I DO believe in fairies--I do! I do!

A few months ago, I was tucking The Midget in bed and out of nowhere, she burst into tears. Hard, fierce tears, the kind that defy interruption by language or hugs. I could only hold her hand until the storm subsided and she could speak again.

"Mom," she sniffed, rubbing her nose across my forearm, "I just want it to be real. Magic and fairies."

I hugged her and snuck a handkerchief into her hand, and told her the same story I've told her half a dozen times, the story about seeing the little ball of light dancing in the cemetery, the one the cat saw, too. I don't know if she believed it, but I did, and that was what mattered. The strength of my belief let her go to sleep that night.

As strange as it is to admit at age 31 and as a die-hard materialist, there is a part of me thatstill believes that magic is real, that ghosts could exist and that I saw a fairy in the Gardiner cemetery. It that inherent insistence upon believing in the impossible that feeds the words within me. It the core dissonance that shapes my song.

Will anything ever change my mind about all these impossible things? I doubt it. No matter how hard I've thought about the evidence, I have stubbornly resisted giving them up. I feel certain it's because they do exist. I know they do. I have met the Faery Queen, riding her white horse. I have seen a girl become possessed by a demon and vomit up green goo. I have battled the powers of evil with my rowan wand and read magic back into the world from the Book of Light. And with a trip to the library, I can do it again.

I guess what I believe in is the power of books. From the moment I slip inside the front cover, I am no longer myself and I no longer live in Portland, Oregon. I am absolutely absorbed in the world created by the story, and the lessons I learn in those pages, I take to heart. The part of me that remembers the tale believes entirely in the mysterious things within that world.

I tell myself that's all it is. An imagination, fed by books. A love of all stories set in the implausible worlds of fantasy.

But about that fairy. I did see a dancing ball of light in the cemetery, and it was Equinox, a magical time of year. The cat saw it, too. And we don't have fireflies in Oregon.

Grows shoots & leaves

Sometimes, when I'm wondering why I don't have more to show for all the time I spend in front of the computer, I have to remind myself that as a beginning writer goes, I've only just begun. Yeah, I started writing novels (actually writing them, and not just starting them and forgetting them) 6 years ago, but I didn't go hardcore until about two years ago. That was when I was walking home from the grocery store and realized that I was willing to stick with my sometimes underwhelming day job if it meant becoming a real writer.

And so in the middle of editing book number two, I started writing flash fiction and then expanded it to short fiction and now I try to balance my time pretty evenly between short stories and noveling. I'm very glad I did, because I think I've learned more writing short stories than I learned writing novels, and the lessons I learned didn't hurt quite so much. I've also learned more about the business end of writing in the last 8 months--since I found Twitter--than I did in all the book and blog reading that I did in the previous 30 years of my life.

I feel pretty good about the last year of production. I feel like I'm working hard, learning a lot, and getting faster and better every day. Part of what's helping things is the great group of people I've stumbled across. From my supportive friends and family to my writing buddy, Sue, to the Seshat Tribe of Awesome (a virtual writing group of great spec fictionists), I feel like I'm soaking up rays of genius and love every day. It sounds mushy, but it's true. All the great vibes are rolling off of these folks and going straight to my brain.

So I guess you could say I'm a lot like a plant. The seed was pushed into the ground long ago, and tender care helped me sprout. Now, by absorbing radiant energy, I'm finally sending up shoots.

Quick hi

Dear Blog:

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you. It's just that my to-do list had babies and the internet at my favorite cafe failed me. Want to make a date for tomorrow?

You're such a sweet blog. Thanks for being so understanding.

Love,

Me.

Defining beauty, defining power, defining ourselves

A few days ago, I cut my hair. It was a pretty drastic change (see before & after pics), and it made me think of my last major haircut. I was working at the museum and there was one family who came in pretty regularly, with three wonderful girls who liked me a lot. And the one girl saw my haircut and said that it was a big change, but I was still beautiful anyway. She looked so pained when she said it that I knew she was trying to be diplomatic. She was at that age, I think, when what it means to be beautiful is to have long hair.

To most girls, beauty is a function of being a woman, and to children still developing a sense of gender, the genders are painted with very broad brushstrokes. A woman has long hair. A girl wears pink. Men have short hair. Boys wear blue. Men are handsome; women are beautiful. Women decorate themselves and color their parts to accentuate their beauty. To kids, this all makes a lot more sense than any explanation of biological parts.

But as we get older and begin to work out a finer sense of what it means to be a woman or a man, we struggle with ideas about masculinity and femininity. The basic notions of a child become restrictive. What if you are born with a uterus but you don't like pink? What does that mean? What if you have a face that is never, ever going to look symmetrical, no matter how much foundation you cake on? These are questions that girls wrestle with as they grow up (boys have their own issues to work through), and into the middle of all that wrestling come the artillery shells of hormones and lust, throwing all the questions and definitions into the harsh light of lust.

Once lust is involved, the problems become more difficult to solve. Because there is a certain kind of power a beautiful woman can wield over a man, a power that generations of blond, buxom teenage girls have used to their advantage. It is the power of the trophy wife. It is a power that does not make a person stronger, but only allows them to better manipulate others. Girls watch prettier, more glamorous girls get doted over and see that power and beauty and being a woman are all wrapped up together in a horrific Gordian knot.

For some of us, that knot is too difficult to work through. I was one of those girls who looked at the muddle and just decided to turn my back on the problem. I wore goofball outfits, got ridiculous haircuts, and reveled in my personal integrity. I tried to become strong in my own way, learning as much as I could, developing a sense of humor, and looking down on all those blond babes with the boyfriend shelling out jewelry.

But now that I am strong, an educated woman with plenty of opinions I'm not afraid to share, I also don't worry so much about being mistaken for one of the babes. I can have long hair if I want to, not because I need to look like a girl, as my first-grade daughter believes she must, or because my hair is beautiful and I need it to look gorgeous (what can I say? I have good hair). I can have long hair just because I like it. And I can have short hair because I want to have short hair, not just to prove that I am too cool and tough to be "girly" (which is probably why I wanted short hair when I was a teenager). It's just hair.

I can say that now, because I have lived with myself and looked at myself long enough to appreciate the good features and the bad ones. I have people in my life to tell me I am beautiful. I am not afraid that I need a man to give me power. I think I might have finally worked out for myself what it means to be a woman. It is bigger than hair; it is bigger than pink; it is bigger than beauty. But it's also big enough to hold all of that in its warm arms.

Meet you in the Gold Room

Wow. It's Wednesday, and Wednesdays, I update the blog. Ohmygod, I have nothing to say! Everyone's going to hate me and no one will read my blog ever again! Oh nooooo!

Okay, panic-attack managed.

Actually, right now I am thinking about zombies. Over the past week, I've been working my way through The Living Dead, an incredible anthology of incredible zombie stories. At least three of them have made me tear up. They are *that* good. Many have filled me with awe and joy and a wonderful appreciation of the human condition. Yep, and they're zombie stories.

I just want to point out that loving spec fiction never comes back to bite you in the ass. No matter what crazy thing they think up next, fantasy/SF/horror writers are always working to stretch our collective imaginations. Occasional trash finds its way through, but even the writers who are struggling to maintain control of their story and who write paint-by-numbers characters can often give us moments of wonder. (Twilight, I'm looking at you.) Speculative fiction is good for the parts of your mind the reality sometimes bogs down. It is the literary equivalent of haute couture--sometimes impractical, sometimes unwearable, but always fascinating.

Literary snobs can stick with their Pulitzer-prize winners, but I'll be in Gold Room*. Looking for tear-jerkers.

*PDXers will know the Gold Room as the genre fiction area of Powell's Books (Burnside store & mother-ship). If you don't live in Stumptown, make that one room your number one vacation spot this year. Don't both with Voodoo Donuts; the line's too long come summer-time. ;)

When the lightning strikes

Since I spent the weekend celebrating my Sweetie-Pie's birthday, I thought I'd take a minute to talk about him.

<- This is John.

Almost every picture of John is bad because my hands are perpetually shaky. In our house, 90% of the pictures are pictures of The Midget, 8% of the others were taken by The Midget, and the remaining 2% are either ruined by my inability to take a photograph or are pictures of my butt. This photo of John is thusly a cherished image.

Most images of John are self-created. He is a painter who, like my beloved Frida Kahlo, is inspired by his own features. I like to watch his various caricatures appear, their familiar details warped into mythos and largesse. Like Frida, he plays up the same features until they become symbols, something more significant than a lengthening hairline or cluster of curls.

The most wonderful thing about John isn't his ability to wield a paintbrush, but rather the size of his heart. Almost five years ago, he adopted The Midget and I, giving us each a place in his magical world. I had known him, slightly, for about two years. At one point, maybe our second meeting, I shook his hand for the first time. It was as if lightning struck my fingers, and for a moment, I felt as if I floated above the face of the world.

Sometimes I still feel that way.

I am glad the lightning led me to John. I am not the cleverest girl; it might have taken me years to figure out how utterly amazing this quiet man is. Luckily, I know it now, and I couldn't be more delighted. Sweetie-Pie, you make my life sweet.

My native vocabulary

After a lovely chat with a friend last night, I had a realization about my childhood: it was quirky. Not bizarre or difficult or memoir-worthy, but certainly a little different from most of my friends. My childhood was out of sync with its time. For example, here are some words that I grew up using that most people have had few opportunities to use:

• Root Cellar (as in "I need to go down to the root cellar to get some potatoes for dinner.")
• Draft horses (as in "Tom and Jerry are the good team of draft horses; that damn Lady is too stubborn to work with another horse.")
• 2-room schoolhouse (as in "I was one of twelve kids in my 2-room schoolhouse. It was really heart-breaking when that school had to close.")
• Cork boots, often called corks (as in the sign on the front door of the restaurant where my mother worked: "Please remove your corks before entering the building.")
• Bookmobile (as in "I wish the bookmobile came more frequently than every two weeks. I only checked out 55 books last time, and I had to read The Odyssey when I ran out.")
• Gypo logger (as in "My dad likes being a gypo logger better than working for one of those big companies, especially since he lost his job in Alaska.")

And in the midst of using all these words, words that colored my life with a certain turn-of-the-century (and I mean the 20th century) tint, I was going to my friend's house and playing Nintendo games. Some of those 55 books (one record stack, checked out in the heart of summer doldrums, contained 125 books) were Sweet Valley High and the rest were probably Dean Koontz and Charles de Lint. We had a VCR. I listened to Milli Vanilli, Motley Crue and Paula Abdul on my cassette player. We even watched tv--although reception was so bad we had to imagine the people weren't purple and sometimes we lost audio in a flurry of static.

So I primarily feel like an ordinary child of the late-80s. But at times, I feel a kinship to the people of a generation or even two generations before my own. It's as if they speak my native tongue, a language I have almost forgotten but can still recall a few odd words.

What writing means to me

I know there are people out there who have published projects and then for one reason or another, stepped out of the writing business--Poppy Z. Brite stands as a good example. For writers like Poppy, writing came to mean something dark, something that made it slinging words lose its zest. And I can understand completely because sometimes for me writing means:

• Feeling terrified that I will never be good enough, that my ability to write will always remain on a level that fails my dreams;
• Drinking so much coffee my stomach cramps, because when I'm high on caffeine, the words come so sweet and fast;
• Missing television like a lost friend;
• Having more in common with people I know from Twitter than friends I've known half my life;
• Feeling guilty that I don't devote more time to writing and reading;
• Resenting my friends and family for taking me away from writing and reading;
• Missing out on time with my Sweetie-Pie;
• Giving up the dulcimer and martial arts and yoga and neglecting my plants.

But then, there are other things about writing that makes it impossible to even imagine taking a break from it. Because writing also means:

• Never needing to be bored when I'm alone;
• Feeling that surge of excitement when I solve a plot problem;
• Losing myself so deeply in a story that I feel as if I have abandoned my body and am sweeping through a world beyond this one;
• Getting excited about a new way to use a word;
• Being part of a small, very focused group of people who are exciting and fun and stimulating in a way no one else has ever been;
• Giving myself a challenge every single day;
• Looking into the folds of my mind to find the meaning that binds my self and thoughts together;
• Elevating the mundane into art;
• Doing the one thing that I know I have created myself to do.

When I look at the two lists, I see sacrifice weighed against bliss; time weighed against meaning; ordinary weighed against divine. For now, I can give myself up to it. I will be strong enough to go to the words and spin them out of my self until I have no more to spin. May the winding be long and the words many.

Stories really are like children

I hear that "giving birth" metaphor all the time from writers (usually male) who try to compare the pangs of writing to the pains of childbirth.

Those guys are talking out of their buttholes.

I have written books. Other than the lower back pain caused from typing at the kitchen table, I can't really complain about the creation process. Sure, there are difficult choices and hard moments where I struggle to express myself. But it's nothing like going through labor and delivery. Squeezing another lifeform out of your body--a lifeform that you are terrified will turn out to have the wrong number of limbs and your uncle's nose--is an exercise in fear, discomfort and a strange hysterical bliss. If you want to draw parallels to writing, you can, but I pretty much guarantee that with all the fluids going on, childbirth is way more disgusting.

But people who feel that their books and their stories are like their children are totally right. Have you ever watched the mother of an only-child? She flutters around, offering stimulating activities and unwanted hugs. She counts each serving of vegetables that crosses her sweetling's gums (and stays down). She studies the pages of every parenting advice magazine and acts upon the gems she finds. When her little love-apple strays out of her sight, she panics and runs in circles, calling her baby at the top of her frantic lungs.

The mother with three children, however, functions completely differently. She sweeps through the room without concern for choking hazards, concentrating her prowess on critical moments, like imminent leaps from the upstairs landing. Kids are encouraged to read to each other, and if lunch is peanut-butter-jelly sandwiches for the fourth meal in a row, well, at least they are eating. When her children are out of sight, she sighs with relief and tosses back a shot of Jack, followed by two cups of coffee.

The simile is simple. Writers are like parents. The writer with one or two projects to nurture dotes all her energies upon those projects. Each story is given every ounce of attention, its submission process planned and watched with obsessive care. When the rejections come, they strike her core. And more often than not, the writer goes through round after round of revisions, polishing within an inch of her life.

But once that writer has put a handful of pieces out in the world, she begins to be more cautious with her energies. If a story trips, it will get up again and try another venue. If a piece has gone through two drafts and a good round of proofreading, it's ready to send out. And if a friend disagrees with the phrasing of a sentence, the writer shrugs it off. She has the confidence to tell the quirks of character from the truly awkward moments.

I have one daughter, and we keep a chalkboard in our kitchen to track how many servings of fruits and vegetables each of us eats. She had five today. I have five stories this month that I'm sending out for submission or critique, and about a dozen in retirement from last year. And you know what? They probably didn't eat a single vegetable today. But I have faith they'll grow big and strong anyway.

Hey, it's February 5th!

And that means it's WRITE YOUR @SS OFF WEEKEND! I expect full reports come Monday.

Why I'm a Feminist Girl-Woman-Fury-Bitch

When I was young, 8 or 9 or so, I prayed and prayed that I would wake up and be a boy. It was easy to see that being a woman meant getting the raw end of the deal: I just had to look at my mother, who raised four children and is still taking care of the fifth and original baby (my dad). She worked hard every day. She was at our constant beck-and-call. She had no control of the checkbook or where she made her home. And worst of all, she was always in charge of cooking and dishes.

As I got older, Dad struggled with running his own business, and Mom got a job, things changed a bit. After Mom became our main breadwinner, life was different for her. Sure, she still did most of the dishes, but for the first time I knew her, she was in charge. And it was wonderful for me to see. I realized that being a woman didn't have to suck--it was powerlessness that sucked, and as long you had money, you could have power.

To this very day, I feel personally outraged when I hear about anything that reduces a woman to a powerless state. When I read a story about women in Africa being denied education, I see red. When I see an article about girls in India being sold into sex slavery, I cry. Because inside me is still a fragile little girl who isn't sure she ought to love herself. Because I am a woman. Because being a woman looked like a prison sentence.

I am lucky that I live here in Oregon, sheltered from the storm of woman-hatred that pervades the world around me. It is miraculous that at this moment, I share my life with a (male) partner who treats me like an equal,and that together our income allows us the freedom to explore the creativity our intelligence yearns toward. Sometimes I remember that it's a precarious position. The safety and security of my life is dependent upon social structures supported by the economic strength of my nation, an institution currently more flimsy than ever. It could all come tumbling down any time.

And if it did, I sometimes comfort myself that technology has given us a remarkable leveler. For millenia, men have been able to control women because they are bigger and stronger and more able to inflict harm and death. But you don't have to be bigger or stronger to pull a trigger. If society collapses and the PAW arrives (that's post-apocalyptic world if you don't know), at least I know that my daddy taught me how to shoot.

So I will write story after story and book after book about mothers and daughters and young women finding their way in the world. I will spin out creations that say that women are strong and that their minds are keen. I will do my damnedest to promote the empowerment of the women in the world.

And I promise myself I'll make it to the range more often.

A trip down memory lane

So I was revisiting some of the oldest posts on my blog--I mean, the prehistoric ones from my first year of blogging (2004!). And this one cracked me up. We lived a very different lifestyle back then (tv? steak?), but Fiona is still the same awesome kid.

chef baby

We must watch too much of the Food Network. Today I had some vacuum-packed steaks out on the counter to defrost, and Fiona was playing with them. She just kept turning them over and over, saying: "Flip. Flip. Flip." I explained the steaks were for dinner, and she became very excited. When I tried to sit her in her high chair, she insisted on bringing one of the steaks to the table with her. She continued flipping it for a while in between bites, then began drizzling tomato soup over the package. She was very careful to cover the entire surface, and I heard her mumbling: "Good eats."

At least it wasn't "BAM!"

PS: I asked her if she was making a sauce and she said "Ooooh," which is Finnish for "yes." Then she flipped the steak and sauced the other side with equal care. She rubbed her chicken salad into the mess and ate some of it and then left the thing to marinade. Thank goodness it was vacuum sealed! I just washed the package off and put them all in the fridge, far from little fingers.

Rejection Rewards

Well, today marks my first rejection of 2010. Uggh. I am a praise-craver, so rejection notices can really bring me down (especially that one from an unnamed horror site that said my story was boring and offered nothing new. Yeah. I'll never send that guy another manuscript!), or at least wreck my diet plans. But I have a new strategy that puts a little bit of "yay" in the experience.

I don't know where I was reading the blog post about rejection, but one of the comments was from Christine, a bona fide genius. She said that every rejection she received, she paid herself a fee! The higher the stakes, the bigger the pay-out: $5 for a query, $10 for a partial, $20 for a full manuscript. And at the end of the year, she used the money for a spending spree.

I love this idea!!

Yeah, I know that rejection is a constant fact of life in the writing industry, and that I should just get used to it. I also know that my rejections give me opportunities to learn more about writing and the publishing experience. And yes, I know that every rejection represents an effort to put myself out there, and I should be proud of myself for even sending things out the door. But dang it, I'm like a potty-training puppy here, people! I like rewards!

So to boost my flagging spirits, I'm putting $2 in my Rejection Rewards Jar tonight. And at the end of the year, I'm going to Powells and buying whatever crap I want. I wonder what they've got in the rare book room ...

Main dish salads (Sumptuous Saturdays)

Okay, it's time for another Sumptuous Saturday food discussion. This is a little harder than usual today because we really slacked on the healthy eating front. Breakfast was Potatoes O'Brien and scrambled eggs, and then we had a really late lunch/early dinner of cheese pizza. Yep. Junk-liscious day.

On the other hand, tomorrow we'll be back to our normal eating habits. Sundays are our grocery shopping day, so we stock up on all our favorite nibbles. What is it about having fresh food in the house to stoke your cooking fire?

Anyway, tomorrow will probably be a main dish salad kind of dinner, and I think we'll be revisiting the Bok Choy Chik'n Salad. It's easy, because I use faux chicken nuggets as a protein source and the "dressing" is easy to whip together out of *gasp* the Oriental top ramen seasoning packet, a dash of sesame oil and lots of apple cider vinegar. I like to throw in plenty of little orange pieces to round out the flavors. It will still be junk food, but when the junk food makes us demolish an entire bunch of bok choy (I also add spinach or romaine to bulk it up a little) in one meal, I don't feel so bad about it.

In fact, we've been eating a lot of main dish salads that use junk food to dress up our greens. A couple of weeks ago, I made falafel balls (baked, not fried!) to top a spinach & romaine salad tossed with blue cheese and ranch dressing (dilute the ranch dressing with vinegar or fat-free buttermilk, and it stops being such a fat nightmare without compromising the delicious junk-food-y flavor). And Taco Salad with soy "ground beef" and tostada shells doesn't seem so bad when you pile on the spinach, cabbage and romaine--and heaps of fresh salsa.

So I guess you've found me out. I looooove salads for dinner. They just need to be laced with delicious junk food.

I'm not busy--I'm abundant

This is my new mantra. I am one of those people who gets overwhelmed fairly easily, and I also hate to mess around with my schedule. I still glare at the front doors of the elementary school, because it's "stolen" an hour out of my Monday--and I'm the one who had the idea to sign up as a parent volunteer.

Yeah. What can I say? I'm a dork. I also sometimes get mad at myself for agreeing to write for Horror-Web, even though it's totally my dream (volunteer) job. I also sometimes resent things like family reunions, holidays and other people's birthdays. You should have heard me complaining about Christmas.

Anyway, I'm trying to change my mindset. Now when I feel overwhelmed because I have too many social engagements, I'm going to tell myself: I'm so lucky to have so many friends. And when I realized I would miss my entire Friday-workday next week because I'm chaperoning a class trip to theatre, I told myself: I've got a wonderful chance to experience theatre! And maybe it will inspire a short story! (Okay, admittedly, I thought this after I had a little temper tantrum.)

So when I start freaking out because I've got two stories to edit and a book to write and two books to review and a backlog on my personal reading list, I will just remind myself: I'm not busy--I'm abundant. I've got an abundance of wonderful creativity to enjoy; I've got an abundance of wonderful learning opportunities. I am so lucky.

And you know what? I really am!

World Horror Convention is rocking my brain!

Now that it is suddenly the end of January--how did that happen??--March looks insanely close, and with it, a cross-oceanic voyage to the World Horror Convention in Brighton, England. I am almost too excited about it to think straight!

Here are just a few of my thoughts on the matter:

1) I have never been out of North America. Just the idea of seeing the UK makes me insane with glee. Of all the places I've dreamed about visiting, the UK has been at the top of my list since I was, oh, 5.

2) I will be traveling BY MYSELF. I have only flown on an airplane with Fiona, so this alone is reason for excitement. (I am doubly pleased about being able to pee without sharing that teensy airplane bathroom with a wiggly kid.) But there is a touch of nervousness, too. I mean, I've never slept in a hotel room alone before--every traveling experience has always involved friends or family. Gulp.

3) Somehow I got on the reading list. Yeah, this year at the WHC, they're running The Reading Cafe, where any body with the urge can sign up to do a reading, and since I'm a total publicity slut, I put my name in the hat. And they said yes.

4) Oh, did I mention that I'm leaving my kid for close to an entire week? Sure, she's in the best possible hands and she'll be enjoying a week of junk food, movies and video games with her Pops, but we've never been apart more than one night before, and honestly? One night has been more than long enough for me. I get a little misty-eyed over a breakfast without the kid.

And:

5) I have no idea what to wear.

Of course, all these fears and excitements can easily be overcome. Excitement can be eased by tedious research and lots of deep breathing. Fear can be worn down by plenty of tedious research and practice, and when I finally reach the con, judicious application of alcohol. So really, of all the items on the list, the only one that should be occupying my mind right now is #5.

Oh my god! What will I wear????

Pwn your story

This WIP will be my fourth novel, not counting many false starts and trashed outlines. And after setting aside three completed--completed if never fully revised--books, I finally understand why those others will never my desk. Why I will never successfully pin down their loose ends and send them out my door. It's because I did not have control of my story.

You can have amazing skills with wordsmithery and fail to write a good novel. You can create memorable, lovable characters that stay within the readers' hearts. You can have a killer concept that is timely and engaging--but you won't get a book out of it until you own every inch of what happens in that plot.

And there's a difference between knowing what happens in your story and owning it. When things happen without absolute engagement between you and your characters, you're dropping the reins. When two characters interact and you describe how they look at each other, you're probably disengaging--you're watching them in a movie, not controlling their every move. And every move has meaning. Every movement, every moment, every sip of tea needs to be rooted in your intellectual and emotional understanding of the story, of what things really mean in your text.

You make the world. Your characters don't just do things on a whim. They are not the authors. You are. Unless you disengage and let things slide.

Learning to spot the moments where I have let things slide is the best thing I have learned over the past year. I don't catch everything--thank god for my amazing First Readers--but I am starting to catch my personal symptoms of disengagement. For me, here are some tell-tales:

• 3-sentence paragraphs that sound like Hollywood.
• moments with a lot of action and little emotional response from the characters
• passages of amazing dialogue with descriptions of how people's voices sound
• traveling, eating or drinking scenes

There are more, but they become specific to the work itself, and they happen on every page and sometimes every paragraph. I'm getting better at catching them. I don't even have any advice for others at how to catch the points of disengagement yet, because it's such a new skill for me. I can only guess that it is something that comes with writing for hours on end and begging someone to critique my work. Writing short stories has been an invaluable lesson in creating characters that I bend to the meaning of my story. I am learning how to pin each detail into place to make it sing. It's like a miracle.

So even if you're a lover of the long form, I can't recommend short story writing enough. Take a moment every week to challenge yourself to create some kind of short fiction. Pay attention to what you repeatedly screw up doing. After a while, you'll see those spots and you'll slap the words around until they cut through the expected, slice through the psyche and punch your reader in the gut.

You'll make them do it. After all, you're the writer. You pwn those words!

Sumptuous Saturdays

One of the things I've always tried to include in this blog is a lot of talk about food. After all, I'm a recovering foodie, so I find myself blathering on and on about my favorites quite often. But this year I'm taking a different tack. I'm giving myself a more focused blogging schedule these days (after all, I've got a lot of writing to do over at Horror-Web!), and I've decided that Saturday will be my food-post day. With any luck, I should have lots of new recipes coming your way!

Today I just want to take a moment to talk about cruciferous vegetables. These nutritional powerhouses are among the most widely hated veggies and if you're not eating them, you're missing out. Study after study shows that the brassica family (that's the botanic family name for the cruciferous vegetable group) provides some the strongest protection against cancer you can eat. Cruciferous veggies can also help regulate estrogen levels and contain nutrients that protect against macular degeneration. So for your own sake, get busy learning to appreciate good old broccoli, cabbage, kale, cauliflower, brussels sprouts and bok choy! (Mustard, turnip & collard greens are also part of the family, as well as arugula, kohlrabi and radishes.)

I have to confess that we eat brassicas almost every day in our house, only occasionally passing them over in favor of the chicories (romaine and endive are favorites) or spinach. I am pretty hard-core about eating green stuff. Days with nothing green make me droopy. But this year has been extra-great for us. We've begun using bok choy as a salad green, braising brussels sprouts, and roasting broccoli. Last week we went through *5 pounds* of broccoli and two bunches of bok choy, not to mention romaine and a big bag of spinach. It was one of our healthiest weeks ever.

You can do it, too. Try using bok choy as a salad green--just cut out the big white ribs and mince them separately. Then stack the green leafy pieces, roll and cut en chiffonade (that's in little leaf ribbons). We used our bok choy in a delicious Chinese-Chicken-style salad (with fake chicken, of course), delicious tangerine bits and some dried cranberries. Even the kid loved it!

Day jobs

About a year and a half ago, I finally had a revelation about the relationship between work and writing. I was in the middle of planning a career change, scheduling classes to prepare for a teaching degree and all of the sudden, walking home from the grocery store, knowledge just slammed into my brain: If I wanted to be a writer, I needed to make peace with my day job and stop looking for fulfillment in that world. If writing was going to be my art, I needed to sacrifice something for it.

This was hard for me to accept. I think I even went into a kind of mourning. Deep down, I've always been fairly ambitious, and I've also always been pessimistic about my chances of making a well-paid living from writing. That's part of the reason I spent so much time and effort as a younger person rejecting my love of writing. So to think about sticking with my (not very well paid and highly non-glamorous) part-time day job was painful. But I am so glad I have.

Having a day job that is flexible enough to create a functional life-work-art schedule is wonderful. Having a day job that I can leave behind when I clock out is amazing. Having money to buy groceries and even having enough cash to put into books and conventions is UNBELIEVABLE. It's given me the strength and courage to focus on writing.

I dream every single day that I will someday be able to leave my job and just write. It will probably never, ever happen. And you know what? If I made a killing writing blockbuster books, I might be tempted to have a part-time job just to get out of the house.

Of course, I'd probably pick a cooler job. Wendy Wagner, Pet Detective, has a pretty awesome ring to it.

Judged to Be Dread

This is the week I begin my next real novel. It's outlined; it's planned; the notebook is sitting there, primed with names and ideas and doodles. And I'm stalling. I'm actually kind of terrified of starting my next book.

I haven't started a new novel since Nanowrimo 2008. All last year, I edited and wrote short stories and learned a lot--but I didn't start a new novel. I thought I would in November, and I did write the first scene, but then I made myself wrap up my revision project, promising myself I would start Dark Fantasy Work-in-Progress (DFWIP) on the New Year.

Then I got an idea for a short, mid-grade novel. I could do that and have it done before World Horror! I began outlining, then realized the idea was flat and lifeless. So I threw myself into a new short story project. And then I realized something: that I was putting off my DFWIP. On purpose.

Why? It's not because I'm not excited about the project. I love the idea and think the characters have all kinds of potential. It's not because I don't love writing, because obviously, I'm putting off writing DFWIP to pursue other writing. It's just because writing a novel is a humongous commitment. Writing a book commands all your writing time for a long time, and when you get done, there's a chance you might not have anything to show for it.

I know this for a fact, because I've written three "practice" novels that are now fit only for recycling (or harvesting for future world-building exercises). I am terrified of creating another piece of crap, even if I have learned a great deal from producing literary excrement.

And let's face it: writing a novel opens the doorway to chaos in my household. Just creating a rough draft will take me close to two months. Two long, tiring months where many days I won't feel like folding laundry. Or sweeping the floor. Or cleaning the fridge. And the mess is just the tip of the iceberg. During those two months, I'm going to be pissed off at all of my friends. There's nothing like writing a book to encourage people to invite you to potlucks and parties and gaming nights and meetings, and saying 'no' to them over and over and over makes me really grumpy.

In fact, there are so many good reasons not to write another novel that any normal human being would just walk away from the computer and go watch tv.

But I'm not a normal human being. I'm a writer. And I've got a new novel to start.

Good in a crisis, bad in front of the news

I can't say that I've lived through that many emergencies. More than some folks, less than others. There have been fun minor ones, like the two-week power outage with no running water when I was kid. There have been short, terrifying ones, like the night when one of our friends came to our house with a stab wound and my mom bandaged him up. There was the house fire, it's own, massive pain in the ass. And of course at work, there's one child-related disaster after another.

I keep calm enough, I guess. My brain goes into problem-solving mode and chomps into the nearest solution--if not the best solution, the one closest to me. Like the night my roommate and I discovered a man in our car and instead of going to the nearest business to call the police, I opened the car door and started to pull him out of the car.

I'm 5'4". And a girl. With glasses and asthma. *idiot*

But when I sit at home and I hear about disasters, I just break down. Today at work, I damn near started crying, just thinking about what it's like in Haiti right now. I want to row down there and load up all the orphaned kiddos and bring them home with me. Right now.

I don't have a boat. I don't have the room for a thousand orphans. But I can open my heart to the forces of good in this world and urge them south. And I can open my wallet and make a donation to somebody like Doctors Without Borders, who might actually be able to do something.

In the meantime, I'll be moping around. And of course typing up the minutes from our Zombie Squad meeting. You know, because we actually do stuff, like organize food drives and clean trails and try to get it through their heads that when an emergency comes, you need to put on your thinking cap and think through to the nearest solution.

Just leave the guy in the car while you call the police.

Non-sequitur

"There are three things you need to write a great book: a pen, a book, and penguin you set on fire."

--Brandon Sanderson, today's Writing Excuses podcast.

Be the candle

So here's a bit of advice for budding authors who have hit a certain kind of wall. That "I'll never be good enough" wall. That "I can't believe X wrote Such & Such and they were only 23 years old" wall. That "my god, what if this is the best I'll ever be?" wall.

Here it is: Let it go.

So what if you're not a genius? So what if Kirkus (the new zombie Kirkus that wants to snub your braaaaains) thinks you're a hack? So what if editor after editor tells you your characters aren't likable or that your plots are too simple or that they've seen this kind of story too many times? (Those are some of my favorite rejections right now.) So what?

In 200 years, Barry Manilow will be forgotten. But for a certain generation, his jingle "I'm stuck on Bandaid (TM) cause Bandaid's stuck on me!" will never leave their heads.

In 50 years, Taylor Swift will be reminding her grandchildren that she paid for their college tuition because she was famous, damn it! But when I am on my deathbed, I will still be able to sing the chorus of "You Belong With Me".

Piers Anthony will never be a part of the literary canon, but I will always refer to that lake in Florida as "Ogre-chobee". Dean Koontz will never win a Nobel Prize, but I will never forget the creatures he created in Watchers. Tamora Pierce might fall short of a Pulitzer, but she changed the course of my entire life.

What I'm trying to say is that writers are artists. And artists have the job of being a candle in the darkness. You don't have to be the biggest candle to be the brightest thing in the Eastern Washington desert. You just have to be seen by that one person hungry for a gleam.

So be the candle.

If you keep writing and striving, the other stuff will take care of itself a little at a time. You'll find a publisher, no matter how big or small, that will be the right place for your work. Your skills will get stronger. As long you keep writing, keep pushing to create and share an artistic vision, you will be lighting up the darkness.

And if the winds batter you on the open steppe, you've got people like me around to come over with a book of matches.

The important stuff

Finishing Old Man's War seemed way more important than the dishes tonight.

I can't believe how great it was, or that it was such a beautiful love story!

The worst thing about reading John Scalzi is knowing that when you grow up, you still won't be John Scalzi.

Sigh.

Fiction about science

Okay, so I've been talking a lot about science fiction. I have to confess that I wasn't thinking too much about SF before I went to ORYCON in November--I hadn't written any science fiction since a misbegotten novelling attempt when I was ten. That was the zenith of my SF phase, the years I devoured most of Heinlein's production (how I missed Starship Troopers, I will never know) and everything else that featured people in outer space. In fact, now that I think back, that novel I started was pretty heavily influenced by Tuf Voyaging, a hunk of fun from George R. R. Martin. I might just have to re-read it.

But I digress.

One of the big reasons I stopped writing science fiction is that for a brief time in my life I was obsessed with science. Real science. I even started college as a chemistry major, and I got into philosophy via (you see this coming, don't you?) philosophy of science. If my kiddo hadn't shown up, I had planned to continue my journey along the edges of science by pursuing a degree in philosophy of the mind, a misbegotten child of science and daydreaming if ever there was one.

And now I've circled all the way around to what prompted my love of science and I'm writing a middle grade science fiction novel. Soft science fiction, not space opera. But it's set in the future, and there is science. Good enough for me.

Of course, the other day I found myself daydreaming about a project set in a fantasy universe inspired by Plato's Timaeus, which just goes to show that once a philosopher, always a philosopher--the writing style just gets a lot less academic.

Specting, Retro & Intro

As a former philosophizer, I'm used to using normal words in weird ways. Like "intention." Normal folks use this word to mean something like "purpose." Philosophers use "intention" to mean "meaning" or "to point at" or "refer to." A picture of a four-legged animal with pointed ears and whiskers INTENDS the concept cat. And that's just one example.

The most odd word usage I ever picked up from philosophers is the word "specting." Does anybody else say "specting?" No. Regular people talk about "introspection," and they mean to turn their attention to their workings, musing over their thoughts. Philosophers talk about "specting-intro": looking inside. And don't even open the can of worms about what that means. Depending on your paradigm, looking inside things can be completely imaginary or impossible or maybe just gooey.

Anyway, I've been spending the first few days "specting." Looking back over things in my life, in the last year, looking inside my thoughts. (This is easy to do when you've just spent an entire day in pajamas. Stupid cold.) It's given me plenty of fodder for critical thought and plans for the next few months.

2009: The year of writing short fiction. I've never been much of a short fictionist, and this year I set out to overcome that flaw. I read short stories; I wrote short stories; I sold a short story! I feel much better about my relationship with the short forms.

2010: A year to balance the force. Hopefully, I can stick to my rough writing schedule, giving myself time to write long pieces AND short pieces.

2009: The year I finally figured out how to revise a book unto completion. After about a jillion false starts, I did it. It's hard, and it sucks. The novella I completed may someday be published. Maybe.

2010: The year I use planning and careful construction of story structure to eliminate some of the drafts created by my old "draft after draft," pantsing method. They probably amount to the same amount of actual work, but at least I won't have to read the same dumb words over and over again.

2009: The year of less reading, more Twitter.

2010: Bring back the books! I know I read a lot last year, but this year, I hope to hold myself accountable for how many books I read. I hope to delve into SF & Fantasy classics this year, and possibly delve deeper into more serious literature. Anything to be a better writer!

What about everybody else? Have you been doing any "specting"?

Expanding horizons

I have a confession to make. Even though I live with an artist, occasionally paint, have a membership at the local art museum and love speculative fiction, I do not like science fiction and fantasy art. There's nothing like a painting of a pegasus to make my stomach revolt, and frankly, highly air brushed visions of space suits don't get me too excited, either. But the other day I decided to push my limits (okay, and to get all nostalgic over favorite book covers), I got a book of Chesley award-winning art.

And it was fun.

Admittedly, the nostalgia factor helped quite a bit. There's nothing like seeing a painting and getting all excited because it was on the cover of one of your favorite books. But also, I remembered that I love to look at stars and space ships. I love Saturn! I love moons! I love Chesley Bonestell!

Anyway, looking at all those great images only made me more certain that 2010 was going to be a great year for SF. Hooray!

Best Books, Aught-Nine

I'm pretty sure this is the first (and last!) time I've gotten to use the antiquated word "aught" to name the years this decade, and I can't believe I let that slip. It just has such a delightful, old-man-from-Nantucket quality it. So here's to your inner elderly Yank: Hooray for Aught-Nine!

2009 turned out to be the year of reading really dark books. All the way back in October 2008, I picked up an anthology of horror stories, and it launched back to my roots. Yes, I was a nine-year-old Goth. ANYWAY, long story short, I read rafts of horror after that point and even the non-terror literature I picked up seemed to be saturated with darkness and woe. It was a really great year of reading. :)

So here are the top books I read this year:

Best NONFiction:
This is a toss-up between Portait of a Killer, by Patricia Cornwell, a remarkable examination of the Jack the Ripper case and Rats, by Robert Sullivan, a natural history of New York City's rat population. Both amazing, both delivering remarkable information with captivating style. Read them both!

Best Anthology:
Poe's Children, edited by Peter Straub. Some of the best short fiction I've ever read, and all of it work within the dark arts. Proof positive that horror doesn't have to be a gross-out fest.

Best Spec fiction:
Another toss-up. This time we've got giants slugging it out for the top placement. Duma Key, by Stephen King, is a remarkable adventure into the world of aging, loss and creativity. It is probably my favorite book by King so far--and that's saying something. The world it creates is remarkable. But Chuck Hogan and Guillermo Del Toro created a rock-n-roll rollercoaster in their new collaboration The Strain, which hybridizes epidemiology and vamprism in the most fun book I've touched in years. Characters, however, are pretty much cardboard cut-outs.

Best Children's Book:
The Miraculous Adventures of Edward Tulane, by Kate DeCamillo. If you haven't read this wonderful story of a vain china rabbit forced to wander until he finds the true meaning of love, then run out and do so. Better yet, listen to it as an audiobook--we listened to this book 3 times in the car, and each time, it only got better. Any other year, this book would have taken top honors.

And now for ...

Wendy's Favorite Book of the Year!!!
This is a pretty important prize, and there's no surprise that it goes to Solar Storms, by Linda Hogan. The heart-breaking, magical story of a teenaged Native American girl, raised in foster care, who goes on a journey with her grandmother, great-grandmother & great-great-grandmother. The women all seek something: an answer to the ecological devestation of 1970's Northern Minnesota; love; a place to die; and the mother who tortured and abandoned her child. One of the best books I have ever written.

So run out to your nearest library and start reading! And share some of your favorite books. Lord knows my reading list isn't nearly long enough!

The library is a veritable smorgasbord

Thank goodness tomorrow is library day. My stack of library books has dwindled to a couple of books about the dulcimer and a vegan cookbook. And I have a confession to make. I can't cope with the world without a library book to read.

Note that all important qualifying adjective: I didn't say I can't cope with the world without a book to read. I said I can't cope without a library book. There's something about the due date that just lights a fire under me.

It's not to say that I don't love books that I am given or that I buy. I read them, too, and I'm excited to read them. But when I get fresh new books from the library, I feel free and wild and luxurious. I like to flip through the first few pages of each book in my new stack, gulping down mouthfuls of words and gorging myself. The books I own I ration out parsimoniously, one measly chapter at a time.

You know, it's a little like that first hour after I get home from a trip to New Seasons (Portland's home-grown Whole Foods) and I want to try a little taste of each delicious item. I just want to see what that chunk of brie tastes like. I just want to know if those strawberries are as juicy as they look.

That's how it is with books, too. At the library, I blithely snatch up tomes for their gorgeous covers, grab slim volumes based solely on the author's name, or scoop up stacks of librarians' recommendations. There are no consequences for picking a book that looks better than it tastes, so I can succumb to tempation and take them all.

A trip to the bookstore, however, is different. My money is on the line. I research by awards and recommendations and I seriously ponder each variable. Will this book be worth my investment? Will it add something to my writerly toolbox? When I get it home, I set to work on it with perfect seriousness--just how I approach the ingredients my husband brings home when I send him out with the shopping list. The list is culled from the week's menu. There is no room for play in all that planning.

So I'm glad tomorrow is library day. I'm hungry for something fun to read.

Slice o'life!

Sometimes I dream of being a hit blogger--you know, a funny mom blogger like Dooce or a super-star food blogger like Susan of the Fatfree Vegan Kitchen, or an awesome writing blogger like Elizabeth Spann Craig at Mystery Writing is Murder. But honestly, I just don't have that kind of sense of humor, that much interest in food or that good of advice. I'm just another semi-employed mom trying to learn how to write spec fiction.

That doesn't mean I feel like I have to stop blogging. Blogs are fun. And honestly, the blogs I read on a regular basis (I have 40+ feeds I subscribe to for the fun of keeping tabs--and that doesn't count Martha's) aren't all about "valuable information." I know that's what the experts say drives readership, but I guess I'm not that kind of a reader. I want to read a blog that gives me an insight into the life of the person writing it.

I love Alexandra Sokoloff's blog. She talks seriously about writing and movies, but she shares fun and salacious details about her life, as well. I like Pyr Books' blog, which frequently includes funny moments from editor Lou Anders' real life. And best of all, I love reading all my friends, even the ones I only know from the Internet (that's you, Miriam, Christie & Helen!).

So I keep posting recipes and talking about my kid and babbling about what I write. And you know, that's enough for me, even if I only have ten or so readers. I know they're good ones! ;)

Brussels Sprouts on the Darkest Day of the Year

Today is Solstice. Here in the Northern Hemisphere, that makes it the day with the most darkness of all the year. The fact that today our Congress finalized $632 billion toward an unnecessary war in Afghanistan, signed a health care bill that only benefits the insurance companies (and will only hurt the working poor), and that throughout the world, dozens of activists were arrested in the wake of the pathetic Copenhagen conference, it is a symbolically dark day. A very dark day.

Luckily, I have plenty of distractions from the unpleasantness of my nation's politics. I have a wonderful family and lots of work on my plate. And tonight, I had lots of brussels sprouts on my plate--which was a delicious distraction. Here is a recipe for the Braised Brussels Sprouts we enjoyed tonight. Salty, nutty, caramelly, tasty: they will put a smile on your face, no matter how you feel about Washington DC. And the good news is, sprouts are in season here in Oregon, so at least the veggies are doing their bit to reduce our carbon footprint.

BRAISED BRUSSELS SPROUTS

20-25 brussels sprouts, trimmed and cut in half

1 tb butter, unsalted (could veganize with Earth Balance!)

1/2 c hot water

1 tsp kosher salt

1 tb brown sugar

fresh ground pepper to taste

Over medium heat, melt butter in a 2-quart saucepan. While it is melting, combine sugar and salt in a large bowl; add hot water and stir until dissolved. Toss brussels sprout halves in liquid. When butter begins to bubble and smell fragrant, add the brussels sprouts and liquid. Cover immediately. Cook until brussels sprouts are a vibrant green, about 4-5 minutes. Remove cover and bring heat up to medium high, stirring occasionally. Cook until liquids have evaporated and sprouts are a golden brown (about 8-10 minutes). Add pepper, serve immediately.

We had these with roasted potatoes from my dad (purples and reds!) and some terrific tofu--but I can't imagine a meal that couldn't make space for a pile of these tasty little cabbage-cousins.

Fa la la la la

It's coming. Christmas. You might not celebrate it, but you know it's out there, spreading its wings of sugary goodies and brightly printed wrapping paper. Its scent is in the air, the powerful aroma of Scotch tape and egg nog. God, that smells good.

I love Christmas. It doesn't make much sense--after all, I'm a pretty serious atheist and fairly opposed to crass consumerism--but nothing can keep the joy of the season out of my old, craggy heart. I love Christmas trees. I love Christmas carols. I love, love, love Santa! And it seems like the last few years, each Christmas had just gotten better.

I blame my sweetie-pie for this. Our first Christmas together was magical. We sat side-by-side a few days before the big holiday, hand-sewing our Christmas stockings (boy are we glad we have a sewing machine now!). We made a Lego wreath for the tree--a tradition we've maintained, even if the tree has shrunk to a tiny potted Norfolk fir. He is a man good at creating moments of peace and magic. He has a natural instinct for holidays.

Me? I don't have any instincts for the holidays. My family celebrated every special day the same way: with food, food and more food. The more important the holiday, the more desserts, right?

Given my troubles with food, especially sweets, that's created a lot of holiday-related stress that poor Sweetie-Pie has had to work through. But I know we're getting someplace these days. We celebrated Thanksgiving with instant mashed potatoes and a pumpkin-butterscotch-pudding dessert. For a girl who once routinely baked a feast and ate three pies plus a cranberry pudding every year, this was a big step away from food obsession and toward the real spirit of holiday: togetherness, love, and joy.

Let's just hope our decision to celebrate Christmas with a White Trash Dinner doesn't derail all of our progress. The nostalgic flavor of (vegan!) marshmallow-capped sweet potatoes might send me into a memory-induced feeding frenzy!

Explosion of Merriment!

Today marks the beginning of Extreme Fun Weekend, Holiday Edition. It started with a simple request for lunch today. Then I scheduled a breakfast with a friend for Monday. Then a friend decided to come stay the weekend on her way to her family's home in Colordao. Then my brother decided to come down. There's SO MUCH fun in my future! I'm not sure I can take it.

Forunately, I already got a chunk of work out of the way. I critiqued a piece for the very talented Christie Yant, wrote an article on spec for the Association of Children's Museums journal, wrote a review (SKIN MEDICINE, from my pals at Severed Press) and wrote a profile on the extremely cool Edward Morris. You can read the profile on HorrorWeb if you'd like to see my brilliance in action.

Needless to say, given all that work, I'm kind of ready for a break. And in fact, here's Erin now! Burgerville, here we come.

Moving right along

Okay, I had my birthday. I met my goal of sending my first book out the door on my big day. And now, I'm taking a deep in-breath to settle into the next project. Part of that in-breath is a couple of days reading like crazy! I figure after completing my big goal, I ought to reward myself.

So, off I go. I've got some pretty great books to read, and I'm going to enjoy every of them!

Another cup o' joe, please!

I keep telling myself I am going to reduce my coffee consumption after X goal date. It was Thanksgiving--after all, I would be finished with the last draft of my book and I could slow down for a polishing pass. Then it was "after Orycon." Now it's become "after I recover from Orycon," and after that, lord knows when it will be!

The problem is, there's just so much I want to get done every day. I was managing things pretty well, but somehow I've fallen way, way behind on everything. November and its pandemics really wrecked my work schedule. I only wrote about half what I'd hoped to get done (I really wanted to start the first draft of my new project), and I've hardly read any of the books I've planned to review. If only I didn't have trivial stuff like a day job and housework and a family to get in my way!

Althoough I have a feeling that even when I no longer have a day job and the kid is off in college, I will still probably have way more that I want to do than I have time to do it. Recently I found myself daydreaming about editing anthologies ...

So, any heroes of time management out there with good advice?

ORYCON! ORYCON!

Well, it finally happened: I made it to my first con. Orycon was great. There were so many cool panels and so many awesome people. I can't say enough about the presentations I saw by Lou Anders, Ken Scholes, Patricia Briggs and Mary Robinette Kowal. They were all very professional people with a passion for the literary arts, and listening them really inspired me. There's a new fire beneath my butt, and they lit it.

Hey, no fart jokes from the peanut gallery.

I don't always know everything, after all!

Well, I wrote the last line of the big revision project! Still have a bit of polishing up to do, but pleased to get that baby finally, finally wrapped up. I've been working on this book since Fiona was 6 months old! Most of the time, I figured I would never do anything with the story and it would linger on, ghostly and ghastly, in a bottom drawer for the rest of my life. Which just goes to show that I actually don't know everything after all!

Fingers aching and blissfully blistered!

Fi finished her Nanowrimo project this morning! It weighs in at 3500 words and she dictated the whole thing to me. I'm so proud of my baby girl. She didn't give up; she didn't get writer's block; she just kept trucking. She is my new writing hero.

I tell you guys, sometimes I can't believe how lucky I am: I got the best kid. She's so darn cool I sometimes don't know what to do with her, and fully expect to spend her teen years reeling in awe at all the fun, crazy stuff she decides to get into.

Yep, this year I'll be thankful for my amazing midget, who not only doesn't mind that she has a crazy mother, but actually joins in on the insanity. Way to go, Fi!

Is it Wednesday yet?

Conferences, 9000 words, paying the bills, the desperate need to go bra shopping--yeah, there's plenty on my mind. But Turkey Day is COMING!!!!

Who's making what this week?

My heart hurts

My sister, the one who hates horror movies but absorbs news stories of human atrocity with ease, told me the story of Shaniya Davis, the 5-year-old North Carolina girl sold last week by her own mother, to be used as a sex object and murdered. It's the kind of story that seeps under my skin and even after a six hours of warm, loving family joy, emerges in the dark and keeps me aching.

Who could do that to their little girl? Who could look at a child--any child, let alone your own flesh--and wish torture and pain upon them? And what kind of man would take delight in it?

I try to think benevolent thoughts and turn no hatred onto anyone, try to remind myself that the people who torture are in themselves tortured and as such not rational or even entirely human. I try.

But the larger part of me just wants to crush them under foot like a cluster of cockroaches.

When style & substance divorce and have a custody battle

One of the greatest things about being a reviewer is that I have a reason to dig beneath the surface of a book and weigh each little detail's merits. What's good about a book? What's bad about a book? Why do things work? Why do they fall apart? I answer these questions, and bingo, I've got a review on my hands. Some people think that when you're reviewing horror fiction, these questions don't matter. They think that there's no place for craft in the realm of R. L. Stine & Stephen King. Those people need to be punched in the nose. I take my work seriously.

Lately, there's been some turmoil in my happy little world of horror reviewing. In the last several pieces I've slogged through, the ever-uneasy relationship between substance and style has been rearing its head and making my job a lot harder. How do I rate an anthology packed with unique, breath-takingly exciting ideas--and plenty of awkward delivery? How do I assign a number of stars for a book told with wonderful vocabulary, telling details, evocative description--and a totally Scooby-Doo plot-reveal that manages to be both unbelievable and boring? It's darn tricky to rate a piece on the best of conditions, but when the quality of the piece's style and the quality of its substance differ, it's incredibly difficult.

But let me clarify my conundrum. When I say substance, I mean the basic underpinnings of the story--the plotting and story arc, the relationships and development of the characters, the pacing and fundamental ideas. The structure. If you sat down with a book and made a comprehensive outline of what happened, when it happened, and who did it, that would be the story's substance.

The style of a piece is the expression of that structure. It can impact the substance in many important ways. Not only does the style of a piece include the piece's vocabulary and rhythm, but it also includes handling of theme, syntax, perspective, and pacing (see the trickiness? Pacing is both a matter of structure--that what-happens-when stuff--but also the way that information is doled out. And so is perspective!). Style is the zip that makes sentences tasty and passages memorable. It can't work on its own though; no wordsmith has the power to make a terrible idea sound like brilliance.

Substance and style are inseparable. But there are definitely moments when a reader can say: "this idea does not live up to the technique displayed by this writer." Or when a reviewer can say: "this idea is great, but the dialogue is unbelievable, the sentences are choppy and the description relies too heavily on passive voice." These are moments when the style and substance of a piece no longer get along. Their relationship breaks down, and their beautiful child--story--is left in the cold, like a child whose parents are so busy arguing they don't remember who was supposed to pick the little guy up after school.

What do you guys think? Anybody reading anything that has problems like this?

Autumn Magic Muffins

Ahhh. Autumn. As soon as the leaves begin to change, I grow hungry for anything spiced with cinnamon and ginger, enriched with pumpkin, and laced with brown sugar. Many of the foods I love this time of year are not necessarily the healthiest choices. Fatty, sugary, white flour-y: everything my intestines hate. So that leaves a girl baking her own treats.

Today I made Autumn Magic Muffins. They're packed with autumn flavors like tangy cranberries, molasses and warm spices. Not too sweet and not too rich, they're perfect with a cup of coffee for a mid-afternoon break.

Now, most of the time when I make a muffin, I err on the side of health, mixing up super-low-fat, low-sugar, high-fiber treats. Okay. Make that hockey pucks. But today's muffin creation turned out nicely. It's a little fattier than I prefer, but the combination of corn oil and fruit purees created a tenderness that was much appreciated. You could jazz up these babies with some walnuts or raisins, and if you're really feeling crazy, substitute egg nog for the soy milk. Jinkies!

They are good with or without a smear of butter (or in this case, Earth Balance).

Autumn Magic Muffins

Makes 16 muffins.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Prepare standard-sized muffin tin with liners, or grease and flour.

Combine in saucepan:

8 oz fresh cranberries, washed and picked over

1 golden delicious apple, cored and diced

1 Tb water

2 tsp sugar (the berries will be tart--you can add another tsp of sugar if you want)

Simmer until berries pop and the chunks of apple are very smushy--you're aiming for the consistency of applesauce. Remove from heat. Stir in:

1/2 C corn oil

1 Tb molasses

2 Tb brown sugar

1/2 C pumpkin puree

Allow apple-cranberry sauce mixture to cool to room temperature.

While the apple-cranberry sauce cools, whisk together in a large bowl:

1 C whole wheat flour

1 C all-purpose flour

1/2 C sugar

1 Tb baking soda

1/4 tsp salt

1 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp ginger

1/8 tsp freshly grated nutmeg (or 1/2 tsp ground nutmeg)

When apple-cranberry mixture is cool, stir in:

1/2 C soy milk or soy nog (you can use moo milk/nog if you prefer dairy)

Then add liquid ingredients to the dry, folding carefully until dry ingredients are absorbed. Be gentle! Muffins made without eggs can get leathery if over-mixed.

Fill cups of muffin pan about 2/3rd full. Bake 12-16 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

Via entering the bloodstream

Almost had a nervous breakdown today, but Sweetie-pie came through with a Lego project for the kid. I tell you, it is almost impossible to balance this mad writing rush with life right now. I didn't realize how much I depend on Sweetie-Pie until he spent half the week in bed with the flu.

Thank you to the support teams of the world. It's hard to believe that behind every single book on every single bookcase in the world, there's a group of people kindly holding up the author. If they're like Sweetie-Pie, they don't even complain about it! (Not so the kid ... grumble, grumble ... anybody need a 6-year-old for a couple of weeks?)

The caffeine is kicking it. Time to kick up the Death Cab and fire up the neurons. Only about another 15,000 words to go.

Help the students of Marysville Elementary!

When Marysville School burnt on Tuesday, the kids and teachers made it out okay--but their stuff didn't. These kids are now facing a school year with no lunch boxes, no school supplies, and for some, no coats. Check out the donation lists below and see if you can help.

And don't forget--the entire school library is gone. Book lovers, dig deep!


In response to the fire at Marysville School , Oregon PTA and Portland Council PTA are sponsoring a donation drop-off at Marshall High School. Portland Council PTA operates a Clothing Center on the Marshall Campus for all PPS students. Please bring donations for Marysville students to the Marshall Campus between 8:00am -4:00 pm Monday through Friday.Marshall High School is located at 3905 SE 91st Ave., Portland OR.
Donations Requested (*New or Like New*)
Coats
Jackets
Sweaters
Backpacks
Lunch Bags/Boxes
Art Supplies (paints, markers, paper etc)
Library Books
Boxes of Tissues
Construction Paper
Photocopy Paper

Checks for financial donations to cover additional needs can be made to Portland Council PTA with Marysville Donation in the memo and mailed to:Portland Council PTA2246 SE 90th Ave.Portland, OR 97216

Thomas Hood approved

Thomas Hood was English, but in his heart he was an Oregonian. His famous poem "November" bears re-reading two or three times a year. If you don't know it, here it is:

No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon -
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease.
No comfortable feel in any member -
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! -
November!

Of course, if he was still alive today, he would probably get sucked into Nanowrimo, and he probably would have needed a few more lines. I suggest:
no movies - no board games -
no friends, no family, no social life in any form
no food or housekeeping that meets the social norm.

But that's just me. I did just put back a slice of pumpkin pie, a square of dark chocolate and a cup of coffee after spending a day hearing my child complain about how filthy our house is. (Note to DHS: I did run the dishwasher and wash both shower curtains today, so I no longer feel our home is a health hazard.)

After two days trapped in the house with a sick kid, I could easily run on for another page of digressions. I have cabin fever and I'm starved for grown-up interaction. Normally I'd just hang out with my handsome sweetie-pie, but he's hard at work, too. The basement is full of primed canvases awaiting his paint brush. So it sounds like I'd better just bite the bullet and get back to work. My imaginary pals and their adventures are almost the perfect substitute for a life!

Now if only I was writing about good weather ...

New China, new world

Yesterday we made a trip to Portland Art Museum to check out the new "China Design Now" exhibit. It was ... strange. There were things that were exciting and fun, the kinds of t-shirt and zine covers you see in Juxtapoz magazine. We saw some very fresh and cool products, demonstrating influences of Japan-cool and skateboard culture, the same stuff that's cool here in the US. And there were fine examples of couture and architecture, very hip, very modern, very groovy. Just when I started getting the warm fuzzies for China (the "hey, it's not so bad there, let's go visit!" feelings) we passed a display of projections of different living spaces, with typed quotes from the people who lived there. And I have to say it: China sucks. There were photos of nice homes with plenty of space and tasteful things, but there were also incredibly cramped spaces with a veneer of cheapness that made the Dollar Tree look haute couture. The people who lived in these spaces spoke of long hours and a desperate dream of a better life for their children.

It nudged me into a depressing line of thought. The pundits tell us to look to China as the future of the world. It is a microcosm of the world's problems, compounded in one politically contorted nation. On top of environmental degradation, water shortages, geopoltical struggles and a massive socioeconomic restructuring, the nation faces serious overpopulation. There isn't enough of anything to really go around, and that is true of the planet as a whole.

While my family today enjoys a comfortable lifestyle with an assortment of appealing things, I can't count on that for my grandchildren. Look at the quality of produced goods today, and compare them to your grandparents' antiques. Things are shabbier now. When my daughter has children, those young people will grow up in a world stretched even thinner than today. Once we used wood in buildings. Now we used plywood. Tomorrow, particle board will be the new norm.

It is good to do more with less. But it is sad to think that is all we offer our next generations. We are using everything up so quickly and leaving behind only the dregs. I wonder how long it will be before Portland looks like Beijing.

SOWISA!!!

Whew! The first week of Nanowrimo is drawing to a close, I'm on my weekend, and it's time to SOWISA, baby, SOWISA. Not a fan of King? I'll translate. In his book Lisey's Story, Stephen King coins one of the best acronyms of all time: SOWISA. Strap On Whenever It Seems Appropriate. It means to take charge. To gird your learns and jump into the fray. To get your guns on and be ready to shoot whatever moves.

That's what I'm doing today. Some surprise company changed the gears of the week, and some surprise exhaustion doubly shifted them. I was a little panicked this morning. My writing goals this month are big! My biggest ever! And all week I've been burning energy fretting about them, getting stuff done but also running terrified. This morning though, I took a hot bath and set my mind on a new course. I re-examined my schedule and made a new plan to maximize my writing time. It felt good.

Right now, I feel like I'm in charge of this crazy situation. I am choosing to set my goals high and I am choosing my methods of achieving them. I'm strapped on! But now I want to know: how do you take charge of tough situations? If you're doing Nanowrimo, do you feel like you're in charge of your project, your approach to creativity, or are you running wild on too much caffeine, like I was earlier this week?

Also updated winniewoohoo with another Nanowrimo tip. This one has saved my buns over the last couple of years!

Smug as a bug!

I just want to say that I brainstormed some new exciting scenes for Nanowrimo and created 1600+ new words on the Work In Progress. Also, my bathroom is awesomely clean (thanks to the kid for her assistance!).

Despite morning misgivings, this was an awesome day and I feel great about it!

I also learned that when you buy the bottomless cup of coffee at the Artemis Cafe, you run the risk of drinking way, way too much of their delicious house java. I actually drank enough coffee that every hair on my body stood on end. That might be a little too much, even for me.

November 2nd!

I am trying to stir up my spirits and get busy. It's not easy. Instead of one gloriously insane month of writing--Nanowrimo--I'm setting myself for 5 months of balls-out-lead burning (okay, I don't actually use a pencil these days, but keyboard burning doesn't have the same resonance) to wrap up one book and solidly draft another. I was super-thrilled about this, but whether it's the after-effect of the flu or the contemplation of November's nightmarish schedule (do kids even GO to school in November anymore? And how can one month have so many social activities?), I have the blahs. The don't-wannas. The "I cleaned the bathroom so I didn't have to work"s.

Me? Mop my bathroom floor? That's pretty crazy. Although it's actually linked to the social-events thing. There comes a point in time when you just can't subject guests to your bathroom any longer, and our bathroom was beyond that point.

All right. There's only one thing to do. And that's drink so much caffeine I transform into a Writing She-Hulk. Raaaawrr!!!!

Kreativ Blogger award!

Wow! On Saturday Miriam over at Dancing With Dragons Is Hard On Your Shoes won a Kreativ Blogger award AND SHE PASSED IT ON TO ME! That's right! My blog! Won an award! And as you can tell, I'm really excited about it. (giggles, blushes)

I would have done something about it on Saturday except that I have been stricken by some sort of respiratory crap--no, not the Heiney Flu (get it? h1n1=hini=heiney? which is funny?), because I'm pretty sure I've had it, and because I don't have a fever, just exhaustion and lots of snot.

Wow. I think I need to lay off the cold meds. Anyway, without further ado, the Kreative Blogger award:

The directions to this award are as follows...Recipients-You are charged with completing certain guidelines once receiving this award.

1. Copy the pretty picture and post it on your blog.
2. Thank the person that gave it to you and link to their blog. (Thank you Miriam!!!)
3. Write 7 things about yourself we don't know.
4. Choose 7 other bloggers you would like to pass the award to.
5. Link to those 7 other bloggers.
6. Notify your 7 bloggers.
   

So here are 7 things you don't know about me: I have never learned to drive; I earned a blue belt in karate when I was 12; I once corrected my high school history teacher in class (hey, I read a lot of historical romance novels. Of course I knew Geoffrey was John and Richard's *illegitimate* brother!); I cried at the end of "Revenge of the Sith"; I was once a legal secretary; I can throw pizza dough (because I once worked as a pizza cook); I had my first gray hair at age 12 (I don't think it was linked to the blue belt).

Here the other meritorious bloggers! Now, because I'm sick, I'm giving myself a little lee-way. While I do read quite a few blogs, many have already won this award. Errgggh. So I'm going to pare down the list a bit. Hey, I'm sick!
1. Erin over at Snarke. She's the lady who introduced me to blogging, and she is awesomely funny.
2. Kristina at the Ten Minute Missive. She's a mama blogger, and she's my sister. She got all the funny genes, too.
3. Jacki at JackiKane's Blog. The lady who reinvented what it meant to be funny in Portland.
4. Elspeth at It's A Mystery. She always spins my mind in new, thoughtful directions.
5. Heather at Writings Of Randomness. She's new to blogging and could use some encouragement--plus, she's another zombie fan.
6. Lance, over at The Adventures of Writing Dad. He's a dad! He's a horror writer! He's funny!

Get out there and read some blogs, gang!

Murder By the Book

If you've never been to Murder by the Book, a mystery-focused bookstore at 3210 SE Hawthorne Blvd, here in Portland, you are missing out. It's not large, but the space is cozily (and cunningly) divided into themed nooks devoted to different categories of books. Like classic police investigations? They've got a nook for it. High-tech forensics and medical science? Yep. Fantasy or paranormal specialists? Sure thing. There's even a kids' section for your little Encyclopedia Brown. They also have a small section of horror/thriller and even foreign language mysteries. Wow!

I went to Murder by the Book today because one of my favorite Twitter/blogging buddies, LJ Sellers, was visiting to promote her latest book. I haven't read LJ's novels yet (although I've had her first book on hold at the library for about 4 weeks ... somebody PLEASE return that book!), but I picked them both up for some light reading. I also got a new anthology about zombie animals to review, and one of Cleo Coyle's Coffeehouse Mysteries. I almost never buy books, so I'm feeling euphoric from the shopping rush.

Now that I know I can get books in my own genres (fantasy, horror), I expect I will be stopping by Murder By The Book a lot more frequently. It's close to my house and the people who work there are incredibly nice. I can't recommend it enough!

Nanowrimo Prep!

Just a quick pre-Nanowrimo tip: once you get started writing in November, all those beautiful threads and ideas are going to knot up into a jumbly mess. It's fun and dandy during the caffeine-crazed 30 days of November, but come December, it looks a little overwhelming. My last two Nanos are still lurking in a drawer, suffering from too much confusion.

This year is going to be different. This year, darn it, I'm starting with a structure.

I've never really been an outliner, but this year I'm following a design program espoused by screenwriters; I read a lot of sceenwriting books this summer and decided the structuring tools they discussed might serve me well. And then one of my favorite bloggers (and another awesome horror author!), Alexandra Sokoloff, decided to run a month-long blog workshop on building story structure. Hooray! Needless to say, I've been directing every writer-type I know to her blog, The Dark Salon.

Anyway, I'm off to do some editing and create some index cards. And maybe some housecleaning, since my adorable baby (you know, 22-year-old) brother is coming to visit today!

Halloween Rant!

People who "don't celebrate Halloween" freak me out. In my universe, that's like saying "I don't celebrate Friday," or "I don't believe in gravity." Halloween happens, man. You don't get to choose whether or not there is a Halloween. The sky becomes dark. Crows grow their winter feathers, fresh and black, a color beyond the limits of our visual experience. Cold seeps into our bones. You don't have to dress up or carve a pumpkin--all of that dark, cold stuff is going to happen to you whether you like it or not. That dark, cold stuff is what Halloween is.

To deny Halloween is like denying winter and death and darkness. You can deny it as much as you like, but you will still be cold, winter will still kill your garden, the sun will set and you will die. Nothing can change that.

You don't have to party on Halloween, although it is a basic human instinct to make merry in the face of hardship, and to reject that instinct is often indicative of a sprained sense of fun. Many people keep the season in a somber, respectful tone. I suppose that's not truly celebrating Halloween. But it is honoring the day. It is surviving it. It is reflecting on the meaning of the moment.

Halloween is a time to look into the darkness of the world around us and take its measure. It is a time to think about fear, to embrace it, to make a joke of it. Halloween is a time to reach out to death and walk in its footsteps. To do these things enrichens our human perspective; doing them validates our choices that bring good into the world and strengthen our appreciation of the bright and the beautiful. We are lucky our culture has created a special day just for those activities. We are lucky that all around us, our fellow Americans are partaking in them, turning their gaze into the dim night and facing it readily.

On Halloween, the shapes in the darkness are just children with an appetite for sweets. Some of the costumes are scary. Some are cute. But if you don't look, you'll miss out on the good ones.

Thoughts from a reformed procrastinator

So far the week has been awesomely productive. I've gotten all caught up with the Horror-Web work I meant to do last Friday. I sent a story out on a submission. I worked on the museum's Halloween e-card. Yeah, actually ... looking pretty good. I just need to pull ahead on the edit a little more and start next week's article about the Paris catacombs. Wow. I'm planning ahead!

It's hard to believe that I have become the kind of person who gets work done in advance. It wasn't that long ago that I was a world-class procrastinator. I was such a procrastinator that the night before my senior thesis was due, I not only hadn't finished, but I wasn't even half-way through. And then I went and saw the midnight opening of The Phantom Menace before getting down to work.

It helps that nowadays, I choose my work. Those articles, short stories and novels aren't assigned by some dictatorial professor--I decided to do them. If I don't do them, it's not something nebulous like a grade on the line, either. It's my professional and friendly relationship with my editor on the line when I don't come through with those book reviews. It's my whole future career if I never finish this book.

Of course, it also helps that I am a grown-up. I'm a parent. If there's something you learn as a working mother, it's how to multi-task and prioritize. It's pretty easy to organize the fun stuff, like writing, after taking care of the cumbersome duties of clean tights and enough snacks to make it through school and dance class.

Oh! And Headshot Heather: I'm so glad you like the t-shirt. It is on Cafe Press for the consumption of the masses. Shop it up, baby!

Friday already?

Friday is usually my big day to catch up on writing and my internet work, but today didn't go as planned. I spent *3* hours trying to get to my sister's house (who lives about 12 miles from my own home). I spent 2 hours updating my webpage to include the new t-shirt design ... not to mention the untold amount of time actually getting the shirt set up. I don't even want to go into the details of how a basic business card order can turn into designing t-shirts. Suffice to say that when it comes to procrastination, no task is too large or too ridiculous to keep me from putting off editing my novel!

That's right, I did not get a word edited since Monday. I actually feel like a giant loser. But now I'm a loser who can wear her own self-designed t-shirt to Orycon!

Blog recommendation

On top of being a writing, zombie-hating (loving? It's a complicated relationship!) nerd, I am also a total animal geek. Today I was introduced to a touching blog called Your Black Cat. The page is devoted to black cats--who happen to be the least-adopted pet in US animal shelters. If it wasn't for my darn landlord, I'd rush out and adopt 2 or 3! I love anything with hard-luck story.

Also, the writer of Your Black Cat is going to have a story published in the same upcoming "2012 AD" anthology as me! Now I can't wait for December to read hers.

Bwah-hah-ha, writer's block!!

The last week was not a very productive one at Chez Winnie. I had the gloomies and a cold, and every time I sat down at the computer I stared at my WIP and just pushed the keys dejectedly. Then I would go downstairs and whimper to Sweetie-Pie: "I can't do anything. I'm just too stupid to write." Then I would blubber a little.

Well, this week could not continue in such a vein, so I decided to take an advanced psychologically sneaktastic trick to get me started again. (It's the kind of thing you come up with when you parent a 6-year-old. You get good at psychological warfare.) I told myself Monday night that I could only write for 15 minutes. Not that I only had to write for 15 minutes. That I was only allowed to write that long. And then I made myself stop. I did it again the next day, too, even though by that time my brain was roiling with great ideas and I was very ready to plunge into the editing work. Then last night I allowed myself free reign. I slashed, and revised, and worked up a new scene. I felt like a champ. As if I was sneaking cookies from the cookie jar without my mama noticing.

Tonight I've got a long list of projects to catch up on. And I'm hopped up on caffeine and raring to go. Now that I'm allowed to write, I'm going to enjoy every second of it.