What The What?

It's been so long since I've posted to this blog that I'm now unfamiliar with how it works and all of its new features.  But I will figure it out because it seems we need to talk...

Over the last thirty-ish days, I've seen something odd going on.  I've seen a growing interest in my Elves of Arethane series as evidenced in the increasing book sales.  I'm not talking Stephen King or EL James levels, of course, but for me - self-published nobody me - it's enough to take note.

(We have a heartbeat!)

And it's awesome!  It's super exciting even if I don't know WHY it's happening - and I'm kinda the girl who needs to know the WHY so it's been a practice in understanding that I don't always need to know the cause or reason.  But it has made me wonder if the interest in the books means there is interest in the blog.  If those readers want to know more about Arethane and what's been going on in that world.

I'm very happy to report that I have started on a "Next Gen" series featuring Emily and Jarrad's children, as well as Aerath and Karawyn's daughter.  It introduces a new character who I think may end up being my favorite - Eveline.  She's an orphan with a sharp tongue and an unknown background that she's longing to discover.  In a somewhat fortuitous meeting with Emily and Jarrad's son, Keryth, they embark on a very bumpy journey to help each other unlock their true power.

It's early stages, but I thought I would share a small snippet. I hope you enjoy it...

Best,
Kelly

“Do you really live here?”

Dropping everything but the stick, Eveline held it ready like a bat and froze on the spot.  She glanced over her shoulder and immediately swore. “Oh good gods, what have I done to deserve this?”

The Arrogant Archer jumped down from the bails of hay on which he had been lounging and trotted up beside her.  Unsure if she shouldn’t just whack him with it, Eveline held up the stick a little longer before lowering it and squatting to pick up her things.

“This is quite the hovel,” the elf scrunched up his nose and looked down at her.

“Please, tell me more,” she grunted as she stood back up, arm cradling her book. “I care so much for your opinion.”

The elf frowned, as though her words confused him.  She wondered if they truly did—he was too pretty to be smart.  And no one with any sense would be out in the mud and muck of the Valley in so much white and silk.  His tunic gleamed against the dark sky, the silver embroidery delicate against the material.  There wasn’t a thread out of place.  His black boots were spotless against his dark trousers, as though they had just been acquired. 

His outfit alone must cost more than what the entire village would earn from a year of markets.  Ridiculous.

“I’m ridiculous?!” he cried. “Look at your boots, they’re twice your size, it’s a wonder you can get around.”

Had she said that out loud? Eveline wondered as she marched her big boots towards the gate.  She spent so much time talking to herself that she very well could be speaking her thoughts.  She needed to be more careful

The elf’s tone turned kind, if not cautious. “I—I’m just curious about your home…,” he smiled and paused.  Waiting for her?  To do…what?

She just sneered at his smile.  It dropped and the elf looked at a loss.

 “I didn’t mean to offend…”

“I highly doubt you ever mean not to offend,” she grumbled, hitting the gate open with her hip and an oomph.  She followed the small path through the trees towards the muddy clearing, her pail clanking as she swung her arms.

She felt movement behind her.

Eveline glanced back.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What are you doing?” she repeated slowly and waved her stick at him, causing him to step back. “Why are you following me?”

His cheeks colored and he pressed his lips together while exhaling through his nose.  “I’m trying to give you the opportunity to apologize for what you said to me yesterday, you impossible oaf.”

Arms hanging at her side, Eveline was nearly frozen with shock as she blinked up through messy bangs at the elf. 

She started to chuckle.  And then the chuckle turned into a laugh and the laugh became a loud, honking guffaw, bending her at the waist while she slapped stick and book against her knee.

The uninvited guest looked unamused, but persevered.

“I assumed you just didn’t know who I was and had you, you would not have spoken to me so.”

Her laughter died immediately.  Eveline straightened back up and continued on down the path.  “Well, I assumed you were just some snobby aristocrat who thinks the sun rises and sets on his messy, blond head, and now, without making any assumption, I know that you are really just an arrogant, inflated ass!”

Riled up once more, Eveline’s cheeks and ears grew hot.  She expressed her annoyance and anger which each step, clomping through the mud once she reached the clearing.

The ass continued to speak to her back.

“That’s simply because you don’t know me.  If you did, you would love me like everyone else.”

“Oh, that is ri—,” She twirled to face him and stopped mid sentence, expecting him to be right behind her but seeing him still standing at the edge of the mud. “What are you doing?”

His lips curled, he surveyed the area with obvious disgust. “It’s filthy in there.”

“Oh, poor, little elf,” she mocked in a high-pitched voice. “Wouldn’t want to get your pretty, shiny boots a bit dirty, would ya?”

Lips pursed, he glared at her before marching with resolution to her in the middle of the clearing. 

Smirking, Eveline turned around to the chopping block and hung her pail up on the post.  She fished her loose book pages out and tried to return them to their binding as she sat down. 

“Regardless of what I do or don’t know about you, anyone who tries to assassinate me and expects an apology for it is twisted in the head.”

“Assassinate you,” he sighed with exasperation. “That’s a little melodramatic.”

“Melodra—!”

He cut her off. “What did you do to that book?”

Momentarily forgetting her annoyance, Eveline looked down at the scattered mess in her lap.  “I didn’t do anything to it, it’s old and falling apart…much like the old man who gave it to me.”

“You should take better care of your things.”

She stuck out her tongue at him, but he was looking around.

“Is there not another stump here for me to sit?”

“You weren’t invited to sit,” she retorted, but also took his distraction as an opportunity to fix her book.  No one was going to accuse her of not taking care of her possessions.  Certainly not this spoiled mule.

While the elf’s head was turned, she wiggled her fingers over the pages and watched as they reshuffled and rebound themselves together within the hard cover.

The elf gasped and spun back around.

“What did you just do?” he demanded.

Drat! How did he know?

“Nothing,” Eveline lied as sweetly as was possible. Stupid elf senses!

“You used magic!” he pointed at the book in her lap and came closer, forgetting how disgusted he’d just been with his surroundings.

“Magic!” she laughed, even snorting, but stopped when she saw he wasn’t buying it. How was she going to get out of this one?  Would he tell?

“How were you able to control it so well?”

“Control?” Eveline grew less concerned and more curious.

“What, are you eighty?” he asked.

She scowled. “Fifteen.  Ass.”

His pale eyes scanned her, his inspection making her nervous.

“What are you?”

And here is Barnabas sitting in front of stacks and stacks of books waiting to be alphabetized because moving sucks.  

COVER REVEAL: The Queen of Arethane

It has been a long time since I last blogged, but that empty space has been filled with writing and finishing up the fourth and final book of my Elves of Arethane series, The Queen of Arethane.  And today, I'm so excited to share with you all the cover.  It's another beautiful design by Najla Qamber and I couldn't be more pleased.  Above the cover I have included the book description as well and below is a link to Najla's website.  Go check it out and browse her awesome covers and beautiful original art.

www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

And finally, I'm really hoping to publish The Queen of Arethane by the end of this monthy, but who knows, maybe I'll get it out sooner.  Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it, please let me know in the comments if you do!

Best,
Kelly

It all ends here. 

War has come to Arèthane. The land is divided. Jabari's armies are on the move. The Royal Family is tortured by long-hidden secrets. And with Jarrad gone, Emily must learn how to cope on her own. 

Can Queen Karawyn keep her country and her people from falling into the clutches of the evil wizard? Will Dafne solve the mystery of her birth?  As Emily faces new struggles and old foes, once again the fate of Arèthane rests in her small hands.

And just like it began…

It all ends with a Door.

SOOO Worth the Read

Nuts and Bolts: "Thought" Verbs by Chuck Palahniuk

I pulled this essay from another site, link is below.  Read it and be reborn in your writing.  It affected me as much as reading "On Writing" by Stephen King did.

http://litreactor.com/essays/chuck-palahniuk/nuts-and-bolts-%E2%80%9Cthought%E2%80%9D-verbs

In six seconds, you’ll hate me.

But in six months, you’ll be a better writer.

From this point forward – at least for the next half year – you may not use “thought” verbs.  These include:  Thinks, Knows, Understands, Realizes, Believes, Wants, Remembers, Imagines, Desires, and a hundred others you love to use. 

The list should also include:  Loves and Hates.

And it should include:  Is and Has, but we’ll get to those, later.

Until some time around Christmas, you can’t write:  Kenny wondered if Monica didn’t like him going out at night…”

Thinking is abstract.  Knowing and believing are intangible.  Your story will always be stronger if you just show the physical actions and details of your characters and allow your reader to do the thinking and knowing.  And loving and hating.

Instead, you’ll have to Un-pack that to something like:  “The mornings after Kenny had stayed out, beyond the last bus, until he’d had to bum a ride or pay for a cab and got home to find Monica faking sleep, faking because she never slept that quiet, those mornings, she’d only put her own cup of coffee in the microwave.  Never his.”

Instead of characters knowing anything, you must now present the details that allow the reader to know them.  Instead of a characterwanting something, you must now describe the thing so that the reader wants it.

Instead of saying:  “Adam knew Gwen liked him.”

You’ll have to say:  “Between classes, Gwen was always leaned on his locker when he’d go to open it.  She’d roll her eyes and shove off with one foot, leaving a black-heel mark on the painted metal, but she also left the smell of her perfume.  The combination lock would still be warm from her ass.  And the next break, Gwen would be leaned there, again.”

In short, no more short-cuts.  Only specific sensory detail: action, smell, taste, sound, and feeling.

Typically, writers use these “thought” verbs at the beginning of a paragraph  (In this form, you can call them “Thesis Statements” and I’ll rail against those, later)  In a way, they state the intention of the paragraph.  And what follows, illustrates them.

For example:

“Brenda knew she’d never make the deadline.  Traffic was backed up from the bridge, past the first eight or nine exits.  Her cell phone battery was dead.  At home, the dogs would need to go out, or there would be a mess to clean up.  Plus, she’d promised to water the plants for her neighbor…”

Do you see how the opening “thesis statement” steals the thunder of what follows?  Don’t do it.

If nothing else, cut the opening sentence and place it after all the others.  Better yet, transplant it and change it to:  Brenda would never make the deadline.

Thinking is abstract.  Knowing and believing are intangible.  Your story will always be stronger if you just show the physical actions and details of your characters and allow your reader to do the thinking and knowing.  And loving and hating.

Don’t tell your reader:  “Lisa hated Tom.”

Instead, make your case like a lawyer in court, detail by detail.  Present each piece of evidence.  For example:

“During role call, in the breath after the teacher said Tom’s name, in that moment before he could answer, right then, Lisa would whisper-shout: ‘Butt Wipe,” just as Tom was saying, ‘Here’.”

One of the most-common mistakes that beginning writers make is leaving their characters alone.  Writing, you may be alone.  Reading, your audience may be alone.  But your character should spend very, very little time alone.  Because a solitary character starts thinking or worrying or wondering.  

For example:  Waiting for the bus, Mark started to worry about how long the trip would take..”

A better break-down might be:  “The schedule said the bus would come by at noon, but Mark’s watch said it was already 11:57.  You could see all the way down the road, as far as the Mall, and not see a bus.  No doubt, the driver was parked at the turn-around, the far end of the line, taking a nap.  The driver was kicked back, asleep, and Mark was going to be late.  Or worse, the driver was drinking, and he’d pull up drunk and charge Mark seventy-five cents for death in a fiery traffic accident…”

A character alone must lapse into fantasy or memory, but even then you can’t use “thought” verbs or any of their abstract relatives. 

Oh, and you can just forget about using the verbs forget and remember. 

No more transitions such as:  “Wanda remember how Nelson used to brush her hair.”

Instead:  “Back in their sophomore year, Nelson used to brush her hair with smooth, long strokes of his hand.”

Again, Un-pack.  Don’t take short-cuts.

Better yet, get your character with another character, fast.  Get them together and get the action started.  Let their actions and words show their thoughts.  You -- stay out of  their heads.

And while you’re avoiding “thought” verbs, be very wary about using the bland verbs “is” and “have.”

One of the most-common mistakes that beginning writers make is leaving their characters alone.

For example:

“Ann’s eyes are blue.”

“Ann has blue eyes.”

Versus:

“Ann coughed and waved one hand past her face, clearing the cigarette smoke from her eyes, blue eyes, before she smiled…”

Instead of bland “is” and “has” statements, try burying your details of what a character has or is, in actions or gestures.  At its most basic, this is showing your story instead of telling it. 

And forever after, once you’ve learned to Un-pack your characters, you’ll hate the lazy writer who settles for:  “Jim sat beside the telephone, wondering why Amanda didn’t call.”

Please.  For now, hate me all you want, but don’t use “thought” verbs.  After Christmas, go crazy, but I’d bet money you won’t. 

Why Disney Still Works

I had an interesting childhood.  Instead of being a child of the early 80s, it seemed as though I grew up in some sort of Pleasantville, Leave It to Beaver throwback time with a rather traditional Italian Catholic father who lorded over what affected and influenced his daughter like the all-encompassing eye of Big Brother.  That included what was and was not allowed on our old cabinet-embedded tube T.V.  Cartoons and musicals were allowed; everything else was not.

But then as I entered my third and fourth year of life, mastering the human language way too early according to my mother, my parents realized that some of the musicals I watched, might not be appropriate.  I would sing "Sodomy" from HAIR not knowing at all what the words meant, but thinking that pretty blonde boy had a nice voice.

What's Pederasty?

But it was after I walked around in my little pigtails, perfectly annunciating, "Keep your filthy paws off my silky draw's" that my parents had to then censor the musicals.  All that was left was Disney.

The chicks will what??

This engrained in my heart a special place for all things Disney.  I watched The Dumbo Show and Disney music videos while I tearily swallowed down my Cream of Wheat before school every morning.  Disney's movies ran on repeat.  I grew up thinking one day I would be like one of those Disney princesses, singing through a magical forest of friendly little woodland creatures and flittering blue birds.  

I confess all of this because us Hands were discussing writing about movies we love that everyone hates and that made me think of T.V.'s shows of the same.  Yes, I am a thirty-six year old woman who loves to watch Disney's Austin & Ally, but here's why.  This is why Disney has always worked for me.  I love that each episode wraps up so easily at the end.  There's no Lost-esque mystery and wonder at the end.  It's wholesome and, yes, cheesy, but ultimately it's a break from the realities that replace our castles and Prince Charmings.  It's an escape from the dreary world in the most extreme way possible with fun music and dance numbers, outrageous escapades and zany misadventures, complete with requisite Canadian comedian actor (just ignore them after they grow up and leave the Magical Kingdom to "twerk" all over You Tube.) 

No songs about Sodomy here!

 There's not much depth and that's great.  That's what T.V. is sometimes supposed to be--entertainment; good old-fashion, unapologetic entertainment with a poppy song and a happily ever after.  

A Girl's Proposal for the Hands

(This is a repost from http://thereturnofthehands.wordpress.com/)

Last night Sharif and I watched the first half of Bram Stoker’s DRACULA with Gary Oldham, Keanu Reeves, and Winona Ryder.  I had never seen the movie before and also admitted to not having read the book.  It’s on my Kindle, as are a number of many other books I still need to get to.  Sharif was surprised by my admission and asked if I’ve read Frakenstein either.  I haven’t, but I do know the story behind its creation, being the Byron fan I’ve been for so long.  I know that it began on a rainy day in Italy, where the poets and philosophers – Byron, Mary and Percy Shelley – met with friends and babies’ mamas and out of boredom, decided to all write a monster story.  Byron’s Vampyre was tossed in the trash to be later resurrected and published by his physician friend and Mary Shelley’s was turned into FRANKENSTEIN: or The Modern Prometheus.

Anyway, we watched the oddity that was that movie for awhile until Master Chef had recorded long enough to watch without commercials and so we switched over.  It was too late and DRACULA too heavy of a movie for me to commit to on a school night.  But as I was getting ready for bed later that evening, a thought occurred to me.  Wouldn’t it be fun for us Hands to have a rainy day Lake Geneva moment?  If the four of us met in an imaginary lake house in the digital rainy Italian countryside of the Four Hands website and each offered up an original monster short story of our own.  We can set parameters – it must be SHORT, like maybe two pages or so and create a new sort of nightmare or night terror.  We each post on a different day.  We give ourselves time to write, what with writing and reading and life to attend to, and then we share our works with each other.  There would be no competition, just fun and creation and who knows, maybe the next Frankenstein will be raised on a silver lab table again.

Since this was posted on the Hands site, all three male hands agreed so expect some horror stories your way.  Now that I've made this agreement, I have to come up with a new "monster."  So far I've been writing random words and thoughts in a notebook.  This won't stop me from working on the fourth Arethane book, but will afford me a needed break, writing something else.  As Neil Gaiman said, even if you stop to work on something else, keep working, keep writing.  It all leads back.  So stay tuned.

A Night With Neil

It took a while to fall asleep afterward, to stop the thoughts and cease the replaying of events in my mind.  The close of a memorable evening gave way to a following morning in which the night had not faded in any way.  Even if the Sharpie writing on my arm had, just a bit.

Friday night Sharif and I made the drive in 107 degree heat (Why the hell did we move to Northern California if it's gonna keep acting like Texas?) across the Bay Bridge where it dropped thirty degrees in a matter of a tunnel.  We arrived one hour before the doors of the Geary Theater opened and two hours before the show started.  There was already a proper line dotting the sidewalk, but it wasn't too bad and we weren't too far down.  It's difficult to be bored waiting while in San Francisco.  The city does not disappoint.  People of all varieties hurry or don't along its up and down sidewalks.  We were entertained by a homeless man who told us cow jokes.  "What is a cow abortion called?  De-calf-inated.  What do you call a cow with no legs?  Ground Beef.  And in honor of the end of DOMA, what do you call a gay cow?  A Dairy Queen, Baby!" complete with rounded over the head snap and all.

People are pretty laid-back in California and even more so in San Francisco.  They are tolerant to a fault.  My Southern ass grew more annoyed as the hippy woman ahead of us in line allowed more and more folks to join her spot, to the point where I finally complained, "What the hell? Did she invite her whole g-damn Ashram?!"  But I was soon saved from having to kick organic ass as the line began to move.

We found seats about seven rows up.  The theater, though grand and gilded, is small and compact.  Neil Gaiman arrived on stage to raucous applause.  As he spoke, you could tell the people there were truly there for him.  They laughed a bit too much at his jokes, awed WAY too much when he spoke of his wife and wore a perma-smile for the entire night.  But as soon as Neil began to read, his voice an accented, hypnotic purr, everyone sort of disappeared and it was just you and Neil.  The reading wasn't long, which was good because I've never much cared for being read to, no matter who does the reading. Then he answered questions and Sharif and I felt that was the best part--Neil sharing with us some of the behind the scenes experiences with the illustrations of SANDMAN and how he writes his stories.  He then read from a new children's book he will be publishing in September and after a bow, the crowd's applause, the stage was set up for the autographing.  And we waited.  And waited.

Going on ten hours of waiting and not eating, Sharif and I assessed that we weren't really cut out for this waiting stuff.  But nothing would have made me leave.

 Through hunger and migraine we pushed until the reward came when we were summoned to stand on stage in line.  People had brought armfuls of books, they brought presents, they brought homemade crafts all seeking Neil's signature on them.  We had the book that brought us to the event, THE OCEAN AT THE END OF THE LANE and ourselves.  In my mind, I had been playing a scenario where I asked Neil to sign my tattoo of Delirium. I knew, from past experiences that if I played this out in my head, there was a good chance I wouldn't make it happen in reality.  But as soon as I stepped up in front of Neil, said "Hello" and he looked up, smiling and saying "Hello" back, I knew I had to go for it.

"Do you think you could write 'Tempus Frangit' on my Delirium tattoo?"  Without looking up from signing my book, he said, "Sure.  Come around."

It all got a little blurry after that.  I was still light-headed from the hunger and migraine.  I thought I would rest my arm on the table, but he had me squat beside him and rest it on his leg.  After saying, "I'm sorry, this is going to be awkward," he repositioned himself and began writing.

While waiting--too nervous to say anything--I remembered Kevin texting me before the event asking to tell him what Neil smelled like.  So I leaned in just a bit and took a deep breath, hoping he wouldn't look over his shoulder and ask, "Did you just smell me?"  He didn't.  And he smelled of Sharpie.

I walked away still shaking and waited while Sharif got his autograph.  I had noticed during my wait that everyone walked away from Neil with a smile on his or her face.  To everyone, it was a personal, magical moment.  I can't imagine it being that way with many authors--not the ones on Neil's level--or many heroes.  Neil stayed until everyone received their moment, until the wee hours of the night.  He said it would be his last book-signing tour ever.  We'll see.  He seemed to love being there as much as we loved having him there.  I imagine that love will nag at him, will draw him back.  And we'll be waiting, clutching our comics and AMERICAN GODS and readying a spot on our tattoos.

All Hands

I think it was a little over a year ago when something ended that, at the time, needed to end and those involved went their separate ways, though never really straying from another.  They continued to email, to Facebook and more frequently, most importantly they texted.  Texted about a movie they were going to see, a T.V. show they had fallen in love with, new songs they heard and sometimes just random "Halloo!" bits.

A little over a year and a half ago I was asked by three college friends who I became closer to once we left our shared campus to join them on a site called Three Hands in the Popcorn Bag where we reviewed movies together.  It has previously been an all-male cast, I added the XY perspective.

Well yesterday we returned, eager to once again share all of our talks on a greater platform than the inches by inches size screens of our phones.  That new site is below.  Check it out, we have interesting talks, we sometimes talk as though no one else is reading and sometimes we say funny things.

I sort of wish I had a photo of the four of us then and now, sort of all Stephen King IT-style, but as I said, we grew closer the further apart.  So I'll just leave you this link.  Enjoy.

http://thereturnofthehands.wordpress.com/

Halfway There

I passed the 50,000 words mark in book 4.  And yet I feel like I still have SO much more ground to cover.  A lot of that 50k is rewrites; a lot of it is going to get cut.  I have to read through it and see if there's anything I can keep, anything that still applies or just moments I like and want to use.  But I'm sure a lot of it is just going to go.  The story has changed too much.  But what's going into Word now, I think is better.  I hope the reader will feel that way too.

As I sit at my bar writing, Sharif is making dinner - I like this set up.

Just watched that new Miley Cyrus video - I prefer her backyard sessions, but I also don't see what all this fuss is about with this new thing.  I'm kinda indifferent - both the song and the video are just sort of blah.  But I don't think any young-girl-trying-to-be-hardcore display will ever top Fiona Apple's "Criminal" video for me.  That one made me feel like I was watching something I shouldn't be.

Anyway, I'm almost done reading CLOCKWORK PRINCESS by Cassandra Clare.  I'm not sure if this is supposed to be the last of this series; I never really know with Clare's works as she sort of tends to just keep going.  I like her writing a lot, the book is fast-paced even though you look back and realize not much has happened, but she always seems to have something infuriating about her characters that, while in the midst of, you have no idea how she's going to pull them out of it.  Like the whole brother-sister business in The Mortal Instruments and now this love-triangle hoopla in Internal Devices.  I know in writing, you let the story take you were it wants to go and you want to take the reader someplace they haven't already been, but sometimes as you are typing, at least for me, there's a moment of "Is this going too far?  Will I be able to pull this back or pull this off?"  I don't see how Clare can do that with the point in the book I'm at now.  I don't know how I can continue sympathy for the characters or certainly respect.  But we'll see.  She's a great writer and a great storyteller and her books, her characters continue to draw me to them, hang around in my head when I'm away from them and that's what I think all writers hope to achieve.

Okay, back to book 4 of my own.  Will keep you posted.

Cats, Creeps and Twizzlers

Tonight I realized since Sharif has been in L.A. that I have lived on a diet of pizza and Twizzlers.  I'll probably regret that soon...

I turned Beth onto DOCTOR WHO.  I’ve created a Whovian!  I sort of feel like God only I won’t smite her if she ever decides she no longer likes the show…or maybe I will?  Our earnest telephone conversations have now turned from talk of books to Doctor Who.  I’m not upset by that.  There’s a lot of wit and fantasy and drama and intelligence and mind-bendiness in the canon that Who talk can be very rewarding dialogue.

In other news…I finished the chapters!  The dreaded chapters.  Gods, it's a relief.  The rewrites are complete, that part has been recorded and the story line completed so that now I can work towards laying the ties for the rest.  It’s kinda like building a railway line.  You drop down the ties and lay down the rail, bit by bit until you stand up one day, run the back of your hand across your sweaty forehead and look behind you at the long track you’ve made, curving away into the distant horizon.  Though sometimes I jump ahead.  Like next, I’ll probably write the ending.  So I guess that railroad metaphor is crap.  Sorry about that.  

Anyway, if you haven't read THE CHILD THIEF by Brom (Seriously, that's the dude's name, man is obviously a badass) then you need to.  I drew a lot of inspiration from this book.  It's gritty and dark and goes to places even I don't think I could tread, but it's one of the best retellings of a children's story I've read.  One that doesn't make you wanna gag trying to get it down, one that doesn't completely take the story and TRY to make it dark, try to take it some place else, to make it cool and modern.  This book, it just...well, it's kinda how you see that story actually happening and the fairy tale is the retelling.  Anyway, read it.  It will be worth it.

It did sort of feel like getting beat-up, writing those chapters.  I barreled through them.  Pushed through, sitting straight-backed at my wet bar in a pretty comfy leather stool.  I think it’s my new place to write. 

New spot. See? Bag of Twizzlers - it's an epidemic.

It’s very Roman, very disciplined to sit so straight and proper and tap, tap, tap away at the keys.  I had to roll my shoulders when I was done and try to loosen the rocks that had formed there where I carry all my stress.

MAN OF STEEL opens this weekend.  Somehow I’m talking Sharif into taking me, knowing full well he loathes going to any movie on opening weekend.  But I’ve wanted this movie for so long and have waited for it for it seems so long.  I think I’ll write a review of it, should I get to go, and post it here.  I haven’t done a movie review in a really long time.  I’ve commented my thoughts on movies on other blogs and in texted conversations (like my dislike of SKYFALL and LES MIS—seriously, too much and not enough.  They are the yin and yang of what I don’t want in my movie-watching experience) but it’s been awhile since I’ve done a movie review and certainly not at all on here.  So we’ll see; if it all works out, expect a review.  I’ll be especially hard on Lois Lane.  I have high standards for Lois Lane; I used to want to be her, even got a degree in Journalism.  Kate Bosworth was an awful Lois Lane.

Right now, "Creep" by Radiohead is playing on the Libratone.  I love that song, even if the band themselves hate it.  The dogs are not amused by my singing, though - it could give Anne Hathaway in LES MIS a run for her money in the over-emoting department...

I'll leave you with my cat, Killer.  She got to hang out on the front porch with me tonight.

June Reader Spotlight - Kevin Still, aka Mr. Bristle

This month's Reader Spotlight features a very good friend of mine with whom I share words on as frequent of an occasion as we can devise.  We've actually known each other for over 15 years now.  He's someone who strings together words in a way I envy, in a way that subtly forces you to follow. 

Please welcome Kevin Still!

Age: 35
Hometown/Where you live: 
I'm from El Dorado, Arkansas, home of the haunted Rialto movie theater where my buddy Xon was the manager and got me into free films during high school. Now I live in Bryan, Texas, home of two theaters that charge $4 a matinee ticket. We see a lot of movies.

Welcome to Reader Spotlight!  Share with our blog viewers out there your reading habits: What's your favorite place to read? Favorite time of the day to read?  If you could pick the PERFECT place to escape to with a book, where would that be?

AT HOME: Our living room windows gush loads of natural light. We do not turn on lamps or the overheads until late evening. My ideal reading happens in the mornings, perched on a couch near those windows, coffee on the side table, pen in hand, pug curled up by my side. I start my reading as early as possible due to sinking cognition in the early afternoon and evening hours. I prefer to read or write in the mornings, perform chores and house work in the afternoons, and engage films or neighbors in the evening.

IN PUBLIC: I'm a huge fan of good coffee and tables stuck off in the corner. I don't like those big, coveted comfy chairs. I want a small table with a straight back, uncomfortable chair that keeps me focused. And I want free refills, plenty of foot traffic for people watching, and low overhead music so I can easily eavesdrop. Although I'm a huge proponent of local businesses, I'm on a first name basis with most employees at Panera Bread Co. around the corner. Their iced coffee is perfect.

In order from least to most, what would you say your top three books are?

I'm answering this according to June 6, 2013 standards. Ask me again in six months and you might get a different list. Also, I'm not sure I have a most favorite book. Alright, enough disclaimers, here's three books I loved the shit out of: 1.) Horns by Joe Hill. I'm not sure I've read a finer novel, other than maybe A Prayer For Owen Meany. Horns is quite dark, which makes it difficult to recommend, but it's also impossible to put down, beautifully structured, and haunting as crap. I didn't pick up another book for several weeks just to allow Horns to settle. It's one I hope to re-read this summer. 2.) Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard. It's been awhile, but there was a long season - couple years, actually - when I carried Tinker Creek on my person the way I once carried my Bible. Tinker Creekis gorgeous and breathtaking and chock full of perfect metaphors and sentences. Also, I feel totally awed that Dillard wrote this amazing genuflection on nature while sitting in front of a concrete wall in a library at night. This is a huge testament to the power of the human imagination and the writer's ultimate responsibility with words. 3.) Stranger Than Fiction by Chuck Palahniuk. This is an odd title to put on this list because it's not really a great book. I enjoyed it, but I did not immediately slough off a dozen emails and text messages recommending it to friends. Still, I think about this book more than I think about any other book. And I return to it more often than any other book besides Anne Lamott's Bird By Bird. Palahniuk says things here about writing, reading, community, friendships, and urgency that struck - and continue to strike - a major chord in me. So much so that I keep my copy close by and I use passages of the text in my classes. (You wouldn't believe how many of my college freshmen have never heard of Fight Club: film or book.) Although I would like to have ended my response here with some great classic by Willa Cather or Faulkningway, but I can't fake the funk. I'm also working my way through Palahniuk's canon, and it's a hit-or-miss study of literary structures, character development, and lyrical urgency.

Favorite author?
Flannery O'Connor. But there are a few other people I would read any and everything by: Joe Hill, David Sedaris, Jack Ketchum, George Saunders, Karen Russell, Chuck Palahniuk, John Updike. I always get desperately excited when Stephen King publishes anything new, even if I don't make an attempt to read it.

What do you look for in a main character?  Do you want him/her to be some butt-kicking badass, a level-headed pacifist, a hot-tempered hero?

Heroes are fun, but rarely believable or inspiring. As a die-hard John Hughes fan, I love characters who possess good intentions and great hope but still find themselves plagued by life circumstances or deflated self-esteem. My favorite genre is the "coming-of-age" story where we see the down-and-out kid overcome that one thing holding him or her back. They may not always save the day but they land squarely on promise. I'm not sure you can find anything more heroic than that.

What are your character pet-peeves? 

Two things drive me nuts. One, when a character simply fulfills a paper-thin stereotype, ie. the busty blond, the overly effeminate gay, the butch lesbian, the street-wise token black kid, the dopy obese guy, the prudish mousy girl, the skater pothead, the shallow or overly judgmental believer, the overly handsome blue eyed all American male with perfect abs who excels at everything he sets his bear-size hands to. Do these people exist? Yes. But shatter the stereotype. Two, characters who remain static. If people are not changing or growing or falling apart, I can't be asked to care.

What do you look for by the time you finish a book?  What expectations do you have going into a book?
My primary hope is to follow interesting people through a unique situation via vehicles of beautiful sentences and unique structure. Give me that and you've got my readerly devotion. I'm surprised that's not always easy to find.

What draws you to pick up a book in the first place, or more importantly, lay down some hard earned money on?

Besides a trusted recommendation:
1.) I'll purchase and read anything written or recommended by the authors listed in the "favorites" question.
2.) An author's interesting account of research or writing processes can pique my curiosity.
3.) I sure don't mind a good memoir by a super funny person, ie. Tina Fey, Mindy Kaling, Sarah Silverman.

What are you currently reading?

FOR INSPIRATION: Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. Damned by Chuck Palahniuk. My Bright Abyss by Christian Wiman.
FOR LEISURE: The Son by Philipp Meyer. And the current Entertainment Weekly is always folded open on the back of the ol' American Standard.

What kind of story would you love to read, but just can’t seem to find?

I want to read a story that explores a personal crisis of religious faith, particularly at a young age. Christian fiction generally strives to glorify the attainment and bolstering of faith. Mainstream American fiction often battles and degrades faith. I would like to see characters in a story earnestly grappling with faith the way many young people do. They've been raised in a particular faith system. They've seen it fail or they've discovered it's inevitable perversity. And then they strive to make sense of it. That's the story I would like to read, but I've never found it. So I started writing it this summer. 

Thanks so much to Mr. Bristle.  You can read more from Kevin over at his blog:  http://kikimornings.wordpress.com/

Finding the Scene

And there it is.

I have it—that elusive scene that’s been plaguing me for weeks, that I’ve been avoiding like an obnoxious neighbor, that I know needs my attention, but I just can’t commit to mentally or emotionally yet.  It’s a big one. 

Quick aside, I keep calling these chunks of words, these chapters and paragraphs scenes because they play like movies in my mind.  The mental television clicks on and then the scenes unfold so they are scenes to me; sorry if that’s not very literary, but that’s how my books come about.

Anyway, this is a big scene—it’s a major moment, the consequence to prior actions, the come-uppance—and it needs to be grand, it needs to be destructive, it needs to be painful and cathartic on every level: physical, mental, emotional.  It was already written.  I wrote it probably about two years ago.  I hadn’t truly revisited it in over a year.  Everything about the story around it has changed and it’s been sitting on this metaphoric island waiting for me to cup it in my palms and reshape it.  Reading it now, I didn’t like what I had written before.  It involves almost solely a character I hold very dear.  And he deserved so much more than what I had given him.  So I knew I needed to make it better.  I knew that this needed to be a big moment for this character, but I just couldn’t see it.  I have to see it in order to write it.  It wouldn’t play in my head.  When I would pause a moment and focus on nothing, my eyes going hazy and dry—my normal routine to tap into that mental movie and take from it the sap of the story—it was blank.  Nothing appeared.  It was extraordinarily frustrating.  It almost pushed me to shelving the whole damn thing.

And then this morning happened.

There was nothing unique about this morning.  Nothing was different about my routine.  I sat at my desk at work, looking at data and numbers, doling out assignments to my employees, answering emails about boring mortgage guidelines and such and then that T.V. flickered on.  Just a bit.  So I continued on with my day.  And then there were haunting hints in the back of my mind—ghostly images overlapping reality.  A few more flickers.  And then it was there.  An image of a bright white floor with blood pooling on it, the figure looming like a shadow above.  And from there the rest fell into place, like reverse dominos. 

The next step is extracting that scene from my head and converting it to words.  But for now, the hard part, the frustrating part is done.  I was reading on Cassandra Clare’s blog a while back and she has a FAQ section and in that list is the desperate plea of an unknown writer asking what to do to get inspired.  How does Cassandra Clare get unblocked?  Ms. Clare basically said that if you wait around for inspiration, you’re never going to write.  She and other writers live by the AICHOK method: Ass In Chair, Hands On Keyboard.  Stephen King mentions this as well in ON WRITING.  He writes at least 1500 words a day.  Most of it is just crap, filler, dribble, but once he’s amassed enough, he goes back in and cuts a few.  King could also be accused of being a modern day Dickens, meaning you’d think he was getting paid per word, but I see what they are trying to say.  It’s a job and your job is to write, so just write and wade back through the sludge later.

I just can’t operate that way.  Maybe that makes me a bad writer.  Maybe if this were my sole profession and I had publishers and editors and agents waiting on something, anything from me, that I would be all about the toss some spaghetti on the wall and see what sticks method of writing.  For now, I have to see it.  And no amount of tapping angrily on the keyboard will bring that image into focus.  As long as it still appears, I don’t care either way.  Because today I’ll be punishing a character, I will be tormenting him and hurting him and finally get it done so he and I can both heal and move on.

Places to Write About and Other Observations

This weekend the husband and I took our first trip to Berkley to see a Mumford & Sons concert with the mother-in-law.  Arriving in California from Texas, you are aware of Berkley, you know it’s a college town, its history, and you know that’s where all of the hippies are.  Berkley didn’t disappoint.

Observations on Berkley:
1. There is a distinct aversion to deodorant.
2. They are allowing toddlers on campus and calling them "college students."
3. Everyone in Berkley has the same walk, a kind of lope.  I would imagine due to all of the drastic inclines and declines. (Seriously, I had to have lost five pounds just from walking.)
4. Despite the need to go natural with the arm pits, it is probably one of the coolest places I've been.

Speaking of places I've been...My junior year of college, I was selected to be part of a group of students to travel around the world with TIME Magazine.  It was a study tour, I earned college credits for it and the point was essentially to meet with the bureau chiefs, reporters, and writers and learn from them about the world of journalism that which we couldn't just read about for ourselves.  We traveled to twelve different cities in seven different countries in thirty-two days.  Mishaps happened, people were lost on the way (me, included!), and one of us dressed up like the pope using a towel, a bandanna, and a toilet bowel brush.  It was an incredible experience, one from which I draw little bits to use in my stories, but I’ve been thinking about using the entire experience for a story.  I see it all starting on a train…

I discovered this weekend that I am not a wine drinker.  Everyone said, “Oh, but the wineries know how to serve you, they’ll cater to your tastes and find you the perfect wine…”  Nuh-uh.  Didn’t happen.  Wine makes my jaw sides hurt.  And I can’t prevent making a bleck! face after each taste which I didn’t think the fancy wine dude appreciated.  The place was pretty in an old-wordly way and the people there were friendly with a hinting undercurrent of pretention and the guy that greeted us at the door burped when describing the place to us, which I suppose I can sort of appreciate given that he’s probably been pounding wine all day.  But at the end of the day, it was verifiably determined that I’m a beer drinker.

Reader Spotlight is to come shortly; with the family in town and traveling all over northern California because of it, RS was a little delayed, but I hope to post it soon and expect it to be a fun one.