characters to develop in the manner you envisioned. It is a slippery slope, this threading the line of happy reader/happy writer, but it is not an impossible one.

There have been books I've read that have left me unsatisfied. These occur mainly in series, so one can be forgiving if we know there is more to come. However, intentionally withholding information, deliberately starting a new conflict at the end of a book is just, to me, a pathetic little plot device.

In our chat tonight, Les Edgerton author of HOOKED: Write Fiction That Grabs Readers at Page One and Never Lets Them Go, gave us his two cents. (For more in-depth discussion see his guest blog post here). Essentially, and I'm being abrupt with this summary, Edgerton said that cheating the reader, is cheating yourself. "If you don't resolve the story problem, the reader is definitely cheated." The result of that could be loss of readership and in extreme cases, loss of credibility as a writer.

Plot devices, such as the horrid evil cliffie won't endear you to anyone, not really. Oh sure, you may find yourself attaining a larger, devoted reader base who will see no fault in your work, but how sincere are they? How do you know if you've just got a large group of fangirls and boys who'll read your grocery list?

To satisfy the reader and yourself, you have to straddle that line. Edgerton makes it quite simple: "Good writing provides the skeleton and the reader needs to do the work of providing the flesh...[a satisfying ending] should contain a win and a loss and not be tied up neatly." And, "good endings should surprise, but, upon reflection, make perfect sense."

Our 'real lives' consist of us constantly staying away from conflict, keeping a distance from drama, but in fiction, you need to seek it out. You need to "seek it out at every opportunity."

So be true to your vision. Tell the story you want to tell, but be cognizant of your ending. Don't cheat your readers out of their satisfying ending. Find the morsels of growth, the ending that doesn't come wrapped up in a big, red bow. There is no need for a 'happily ever after.' There is only the requirement of 'happily for now.'

Teaser Tuesday

2010-08-03T20:27:00.002-05:00

More of what y'all read last week.

It was the smoke that gave him away. It billowed above his head, snaking up into the humidity of Sunday summer in The Quarter and made Mercy certain he’d been infected. She stood with her shoulder resting on the corner of the building, watching, near a dumpster that smelled of burnt fudge and week old crawfish.

The man was leaning against his arm, stretched out on the white brick of the building, his head was down, body tilted and sluggish. The back of his shirt stuck to his shoulders by a film of sweat and his short black hair looked like slick oil. He kept looking over his shoulder, scanning any passersby that came near him.

The smoke grew thicker, the color shifting between gray and white, as it shot out and floated above him like a crown. Mercy knew what would be next. First the smoke jutting out through flared nostrils, the nose elongating into a snout and then the sharp scales that grew on the face and spread to the neck, then the chest until it covered the body-- until the leaking spores of poison settled into the skin. It was their deadliest weapon, that poison, how they recruited, how they killed.

Why Place Matters

2010-07-29T21:53:00.003-05:00

Could you imagine Harry Potter's world without Hogwarts? Would American Gods been as compelling if Shadow and Wednesday had been traveling unknown roads, unnamed places? Would Frodo and Sam's journey have been less dramatic if they hadn't crossed through Mordor?

Setting, whether it's the lush grounds of a private, magical boarding school or the vivid landscape of Americana, is, for many writers as important as conflict and climax.

Being reared, theoretically, by two great southern writers probably made me a bit biased. We southern writers are known for describing place-- those odd towns or small little cities that become essential in the progress of a story. For me, place is essential. Can you imagine a story set in New Orleans (let's say Williams' Streetcar) without the description of the hot, humid air or the sound and feel of streetcars lifting the hems of women as they walk by?

You see, setting puts your reader right in the thick of your story. Setting allows them to smell, hear, taste, feel and touch how dry the air is, how loud the trains are. Setting pulls readers from their snowy homes, huddled in front of a fireplace and forces them onto a beach, smelling the salt air, feeling the gentle spray of the tide.

The 'sense' of place influences writers. Think Faulkner and his 'A Rose for Emily.' Would Emily's attitudes been different had she not lived in Jefferson? Would her choices have been altered if she hadn't been under the constant scrutiny of her fellow townsmen?

Setting is more than just a town or city. It's much more than a home or place. Setting is time, it is the essential elements of home, whether that place is a prison or a paradise. Setting shows your readers your characters, their lives, their intentions, their way of life. In many regards, setting is the foundation on which your story is built. Without setting, there is simply plot-- a plot with no sense of purpose, no real connection.

Perhaps there are those of you that would disagree. I'm open to varying opinions. But for me when I write about alternative histories, unusual characters or mythical creatures, I know where they came from. I know what their childhoods were like, what they like to eat, what they do with their Friday nights. I know this, because I know where they got their starts. It's the where that allows me to draw attitudes, accents, opinions and intentions.

Setting simply is your story. It's the heart, the genesis of your character's life and, I think, that because it isn't all that far removed from any of our own realities, it's what makes your story alive.

What do you think? How is important is setting in your stories?

Teaser Tuesday

2010-07-27T11:05:00.004-05:00

This is a really rough tease, something I wrote from a WIP not yet complete called "Death of Mercy"

Suggestions/edits are much encouraged!
Cheers

She felt the blade nip her breast, the raw tear of her skin breaking loose, her lungs filling before her knees sunk to crunch into the gravel. She heard the merciless sound of her thudding heart, the only sound loud and constant enough to drown out all others. In the images that skidded before her— the chaos of tussles surrounding them, lips cut and bloody, fists and knives thrown and stabbing— her eyes found him, stared into his, seeing not the indifference or flippancy, not the dark dilation of his pupil, but simply death, bidding his time, patient until the end, that confident grin telling her it was done.

He’d caught her, finally. Him, a spider, predatory and patient and she slipped into his funnel web like a willing insect, wrapped in the silky trap with little fight left in her.

There, at the finish, she found it almost funny, dying by her father’s hands. Perhaps not funny, she thought, but ironic, considering their situation. She only met him a year ago, a year to the day to be exact, but he’s known her, known of her, for a millennia.

Of course, the story doesn't start with Mercy dying. It truly started with the day she tried to kill August.

What Gives You the Urge?

2010-07-22T23:01:00.003-05:00

Blatantly stealing this topic from Lia.

As my last 'non-Teaser Tuesday' post indicated, I wrote when I was younger. Okay, I wrote badly and some would argue that I write only marginally better today, but nonetheless, I've always written. I've been thinking a lot about my writing history this week. I was trying to remember where this inclination came from-- what made me sit down one day with pencil in hand and just write. Sadly, experiences in the aforementioned wasted, slacker, bad decisions youth relieved me of many brain cells and, for the life of me, I cannot remember when I first began to write. If memory serves, (even poorly), I was always doodling or writing down some odd character or line throughout my childhood.

I do remember who my first influence was, however. It was my mom. I recall having a Halloween poem to finish, some stupid time wasting assignment in my Reading class and I just didn't 'get' poetry. Thankfully, she did and she sat down like a woman possessed to finish the assignment for me. (That was the only time she did that...she was certainly a 'I'm not doing your homework for you' sort of mom). In any event, I watched in fascination as she scribbled on that thin piece of paper and wrote and wrote and wrote until she was satisfied. It was a funny little story and I remember thinking, "that was so cool."

As I got older, my writing experience shifted to very poorly (rhyming no less :P) pubsecent, emo poetry. I outlined a lot. I have boxes filled with notebook of WIPs or story ideas that will likely never be written. It wasn't until I was in college, much older than that sad little teenager, that I actually completed a story. For a grade. On a deadline. It was terrible, but still I did it and I like think I've gotten better, that I am no longer a slave to my emotions, rather, a slave to the muse.

Now I write because I must, because all those years of procrastination and letting my emotions force me into stories that were veiled attempts at exorcising my demons, have cultivated me, have changed me. I write because my characters want their stories told. I write because it's who I am, who I was always meant to be. I write because if I didn't, little else in my life would satisfy me. Now, I'm not speaking poorly about the relationships I have with others. I'm talking about the relationship I have with myself--the utter desperation that seems to be innately a part of every artistic person...that need to create.

So, my urge comes from two places, really:

1. From those loud little buggers that shout in my mind "tell everyone about us"

2. And from that part of me, the part that is likely akin to your own, that makes the sky green, creates worlds that are foreign and frightening and brilliant-- the same one that allows you to see what others cannot, the one some call imagination, some call the inner artist.

If I didn't have either of the above, I honestly don't know what I'd do with myself. To tell the truth, even thinking on that is the scariest thing I could imagine.

What about you? Where does your urge to write, to create come from?

Teaser Tuesday

2010-07-20T10:48:00.003-05:00

Today's little contribution comes from the first novel I wrote, (read: completed) two years ago. It "was" a vampire novel, but thanks to the ridiculous amounts of vampire fiction, television shows and films that have inundated our entire lives, I decided that this novel would have to wait several decades before seeing the light of day or would need a major rewrite without my MC's 'not so better half' being something other than yet another suave, foreign, ancient vamp.

However, I did love the detail and description in the following and since my "Post-Apocalyptic Love Story" that y'all have been reading on here needs to be edited (one of this week's goals), I thought I'd tease the story that never was.

A small bit of history: The MC is called Morrigan Mayeaux. She is a collector for a made-up university in the fictional Foutainbleu, Louisiana and she's just had a major fight with her boyfriend, Calen. She and her family's lives are in danger because she is trying to translate a very old journal that some don't want her reading. She isn't happy about the need for being protected and is even less happy that her 'boyfriend' thinks he can tell her what to do. Also, this is in first person, which I don't write anymore, so please forgive the tense.

Please read and comment!

I watched a small calico cross in front of me, pausing for a moment to survey me sitting alone in my car, before it leapt up onto the fence post at my mother’s gate. We stared at one another for a moment and it blinked, a lazy, slow motion, before it made serious work of climbing the cypress tree behind it. Distracted by my concentration on the cat’s motions, I jerked at the shriek of my cell phone ringing and cursed myself for not turning it off the moment I hung up with Sara. It had been off all day. I suspected Calen would call and I was in no mood to hear the incessant ringing if I’d left it on. I looked down at the number on the screen and closed my eyes, not eager to fight with him, but curiosity and a sheer morbid desire for torturing myself had me answering.

“What?” I said, not bothering to hide the clip in my voice.

“Where are you? Are you safe?”

I drew in a deep breath and rolled my eyes, my annoyance still too newborn and present to manage much civility toward him. “I’m fine. Was there something you needed?”

“Morrigan, where the bloody hell are you?” I could hear the anger dripping between his breaths. He hadn’t forgiven me. Fine. I hadn’t forgiven him either.

“How is that your business?” He uttered a series of irate curses in Gaelic before grunting. As I waited for the profanity to suspend, I realized that his concern may be genuine. What if his boss had learned about the translations? “Am I—is anyone in danger?”

“Perpetually, Morrigan. Tell me where you are and I’ll come and fetch you.”

“No. I’m fine.”

“You left without waiting for the guard. He told me you were gone by the time he arrived to relieve the night watch.”

The idea that I was still being minded, despite the rather horrific night Calen and I had, only served to annoy me further. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to give your employees an itinerary of my life.”

“Bloody hell, woman, can you not just tell me where you are? Are you so stubborn that you’ll risk your neck just to spite me?” He paused and I could hear the slightest hint of humor in his voice. “Why am I even asking, then? Of course you would.”

The porch light flicked on and the door opened, expelling from behind it my mother’s Jack Russell, Zeus. He darted straight for my car, growling and barking in a rapid succession that sounded much like a high pitched machine gun. I rolled up my window to block out the sound and prayed I’d neglected to mention anything about my mother and her miniature guard dog to Calen.

“I have to go. I’m expected,” I said, turning off the engine and throwing the keys into my bag.

“Morrigan, don’t you bloody well hang up.” I didn’t answer, waiting to see how thick the brogue would become. “Morrigan, I swear to sweet bloody Bridget, if you hang up, I‘ll—”

I didn’t wait for Calen to complete the threat. I ended the call and turned my cell off, leaving it in my glove compartment before I opened the door to Zeus’ growling welcome.

“Shut up, Mighty Mouse. It’s just me.” I closed the door and knelt down to Zeus’ level, letting him sniff my hand. The growl became a whine of excitement and the animal nudged at my fingers, insisting with his body that I scratch his head. I gave him a brief rub under his chin and allowed him to lick my cheek before I stood up, nodding to my mom as she watched me come up the sidewalk.

I took a breath, and a patient calm flooded through my body as I scanned the perimeter of the house. There were no lurking guards, no odd strangers hiding in wait to attack and I was quite certain not one person in this neighborhood would ask about Bowman’s journals. I was home. No matter how old I grew or how many borders I saw in the task of buying ancient relics, this house would always be home.

It was a Victorian cottage with a pitched gabled roof, a yellow exterior that reminded me of a meadow of buttercups and a porch that wrapped around like arms snuggling tight to protect the warmth within. I smiled at Zeus yapping at the calico, still circling the trunk of the cypress and took note of the fresh sod. Katrina had warranted new landscaping and my mother’s co-workers had done a superb job of ripping out the dead, bare grass and replacing it with this lush green. The old cypress had survived the breaking levees and stood as sentinel at the wide wrought iron gate that curled around the boundary of the lot. Vivid red roses dusted the outlining surface of the porch and new dogwood saplings had replaced the balding banana trees at the edges of the walkway. My mother had seen fit to uproot the concrete path and replace it with wide, red pavers staggered parallel and perpendicular. It all looked beautiful, new, alien to what I’d seen at Easter when the new flowers had yet to bloom. Despite the newness of the landscape, the old cottage remained as reassuring, as solid for the recollection it stirred in me and the buzzing hum of contentment I felt looking at it— my mother’s smile a fitting center of this tranquil picture.

She was leaning against the column on the porch, her light brown hair pulled tight behind her and minute ringlets escaping over her forehead and around her ears. She fidgeted with her collar and I took note of the thin blue cotton shirt, fraying at the hem and the faded denim capris she wore. Ah, Thursday, I thought. Her day off. It was pruning day. A dingy pair of gardening gloves lay on the step and the small garden sheers were next to them on the pavers. Despite my hesitance in seeing her, and discovering what state she may be in, I felt a quick thrill that she seemed unharmed, if not a bit pink-cheeked.

Looking down at her hand, I noted my suspicions were confirmed. My mother was never able to spend a day off relaxing without Mr. Guinness or Senõr Cuervo to keep her company. At least she had good taste in liquor, I thought. I glanced back up her body— steady, not slouching— and to her eyes— bright but not yet red-rimmed with drunkenness. Good. I had a solid three hours before she would be incomprehensible.

My mother wasn’t an alcoholic. According to her, anyway. She just liked to drink. A lot. When I was younger, she would have a glass of red for dinner and the occasional lager at parties. There had never been any coming in at four in the morning staggering and I never found her passed out next to the toilet. As I grew older and my social life obligated me and she was more frequently left alone, the amounts and consumption of her “occasional” drinks got larger in quantity. Now that I lived on my own, I had no real way of monitoring what or how much she drank. She was responsible, however. Drinking a lot was her hobby, like some of my friend’s mother’s working a knitting needle or scrapbooking their way through five hundred dollars in stickers and gel pens, but my mother wasn’t stupid about it. In twenty years, she’d missed only two days of work and that was when Katrina hit. If she loved anything more than me or her libations, it was being a paramedic.

“Lavender or lilies?” I asked, nodding to the dirty gloves.

“Lavender. They were getting so big I couldn’t see out the back window,” she said.

She downed her drink, Cuervo today, from the smell of it, and put it on the step next to her gloves. She tilted her head, examining me, and seeing that I was in one piece, she reached out and engulfed me into the pillow of her small chest. I inhaled, smiling at the way, despite the small tinge of sweat and tequila, she still smelled like rosemary and, well, just her.

In Which I Begrudgingly Relive My High School Days

2010-07-15T22:17:00.005-05:00

The following attempts to expression the REAL reason I graduated high school so very near to the bottom of my class. It would take me six long years of meaningless, dead-end jobs to realize that: 1. my childhood inclinations of being a writer, were pretty dead on and 2. that an education truly is the most important necessity in a young person's life. At 25, I began university and finished my first semester on the Dean's list.

7:25 The alarm screeches for the third time and I'm already late. (Sadly, this habit has remained somewhat unaffected over the years)
7:29 Hit the snooze again and ignore my friend's honking horn in the drive.
7:45 Mad dash to the closet, then a quick run to the bathroom for the necessaries and then bat my eyes at my poor stepfather promising he won't have to drive me anymore.
Me: "Of course, if I had my own car..."
Him: "You'd still be late. Get in the truck."

7:50 Ignore the annoying glare given to me by the school secretary who inevitably asks, under her breath 'why can't she be more like that brother of hers.' Flip the bird to snarky secretary.

8:50 Escape first hour, which, let's be honest, I couldn't even recall what had been discussed or, for that matter, what class it was. Run to my locker to gossip with my friends (who feel it necessary to lecture me about wasting her gas when I don't bother to tell her I'm running late) about why Mrs. History Teacher is wearing a too-short skirt. Ignore theories about her wanting to relive her misspent youth or how she's far too flirty with our male classmates and head to second period.

9:00 Until 11:25 Stare aimlessly into the corner of rooms or hide in the back of the Biology lab hoping I won't be called on, hoping that my plan of 'hopes and prayers' non-studying will afford me at least grades of the passable nature. Usually, I am denied or, if I'm very lucky, the teachers would forget that I fell asleep during the last half hour of testing.

11:28 Spent the entire lunch period staring at that cute 'you had better not even think about it' boy leaning against the brick wall next to the fire exit. He is tall and has full, hard to resist lips that are tempting and dangerous. Flirt pathetically then jump when alleged friends tell me to 'forget about that one, he's trouble.' Continue to flirt despite necessary and (Lord above, very accurate warnings...so begins two very long years of breaking up. Getting back together, breaking up, getting my heart broke BUT that's a story we shouldn't discuss. EVER).

11:50 It is time for gym and oh, dang, "Coach I Have No Business Wearing Shorts This Tight, I seem to have misplaced my gym uniform." HA! Wiggled out of yet another Death by Dodge ball match. While my friends limp away from the center of the gym floor and pass out on the bleachers, I give them genuinely sympathetic smiles and pull out my notebook to write yet more Pubescent Emo Poems...
I am.
You are.
Who are we?
I feel your eyes
On my---

Yeah, it was generally that level of bad. I'll not torture you further.

12: 40 - 2:00
More aimless staring, occasionally catching glimpses of Oh So Hot Desirable Bad Boy in the halls. More pathetic, obvious flirting.

2: 25 Freedom! Sweet, beloved freedom!! I sweet talk my way into a ride home from my completely put out friend and, after the necessary and oh-so-trendy hang out spot (read: the local Burger King) I am home in a parentless house. Beginning dialing Bad Boy's number. Hang up when he answers 'Sup?'

/ ridiculous high school memories.

And who did you get?

2010-07-15T09:16:00.002-05:00

I was very pleased to have scored the following:

http://iwl.me/s/b3a26720

(Sorry, lost the code for that one)

But elated to find a second review gave me this:

I write like
J. K. Rowling

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Ah, me, if only either were true!

How did y'all do? If you haven't checked out I Write Like, do so, it's fun and I'd be interested to know who you all got. :P