Nerdmaste

Words. Words. Words.

2012-01-20T09:01:00.000-08:00

Nerdmaste and happy Friday to you all, my lovely readers.

Today I bring you a rant about something near and dear to my heart: Words. This week I've seen multiple conversations talking about language. Chuck Wendig, Tommy Pluck and others were having a debate on Twitter about profanity in writing, particularly crime fiction. It's been fun, enlightening and has opened up new possibilities in the world of four-letter-words. Not long after this, a post on Facebook made me cringe at someone's use of a euphemism. And thus, a rant formed and now I am sharing with you my personal thoughts on language.

Buckle up.

It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that, as a writer, I am fascinated by words. At the heart of my interest is rhythm. Poetry, prose, conversation...it all flows. Our words create their own rhythms and even the most mundane comments when spoken aloud can ring with authority and grace simply because the right words were used in the right order. I love the way an accent can change the rhythm, the pronunciation or even the word choice. It's mesmerizing. Beyond this, though, is meaning. We try to pack centuries of human experience into tiny letters and then expect those definitions to stand up to an ever-changing landscape. When 7 billion people live and experience the world in their billions of ways, words will take on new shapes and meanings not just from epoch to epoch, culture to culture but from person to person. Hell, even a day can change the way a single word impacts you. For example, one day you're walking across campus without a care. The next you're in a hospital shivering after a sexual assault and from that moment forward you have a visceral reaction to the word, "rape". Words are slippery chameleons with their own emotions charged into them for every person who uses them.

"What is it you read, my lord?"

Words have baggage. Some words are reviled and avoided due to the genetic/societal memory of how they were once used to objectify, enslave and dehumanize. Slurs and epithets carry wars and atrocities in their little letters. Some words are seen as "bad" due to notions of propriety. What is illegal on television is acceptable in some movies and music. You wouldn't tell a nun you've had a shitty day but you might say it to a friend, teacher or a waitress.

Words have a time and a place. In writing, word choice can tell you a lot about a character. Do they use taboo slurs? Do they curse? Do they consistently misuse big words or abuse grammar? Do they use contractions or drop the g's off of the ends of -ing words? By the way a person talks, you get a sense of who they are and what their experiences have been like. The words can show us more than the character tells us.

So when someone tells me that I say, "Fuck" too much or that "goatfucker" isn't acceptable when referring to my satyr character, I'm going to pick a fight. Look, I spent 7 years in a drumline with some of the most foul-mouthed, disrespectful budding misogynists you could find. If I spoke a second language fluently it would be "Fuck". Is it base humor? Does it pander to the crass? Possibly, but it's a word! Crass or no, it has value. It's rhythm. It's more than just a euphemism/slang for fornication, it's a percussive sound that can punctuate anger, frustration. It can add gravity to a statement. It can act as any part of speech and it can be modified in so many luscious ways.

I am an acolyte of George Carlin, Mr. 7 Dirty Words himself. He says it better than I could ever hope to in his book Last Words, but the gist is that language is so rich and diverse! It's amazing how squeamish people get when you say "cock", "cunt" or "piss" instead of tamer synonyms like "penis, "vagina" or "urine". You might think that Carlin didn't respect the English language because of how much he chose to inhabit its darker corners, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. Carlin, like me, loves language and words. He, too, was fascinated by not just words and their rhythms or meanings, but also the reactions words incite!

Profanity has its place in the world and it's not just at the back of the class room or in the poor neighborhoods. Profanity can be glorious! (Profanity can also be used to try to mask poor writing. Do. Not. Do. This.) Look at Christopher Moore's books. He takes Shakespear's King Lear, tells it from the Fool's perspective and gives us "Fuckstockings!"** It's beautiful! (If you haven't read Fool, read it now. I'll wait.)

On the flip side of this is a trend to avoid perfectly "normal" words. Yes, there's "political correctness" and I think that's bullshit, but what I'm talking about is more subtle and annoying. Euphemisms have their place. As a friend said, "You wouldn't say, 'I'm going to the lavatory to defecate.'" There are so many ways you can communicate that thought and unless you're a cyborg you're not going to be that clinical about it. You don't have to go vulgar and say you're going to "take a shit"...there are perfectly good alternatives that are socially acceptable.

However...the one that really pisses me off and makes me shudder every. damn. time I see/hear it used:

AUNT FLO

Why the fuck do people do this? Seriously? Why is this a thing? No, I don't expect everyone to say, "menstruating", but what is wrong with just saying "period". It's something anyone with a 5th grade education should know about: Every 28 days or so a female who has been through puberty will shed her uterine lining (blood) unless a fetus has implanted there. A woman has a period. Period! Why the fuck can't we just say it that way?

Look, I know it can be an uncomfortable subject, especially for men. (Trust me, it's more uncomfortable for us than it is for you. Sack up.) When I was a teenager, my dad would get a little squicked out by me just mentioning it. Well, how do my dad and I deal with discomfiting things? Humor. I then referred to my period as "a visit from Stephen King" (or just Stephen King). This made light of the ick factor and was a way that a teenaged girl and her bachelor dad could talk about an awkward subject. I get that.

Also, I know there are other terms used as more of an insult. "What's wrong with her?" "Oh, she must be on the rag." In Clueless, "riding the crimson wave" was kinda funny. But "aunt flo", "monthly bill", "visitor" all that shit? Come on. Don't pussyfoot around it. The word you're looking for is period.

Words have power. And I think this is why shit like the above bothers me so much. By taking a very acceptable word for something that is a natural, biological process and stuffing stupid euphemisms in its place, we belittle the process itself. Because we feel shame and discomfort at the word, we feel shame and discomfort at the act. Call me a bitch (and I better deserve it) and you're insulting me. Refer to all women as bitches and you're saying something about yourself right there. This goes for racial slurs as well as labels like "faggot". You're disrespecting an entire group of humans.

So often we like to think words have black and white meanings to match the text on the page. They don't, though. And they never will. Words are constantly evolving like the societies that use them. Words are malleable and conform to the needs of the time. You never just "read" a book. You imbibe a series of ideas and experiences because these words flow with their own life. Words are astounding. Use them freely because they are yours. Remember to also use them wisely.

**Throx.com sells "Fucksox" with the Christopher Moore font. It is Fucksox Friday! All proceeds go to MS research. Just sayin'.

Random Happenings

2012-01-19T13:28:00.000-08:00

So, I know I've been remiss in keeping this blog updated lately. My husband's work schedule changed and while that's good in some ways, it sucks in others. We're all getting used to a new routine. This comes on the heels of getting back into the swing of things after Christmas break which shifted our lives after another previous shift and so on and so forth. Routine? What's that?

Anyway, I don't have anything profound for you today. No rants or pieces of masterful flash fiction. However, I do have a tiny tidbit of news.

As you may know, yesterday Rob Lowe went on Twitter and proclaimed that he had it on Good Authority (*coughIRSAYcough*) that my second husband Peyton Manning would be retiring by day's end. Well, this is not acceptable to me, and I tweeted as such. Then, I posted a similar, but longer version of the tweet to my Facebook page. Both essentially say that Rob Lowe is full of shit and that I give him the benefit of the doubt. He's just providing an example of what happens in a world where SOPA takes away one's ability to find corroborating evidence on the Internet. So, flash forward to the nighttime. My daughter is sound asleep, the cats are prowling about and waiting for snuggles, the husband is killing zombies. And I? I'm scrolling through the Huffington Post. And there is an article about Rob Lowe's sports reporting. Woot! So I read it and see a slideshow of tweets about the whole thing. As I'm scrolling through said tweets, I notice a field of blue sunflowers and go, "Hey! That's my background!" My eyes tracked up and then, "Hey! That's my name!" Among the tweets they counted as some of the funnier responses to the "news", they included one from yours truly. Woot! Any day now I expect Colbert, Stewart and my girlfriend Rachel Maddow to call and ask me to be on their show for my incredible wit. /snarkasm.

Seriously, she's agoddamndorable.

Soooo what else is happening, readers? I know there was something I was going to tell you about my daughter but for the life of me my sleep-depraved (yes, I just made up that word) brain can't remember at this point. Just imagine it was hilarious and moving and made your uterus tweak with longing to procreate.

OH! This was fun... the other day I got a bill from Chase. Now, a few months ago this would not have been anything out of the ordinary, but (!) in December I closed the account. That's right. I paid off my credit card and said, "Fuck off, Chase! We're through! Occupy my wallet no more!" and there was much rejoicing. (yay) Well, as I said, I got a bill from them the other day. They wanted a paltry $1.50 on an account that had been paid off and closed.

Hrm. Odd.

At first, I wondered if this was that awkward attempt at reconnection after a breakup. I know, Chase, you had some good times with my interest payments. But it's over. I think we both need to live separate lives. It's better this way.

Just say no to Lycra!

So, yesterday I called just to make sure this message was received. I was informed that this was just a standard interest payment on the $0.00 balance on my account. I reminded the nice Indian lady at the call center that there shouldn't even be an account to draw interest. She then told me that I paid off the account and then closed it three days later. The interest is what built up in those 3 days of not using the card. Seriously? Fucking seriously? I voiced my displeasure and let her know that this was ridiculous and she kindly cancelled the charge. Dear Indian Lady, I'm sorry if I was snippy, but sometimes you just have to get harsh with an ex otherwise they just keep coming back. Like cockroaches, Keith Richards or fashion mistakes.

AND, speaking of fashion... it has come to my attention that a Shreveport, Louisana parish commissioner wants to ban pajama pants in public. As my devoted readers know, I am the High Priestess of the Cult of Jammy Pants. Seeing this... I am upset, nay! appalled! This is outrageous and against my religious beliefs in comfort and flannel for all. So, mortal enemy, you make yourself known. My crusade begins.

Oh, last weekend I went with my good friend and had my hand squeezed to a pulp while she got a tattoo on her foot. She got a peacock-colored koi in memory of our Nicki. I'm getting my memorial ink next month. You'll see. :)

That's about all that's going on here at the moment. Still shopping Technical Difficulties (Book 1 in my Etudes in C# series). Book 2 is. I'm stuck at chapter 4 but that's only because I'm not sure how to handle Chapter 9 and beyond. Weird, I know, but I need to have a clear vision of what's ahead to keep going. So, I'm outlining and trying to pull together what happens after a specific DUN DUN DUNNNNN moment. Book 3 is an attention whore. It keeps telling me all these awesome things that can happen and showing me scenes. A companion short that takes place during the events of Book 3 is an even bigger whore. So I've written most of that one. The later books are congealing more and more. Book 6 (the last one) is being all ominous and "muahahaha".

Yeah. Other than the above, that's about it. Oh, and I've developed an obsession with the British show Q.I. Here's a clip. I defy you to not giggle. (Also includes David Tennant.)

And with that, I'm out, kids. Be excellent to each other.

Revenge of the Mother

2012-01-13T07:32:00.000-08:00

Nearly half my life ago... did I really just say that? Sylar's eyebrows, I can't be that old... Anyway, some time ago I was a teenager in living in Indiana. During the winters, my mother and I would hibernate for weekends. Usually this involved sitting on the couch wrapped in blankets eating various munchables and playing the board game Aggravation. It's similar to Trouble and it provided hours of bonding between my mother and I. For those hours a cease fire was called in our teen-angst-frazzled-parent battle of wills. Mom and I had this board...it was wooden with divots drilled into it for the glass marbles we used as pawns. Rolls of 5 or more would end in a resonant, satisfying cllllllllack! as the marble slid over the board. For hours we would play this game. Then Monday would come back around and the cease fire would come to a crashing end. Usually this meant that I would just look at my mom with the derision only a "misunderstood anarchist hippy" 16 year old could muster and say, "You annoy me."

In 2008, flooding in southern Indiana meant that my mom lost just about everything. She moved out here with us, bringing the cats and what little she could salvage. One thing that didn't make it was that game. Imagine the joy on Christmas morning when Mom pulled out a cardboard version of the game she'd found on eBay. She and I introduced Sean and the kiddo to the game and when I took one of K's marbles with my own, I beamed with pride. "The cycle of mother-taking-daughter is now complete." The other day Sean, K and I played again and she managed to trap me and send my pawn back home. Well played, daughter mine. Well played. I can see that I must take off the gloves with this one.

I didn't realize the level of nostalgia, just how good those times with mom were, until Christmas Day. There were years where things between us were volatile, loud and crazy. During that same time when I would glare and say, "You annoy me," she'd be braiding my hair before band contests and watching from the stands. First face I found in any crowd.

When I found out that I was going to have a daughter, I cringed. I worried if our relationship would be as rocky as the one I had with my mom. Mom, of course, was thrilled. And naturally she sat back and enjoyed as someone entered the world who would dish out to me what I gave to her. K and I have started the tradition of Aggravation.

Then yesterday...

...I went to pick up K from school and as we were walking home she asked me a question. When she didn't like the answer she just looked up at me with a look of angst, and said, "You annoy me."

I'm not kidding.

I laughed. I laughed so hard that I cried then hugged her. The cycle continues, doesn't it?

Dude Looks Like A Lady

2012-01-12T10:50:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning to find my various social media feeds blaring with talk of a 14-year-old Girl Scout asking the world to boycott GSUSA and their cookies because the organization allows transgendered children to join. I posted a brief status message to my Facebook page with some thoughts, but the more I pondered this, the more I realized that I have very strong opinions about this matter. So, please, join me after the jump for some polite, civil discourse on the subject of this viral and volatile video.

I am not going to post the original video here. I've linked to it above and several sites have picked it up. You can go check it out for yourself at your leisure. The basic gist is that the Girl Scouts of America, by allowing transgendered youth to join their troops, is being dishonest and actually endangering the safety of the young women involved in the organization.

To put it bluntly, this pisses me off.

Dishonest? No, dishonest is telling the world you are one thing while being another. What this girl sees as dishonesty is actually truth. These kids are being allowed to live their truth, to be the people they are without bias, judgment or cruelty. I think that is beautiful and a step in the right direction for the LGBTQ community. However, I can see where people who are less open and understanding of LGBTQ concepts might mistake this for a lie of some sort. So, I'm more inclined to educate than fight on this one.

What boils my blood? The idea that allowing a 6-year-old child be themselves is somehow a danger to others. In her video the girl references a rule stating that adult males cannot share tents or bathrooms with the girls, so I'm assuming that her concerns for safety are of a sexual nature. She postulates that an 18-year-old boy is legally an adult male. Completely ignoring the fact that she is falling victim to an obscene amount of logical fallacies, she clearly doesn't grasp what transgendered even means. I'm curious if she has confused transvestite (wears the clothes of the other gender) with transgender (born with the body of one but mind of the other).

But I digress.

If this girl's beef with the GSUSA's policy is that the hypothetical trans kid is a threat to safety--specifically safety from sexual predation--we can end that one right quick. First, she's just aiming for the top of the age spectrum rather than taking each developmental stage into account. Secondly, she's making the gross assumption that transgendered living is about sex and/or sexuality. It isn't. Period. Gender issues may effect one's sexuality, but a first grader isn't thinking about sex. They are thinking about friends and sleepovers and the social aspects of a strange world that tells people who to be based on what's between their legs.

The video touts that an all-girl organization is statistically proven to be a safe place for girls to be themselves and talk about things they can't talk about with boys because of shared experience. Okay, seriously... I don't know where this chick's troops are but when I was growing up it was the opposite.

You might think this is hilarious, but I was a Girl Scout once. I did two years in Brownies and didn't go to my graduation ceremony because my parents and I were moving. I joined because I thought it would be like Boy Scouts where I'd get to learn how to build fires and chart the stars and read tracks in the mud. You know...survivalist stuff that is tested when you're dropped in the middle of the woods and have to make a functioning radio using only tree bark and the hair from a skunk you tamed with Morse Code. Do you know what my actual Girl Scouts experience was? A sit-upon. We made a sit-upon. A fucking vinyl table cloth, a bit of yarn and some fiber fill pieced together to form a portable chair you wear around your waist.

And this place of communion with other girls that the video speaks of? Yeah, none of that. My troop was a handful of judgmental bitches of the same quality I got every day in school. I was the fat kid trying desperately to fit in. I stood taller than most boys in my class and was broad as a race horse. I was stronger in some respects and I didn't go for a princess unless she carried her own sword and held it aloft for Greyskull. In comparison to my peers, I was masculine. Not tomboyish, just ... butch. I wanted so badly to fit in, to be accepted by my peers. That was part of why I did the Girl Scouts thing in the first place! All I got out of it was a feeling like it was yet another club I didn't belong to. The other girls in my troop talked with each other and I got left to do stuff on my own. The people I felt like I *could* talk with freely? Guys. It has always been that way for as long as I can remember. The boys didn't judge me. They didn't think I was too fat or too broad or weird for liking race cars and Star Trek.

Again, I digress.

This video bothers me on many levels because in a way it is spreading its own dishonesty. When I first watched it, I hoped that her parents had written the script and put her up to it so that a video could go viral on their agenda. An adult saying these things wouldn't be heard, but a 14 year old Girl Scout? Hell yeah, people listened. But the more I thought about it, I realized they didn't have to write the script. This girl's parents may not have put her up to this. God knows at 14 I was a little militant and if I'd had YouTube I would've been posting anti-establishment videos daily! No, her hand didn't have to be forced. She didn't have to be exploited to get some intolerant message out there or get 15 minutes of air time.

No.

This girl's words are her own. And that's sad because there is so much ignorance and intolerance in them. Her parents didn't have to put those words in her mouth, they raised her with the ideas and beliefs they instilled in her heart.

I said I wouldn't give that video a place on my blog. I will, however, give this one a space. This is from a trans Girl Scout. Please watch and spread the positive words.

if you have any questions about trans issues, my dear friend Rhys is answering questions as he goes through his own transition. Visit AskRhys.com and start a conversation. Learn. Expand.

Let Me Tell Ya 'Bout ...

2012-01-11T10:51:00.000-08:00

Not shopped. SO COOL!

...the birds and the bees.... More specifically this bee. No, not the one in the picture. *points to self* This one. Me. I've been posting a lot of things lately that talk about my Bee People...bee feet...blue socks for a Blue Bee...my Twitter handle is BeeGirlBlue...that kind of thing and that is drawing questions from those of you who may be new to our little show here. So, I thought I'd take a post to answer one of the frequently asked questions: "Dude, what's up with you and bees?"

Remember 1991? Flannel around your waist, Docs on your feet and a slightly emo slump to your step because you were so misunderstood by the establishment that it made your soul ache like Kurt Cobain's cancer? We had angst and people like Steven Tyler kept telling us to Rock The Vote to do something about it. Remember those days? Damn, 8th grade was awesome, wasn't it? Anyway...back in 1991 this video came out and MTV played it damn near every morning. (I know, some of you come from a world when MTV didn't play music, but trust me, it was cool.) I woke up to this song many many times and the video always spoke to me. Blind Melon's No Rain.

Here's this girl. Not much to look at, laughed at by the people she's trying to blend with...she goes on her own quest around the town to find someone who will dance with her. Finally, she finds a whole tribe of Bee People who will dance her dance. She finds a place where she belongs.

For many years I felt like the Bee Girl...weird, funny looking and misunderstood. Alone in a crowd and constantly looking for that place of peace and acceptance. My friend Carrie was the first to call me Bee Girl back in college. It fit and it stuck. I envied the Bee Girl because she found that place full of sympathetic characters who not only accept but love her for her differences. Her weirdness is exalted and she ends the video triumphant! Hoo and ray! I envied her that.

In 2002 I met a friend online who lived in Phoenix. I'd been thinking of moving there and we hit it off online and later on the phone. We talked for 2 years and finally I started making plans to relocate. There was this one weekend that all things seemed to gel. I went to Phoenix for that weekend to meet people I'd only spoken to online or the phone and those people introduced me to more people. I walked into a house for a birthday party of a complete stranger and I met my Tribe. My very own Bee People. No trumpets and choirs...just laughter and karaoke. But that feeling of resonance, sympathetic vibration and utter peace said it all. I didn't want to leave the party. At 3:30am my friend looked at me and said, "Your flight leaves in 3 hours and we still have to go get your suitcase packed and get you to the airport." Bummed, I started saying goodbye. As people hugged me they told me, "I don't want to wish you bad luck, but I hope you fuck up this audition because it means you'll move here."

Two days later I auditioned for Blue Man Group. That in and of itself is a whole 'nother story. Short version: I stood on the stage of the Briar Street Theater in Chicago and drummed stroke for stroke with my personal idol and got a call back. (And on the evening news, but that just made me feel awkward..) I went in the next day for the acting portion, went on my way and waited. A few weeks later I emailed the casting director for information and thanked her profusely for the experience. She said that my drumming was "exactly what we're looking for" but that the character needed work. I was urged to try again.

So I moved to Phoenix in October of 2004. On New Year's Eve I was at The Party (see previous entry) and my beloveds gifted me with a pair of blue LED drumsticks. Blue was my signature color and it became my "thing". The nickname "Blue" popped into being and I've answered to it ever since. (It's on my Con badge.) I have to giggle when I read Christopher Moore's You Suck! because of the hooker named Blue who wears blue make up specifically because of Blue Man Group. I found out recently that Chris Moore's next book, Sacre Bleu!, comes out on my birthday and has a stunning prologue about the color Blue and how it is like a woman.

I am Blue.
I am the Bee Girl.

So there's your answer.

Blue Socks

2012-01-04T11:38:00.000-08:00

Happy 2012 and Nerdmaste to you all! We're 4 pages into the daily calendar and already there have been victories and losses. Life. It happens.

Just before 2011 made its way into history, it set off one last volley at me. I came home from running errands on Saturday to find a package waiting for me. I opened it to find 2 pairs of awesome socks from Sock Dreams. The invoice said, "Blue Bee Socks for the Best Blue Bee Ever! You are loved and adored. Nerdmaste, my friend." Around this little message, drawings of blue bees swirled about hearts. at the bottom, someone had drawn a ginormous blue bumblebee wearing little blue socks.

Sent by "Anonymous Gifter! :) ".

I admit it... I cried. (meet me after the jump.)

The sentiment of the note was nice, of course, and the socks are freaking wonderful. The drawings were such an awesome touch, too! But it was the act itself that really got me. Just a random act of kindness that someone did anonymously to tell me they cared and to help keep my chilly feet warm with amazing blue stripey socks. (And socks with monkeys! MONKEYS, people!) Someone who didn't have to took a moment for me. And that means so much to me.

Now, my brain can't just let a puzzle sit there. I did guess who my secret Sock Fairy was and I did shower said Sock Fairy with love and gratitude. Sock Fairy asked me, though, if the Sock People followed any instructions... I sent Sock Fairy this picture.

Sock Fairy let out a squee because the people at Sock Dreams went above and beyond the requested drawing. I posted about it on Twitter and actually got a message from the person who drew the bee on the invoice. That drawing of a a bumblebee rocking its own blue socks is so freaking stellar I can't get rid of this piece of paper. My Sock Fairy did something awesome, but so did the Sock Dreams employee.

I can't put into words just how heartening it is to see. Like I said, the socks are cool and the note is sweet... but it's the kindness behind both socks and drawing.

2011 was a difficult year...especially toward the end. This, though... this redeemed one year and set the tone for another.

As some of you know, I spend every New Year's Eve with my Ohana. Have done so for 7 years with one exception due to illness. One reason I go to this party every year is that this party is where Sean and I decided to take a chance on one another and become an US. So at midnight every year, we kiss and celebrate our anniversary as a couple. Another reason I go is because the people there are my home. There's no better way to spend the first hours of a year than gaming, laughing and enjoying good food amongst them, my family of choice. We have a couple of cool traditions, too. The Year In Review is a favorite. Seven years ago, this rather pessimistic bastard had come to the fireside and complained that nothing good happened in 2004. Brian, the host of the party and my soul friend, pointed at some random partygoer and said, "YOU! Name something good that happened this year." This went on for a while.... we were able to come up with many good things for each month of the year. Now, we do it every year and we have to start earlier in the night every year. We start with January, go around the circle and spend the last minutes of a year counting our many blessings rather than dwelling on the bad stuff.

This year was no exception. However, there was mention of one bad... we lost a member of our family and we couldn't ignore that. I cried like a fucking baby and for those that were present, I'm sorry if my squeaking held up the line. But, we spent 90 minutes coming up with positive things that happened in 2011. New people joined the circle this year, too. That's pretty damn cool in and of itself.

Anyway, that's our end of year tradition. The start of the year has one, too. It's a silly thing, but Brian will usually wake up the next morning and head out to the smoldering fire for a cigarette and a donut or something. As he shambles out, like a grumbling bear from his cave, Brian proclaims the name of the year. We have, in the past, had the year of Dropping Trou, Gay Chicken, and The Fruit Bat. Last year was named after a new friend... the Year of the Laughing Giorgos. Apparently, this year tradition shifted just slightly and Brian named the year just after midnight. (I wasn't by the fire at that point... I was in the house reading a Captain Underpants book to my daughter.)

2012 is ... aw hell let me just have him say it. This is from his Facebook:

And so ends 2011: The Year of the Laughing Giorgos. Thus too begins 2012: The Year of Behaving Admirably. You are invited to do good things, noble things, kind things, things that your loved ones would tearfully hug you for. Not for recognition, but because you are far better than you think you are, and the world needs you mroe than ever. Happy New Year!

The Year of Behaving Admirably.

So you... fellow museslave, wandering reader and demented soul... you have a mission. Do good things. Put people first rather than corporations. Let go of grudges and say hi to someone you've lost touch with. Cook dinner for your friends. Have a potluck picnic. If you miss someone, call them. Talk to people. Take time to be kind. Keep behaving admirably... even if it's just buying a friend some blue socks.

525,600 Minutes

2011-12-31T09:27:00.000-08:00

2011 has only a few hours left to it. As is tradition, I'm going to a party tonight with my Ohana. This is the same party where Sean and I became "us". Seven years ago tonight we both took a chance on one another and here we are. Every year we go and kiss at midnight to honor our anniversary. Another tradition at this party is the Year In Review. We started this seven years ago, too. Every year we sit around the fire pits with our nearest and dearest, start with January and go around the circle. We recount the good that happened in the year month by month.

This year is weird. Good things happened. Bad things happened. Life changed irrevocably. People got married. Babies were born and conceived after much heartache of trying. A woman left this earth. A family came together. I wrote a novella, several short stories and the first novel in a new series. I lost something I thought I wanted/needed only to find that the loss was the best thing that could've happened. I lost an uncle. I almost lost my grandmother but had the chance to see her...and she made it through. I lost my sister the day after we started to mend fences. A friend beat cancer for the second and third times in his life proving once again that we haven't found all of the horcruxes. Tribe Ohana grew and got its own website. The tooth fairy came to my house a few times. I've made new friends and reconnected with old ones.

Weird, I tell ya.

Right now, it's work to come up with good things for the year in review because everything is clouded with the fact that Nicki isn't here to add her voice. I'm tired. Even though it's only a Saturday turning into a Sunday, there's something about changing the calendar that refreshes me. On one side of midnight is an old skin I'm more than ready to slough off and leave behind. On the other is the promise of something new, undiscovered and full of possibility. I'm ready for 2011 to be over and done. I'm ready for what the future brings. I'm ready to hit the reset button.

In 2012 I will reconnect with myself. I won't let the love from October/November dissipate into apathy like it once did. I will get a new tattoo. I will write more stories. I'm going to keep querying on Etudes in C#, write more books of that series. I will write more short stories and send them to lit mags for publication. I will spin poi. Maybe I'll even spin fire again. I don't know when, though. I'm not ready to do that without Nicki yet. I'm going to vote. I'm going to read books, see movies and live music and sit around a fire drumming until my hands go numb. I'm going to laugh and cry. I'm going to play games and go to at least one Comic Con. I'm going to hold newborns and then gratefully pass them back to their parents. I'm going to read with my daughter and cuddle her and watch her grow. I'm going to snuggle the hell out of my husband. I'm going to live, love and laugh.

These aren't resolutions. They aren't plans. They're life. It happens.

2011, it's time to part ways.
2012...let's rock.

Have a safe and happy new year everyone.

Nerdmaste.

Falafel

2011-12-27T15:53:00.000-08:00

So, my daughter watches Arthur on PBS. It's pretty rock awesome as far as cartoons go. One episode in particular speaks to me on many levels. Every time I see it, something new jumps out and smacks me upside the head. Fellow writers, artists and museslaves...please take a moment or 10 to watch Falafelosophy. (Features Neil Gaiman being awesome!)

Changing Call-Signs

2011-12-27T12:56:00.001-08:00

So, you may notice if you look up at the header that the Defying Gravity title is now gone. I'm getting a lot of hits from people looking for Wicked material and I just want to give them one less link to sift through. Plus, no matter how fitting Defying Gravity is for me and my life...Nerdmaste is 100% original material.

Do not adjust your settings. Fear not.

Our future together is bright. Buy a fire suit.

It's Christmas Eve, babe.....

2011-12-24T09:19:00.000-08:00

Happy Christmas Eve, gang! Be safe, be merry and be blessed! -j

Christmas Flash

2011-12-23T09:10:00.000-08:00

Once again I'm posting for your enjoyment a piece of flash. As is usual, this comes from a challenge waged by Chuck Wendig. The prompt is "Christmas in a strange place". Any genre. 1000 words. You have one day. Go. My first thought, honestly, was to write something that took place in the back of a Volkswagon. Or at Ground Zero.

As many of you know, I've got a series in production that I refer to as Etudes in C#. Book 1 (TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES is finished and I'm seeking representation and publication. Call me.) Book 2 and Book 3 have both been started and I've written a companion short. The rest of the series is in outline form. While my daughter is home on Christmas break I'm letting this project breathe...but I had an idea of tying in this challenge with that world. What follows is a prequel of sorts following Catherine Sharp and Marius on one of their earlier tasks for Eris. At exactly 1000 words, I give you the rough cut of "Belize Navidad ". Thank you for reading.

Also, as it is Christmas Eve Eve, I will be going radio silent here on the blog to spend time with family for the next few days. Whatever you celebrate--Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanza, Festivus, Giftmas or something else entirely--I wish you the best of days and brightest of blessings. Boomdeyada and Nerdmaste!

Belize Navidad

by Jamie Wyman

“Ican’t believe this,” I groaned. “It’s Christmas Eve. On the other side of thatwall there are beaches with sugary sand and gin clear water. Pool boys justwaiting to bring me fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them. And here I amstuck with you.”

Iglared across the cell at Marius. His long hair hung in charcoal waves aroundthat smug bastard face. His moustache and goatee twitched as he sneered.

“Oh,you think this is how I’d choose to spend a holiday? Trapped with a prude likeyou? Not even a drop of wine to make you the slightest bit more interesting.And of course on that beach there are the bikinis to talk about. Thongs,Catherine! I’m missing nubile women of loose morals in thongs!” He let his headfall back. “This, Miss Sharp, is hell.”

“Areall satyrs drama queens or is it just you?” I asked.

Hislip curled in disdain as he turned away from me. There wasn’t much space tomaneuver in this bulbous prison, but Marius did his best to draw up hishuman-looking legs and fit into the curve of the wall.

Mariusand I had been sent on a business trip of sorts. Our boss is Eris, the Greekgoddess of discord and bitchery. When she sent me to Belizefor an all-expenses-paid Christmas getaway, I should’ve realized that this wasno present. I’d made it to the tropical paradise, but our job landed us in thisspherical cell with the goatfucking satyr.

“Fucking Eris,” Isaid. “She can’t give fruit baskets or a bonus check. When Eris stuffs yourstocking it makes you wish she’d handed you a bag of flaming dog shit.”

Before my eyes, afire appeared. In the center of the blaze, a brown paper bag curled around alumpy mass. I gagged at the stench. Marius jerked and stamped to put out thefire, smearing the contents of the bag on the golden floor.

“What the bloodyhell was that for?” Marius shouted. “These shoes cost more than half a year’srent on that hovel you call an apartment!”

He slipped off hisshoe and began scrubbing the sole clean on my pants.

“Jesus, stop! Ididn’t do it!” I kicked him back onto his side of the sphere and let out afrustrated growl. “Spending Christmas locked up with you and now I’ve got shiton my jeans. Just fantastic.”

Marius tossed thesoiled shoe to the other side of the cell. “As if it’s such a chore to be nearme. At least I know how to have a good time. We wouldn’t be here if you weren’tso work, work, work all the time.”

He may have had apoint there, but the bastard isn’t allowed to be right about anything. It’strue, though, that if I hadn’t been so hellbent on finishing the job, the djinnmight not have woken up when we tried to steal the lamp. How was I to knowabout the shrieking idols?

Miserable, Icurled into myself. “It doesn’t even feel like Christmas. I wish I had mypajamas.”

Marius’ eyeswidened.

“What?” I asked.

He pointed aslender finger at me. “Just how did you do that?”

I looked down tosee that my stained jeans had been replaced by my favorite pair ofred-and-black fleece jammy pants. Stunned, I muttered, “I have no idea.”

Marius’ eyesshifted conspiratorially. To no one in particular he called, “I wish we had agood bottle of port.”

A smile spreadacross his face as a black bottle appeared between the satyr’s feet.

“Lovely,” he said.“Now, I need a corkscrew to open it.”

Nothing happened.
“Well, bugger,” he said. “Itwas worth a shot.”

I held up a hand.“Wait. I wish I had a corkscrew.”

Instantly, I heldthe tool.

“Oh, now thiscould be fun,” I said.

“You have noidea,” Marius leered.

Exposing thegolden apple brand on his forearm, Marius rolled up his sleeves, cracked hisknuckles and set to work. By the time he’d finished making a score of requests,he’d filled our cell with more wine, a duck glazed with raspberry and shallotsauce, buttered snow peas, and a shortcake trifle. Our feast presented itselfon glittering silver trays and gilt plates.

“Take some wine,”he said filling a crystal goblet. “You might actually become bearable company.”

Though Marius hadwished for elegance, I shook my head. “This doesn’t feel like Christmas atall.”

At my command,strands of colored lights wound around the walls. A pumpkin pie joined the foodwith a can of whipped cream, and the air filled with the sound of Bing Crosby.

“This isChristmas?” he asked incredulously.

“Oh, wait.” Withone more wish, he wore a red Santa hat. “Perfect.”

Spyingthe fluffy white ball dangling over his face, Marius rolled his eyes. “Bonappetit.”

It’snot every day you find yourself trapped in a genie’s lamp with a rat bastardsatyr. But, with his decadent tastes and my touches of home, Marius and Icrafted our own version of the holiday. For a little while on that one day, Ididn’t want to kill him.

Whenthe duck was little more than a carcass and the trifle had been reduced tocrumbs, Marius sat back swirling wine in the bottom of his glass. He mutteredsomething that I couldn’t quite catch. I may have been spraying whipped creaminto my mouth. “What was that?” I asked.

Afterdraining his port, he shook his head. “Nothing.”

Isagged, full of yummy food and warm from the wine.

“Youknow, Catherine, there is one thing missing from this gay yuletidecelebration.”

Hepointed to the ceiling. To my horror, I saw a bundle of green leaves and whiteberries dangled there.

Marius smiled andbounced his eyebrows.

“I wish we wereback in Vegas,” I said.

And just likethat, the holiday was over.

Perspective

2011-12-22T12:28:00.000-08:00

As many of my fellow slush-pile warriors can tell you, it can be easy to lose sight of things. Rejections seem to pile up like snow at a Buffalo Super Bowl even though you're still in single digits. We're writers. We make seeds into lush gardens, of course we're going to make mountains out of the occasional molehill. Sometimes, though, it can be helpful to step back and remind yourself just what kind of odds you're playing when you jump into the query game.

JABerwocky Literary Agency has always been on my list of "dream" agencies. I've queried them on past projects and didn't get further than a requested partial. Today, the JLA's twitter feed posted an interesting set of numbers.

"Year end stats (kinda) for Eddie [Schneider] since e-queries began 7/23/11: 1865 queries, 76 partial reqs, 3 full reqs, 1 new client."

This is a bit of perspective for all of us slugging it out with ourselves in the slushpile. It's hard for all of us. And everyone had to start somewhere.

Keep writing. Keep working. Keep trying.

An Open Letter To The American Government

2011-12-21T08:24:00.000-08:00

(What follows is ranty and political. If you'd rather not read that, you are free to click away and enjoy your day. You are also free to read and add your thoughts. Either way, thank you for even coming to this blog. Nerdmaste - J)

Dear Elected Officials, Senators, Congresspersons, Whips,Speakers, Leaders and President Obama:

Grow up.

Kindergartners behave better than the lot of you right now. Ihesitate to compare you to children because that is an insult to most kids tolump them with you. You are playing a game and using the American people aspawns, bargaining chips and hostages. You seem to be suffering from a collectiveamnesia or blindness (or both), so allow me to educate you on a few things.

The American people—all 100% of us—are your employers. Wepay your salaries with our tax dollars. We trust that you are capable of doingthe job we hired you for. What is that job? To represent our interests andprotect us, to uphold the Constitution and maintain our freedoms. So far,though, you are all laying down on the job. You’re trying to pass bills thatare not just un-Constitutional they are anti-Constitutional. They fly againstthe principles you’re touting on the campaign trail. You’re taking handoutsfrom lobbyists and pandering to the rich, you are instigating and fueling classwarfare and income inequality. You keep thumping the podium about jobs jobsjobs, but what about yours? Those of us who work for a living would have beenfired if we’d behaved like the lazy, belligerent employees you are.

You’ve stopped listening to the American people in favor ofsweet words from those who will line your pockets and keep you in the cushylives to which you’ve become accustomed. What was that you were saying aboutentitlement?

You say that you're against "BIG GOVERNMENT" then you want to make federal mandates on who can or can't marry? What a woman can or can't do with her own body? What grown adults can or can't do in their recreational time? Right. You say you're for tax breaks then turn around and vote them down specifically because you want to be contrary and get this or that guy out of office.

Your actions of late have proven that you are callow, pettypeople. Politicking, bickering, these little staring contests and threats thatyou see as meeting partisan goals are not victimless games. It’s not like chessor RISK or Candyland where you can just get up from the table when it’s done.You are playing with real people and their lives. Real people with families,responsibilities, dreams, diseases, problems, hopes… you are messing with theAmerican people.

Do you remember what happens, historically, when someonemesses with America?It usually doesn’t end well. We can start with Great Britain back in the 18^th century.I’m sure you remember that.

This is our country. All of us live here together. When youset out to be contrary just to make the other party look bad, it hits us first.You think the wealth will trickle down? Floodwaters rise from the bottom up andright now you’re threatening to break the levy. If we drown, so will you. Therewon’t be an Americaleft for you to play with, no more lobbyists to pad your bank accounts, no morevoters to send you to your Washingtonplay ground.

Snap out of it. Grow up. Remember who you are and what yourjobs are.

You are representatives and employees of the Americanpeople. You are there to uphold the American Constitution, the Bill of Rightsand make sure our voices are heard.

Do your job.

SOPA and NDAA need to go away.

Pass the payroll tax cuts.

Quit the bullshit and games.

Your employer,

Jamie Wyman

Phoenix, AZ

Twofer Tuesday

2011-12-19T11:55:00.000-08:00

Last week I used Chuck Wendig's challenge to jump back into the flash fiction pool with "Stitch and Bitch". Well, there was another picture I wanted to tackle for that challenge. Coincidentally, this morning I found another flash challenge, this one dropped by Thomas Pluck over at F3. Like Wendig's challenge, the writer pens 1000 words in any genre. This one, however, specifies that we follow Tom Waits' anatomy lessons and give our stories weather, food and a city name. To make it more fun, Pluck added that we need a song, too. Well, I can kill two birds with one stone. I can write the other story I wanted for Wendig's challenge AND jump in on Pluck's! I used Pluck's prompts and photo #43 from the "Unexplainable" list. And here you have it, folks. Coming in at 999 words, the rough cut of "A Man of Discerning Character". I hope you enjoy it.

A Man of Discerning Character

by Jamie Wyman

AsI ambled about the docks of Liverpool I stuffed my handsdeep into my pockets. While winters can be frightful on this island, the bitingwinds coming off the Irish Sea make Liverpoolespecially loathsome. I had business, however, and a trip to the harbor was anunwelcome necessity. Bundled in my coat I passed several ships including apassenger ship bound for the Colonies. My interest piqued, though, as I drew upalong side warship of the Royal Navy.

Thehull identified her as the HMS Alyssum. Her silent guns pointed uselessly outto sea while the Jack overhead snapped in the bitter wind.

“Oy,Higgs!”

Mysurname is not Higgs, but I started just the same. A mariner shouted across thedeck of the Alyssum and pulled my attention to the man sitting at the railingnearest to dry land. Mr. Higgs, I presume.

“Higgs!”he called again. “You’ll catch your death of cold. Get back down below!”

“Aye,”Higgs called over his shoulder. “I’ll catch me death, but first I needs a netstrong enough to ‘old ‘im.”

Witha shake of his head, the officer retreated into the bulk of the ship. I,however, stayed to watch the immobile Higgs. Though the Liverpoolmorning was overcast and blustery, the officer sat in little more than hisbreeches and a thin white shirt. His cap rested upon his head at a rakishangle. The full beard hugging his face may have helped him to stave off thecold.

Intrigued,I stepped closer to the Alyssum until I found myself mounting the gangplank.That is when I heard him singing.

“…ourmythic history, King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's. I answer hard acrostics, I'vea pretty taste for paradox…”

Ahorribly loud sneeze on my part drew the officer out of his tune and his eyesdarted to me.

“’ello,sir! Come just in time to join the Captains’ Mess, you ‘ave.”

“Youare the Captain?”

Higgscackled. “No, sir. I be a bosun and nuffink more. But the captains, they come‘ere every day ‘round about now for supper and a good spot of tea. I’m surethey would welcome such a one as you to table.”

Ishifted uncomfortably. Even moored on the line, the ship bounced over theslightest of waves. “I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but I must respectfullydecline.”

“Ifyou’re so inclined.”

Thebosun’s gaze drifted past me and down the slant of the gangplank. His eyes litup as a broad, toothless smile spread across his furry face.

“Ah,Captain, punctual as ever!”

Higgsstood to salute his superior officer. I turned to look but saw no one there.Then something nudged at my ankles. I looked down to see a white and brown cattwirling in figure-eights around my feet.

“Likesyou, ‘e does!” Higgs said proudly. Addressing the cat he chimed, “Captain, I’veprepared your favorite, today.”

Higgshad no thought for me. He stuffed his hand into his trouser pocket andfished out a biscuit, a nib of cheese and two sardines. With utmost care anddelicacy Bosun Higgs placed each morsel on the deck at the feet of the cat.With the slightest nod of gratitude, the cat set to his meal.

“Thatis your captain?” I asked.

“Aye,me commandin’ officer. Captain Nibbles, is everything to your liking?”

Thecat licked his chops and went on gutting his fish.

“Crackin’!”Higgs said.

Thebosun reclaimed the crate he used for a seat then reached behind it to producethe mounted head of a fox.

“CaptainAldus Fox, at your service,” the bosun said reverentially. “Terror of theChannel, ‘e is.”

Higgstook a brush from his belt and began to tend to Captain Fox’s russet fur.

Iblinked at the absurdity before me. A petty officer in the Royal Navy serving astate dinner to a stray cat and a stuffed fox? Bosun Higgs seemed to feel noshame or apprehension at his startling behavior.

“Mr.Higgs,” I said, “that is not a captain but a fox.”

“O’course ‘e’s a fox! A sly, salty dog ‘e is, too. Rumor goin’ about the crew isthat Captain Fox is due a promotion.”

“Ohreally?”

“Aye.Groomin’ ‘im for admiral.”

Ishould have taken my leave at once, but the foolishness of it all grated on myproper sensibilities. “Look you, Bosun Higgs, you are quite daft if you believethat this taxidermist’s project is your superior. Such nonsense! And while hemay, in fact, possess more sense than yourself, neither does the cat hold arank higher than a spinster’s mate. Good man, I believe your mind is cracking.”

Ignoringme he returned to singing his Gilbert and Sullivan. “…I know the croakingchorus from the Frogs of Aristophanes.”

“Verywell,” I said. “Since you cannot see reason I’ll be on my way.”

“Weighanchor, sir, if you will and then you shall not t’ sea.”

“Seewhat?”

“Myreason.”

Thenwithout further thought for me, he returned to his humming and the taskgrooming Captain Fox for his promotion as Captain Nibbles finished his meal.

Iput Bosun Higgs from my mind, and resumed my trip down the dock to see CaptainWhite about passage on his next trans-Atlantic run. Two months later, though, Isaw Mr. Higgs again. Teeth-chattering and delirious, shocked from watching theunsinkable HMS Titanic gurgle beneath the waves, I bobbed along in the freezingspray. I saw, then, a wardrobe drifting by. Bosun Higgs sat upon it withCaptains Fox and Nibbles.

“Bosun,come about,” Captain Nibbles said. “This man requires our aid.”

Soonthe barge was before me. Higgs offered me his hand and smiled his gap-filledgrin. “Welcome aboard,” he said. “Soon you’ll be on our fine ship.”

“TheAlyssum?”

Higgssnorted. “Can’t you read? Asylum! That’s where we belong. Ain’t that right,Admiral?”

Thefox nodded. “Too true.”

Score One For the Home Team

2011-12-19T10:05:00.000-08:00

So it's Monday, and while this is normally a lamentable occurrence I can't help but feel full of awesome today. As of today I will not be paying AETNA for health insurance anymore. To quote Portal, "This was a triumph." I've been dealing with their shit for years and now I'm free. Not only that--I am free of Chase! I paid off my credit card and severed ties with them. *happy dance* And--AND!--the Indianapolis Colts finally won a game!
The world is a weird place right now, isn't it? The Iraq War is officially over. Troops are coming home. Another lunatic dictator is dead. There are beginnings and endings that are positive and negative all around. For now, fuck the negative, let's talk about some fun shit that's happening!

Christmas is coming and with it are the cookies and mugs of hot chocolate or chai and all the other fattening indulgences. It's also turning pretty damn cold here in the Valley of the Sun. Walking my daughter to school the other day we could see our breath. She's six and therefore amused by this. Me? I'm a wuss and I shivered in my multiple layers. My kiddo is freaking awesome. I know I'm biased, but there's been a lot of supporting evidence of late.

Last week we were walking around and looking at Christmas lights when she just stopped and looked at the sky. "I can hear the stars twinkling," she said. I melted. This is the same kid who told me that clouds probably taste like the sky and the sky tastes like strawberries. I love her mind and its synaesthesiac tendencies.

Also, K's class had a Christmas presentation Friday night. There was a spectacular display of off-key singing and then we were treated to cookies. The kids also did presentations on how Christmas is celebrated around the world. K's group did Mexico. She told me about a tradition involving a doll of baby Jesus being baked in a cake. I asked her if her teachers had told her anything else about Baby Jesus. She informed me that he's a Baby. His name is Jesus and he lives in Mexico. Weeeelllll, okay. At least I know there's no indoctrination going on. (Before you freak out that my daughter doesn't know who Jesus is, know this: Our family is very diverse and we want K to grow up with equal knowledge of as many paths as we can give her. We have told her about Christianity in a very loose, kid-friendly way, but haven't gone into the Jesus/Trinity/Crucifixion/SIN thing. I did explain to her that the Baby Jesus of Christmas fame does not, in fact, live in Mexico but was born in Bethlehem over in the Middle East.)

Admit it. You want one.

Saturday we took the kiddo to IKEA for her big present: A new bed. Dude, I'm so freaking jealous. Sean and I spent hours putting this thing together. There was some small amount of cursing, admittedly, but now that it's done it is a thing of epic cool. I want one for me. It's a reversible bed. Seriously, it can be a low bed with a canopy OR you can flip it over so that it's a small loft. We got a little bed tent to go over it that looks like a star field. Why can't grown ups have cool stuff like this, too?

The kiddo will be out of school for Winter Break from Wednesday through the end of the year, so writing time (both fiction and blogging) will be at a premium. I'm so excited, though. Family time this weekend and various gatherings...some of my friends are getting the most amazing gifts of seeing children who've been away at Basic Training. Others are welcoming home their father as he comes home from his third (or fourth?) tour of duty. There are many tables I know that will have an empty space...mine included. But we're still here. Still kicking and surviving and laughing through all the craziness going on.

And that's all you can do, right? Keep laughing. Keep hold of your family. And listen to the stars twinkle.

Black and White - A Flash Challenge

2011-12-16T10:53:00.000-08:00

Suffolk County Sewing Club '53

It's been a while, I know, but it's time to get back to some flash fun. This morning I checked out Chuck Wendig's blog and he had a good flash challenge up for the masses to chew on. With the standard 1000 word limit, we penmonkeys are to craft a story (any genre) to explain one of these 50 photos. I went through them a few times and eight of them spoke to me. I went through those and it was a tough choice between 2, 7 and 43. The one with the richest ground for me, though, was #2. So, here is my contribution to this challenge. Please remember that this, as with all of my flash, is rough draft. I line edit to shave for word-limit, but other than that, this is the first cut. I hope you enjoy. (As always, questions, comments and cusswords are always appreciated.)

Stitch and Bitch

By Jamie Wyman

MostWednesdays played the same tune. Rene DuBois tumbled out of bed like a bear inJanuary and growled his way to the kitchen. He sucked down his coffee with ashot of Tennesse whiskey and hauled himself off to the Cummins factory down onKennedy. Her husband didn’t talk much,and that suited Junebug just fine.

She looked forwardto Wednesdays like a child and Christmas. As soon as the rusted out Chevyturned off of Taylor, JunebugDuBois flew into action. She swept the house clean and opened all of thewindows to air the smells of cigars and gin-sweat. Then she put on her Sundaybest and set out a fine spread of cucumber sandwiches and butter cookies. Thereweren’t lace doilies or china teacups, but for a few hours a week the ladies ofSuffolk Countycould pretend the little tin-and-wood shed was Buckingham palace.

For years now,Junebug hosted the weekly sewing session. Mae and Felicia walked up the roadtogether with baskets on their hips full of clothes that needed mending.Coraline brought the latest quilt she was making to sell at the church bazaar. Thebell on Ruthie’s bike announced that she’d arrived with her knitting. OnceJunebug heard the rumble of tires on gravel, she knew that the Marlettesisters—Jennie and Boo—had arrived in their daddy’s old Woody. Every Wednesday those girls filed into thetiny living room and set to their tasks. Every Wednesday they stitched withtheir hands while their voices wove a tapestry. They’d talk family and gossip,tongues wagging and fingers flying.

They never didtalk about the bruises. At one point or another all seven ladies bore theirmarks silently. A fat lip or a black eye. Did Boo seem to be limping? Probablyjust twisted that bad knee of hers jumping down from her daddy’s tractor. Notime to fuss over cuts and goose eggs when there’s stitching to be done.

One day, Mae andFelicia turned up early. Junebug didn’t answer, though, when they knocked. Theladies let themselves in through the kitchen door and found the DuBois couplein a strange tableau of either ecstasy or hatred. With Junebug and Rene, eitherof the two would be possible.

Rene layass-end-up and facedown on the peeling linoleum with his pants down around hisknees. Junebug’s dress had been ripped open and one sleeve torn to ribbons. Herhair was all a mess and one eye was damn near swollen shut.

“Junie Bee,” Maegasped.

The questionswouldn’t come, though. The answers were written in the claw marks trailing downRene’s meaty arms, the sweat stains on his undershirt and broken bottles strewnabout.

Felicia knelt downbeside Junebug and took the girl’s trembling hands. With the same tendernessshe’d use to soothe her boy back to sleep, she stroked Junie’s hair away fromher face.

“Is he dead?”Felica asked soberly.

Mrs. DuBois madeto answer, but winced. That jaw hurt something fierce where Rene had got in ahook. In stead, she just shook her head.

Felicia nodded.“Well, we’ll just have to fix that then, won’t we?”

The Suffolk CountySewing Club arrived and promptly set to their work. The Marlette sisters wereespecially happy to help. Even Coraline took off the silver cross at her neckand grabbed an arm to lug Rene’s fat ass into the bedroom. No one bothered topull up his pants.

From Junebug’sside Felicia barked out, “Don’t worry ‘bout makin’ those knots too tight. Doeshe have any more belts, baby, that we can use?”

Silently, Junebugemptied the closet of his leather belts and bootlaces.

When Rene wasfastened to the bed and snoring away, Coraline brought in one of the smallwooden chairs and sat at the foot of the bed with her quilt over her lap.Ruthie knitted on the new baby’s blanket and Felicia darned her boy’s socks.Though she could have nothing of them, Junebug brought in a plate of buttercookies for the ladies.

Just as the sunbegan to go down, Rene woke up. Other than the pounding headache, the firstthing he noticed was the circle of angry glares.

“What is this?” hesputtered.

“Good morning,sunshine,” Felicia sang. “You looked a bit peaked and we didn’t want you to gooff to meet the good Lord just yet. Thought we’d let you get your rest.”

Jerking his fistRene tested the leather around his thick wrist. “What the hell are you doing? Letme up.”

“No,” Felicia saidflatly. “You see, Rene, I came over her to talk with your lovely wife, but itseems she can’t do much talkin’ at all. You know anything ‘bout that?”

“Junie? JUNIE!” hebellowed. “You get your skinny ass in here, girl, and get these friends ofyours to let me loose!”

Rene watched as Maeand Boo stepped aside from the foot of the bed to let Junebug through. Stillwearing her torn dress and swollen mask, she held in her hand a gleamingbutcher knife. She tapped it lightly on the palm of her hand.

“Junie,” Renegrowled, “you let me up right now or I’ll tear up outta this bed and get my gunand go bitch huntin’.”

Coraline cluckedher tongue. “No, no, Mr. DuBois. You must keep a civil tongue in your headaround ladies.”

With a flash ofsilver, she brought her quilting needle down to his lips and began to sew themshut. When she’d finished, Coraline backed away, satisfied at her finestitches. Boo plopped a pillow on his face and sat on it to seal away hisscreams.

After that nightwhen Rene DuBois bled for his sins, the ladies didn’t have to ignore bruisesany more. Every Wednesday, the widows of Suffolk County got together to gossip, towatch Ruthie’s belly grow and to ooh-and-ahh over Junebug’s butter cookies.

Freedom Fries

2011-12-15T11:01:00.000-08:00

So back in the 90s there was this television show called Bablyon 5. Over the 5 year story arc the Earth Alliance goes from your standard Sci-Fi-Peaceful-Explorer to a fascist police state. And quickly. First, the president is assassinated and the murder is pinned on aliens. The new president, along with friends in powerful places, begins the propaganda machine through ISN (CNN essentially). President Clark also creates the Ministry of Peace--an organization to monitor and protect the citizens of Earth Alliances from domestic threats. A sub-group called Nightwatch puts citizens on guard against one another. "If you see something, tell someone" is the rule of it. Anything that speaks out against the President or his decisions is seen as treason. Dissidents are arrested and punished. Media blackout occurs. ISN can only report what is screened by the President's colleagues. When members of Earth Alliance break away to stand up against Clark, EA forces are sent in. War breaks out as citizens protest for their freedoms until finally Clark calls martial law.

Watching that plot unfold is pretty scary. To see a government quickly turn on its people for power under the guise that it's "in their best interests"? It's enough to make you glad we don't live in that sci-fi world. But if you look around at 2011 Earth...do you see it? It's not science fiction anymore.

let's talk....
Right now in America things are getting...dicey? Weird? Scary? Our economy is bad and we all know it. The media spew out figures and opinions and doctored "facts" to perpetuate fear. Everything from job security to tainted meat to terrorist threats: it's all fear-mongering. Fear keeps you in your chair. Pass the popcorn.

Things are bad.

Various groups are trying to do something about it. The Occupy movement is one such group. They see what's wrong and regardless of your personal opinion they are doing what they think is best for people as a whole. They want the bought Congress gone. They want to steer us away from the oncoming cataclysm. They are people trying to staunch the flow of our country bleeding out.

The wounds aren't wars--although they are symptoms. The wounds are with words and ideas.

There are two bills up for passage right now that directly effect every American (foreign and domestic). The National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) essentially trashes the Sixth Amendment of the Constitution that grants US citizens the right to due process. Your Miranda rights? That whole "innocent until proven guilty by a jury of your peers" thing? That's what the Sixth Amendment ensures for every American citizen. The police and government cannot detain indefinitely for no reason and suspicion isn't a reason. You must be charged to be held. The NDAA says that *anyone* including US citizens can be held in military custody indefinitely without charge or trial if they are suspected of terrorism. The Act also states that this will continue until the threat of terrorism is gone.

President Obama has said he would veto this bill if it came to his desk. Well, as of last night, he's changed his mind. The House passed the bill by a staggering margin and the Senate will vote later this week. It could be signed into law as soon as Wednesday.

UPDATE: As of 12/15/11, the NDAA passed the Senate (86-13). The President is expected to sign it into law quickly. Ironically, the vote comes on the day that celebrates the Bill of Rights. Funny, no?

The other bill on the table is the Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA). This bill gives more control to the government, law enforcement and copyright holders to restrict the traffic of pirated property. On the surface, that's not a bad idea. Digging deeper into the bill, however, we find that it allows for some pretty serious things. First off, it can go against *any* website foreign or domestic. Secondly, if a website is served with a court order to pull content, the companies that do business with that site (eg. Google, PayPal, etc) will *also* be served with notice to suspend that business indefinitely. The domino effect this can and will cause is catastrophic to Internet freedom.

Both of these bills are Republican creations. Both of them tighten the hold the government has on its people. For a party that fights regulation and touts their stance as "anti-Big-Government" they certainly are building a reservoir of power.

Look, I know some of you might be thinking, "But Jamie, you're not a terrorist or an internet pirate so you're safe."

It's true: I'm not a terrorist nor do I pirate copyrighted material. However, the crux of the matter is that these bills set a precedent that the government can define "terrorism" and "piracy" as they wish then turn those rules against its citizens.

Do you remember how this spring the people of Egypt and Tunisia rose up against their governments? Remember that a lot of their messages were on Twitter and other social media sites? The Arab Spring has flourished because of the Internet and countries like Yemen, Syria and Libya are rising up to take control back from dictatorial regimes. It's still going on. Countries are still erupting with protests against the seated governments because they don't work for their people. This is page one on most magazines and newspapers around the world, but here Time magazine leads with "How Anxiety is Good For You".

The US has a problem. It's people are discontent with the power structure. Eyes are opening that we have a bought Congress, that something is incredibly wrong and it's not people who are openly gay serving in the military. Our government is broken and corrupt. Our system is breaking down from the inside and some people--regardless of party affiliation--seem to be hellbent on speeding it along to cataclysm. It's like they want the "world to end" in 2012 just to be right.

Look at the revolutions of history, the ones going on right now in the Middle East, and the ones going on right here. The people in power are scared because they see possibility. They see that what happened in Egypt could happen here, too. So, let's invent an executive power to censor the Internet so the protesters can't communicate so widely. Let's redefine terrorism and use that on our own people who disagree with the status quo. Those people could be called terrorists and hauled off to prisons like Gitmo without charge or trial and kept there. For thinking differently.

It could happen and it's terrifying.

Terrifying. Terror.

If these bills pass, the American principles of freedom will have vanished to be replaced with fear and intolerance. All in the name of "national security". We must protect ourselves from terrorists, right? Such a blanket term. Your rights come second to fighting that threat. That's what our government is telling us. Fuck, look at the TSA. Your Fourth Amendment rights are already in question with the scanning machines there.

This is how a democracy crumbles. This is how fascism rises to power.

If these bills pass, it will be the culmination of Osama bin Laden's far-reaching goal to dismantle the American way of life. If we lose our freedoms to our own government, the terrorists have won.

Disconnect

2011-12-14T20:25:00.000-08:00

I need to unplug. My eyes are darting around all the time for the next text or update...even when I'm not at the computer. My brain won't slow down but continues to whir along like a processor. I can't focus on any one thing for longer than a few minutes. I wake up with headaches that won't go away. Daily. I know part of this is due to an imbalance with some medications I'm on. Most of it, though, is that I've been tethered to this machine in various stages of writing, drafting and editing for months. I need to step back. I need to turn off the damn computer.

This comes at a decent time, too. My kiddo will be home for winter break starting next week....which means little writing will get done. Book 2 is still project numero uno...but right now, I need to tend to my brain.

I will be on social media sporadically, but I don't know about blogging right now. My mind flutters from topic to topic like a hummingbird in a garden. Politics, the way the NDAA bill reminds me of seasons 3 and 4 of Babylon 5, my book series, a desire for new body art, missing my sister... I don't want to have my blog turn into a downer.

So it's best for us if we just make like Ross and Rachel and take a break.

Feel free to email or shoot me a Tweet.

Be excellent to each other.

Back In The Saddle

2011-12-07T16:55:00.001-08:00

And so, I'm officially back into the query game. This is the third novel I've written (definitely my best, also) and the fourth time I've gone on the agent hunt. And yet, I'm nervous as hell. Don't know that that ever goes away.

TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES (Book 1 in the Etudes in C# series) is a 77,500 word urban fantasy blending magic, myth and the modern world. In the Las Vegas of Catherine Sharp, gods gamble with souls of unassuming humans. Eight years ago, Catherine's soul fell into the possession of Eris, the Greek goddess of Discord. Since then she has been working a dead end technical support job while performing random tasks for the goddess. When Coyote, the Native American trickster himself, claims to have won her soul in Mayhem's weekly poker game, Catherine must get in on the action if she wants to be free. This won't be easy with five trickster gods upping the ante. Along for the ride is Marius, an insatiable satyr with his own debt to Eris. If they play their cards right, Cat and Marius may get their lives back. Assuming they don't kill each other first.

I'm really proud of this one and the 6 book series I have planned makes me so giddy! There are days I wish I could just fling the story bible up in the air and let the books spring from my head fully formed. But getting there isn't just half the fun in this case. Just when I think I know all of the ins and outs and twists of this series, something pops out of the story and grows into a new path. This is my favorite part about creation: organic generation where a project sustains itself. That's what staves off burnout.

Anyway, other than the fact that it's freaking cold, my friend Rhys is here visiting (woot!) and my Christmas tree is lit... not much else going on.

How about you?

And the Daddy Tomato Said...

2011-11-30T08:30:00.001-08:00

Ketchup.

So, that's what this post is about. Or rather catch-up. The past few months have been insane, this past 30 days being really difficult. I can't say things are getting back to normal. Nothing will ever be "normal" again because the world is irrevocably different now. But things are settling into a new version of normal.

Monday I started the rough draft for my fourth novel, working title Wednesday's Child. This is Book 2 in my "Etudes in C#" series. Book 2 is coming along. I've gotten the first chapter out and I'm not beating myself about the head and shoulders saying, "This sucks!" So, I must be doing something right?

Another thing keeping me busy lately is Tribe Ohana. As some of you know this is a "pet project" of mine. A group of people hellbent on helping each other through life. We support people, not businesses or factions or whatever. People. Well, we have an official website now! Please go check it out and say hi.

What else...what else... kiddo's tooth fell out. Um...my house has been Christmas-ified. OH! I get to tell Aetna to take a fucking hike next month! Woot! What else... uh... yeah. Not sure I've got anything to report other than silly stories about my kid and random people on the bus, or rambling about how a complete stranger began telling me how I could self-publish immediately after I told him I was a writer.

How are you? Let's catch up.

One Man Can Make A Difference

2011-11-23T11:27:00.001-08:00

"Tank Man" - 1989, China

John Pike - 2011, UC Davis - USA

Your move.

Consider the Bees

2011-11-14T10:46:00.001-08:00

Look closer: Me & a Bee

This weekend was great. It sucks that we had to gather because of the death of such an amazing woman, but the experience of our Ohana-style wake was beautiful. Singing, crying, laughing, drinking. People ate fire and potato leek soup. Women danced with swords on their heads. Drummers called to the gods with their hands. And we torched a unicorn! For a too-short time, our tribe came together to love each other and remember our dear friend Nicki.

Sunday was spent in various forms of hangover and afterglow, noshing on the leftovers and trying to recover emotionally from the catharsis of Saturday.

A friend of mine asked me today,

"Do you ever feel a sense of emptiness after having been at a place where everyone is hugging, and then going to a place where no one touches each other?"

Yeah, I do. I see other people complaining of being in a funk today. It's more than just a "case of the Mondays" or residual hangover from the various libations we poured. It's more than grief. What it seems we're mourning is the loss of a good experience of being human.

A lot of status messages today are talking about getting back to the "real world". What they mean is, "back to the grind. Back to work." Back to the places where we're detached and unable to just be ourselves.

Why is that the "real world"?

Why can't we get together and play music and dance and be free to be ourselves all the time? Why I tell someone that I think they're astounding every day? Why does it just have to be at funerals or when the shit hits the fan? We distract ourselves with the "real world" and ignore the important things - each other. We put off actually living for another day. When tragedy happens and we're reminded just how short life is, we cling together for a brief time and then scatter, saying, "We should do this more often, just on happier terms."

Why don't we?

We've got it backwards.

And that sucks.

I don't want to lose what we had this weekend. For a few hours, all differences flew out the fucking window. Old grudges or dramas went into the fire pit along with that damn unicorn pinata. For a while we allowed ourselves to fall apart and be perfectly, unabashedly, nakedly human...and we took care of each other. No manipulations or bullshit. No taking advantage of raw and vulnerable people. When someone needed to break down and cry, there was a quiet corner with loving arms for that to happen. When someone needed to be lifted out of melancholic haze, there was a pint of cider or a cup of soup or a fresh-baked cookie. We nurtured each other and supported one another. Just like a tribe does.

Now... going back to the "real world".... it feels like the cold side of the bed. Empty, lonely... and I can't help but wonder if it was all a dream.

You might not understand what I'm trying to say, so let me tell you a story.

Sunday morning, I was sitting on the patio with some of the friends still gathered. Bottles, cups and soda cans still littered the area and bees had started to come in search of nectar. We tried in various ways to keep them away, but ultimately, you can't stop the stubborn little insects. (They're busy supporting their hive and don't really care what you need to get done.) Anyway, I looked over to the table and saw a bee slowly climbing out of someone's left over drink. For some unknown reason, there was a spoon in the drink and the bee was using it like a lifeline. She crawled up the spoon to the rim of the cup and I noticed that one of her wings looked broken. I put my finger on the edge of the cup and she climbed up onto me, one cold little foot at a time.

For ten minutes, I held a bee in the palm of my hand and watched as she cleaned herself, using her long tongue to lick away the drink. She was content to sit there and soak up some of my body heat, to accept that my hand was a safe place for her to collect herself. Gradually, she dried off and that lame wing unfolded from her little hairy body. She danced on my wrist for a bit, batting her wings without achieving lift-off until finally she flew away...back to her hive to tell the others about the house with lots of nectar...just stay away from the red cups.

Our "hive" is our tribe. Our tribe is Ohana. Ohana means family. Family is your safe place to fall, a place to be ugly and flawed without remorse or judgment. Sometimes, you fall apart. It happens. And when it does, everyone deserves a safe place where they can clean off the muck, dry off the tears and put yourself back together until you're ready to fly again.

Why do we just do that on weekends or when disaster hits?

Schroedinger's Grief?

2011-11-10T08:28:00.001-08:00

When I drop off K at school, I usually walk home. It's a good time for me to zone out with music, talk to myself, ponder stories or issues I'm having with a scene...or sometimes just dream. Today, my iPod decided that I needed to hear a lot of songs that remind me of Nicki. Gogol Bordello kept coming up on shuffle. And by the time Start Wearing Purple hit my ears, I was deep in thought.

I listened to the song over and over. Nicki introduced me to the song. She came bounding down from her apartment to ours with this song saying, "This is it! This is exactly what we're trying to make with the show." And it was. Saturday, after her funeral, this song *somehow* made its way onto the jukebox at the pub. We all started singing along with it.

Today I listened to it again and again, trying to twist the knife in the wound that is there. I started to replay the moment when Sean turned to me and said, "Nicki's passed away"...when a lightning bolt speared my heart. Why would I "torture" myself like this? you may ask. I'm not trying to torture myself. I'm trying to understand.

I've sobbed. I've cried. I've crumbled. I've seen and touched her body. I've seen empty dresses that won't be worn again...and I've been in her house. I've come to understand that this really isn't some bad dream. This is real. I know this is happening. I'm still reeling...this hurts. This is crazy. My friend is gone. In my mind, there is a piece of me screaming.

And yet, there's still a piece of me that just doesn't comprehend. I don't even understand what the words mean. "Nicki's passed away"? Bullshit. She's right there. See? I have this picture of her right here from just a week and a half ago. She was right here. I have this tikka that I wore at her wedding. See? She's not gone. "Nicki's passed away?" What does that mean? She's gone. She's dead. Shuffled loose the mortal coil. Ceased to be. An ex-Nicki. And yet, none of that makes sense. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? I know words. I use them. I'm a writer. But these just don't make sense. They're like some alien language or ancient hieroglyph that I just can't read. I don't understand.

To part of me, this isn't real. To part of me, this is hyper-real.

I keep listening to songs by Gogol Bordello or Gaelic Storm...watching videos of her or staring at her picture. I watched "Everything is Illuminated" the other day (a movie she introduced me to and we watched/quoted often). I keep telling stories about her, saying her name, repeating those foreign words over, keep poking the damn wound over and over again just because I think it might finally make it real. Maybe then I'll understand. It's like there's this quota of times I have to say it or think about her or whatever before I can get that clarity.

There is comfort. Our tribe, our family of choice, is holding on to one another. Support is amazing and beautiful. No one has to pretend or wear a brave face. We can be honest with each other and no one is alone. It's wonderful. People keep posting songs or lyrics or pictures that bring them some peace. My brother-in-law Zach (Nicki's husband), posted a cover of John Mayer's "Heart Of Life"... it helps. A lot. Here's the original JM version with the lyrics.

Darling Nicki

2011-11-04T11:03:00.000-07:00

Ohana means family. Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten. - Lilo and Stitch.

Seven years ago, I was in a dark Irish pub in Phoenix with my then-boyfriend (now husband) and various friends. I'd been to O'Connor's a few times to see a now-defunct band called the Clarevoyants. This time was no exception. So, I'm sitting there at a table with Sean and this wild woman with a head of curly russet hair comes flying over and grabs me by the hands.

"It's Monto," she says. "You have to dance with us."

Um...okay. So I did.

And that is how I met a woman who would become like a sister to me, a dear friend, a partner - Nicki Canaga.

After Monto, we sat and talked a bit. We were dating a pair of brothers who we would both go on to marry, so we immediately had something in common there. We liked Irish music. That was another thing. We were both unrepentant band dorks, sci-fi geeks and writers. Our friendship snowballed from there.

Nicki was a buxom firebrand of a woman. To this day I'm amazed that though she stood a full head shorter than me, I rarely noticed it. That woman could have filled Albert Hall with her personality.

Nicki introduced me to a dance studio in Tempe where I learned how to spin poi. She would babysit my daughter so that I could learn, and she learned how to be my fire safety so that I could spin without immolating. Every time I lit my poi to spin, Nicki's keen eye watched over me. And though she was focused, she was always the first to give me a "yip" or "yeah!" In all things, Nicki supported her friends. She nurtured passions and coaxed people outside of their comfort zones.

Something unique about my relationship with Nicki was our synergy. We fed off of one another's excitement and worked well together. Where I wasn't so great at sewing/crafting etc, she could make ideas physical. Even in our gaming group, our characters would undoubtedly power stunt together or play Good Cop - Bad Cop. In 2006 we got together for dinner or Tuesday or something and at the same time said, "I've got this idea." It turns out that both of us had independently come up with a burning desire to start a steampunk-circus-themed performance troupe. That night we spun ideas of colors and sets and songs and costumes and the brainchild that would later be called Sin Aesthesia was born. We realized that particular dream and had a handful of awesome shows. That is something we created together and nurtured together.

Nicki was never anything less than supportive. I see that now. She was passionate about bellydance, crafting, knitting, sewing, costuming, make-up, photography and the people around her. Her grace always stunned me when I watched her dance. This mantle fell over her and she was in another world...a world of peace and a connection with something Other. Watching her dance made me happy and proud. Likewise, her photography floored me. She had a knack for finding humbling beauty and truth with her camera. She saw the best in people, the talents and passions and she wanted to share that. She wanted you to see your own potential the way she saw you shine.

Nicki was weird. One minute we're cackling at our girls night out (aka The Estrogen Pool) about how she moisturized. (Petal soft, I tell you!) The next, she'd be bellydancing to Gogol Bordello's gypsy punk. The next time you saw her she'd have her hair in anime buns and would be grooving to Bollywood or jamming out to Flogging Molly. She drank mead while smoking a hookah. She did tribal belly dance on a disco light-up dance floor. She was so perfectly chaotic, vibrant and her laughter shook continents.

I met Nicki 7 years ago in a dark pub. Along the way, I stood for her in her wedding and she in mine.
Our relationship had its valleys. I fucked up. I was stubborn, arrogant and stupid. I let petty shit cloud my mind and harden my heart against what was truly important: My friend. I know that now, and I am so fucking sorry. Seven years seems like so little in comparison to the mark she made on me. This week, I've been thinking, "It can't just be 7 years. It felt like longer." And it's not enough time. I thought there would be a chance to reconnect, to reconcile.

The last time I saw Nicki was last Saturday at my daughter's birthday party. We both wanted to try to do just that: reconnect and reconcile, to be family again. When she left Saturday, I hugged her and told her I loved her, that I was glad she was there with us. We made plans to see each other again... this week maybe. There was hope and promise.

The next day she was gone.

The world is a colder place without her warmth. Her light, though, goes on. I've said it before about another amazing soul, but it's just as true here. Nicki's light is being passed from candle to candle. Every memory of her that makes us gigglesnort or cackle just means that she's still here, too. We still dance, and so does she. Now more than ever.

Ohana means family. Our family will not leave anyone behind. And Nicki will never be forgotten.

Aloha oe, my sister. Until we meet again.

No Words

2011-11-02T16:27:00.000-07:00

As some of you internet people know, my sister (in law and in soul), friend and partner in crime, Monique "Nicki" Reddy passed away on Sunday. This is a shock and very hard time for the family and tribe. I will properly eulogize her when I have time to write that without a million other things, but for now, I need to post some logisitcal information.

As per her wishes, Nicki will be cremated. Memorial Services for her will be Saturday Nov. 5 at 1pm. Mercer Mortuary (16th St. & Thomas) - 1541 E Thomas Rd. PHX 85014.

There will be a separate Ohana Wake that is still being scheduled. This will likely be next weekend.

We were discussing it today... the family will have some flowers. If you want to send flowers to the home, please do. We will have a vase of peacock feathers there as our tribute to her. If you would like to bring a single flower or feather or something to put in a vase, we will have those there for you.

Love.

Closing Time

2011-10-26T16:03:00.000-07:00

Hey, gang. I come to you bearing tidings of great joy. As of 12:28pm MST today, I received the single best rejection email of all time. Not only was it tactful and encouraging, it was the last hold out of hope that the zombie novel would shuffle its way into the publishing door.

But wait! you say. Why are you happy to get a rejection letter? Did you spend months writing/revising/editing/pursuing publication on this very project? How can you be happy to see it just fizzle and die on the vine?

Gentle reader, I'm not just happy. I'm fucking ecstatic. And here's why.

So, for those of you that followed along on the journey with me and my second novel I WANT HIM FOR HIS BRAINS, you may recall that this is a project I started outlining 2 years ago. I wrote the rough draft of my zombie book quickly and then spent months polishing it and making it ready for the ball. I even landed an agent with it this time last year. But, if you've been around you know that my agent situation changed this year. Since then, I've been working to salvage BRAINS' chance at publication. I had a lot of support from people in the industry and community. I sent out fresh queries and submissions to a handful of interested (and obviously deranged ;) ) agents. Feedback came in saying it still needed a lot of work. Looking over the combined comments, I realized they were all right. The book needed about 80% ripped out and replaced.

The thing is...at this point... I don't care enough about that story or those characters to do that work. It's not that I'm lazy, but that it doesn't even excite me any more. I look back at my first novel (Dreamseed) and see it as a true freshman effort. BRAINS took what I learned and built on it, refined technique, but it still missed the mark. I wrote STITCH, a novella companion to BRAINS and worked on my short game... then I started working on TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES and I'm in love with this whole project. The series is going to be a ton of work, but I love the material, the characters, the world... it's fun.

Going back to BRAINS right now would require a lot of love. And right now, I just don't love that book. It deserves more time and effort than I'm willing to put into it right now. Approaching a project with that mindset? Toxic.

I gave up on BRAINS a while ago and have been holding out on this last response. Today, when I saw it in my mailbox, I cheered. I could finally move forward without that project hanging over my shoulder. And--and this is pretty important, too--it's the last shred of the drama that happened in June. It's done.

So, this is actually pretty damn awesome. I'm officially free of any contractual sticky tape I might have had with the former agency. I know beyond a doubt that this book is done and I'm free to move on.

I was asked if I will self-pub BRAINS. No. I will not. A) That's admitting defeat. and B) I'd be putting out sub-optimal work and that is not acceptable to me.

I'm going to play in my TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES universe and run around with satyrs and technomages. I finished the 3rd draft last night, as a matter of fact. I already know where I need to start with round 4. I will work and polish and refine this puppy until I think it is shiny and ready to go into the world. When that day comes, I'll cut the cord and send queries flying into the inboxes of poor, hapless agents. I know, though, that this book isn't ready. I didn't know that with BRAINS.

So, you see, once again we've learned something. I'm so grateful to that book, those characters and that story. They brought me a step closer to where I want to be. The experience was more than worth it.

Now, though, it's time to pull the plug. Or in this case, maybe it's better to say that it's time to double tap those zombies. Because, for now at least, it's closing time for I WANT HIM FOR HIS BRAINS.

Character Study

2011-10-21T09:04:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I know I've mentioned it before, but I think if I didn't write I'd be tossed in the loony bin for talking to people who aren't really there. I'm only half-kidding. Characters for my stories talk to me. Sometimes, my brain feels like a huge high-rise condo. On this floor are the characters from the circus stories. On this floor, C# characters. That kind of thing. They talk to me and tell me their stories or just wander around my head so I can get to know them a bit. Right now, one of them is pissing me off.

You see, the whole time I was brainstorming and drafting Technical Difficulties (Book 1 of my series Etudes in C#) this particular character kept jumping in front of my protagonist (Catherine) and saying, "You don't want to talk about her. She's boring. I'm studly and awesome and you would love to do a story about me. Do you need anything more than me me me? No, you don't." (Okay, so I'm paraphrasing...his voice is much more unctuous and promises dark things.) I put him in his place (as the male lead and comic character that my betas have fallen in love with) and merrily finished book 1. So, I'm skipping book 2 for now because book 3 is in my head and refuses to go away. Besides, so much of Book 2 sets up Book 3... I want to get the later one out first. (Doing so is helping me solidify things about 2, too.) Anyway, Book 3 is centered on this camera whore character, Marius. I sat down to work on it and asked him to come talk to me.

His response?

He's being a little mopey bitch and clamming up on me. Why? Because he wants some ravishing hero story (which would be flat out lying, by the way), and I refuse to give it to him. What I have is better--way better!--than an indulgent bodice ripper (which is what he wants). He gets to grow, change and discover things about himself while maintaining some mystery. I try to tell him that the ladies dig a guy with depth, but he just mopes in the corner.

He'll thank me for this. Really.

...see? This is what it's like in my head. (On good days. You don't want to be around on bad days. Hell, I don't want to be around on bad days!) This is why I have to write.

It protects my sanity.
Or at least makes my insanity socially acceptable.

Why I Write

2011-10-20T09:39:00.000-07:00

Today, Twitter is full of writers telling us all why they do what they do. Some of the answers are golden, some are spectacularly witty and some are simple. My reasons fit somewhere on that spectrum:

If I didn't, they'd commit me for being a schizophrenic who plays with her imaginary friends and believes in fairies.
I feed on the tortured screams of my beta readers when I fuck with their heads. *score!*
IT'S FUN!!

So, that's why I write. Pretty simple. But, there's more than that, isn't there?

I don't just write... I drive myself crazy with edits and revisions. I work on putting query materials together--query letters and dreaded synopses. I research agents and publishers and get them organized into a nifty spreadsheet. Then, I do the unthinkable and *send* these query letters to publishing professionals. I put my writing out there to be rejected time and time again. Why? Because I want to get published. I want to see my book on a shelf. I want to realize that dream and finish what I started. It's not enough to just write anymore. Oh, no, I passed the "hobby" part of writing years ago. I'm in too deep, kids. I have to get this brass ring. It's a passion and compulsion.

What seems to confuse people is that I outright refuse to self-publish. Now, for some people this is not only a viable option, it's a perfect fit for their goals. More power to those people. However, traditional publishing is the way for *me* to meet *my* personal goals. Is it harder? More frustrating?

yes.

I could just go on Amazon or Smashwords or any other site and put my book up on the web and hope my friends and family buy it...maybe a stranger or four. And I could say, "Look, I'm published." But it would be hollow. That's not me. That's not what I'm after

For me, going the route of self-publishing (at this time) would be akin to giving up. And I don't do that.

I have a lot of friends and family members who are supportive of this strange need I have to write about people who don't exist. I'm blessed in that regard. Every day I get an email or link on some site or other telling me how many times JK Rowling or the lady who wrote The Help got rejected. Inevitably, I also get the emails telling me how self-publishing has worked for this or that person. How I should "stop wasting my time" on legacy/traditional publishing and join the throngs of people "succeeding" with self/vanity publishers. Please understand that I appreciate your concerns, but that's not something I want.

Lit. Agent Rachelle Gardner posted a terrific blog about publishing in the technological age we inhabit. It's a terrific reality check for writers. Go read it. The part that really stuck out to me was this:

...publishers bring is a sense of history, a sense of tradition and permanence. Many authors still want to be a part of that. It’s about great stories and important thoughts. It’s about legacy. It’s about a dream. People in publishing still see this dream as worth it. They’re willing to swim against the tide because publishing isn’t just a business, it’s a life, it’s a calling, it’s a passion.

That's it.
That's why I do what I do the way I do it.

Crazy? Well, we already knew that was true. Masochistic? Perhaps. But doing things "the hard way" seems to work out for the best.

Keep moving forward, writers. Follow your passion in whichever direction(s) it leads you. The dream is worth the effort.

Picking Nits

2011-10-12T08:26:00.000-07:00

This morning I was linked an article on Fantasy Fiction's blog discussing the differences between the urban fantasy and paranormal romance genres. It's a decent blog and the author provides several examples of both genres. However, I feel this article misses the mark and does a disservice to authors of both types.

Definitions:
First off, let's start with the bare bones definitions of what we're talking about with these genres.

Urban Fantasy (UF) - This is a genre that generated from epic fantasy. By its very name and nature, these books have to have two main components: A) they must take place in a city and B) they must have elements of fantasy (eg. magic, mythical creatures, etc).
Paranormal Romance (PR)- This genre spun off of romance. Like UF, there are two main things you need for a novel to be called "paranormal romance": A) Paranormal activity (eg. ghosts, mythical creatures, psychic powers etc) and B) a love story.

"I'm on a dinosaur."

Obviously, both genres have similar elements by including mystical power sets and giving time to things that go bump in the night. What separates them at their base level is the importance given to romantic plots and setting. UF typically focuses on a larger problem while PR focuses on a love story. UF must take place in a city while PR can take place in any setting.

These two genres are quite close to one another and are blending more and more every day. Also, they're growing. Off-shoots of speculative fiction continue to bloom and it's amazing to watch.

Okay, so far, I'm with the article I linked above. After that, my ability to agree begins to break down.

The author of the above blog, Marsha Moore, pigeonholes both genres by using blanket literary tropes to define them.

Urban fantasy plot is the same as for any fantasy, good versus evil, saving the world.

I said I was nitpicking here and I'll start with this line. While yes, there is an element of good vs. evil, the idea that a UF protagonist must "save the world" is limiting. It's true that many stories see our Hero/ine battling it out for the sake of humanity, but, frankly, this is a trope. This is something a little too common. It doesn't *always* have to be about saving the world. Sometimes, it's about redemption, saving one person, or even revenge.

Similarly, Moore limits PR writers by saying that their plots must culminate in the Happily-Ever-After. I disagree. While a romance story is expected to have at least some level of pay-off, the protagonist doesn't always have to get the girl/guy/vampire etc. And sometimes--especially in a series arc--it's better to stave off happily-ever-after. In books, like life, there is a time and a place for instant gratification and sometimes it's juicier to withhold.

Sookie could kick Bella's ass.

Another beef I have with this blog is that while Moore provides several examples successful authors in both genres, she completely leaves out a hallmark of both. Charlaine Harris, the author of the Sookie Stackhouse series (you know, the books True Blood is based on). Her Louisiana vampire novels blend both UF and PR in that the love stories are central to the plot, they take place in a modern, urban setting and our protagonist isn't some wilting flower.

In place of Harris, Moore chooses to use the Twilight saga as an effective example of Paranormal Romance. One could argue that Twilight is more widely known, I suppose. With all due respect, however, it is my opinion that Sookie Stackhouse is what Bella Swan wants to be when she grows up. I'll leave it at that as my rants on Twilight's flaws are another blog entirely.

My biggest issue with this article comes when Moore goes on to describe what she feels are key differences in the genres' styles.

Buffy. She saved the world. A lot.

Urban Fantasy, she says, is written with a "more acerbic" voice and features "graphic, grittier violence". It's true that many UF authors keep their stories action packed with multiple fights. Jim Butcher's Dresden Files books see the protagonist, Harry Dresden, getting the shit kicked out of him on a regular basis. It happens. However, like the above comment about saving the world, I feel Moore paints UF into a corner by insisting that violence is an inherent part of the story. In fact, I've been part of several discussions saying that some UF authors use fight scenes gratuitously and that the protagonist is unaffected by his/her actions in those scenes. Put simply: in UF action does not equal ass-kicking.

Likewise, I don't feel Paranormal Romance should be boiled down to sex scenes. Sex and love don't always walk hand in hand. If I applied the same blanket stereotype to PR that Moore does to UF, PR would be nothing more than fluffy female protagonists getting rescued by vampires and falling in love with them, then having mind-blowing sex (that you or I will never come close to experiencing, nanny-nanny-boo-boo.)

I think these are both pits that authors can fall into, and quite easily. These are the easier routes. Write a bunch of emotionless fights or rip off her clothes every 20 pages and you've got yourself a bestseller. Wrong. If you're writing sex and violence just for the sake of an action beat, you're missing something serious: STORY CONTENT!

And I think this is where my biggest beef with the article can be found: While trying to compare and contrast genres, Moore is forgetting the great unifying element. Story. In trying to distill each genre to its component parts, she seems (to me, your mileage may vary) to forget that Urban Fantasy isn't just a dark, broody hero shooting vampires in the face with rock salt. I think to paint both genres with such a broad brush is a disservice not just to the authors who write those stories, it's a disservice to the readers who love them.

Pronouns Suck!

2011-10-10T06:45:00.000-07:00

Nerdmaste, my friends. Yes, this weekend I coined a new term: Nerdmaste. "The geek in me recognizes and salutes the geek in you."

Anyway, good Monday to you all. Today, I want to talk with you about gender reassignment.

A few months ago I found out that a dear friend of mine is transitioning from female to male. His decision to do this, gave voice to a character who's been lingering in the back of my head for a year now. And thus, I gave you the beginning of Eli's story.

My friend R has hit a big milestone in the process: asking for friends and coworkers to accept the new change, drop the old female name and refer to him by the appropriate gender. This is major. He has had to "come out" to co-workers who may not have known the difference before...so, this is a big deal.

I was thinking about R and thought, "Damn, I'm so proud of her."

Her?

And this is where I come to the point that pronouns suck.

See, I totally support R in this. I love him so damn much and am so proud that he has the courage to pursue this for himself rather than go on living a half-life. I've read his blog entries detailing what it's been like...being in one body but feeling other...and parts of it were heartwrenching to read. Seeing how happy he is in the light of self-acceptance, of the love of family and friends understanding his path... that is glorious. I'm fucking proud of him.

Intellectually, though...in my memories...R is still a her with a nice rack and a leather corset. In my head, R is a she. Her. Not because I don't support the actions being taken, but because that's just how I know "her". Now, part of this could be because *she* moved away and the only interaction I've had with *him* has been online. (Hint: COME VISIT!) But, really, I think it's because of stupid things like pronouns.

He. She. Her. Him. We. Us. Them. You.

They all create dividing lines. These are words without grey areas. Definite articles with no wiggle room. How often do you hear, "It's us against them"? There is a clear line between those two factions. How often do you hear people say, "This country is going to hell because of people like you"? These words allow people to make blanket statements or definite points.

An example that's in the news these days: Chaz Bono. I hear lots of things from people who may not know I'm listening. I've heard this bullshit idea that Sonny and Cher must have fucked up royally not just as parents but as humans for God to punish them with a transgender kid. (What the fuck? I'm not even going to glorify that with a response.) What I hear most: people who flat our refuse to refer to Chaz as "him". They insist that Chaz is "Chastity" and use "her"/"she" in conversation. When asked why, they justify it (weakly) by saying something like, "Well, that's how I always knew her and think of her, so I'm not going to change."

What you're actually saying is that you don't respect this person. Period. You don't want to get out of your comfort zone and address someone who is transgender? That's your beef right there. That's for you to reconcile. But the bottom line is that you don't respect Chaz enough to see *him* as the person *he* is.

Our world isn't divided into blacks and whites, but subtle shades of grey. We don't have many words for the grey areas. Right now, those that do are sadly used as derogatory slang or misunderstood. I've heard of people who consider themselves gender neutral (something I find completely fascinating) who prefer the pronoun "zhe". It is none of the above. Some people see this kind of thing as part of an alternative subculture, some sort of unseemly minority. But, none of us fits the letter of every word we use to describe ourselves, do we?

You know what? I take it back. We don't live in a grey world. We live in a world full of vibrant colors. Each one just as dazzling as the next. No one fits into any mold, no matter how much we think we do.

Pronouns are boring. Pronouns pigeonhole us into drab outlines, uncomfortable molds. And in cases like this, they can be horribly confusing or abusive.

Because, if I slip up and call R "her"...one might think I'm not supportive. One might think I have an issue, that I'm being belligerent or ignoring *his* interests and feelings on the matter. And that couldn't be farther from the truth.

Love you, R. All of you. Not for what chromosomes you were given or for what pink parts you were born with, but for the person you are. The laughter, the human connection. The pronoun you pick doesn't matter. You are fucking stellar. Shine on, love.

People In Your Neighborhood

2011-10-07T10:14:00.000-07:00

So, every day I take my daughter to school by riding the city bus. Every day, I see the same two women. Like clockwork the first woman gets off the bus just as the second gets on. They never acknowledge one another. Hell, I don't know if they even see each other since they take a different door. Every day, though, I can't help but notice them.

The first woman gets on the bus some time before my daughter and I. She always sits near the middle, as close to the back door as she can. Even here in the desert, she doesn't leave home without her umbrella. She's older. I'd estimate she's somewhere in her 60s. Short and round, slate grey hair in a pixie cut. Her face always intrigues me. With her lower lip pushing up in a permanent frown, her mouth reminds me of a large mouth bass. Her eyes are dark and beady. Her face is lined with judgement and I wonder if she's ever known joy.

As she gets off the bus, the other woman gets on.

She is younger. I'd put her in her 40s or so. She's about the same height and build as the first woman, but about 40 pounds lighter. Her blonde hair is styled in the same cut, too. She smiles. She's always quick to talk to the driver or wave to my girl. She's wary, though. There is a hesitation in her eyes. An unwillingness to let go and dive into joy head first.

I make up stories about these women. To me...it's the same woman. The older one rides the bus every day just to get a glimpse of her younger, healthier, happier self.

Every day I hope the first woman will smile. Because maybe then, the next twenty years will be brighter for the blonde.

iGrieve

2011-10-06T09:33:00.000-07:00

http://jmak.tumblr.com/post/9377189056

Like most people in the world, I did not know Steve Jobs personally. I never met him, never sat in the same room while he gave a speech and never so much as caught a glimpse of him through a car window.

Like some people in the world, I'm not a Mac user. I don't have an iPhone and I often joke that some of my friends are tethered to the Apple teat.

But like everyone in the world, my life has been changed because of Steve Jobs. The first computer I used in a school was an Apple II. In college, I learned how to use music writing software on a Mac. My iPod has saved my sanity on more than one occasion.

I think the biggest effect Steve Jobs had on my life, though, wasn't in his inventions, but his attitude. Steve Jobs knew what most of us creative types know: you have to fail. It's always an option and it's the only way we learn. Jobs made mistakes and kept moving forward through them. Steve Jobs took chances. One of the best risks he ever took was backing a tiny upstart group of geeks and writers in Emeryville, California back in the 80s. You know them today as Pixar.

I list Pixar as one of my most prevalent influences. No, I don't write material for kids, but then, that's not what Pixar does either. Pixar tells stories. Plain and simple. And their stories are good. I strive to find that level of mastery in my craft. Toy Story, The Incredibles, Finding Nemo, Wall-E... The world would not have those stories if someone hadn't given those geeks a chance. I am grateful not just to those at Pixar, but to Steve Jobs for making it all possible. For believing in someone else's skills enough to say, "Go for it."

When I heard the news last night that Steve Jobs had died, I cried. I've been in a state of mourning since then and part of me feels incredibly stupid for feeling so deeply about a man I never met. Say what you will about money and industry and business or bicker about being a PC or a Mac, complain about updates or lack thereof... but Steve Jobs touched our lives in ways we may never understand. The full scope of his life will not fit on a microprocessor or a nano. He was more than tech.

Steve Jobs was a dreamer. A visionary. An artist.

The world is different because he lived.

Thank you, Steve. Shine on.

All I Really Want

2011-10-05T14:08:00.000-07:00

So, the recent OccupyWallSt movement(s) have had me thinking about many things. Too many to go into at length in one single blog post. (Trust me, we'll talk.) But, I see pundits, politicians and armchair dictators going on and on about what *they* think the American People Want. I thought I would come on by here and set down in no uncertain terms what it is that *I* want.
I want my daughter to grow up healthy, happy and loved.
I want my husband to feel secure in his job and not panic.
I want our health insurance company (AETNA) to quit raising my rates every 6 months because of "rising health care costs" right after they've sent me a letter announcing they now cover hair plugs and Viagra.
I want people to support each other and I want businesses to take a hike.
I want the super rich to buy a fucking clue and realize that life *is* different for most of the world.
I want Firefly back.
I want Babylon 5 back. With Marcus.
I want to spend my life doing something that I'm passionate about, not working at a job I hate just because it's mandatory to pay bills.
I want my own house with a fire pit and a big dining room for gaming and parties with friends.
I want to be a published author. Not a self-published author. Those of you who take this path, that's your gig, but I prefer legacy (traditional) publishing.
I want to be a successful author not because of sales numbers, but because my stories are *good* and people enjoy them.
I want you to be happy.
I want a little bit of revolution.
I want people to see that they are worth so much more than they think...and that money is nothing. Support is currency.
I want Jason Carter (Marcus on Babylon 5) to narrate my audio books when I'm a published author.
I want to lose 30 pounds not so that I can fit society's ideals of beauty but so that I live up to my own standards. (Which were warped by society... but I'm working on that.)
I want my LGBTQ friends to live in a world where they don't have to justify or explain themselves.
I want humans to stop the race and just be.
I want teleportation to be a reality.
I want to enjoy life rather than define it.

I want you to comment on this and add your voice.

Do Not Adjust Your Monitor

2011-10-02T23:10:00.000-07:00

You're in the right place. You're not hallucinating. I have changed the background of the blog. I love red, but just as much, I heart blue...so I thought I would try this for a bit.

I'm still editing and revising this draft of the new book, so if I'm at the computer, I'm breathing this project. I'll be back on the blog horse soon. I've got some stuff to talk about.

In the meantime, hope you're all doing well. Say hey.

Shine on.

Still Alive

2011-09-28T17:45:00.000-07:00

Wow, has it really been nearly 2 weeks since I posted? Christ. Sorry, gang. So, after finishing draft zero of the book, I took a weekend off (which was harder than you might think) and then dove into some edits and revisions. I've been doing that and working on a companion short story for the past couple of weeks. I'm stoked about this project, kids. I absolutely LOVE it and can't write the material fast enough. So, the time I would be spending penning blogs, I'm using on fiction.

Also, we've been seriously pursuing a house. There's one in the cross hairs and I'm very excited. Here's hoping.

Um, what else....? Life is just busy right now. I get up and walk/bus the kiddo to school, walk home, write, walk back to school to pick her up and bus home. With house hunting and friends' joyous life events and other such things, time is now a luxury item.

...How are you?

Draft Zero

2011-09-16T11:38:00.001-07:00

Four weeks ago I started writing the rough draft of my new book. It's the first in a 6-book arc that I'm calling Etudes in C#. Well, today I finished draft zero of "Technical Difficulties". It came in short on words (just under 60k), but the basic story is there. And that's what matters.

Everything I write teaches me something. There have been several lessons with this one, but the biggest, most prominent truth I've learned on this one? TELL THE DAMN STORY! I usually have a horrible time getting a rough draft out into the world because it's hard to give up editorial control in the name of telling a story. I have a hard time allowing myself to suck.

Right now, though, the zero draft is done. It's not pretty. It's got a few thin places, it's got some glitches and kinks...but it's done. I told the story.

Story is king.

And now, I'm going to enjoy some Dr. Who and dark chocolate to celebrate.

Dry Ice - Micro Flash Fic

2011-09-08T13:31:00.000-07:00

So, Chuck Wendig is at it again. This time, though, he's changed the game. Instead of 1000 words to tell a story, you get 10% of that. To craft a story about revenge.

Oy.

So, I have this idea and it won't sit in a 100 word box...so maybe another time I'll write the whole thing. But, I do have this. I hope you enjoy this little bit of microflash.

Dry Ice

by Jamie Wyman

The fucker killed my son. I thought I wanted Carl Jameson todie in a fire, to rot in Hell and feel the same pain I felt when my baby leftthe earth. When I heard he needed a kidney, though, I realized I could do worsethan kill him. I could save him. And he’d have to thank me every day for therest of his goddamn life. No, I won’t just let him die peacefully in adrug-induced coma. My revenge will be served on dry ice. Take it. I’ve gotnothing left to live for.

Distracted

2011-09-06T13:04:00.000-07:00

Having trouble focusing today. But, I found this and absolutely had to share it.

Make today awesome!

A Breather

2011-09-03T08:12:00.000-07:00

Good morning, kids. How are you? It's Saturday of a long weekend and I hope everyone is enjoying themselves. I thought I'd come up for air for a bit to say hey. This week I've been immersed in writing and being sick. The sick is finally starting to go away, and I'm taking a break from the manuscript.

At present, the new project is at 20,500 words (that's about 80 pages). Once more I find myself having doubts about the last scene, so I'm taking a couple days away to clear my head, recharge and get some perspective. I rarely share rough draft work that isn't short fiction, but I've sent the pages to a friend just to see if fresh eyes confirm my suspicions. We'll see.

But, today is for gaming. Dresden Files RPG with a group of friends. And tomorrow is for more gaming. And Monday? Well, I'm not sure.

Stay safe and have a great weekend, gang. Oh, and if you're at Dragon Con, have a blast for me and swing by the Pyr Publishing booth! (Because if you're there I must live vicariously through you and I really want to hang with the Pyr crowd.)

Leave a note and tell me what's up in your world.

Social Media

2011-08-31T17:41:00.000-07:00

So, I had a great lunch today with a friend I don't see nearly often enough. Good face time seems to be more scarce than a chupacabra sometimes. Anyway, talking with her made me realize it's been forever since I talked to one of my bestest soulfriends in the Universe. And this, led me to thinking about how social media has impacted the way we all interact with one another. So, here are some things I dig about the social network.

1) It's Easy: I admit it. I can be lazy. When I was in college (before Facebook, Twitter and MySpace), I had like a handful of friends that I saw every day. We constantly talked or hung out or IMd and all that stuff. And it's not hard to understand why. Well, other than being socially awkward and trying to figure out who the hell I was, my favorite shows were Sex and the City, Friends and Queer as Folk. Think about what you see here (and on most shows, for that matter)... a tight group of 4-6 people form your ensemble cast. Anyone who comes in is a guest star. They don't last long, just help spin plot and fill time during season lag. And at that time in my life, it felt like the writers for those shows were doing the scripts for my relationships. Face time in these kinds of situation comedies is easy, because the core cast is always together. Maintaining friendships like that is simple.

But then, stuff changed. I moved and my life got out of the holding pattern it was in. My social circles exploded. Suddenly, I had to work to make sure everyone got time and that blew my mind. This is one reason that I love social media. It allows me to have daily interactions with people even if we can't make time to sit down and see each other.

20 years later and we're still dorks, but with kids.

2) Reunion: I have reconnected with people I knew in high school. Some were really close friends then and we've picked up right where we left off. Others? Others I didn't talk to much because in that funhouse mirror that is high school, I thought they hated me. I totally dig that with Facebook, I can get to know these people as *people* and not as a series of socially aggravated neuroses. We're (mostly) whole people now. We've grown into ourselves and all of that petty shit that seemed monumental back then, isn't. So, I love that I have made friends with old enemies or people I was too scared to talk to then. Those people are some of my best friends and biggest supporters right now.

3) Cute pictures of cats: This is pretty obvious. Go on internet. Find pictures of cats. Share link. This happens all the time on Twitter, Facebook and every other social site you'll find. Sometimes, it's the one thing that can turn a bad day into a tolerable one. Seriously, just look at that kitty! KITTY!

4) Networking: I admit that with few exceptions, I have compartmentalized my social media use. MySpace? Irrelevant. Deleted. Facebook? Friends and family. Google+ ? Still figuring that one out. Twitter? Twitter is my place for professional networking. It's my water cooler. While yes, I talk to friends there, mostly, I use Twitter to listen to and have conversations with other writers, agents, editors etc. And it's so cool that we can all do that. We can all find people with similar interests and geek out about it... and hopefully become better at our passions. Added bonus? Some of those writers and agents I started following for professional advice became people I consider to be good friends who've helped me through some rough spots on this journey. They're people I drink chai with in the morning from a few time zones away. And I think that is pretty damn cool.

*5) Pure Shits and Giggles: I admit it. It gives me the chance to continue to annoy my ex and act as a force of castrophony in the lives of others. Oh, and there's an endless supply of awesome videos, time sinks and Dr. Who quotes flying about at any given time. ("That's all I am now. Rude and not ginger.")

Social media is part of living in the future. Some may ask if the Internet has killed privacy, if it's made us worse. Some may argue that we have a stronger sense of community and humanity because of the Internet. I dunno. I'm in the middle. Nothing beats good face time and shared tiramisu with one of your tribe...but when that's not possible, a hug on Twitter can really change your day.

What about you? Do you use social media? Do you separate business/family/friends? Weigh in.

*edited after original post.

To Your iPod You Listen...

2011-08-30T09:46:00.000-07:00

...save you it can.

Good morning, friends. So, with school back in session, I'm walking at least 2 miles a day. Usually in the morning, thankfully. Heat stroke doesn't appeal to me. When I'm not doing a Dalek impression and saying to myself, "REHYDRATE! REHYDRATE!" I've been working on my new project. As of this post, the new novel is sitting pretty at around 14k words and humming quite nicely. This project is a six book story arc with at least 3 short stories to go as companion pieces. I've got most of the larger arcs plotted out, and I call the series "Etudes in C#". Genre: Urban Fantasy. We're playing with gods, demi-gods, mythical creatures and technomancy. It's a blast, kids. (Does that mean my elevator pitch is, "It's Anansi Boys meets Tron"?)

Anyway, the honeymoon is over and C# and I are really into the nitty gritty. Forming a rough draft can be difficult, especially if you've a) been away from novel writing for a while or b) have been editing polished work. Rough drafts can seem so... rough! They're crude representations not even suitable for the title "book". I don't know if you other writers experience this, but when I'm getting into a new rough draft, I hit a spot (usually about 30 pages in) where I just want to scrap it and start over. Rather than telling the goddamn story, I'm worried about things like pacing, voice, world building... which is good, but it's counterproductive.

Here's the thing. Second guessing those first 20 pages? It's a defense mechanism. It's your tender ego fighting for its life. If you never finish the novel, you never have to get rejected. Rough drafts are for writing. Get Patient 0 out of your head, then let your inner editor spank the fuck out of that monkey. Spend an editing pass focusing solely on voice, another on world, another on pacing...repeat ad infinitum until that baby shines and you can see your reflection in it.

So, this morning, on my walk home I was jamming to shuffled tunes on my iPod and pondering the scene I wrote last night...where I want to take it today... should I do some edits today. The track changed to Crystal Method's remix of "Roadhouse Blues" by the Doors. (I fucking love this song. Both versions.) First words you hear? "Keep your eyes on the road."

I smiled and looked up from the sidewalk to see a truck with detailing that said, "Trust the process."

Wow.

Coincidences happen. You can't always look for signs and portents, but I'll accept that as a nudge from the Universe.

So, if you'll excuse me... C# and I have a date.

Playing Make-Believe

2011-08-21T19:28:00.000-07:00

This is my brain on a new idea. Questions?

While editors take a gander at the zombie book, and agents read my queries to see if they want to represent it...I've been looking at a new project. Had this idea about a week ago that I thought would turn into a short story or a series of shorts around this particular character. I didn't think I had much.

Then, it exploded. And by it, I mean my brain. I don't often say that I have a muse, per se, but if I did she would be pinballing all over the place and lighting little fires. Seriously, this idea will not leave me alone. These characters will not stop talking to me. It's no longer a short story, but a series of novels. (I told you. Splodey! They call it "brainstorming" for a reason.)

This is one of my favorite parts of a project. This volcanic blast of inspiration that just won't let me go. I was up until 4am outlining and "sketching" bits of this book. I got three hours of sleep, woke up and my brain immediately engaged in thinking up shit to flesh out this world, book and threads to tie into further adventures. More outlining has happened today and more will tonight. I wrote about a thousand words Friday just to see what would happen with it and this sucker is ready to fly from my fingers.

Almost.

See, in doing some preliminary world-building and brainstorming, I realized just how intricate aspects of this are going to be. This plot is going to be twisty (it needs to be considering that several of my characters are emissaries of trickster gods if not deities themselves), so I need to be very solid with continuity. So, when I realized just how major an undertaking this hella exciting project would be, I did the one thing I could.

I sat down with my husband and bounced stuff off of him. Sean is terrific at this. As he put it, he's not an "originator", but he is one hell of an "elaborator". He can take an idea, scrutinize it then take it to eleven. I love him for that (among many other things). We have been tossing ideas back and forth, he's come up with some real gems and led me to some fantastic conclusions while confirming (or shooting down) other first impressions.

This is one of my favorite parts of the writing process. Story development. World building. Getting my proverbial hands into the primordial slime of ideas and shaping, pounding it and putting it through those Play-Dough Fun Factory thingies. Playing! What if? How about? Oooooh! It. Is. FUN.

Yeah.

I'm so damn excited about this project. I wish I could just download all of my ideas and show them to you so you could understand, so that you could enjoy it, too. But, like everything with books and creation... it takes time. So, I promise you all... you will see this one. When it's bright, shiny, gritty, funny, finished and in a book store near you, because that, my friends, is exactly where this one is headed.

But first... I write it. And that's what I'ma gonna do.

"Must Love Guns" - Flash Fiction

2011-08-18T14:06:00.000-07:00

Dammit. Wendig pulled me in, again. So, I've been on writing sabbatical for a while and haven't taken part in Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenges over at Terribleminds. Last week I saw his latest: Must Love Guns. Now, I'm not a big fan of guns. I prefer blades as these are more personal and a less detached way of bringing harm to another person. But, I admit, that I'm a fan of the show Sons of Guns on the Discovery channel and have a vague interest in firearms. The jack-of-all-trades thing that writers tend to develop, I suppose.

Anyway, because I have very little actual knowledge of firearms, I wasn't going to participate in this challenge, but an idea struck and I had to put it down. Why the hell not, right? So, here it is. Me getting back into the saddle with a bit of flash fic about a gun. I give you "The Colt". Hope you like it.

The Colt

by Jamie Wyman

Aric’s eyes glittered as he opened the door to his father’s sanctum. As the thick steel swung inward, the keypad cast an eerie green glow over the boys’ features. Aric wondered if it was a trick of the light or if his friend really did look as if he would throw up. But then, it isn’t every day one breaks into the personal vault of The Colt.

“We’re going to get caught,” Carter trembled, his voice a reedy whisper.

“Don’t be such a girl!” Aric snapped. “We’re not going to get caught.”

Whatever fears Carter had, they weren’t enough to stop him from clinging to Aric’s heels as he went deeper into the vault.

Carter shivered. “Wh-why is it so bloody cold in here?” he asked, his breath forming a tiny cloud in front of him.

“Temperature control,” Aric answered. “Some of Father’s treasures are quite old. Most of them pre-date the Consortium by two-hundred years. Back when they still had states and countries. Quaint, no?”

Carter blinked mutely.

“Anyway, if it’s too hot or too humid, father’s prizes could be ruined. So be careful not to piss yourself, alright? The alarms will go off.”

Carter’s eyes widened and his mouth worked like a suffocating fish. When Aric hit him on the shoulder, the boy jumped and let out a most undignified yelp.

“Hey, I’m kidding, alright?”

Carter straightened himself and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I knew that.” Finally, he relaxed enough to look at the walls of the vault. “Shit, Aric! Is that a sword?”

Aric Grey’s father had amassed quite the trove. The Colt’s fondness for weaponry was at once understandable and odd, considering the blanket ban on such things. But, with family wealth and a healthy stipend from his position as Peacekeeper for the Consortium, the elder Mr. Grey could afford a few eccentricities.

“A saber, actually. Used by horsemen to fight restless natives or some such.”

Eventually, Carter thawed enough to explore the weapons himself. After a time, he said, “These are fantastic.” Putting something called a naginata back in its coveted place, his voice quivered with awe. “Like something out of a book.”

“These are nothing.” Aric moved toward the back of the vault. His fingers flew over another keypad.

With a soft hiss, the wall parted and revealed a new room. This one held just one item. On its plinth in the center of the chamber sat a simple wooden box. Aric slid his long fingers over its smooth surface.

“What is that?” Carter asked.

Aric’s lip curled in a leer. “Have you ever wondered why they call my father The Colt?”

Carter shrugged in response.

“Centuries ago, warriors stopped using crude things like swords and spears.”

“Firearms,” Carter said lazily, “yeah. But what about them?”

“Well, one of the finest makers of firearms was a man named Samuel Colt.” Aric’s grip around the box tightened. “His Peacemaker was a thing of both fierce power and stunning beauty.”

Aric opened the box. Nestled in a bed of luxurious blue felt was a gun, but it was like nothing Carter had ever seen in class. Small and delicate, the thing looked like it could hardly be dangerous at all. Smooth obsidian curved to form the grip while steel stretched out into the barrel. Silver filigree patterns swirled over the cylinder and gold flashed at the muzzle. And the trigger. Such a tiny, almost insignificant thing. An afterthought tag of metal dangling from the root of the gun.

“I thought all guns were destroyed,” Carter said.

Aric beamed with pride. “Most of them were. Father had to do a lot of searching for this one. It cost him, too. ‘A real Colt for The Colt’, he said.”

Carter chuckled. “It’s funny. All I’ve ever heard is how terrible these things were for civilization, how they nearly broke humanity apart, but it’s so little! I mean, what can this thing do?”

“Nothing without this.”

A crease formed between Carter’s eyes as he squinted at the ball. “What is that?”

“A bullet, obviously.” Aric gently slid his palm around the black grip and brought the weapon up, pointing the business end at his friend.

Carter took a step back. “What are you doing?”

“Just playing.”

Aric thumbed back the hammer and the chamber clicked into place.

“Well, I don’t like this game.”

“Do you honestly think a man like my father would keep a loaded weapon in his home?” Aric laughed. “You really are a little girl, aren’t you?”

Carter swatted at Aric’s wrist. “Not funny, you prat!”

Before either of them could blink, fire erupted from the barrel of the antique. The air became acrid, tinged with the smell of sulfur and singed dust. As Aric watched, a spot of red bloomed on the front of Carter’s tunic. His friend looked to him with wide eyes. All of the color was gone from the boy’s face as he looked down and saw the spreading darkness over his heart.

Seconds yawned. All Aric could hear was the echo of that massive blast and a ringing in his ears. His shoulder ached where the recoil had jerked at his joint. But he didn’t move. For a terrible minute, the scene held itself thus. One boy with a smoking gun, the other with a bleeding wound.

Carter crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Aric took great care in cleaning the old relic. As he laid it down in its velvet bed, he smiled. It wasn’t enough to just shoot a gun, he realized. No. The purpose of a weapon is to kill, to take a life. Aric knew from the first time he stole a look at the Colt, he would never be content to just look at it. Firing it left him wanting. Now, as Aric left the vault, his face spread into a smile. Now, he was satisfied.

Girl Resurrected

2011-08-16T07:12:00.000-07:00

One of my science heroes - Sid The Science Kid!

Sunday, Sean and I took K to the Science Center. I have to boast about the fact that my Mom Voice stopped 3 teenagers from banging on a computer monitor. Seriously, who the fuck lets their children (I don't care how old) get away with that shit? To give you more detail...you know how museums have the touch-screen monitors next to exhibits? Well, the Science Center has two next to one of their anatomical exhibits. That particular feature was down (after a free weekend and unattended kids, are we surprised?). I was at the next space over piecing together an anatomy dummy with the Hobbits when I heard terrible banging. I look up to see the afore mentioned twits pounding their fists on the wall screens like imprisoned apes.

"HEY!" I barked. I turned on the stern voice I usually withhold for serious problems with the daughter or when the cats are trying to unroll the toilet paper. "Stop that. Right. Now. It's already broken and you don't need to destroy it and make things worse."

The kids flushed and went off, heads hanging.

My Mom-Fu is strong!

But enough about that...

So, with the kiddo back in school I have more time to put toward my creative endeavors. Of course, this means writing! Woo! Some projects I want to spend time with:

Editing flash/short fiction to send to lit. magazines for publication.
A fantasy short called "The Giving Tree".
More work in the Zombie verse I've got going including editing the novella (title: Stitch), getting sequels outlined and written in a way that satisfies me and more shorts from the point of view of other characters.
Research and work for the YA novel I want to write (title: Banning Elizabeth).
Work on the short story "Woebegone" and see if I have a novel in there.
New fiction yet to be imagined.
Overhaul of the first novel I wrote back in 2008.

1/3 of the PVC instrument

Yeah, it's a lot. But, some is editing, some is new work...and it's all do-able. But, other than writing, I've got a proverbial bug up my ass to do something else. As long-time readers of this blog will know, I auditioned for Blue Man Group about 7 years ago. For a while, all I wanted in life was to be a Blue Man. For various reasons, that did not happen. After I had my daughter, my priorities shifted and I made the conscious choice to let go of that dream. For a few years, that stung a bit, I admit. I felt like I'd failed. Now, though, I understand that I did the right thing for me and mine and that's what matters.

So, now, with a bad back and fifty pounds that won't look great on stage, being a Blue Man just isn't in the cards. (Not to mention that I just don't have the Oh-My-God-I-Need-This feeling about it anymore.) But, that doesn't mean I can't still play like a Blue Man.

For a while, I've been silent. My sticks are collecting dust and I never play my electric kit. My chops are rustier than the Tin Man's joints. I've let my musical muscles atrophy out of fear and shame from an imagined failure. But...the other day at the Science Center, something of that me woke up. We were playing with some of their acoustic toys (long pipes that just channel air to form amazing drone sounds, a ginormous sound box with 4 strings to pluck). And Sean and I started talking about how the notes on the "guitar" sounded very Blue Man. While we sat down and let K build things with magnets, Sean and I "composed" a piece just talking out patterns.

At one point, I elbowed him and said, "What are you doing? You're going to make me a musician again!"

"Again?" he asked.

Drumbone. 2 parts that combine to make a larger, sliding instrument

Those skills have been dormant, it's true, but they haven't left me. Not entirely. And now, I have a desire to build my own instruments. I won't get the chance to play PVC IV on the stage at Briar Street...but what's stopping me from doing it in my own back yard? Or yours?

Lack of plumbing hardware, really.

So, I've decided that in the coming months, I will be gathering some like-minded troops from the Local Ohana and I will be making my own Blue Man instruments. I want to make a PVC instrument, a Drumbone...possibly a backpack Tubulum...and I want to have some Airpoles for good measure. The build will be a fun, communal learning experience and playing the instruments with my daughter would be a blast!

The whole PVC instrument.

When I do this, I will be documenting the build(s) on this blog, and possibly on my neglected percussion blog, Chickaboom. Pictures, hints, tips, rants...possibly video once they are ready to play. (I still have Drumbone memorized. Just need two people to get the slide going.)

I think this is going to be a blast.

How 'bout you? Ever build anything crazy? Geeky? Any homemade instruments or flame throwers out there? I want to hear about it.

What's rooting around in your brain and ready to hatch?

Where To Start?

2011-08-15T11:46:00.000-07:00

It's the first day of school! My daughter K went off to first grade today. With a very quiet house, I now have the mental capacity to sit down and hear my own thoughts. Kinda eerie.

So, I know I haven't posted much here in a couple of weeks. Here's why. LIFE. As I said, my kiddo started school. I wanted to make our last week of summer vacation cool and full of "Just-us-Time". The Interwebz take a back seat to the munchkin. Ergo - no bloggery from the Wahine for a while.

What else is going on in the world of me? Back in the query saddle again. I've been firing off missives to interesting agents for the past few weeks. Rejections aren't piling up, but the day isn't over yet. *wink* Still waiting to hear back on a few submissions that are out there. Onward and ever upward...and all that jazz.

Grandma is doing okay. As you may know, late last month we thought that Grandma wouldn't be with us for much longer. Thanks to some family donations and a lot of help from friends, I was able to hope a plane and spend most of a week in Indiana. I spent a lot of precious time with Grandma. She is doing a bit better when last I heard. She is staying at her own place. Still has these odd spells, though, where she feels faint and shakes and hurts all over. The doctor thinks he may know what's going on, so we'll see what happens.

Speaking of Indiana.... you probably heard/saw the news about the stage collapsing at the Indiana State Fair. When I heard about it, I freaked out a bit. It's my old stomping ground. Most of my family and several friends still live in the Hoosier state and some of them have the misfortune of being fans of country music. Some of them were at the Sugarland concert. As far as I know, no one I know was physically harmed at the accident. However, a guy I used to drum with in college was there and ended up being part of the recovery before emergency crews got there. He helped pull rubble off of a woman's body...and now he's dealing with the sucky part of being a hero - trying to unsee certain things. So yeah, even though the incident itself is over and in clean up...please keep people like my friend in your thoughts.

I have to say that it's been rough not writing fiction for the past six weeks or so. Having K home just made that really difficult. Now that she's at school and I have time to devote to fiction, I'm overwhelmed with ideas. I've got a few shorts that I started back in June that need some attention. I want to edit some of the work I've done and submit that to a couple of magazines... and I've got novels I want to get to work on. Time to crank up Pandora and get to work.

What about you? What's going on in your world?

Ohana Means Family. Family Means...

2011-08-04T10:04:00.000-07:00

So, I'm not one to "air dirty laundry" in a public forum, but, a family member of mine said something on her Facebook yesterday that really set me off. It was so sad and disappointing that I had to say something. I did. On Facebook. But, there's more to say about it and I think it's something that more people may need to hear. So you get a blog entry.

Today, I'd like to talk about family. I often talk about my "family of choice"...that's my tribe. My group of friends. My Ohana. Not so, today. Today we're talking about that genetic cesspool we call "relatives".

Meet me after the jump.

Yesterday, my younger cousin posted the following on her Wall:

"I've come to learn that just because someone is related to you or considered family doesn't mean they love you or necessarily care about you. You can't choose what family your born into but you can choose who deserves to be in your life. If people want to waste there presious life talking about me and trying to bring me down I suppose that is there choice but I wont waste mine worrying about you any longer:)"

For the time being let's look past the horrific spelling and grammar and concentrate on the meaning of her post. Essentially she's saying that just because we're related, we don't have to love one another. We didn't choose each other, so we can choose to ignore each other. (For the record, this post of hers isn't about me.)

Look, my family has never exactly been a Rockwell painting. Thanksgiving and Christmas at Grandma's was more like a trip to Dysfunction Junction. At best it's a three-ring circus with an adjacent freak show. We've got several variations on mental illness, drug addiction, favoritism, religious differences, battle scars, loud mouths, awkward teenagers, high school drop-outs and people who insist that the first president was George "Warshington". It's not always pretty. It's not always fun. Sometimes it's downright embarrassing.

I'm sure you can relate.

So, I know where my cousin is coming from. We share part of the same root-system. But I cannot agree with her. The comment she made is so...blind. It breaks my heart to see it, really. See, to me, family is the most important thing there is. Family of blood and of choice. Family is connection. As I told my cousin yesterday, Family is a safe place to fall, to be angry, to be happy. The whole point of family is that they see you at your best, your worst (and vice versa), that you didn't choose one another, but you love each other anyway.

I get the need to walk away sometimes. I get that if someone is just poking at you and all you can feel about or around someone is negative you need to walk away. Get out of a toxic situation, re-evaluate when you've had a chance to get it out of your system and come back later to see what can be done.

But burning the bridges behind you? Saying you don't need your family? That just because you're related doesn't mean you have to love one another? Pardon me for saying it this way, but fuck that.

Sweetie, your family may not say things you like to hear, but they love you anyway. They care about you. If they didn't, they wouldn't fucking bother. They'd just let you run off and do what/whomever and screw up your life while they point and laugh. Oh, and something else...if you didn't care, it wouldn't piss you off. If you didn't love them, you wouldn't give a shit what they think and it wouldn't get under your skin.

You've got family members who've gone through a lot of shit with their parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. People who have been used, lied to, stolen from and abused by their family...and they still love them. Your own Grandfather says his wife gave him "scars he'll take to the grave", but you saw how devoted he was to taking care of her for the 10 years leading up to her eventual death. Why? Because that's what
family does.

So walk away for a bit and clear your head if you want. But do not EVER fling about bullshit like that comment you made unless you are prepared to back it up. Unless you mean it down to your toes. It's not a game, and cute little emoticons don't change that what you said was childish and heartbreaking.
Your family loves you. Because you are family.

Deal with it.

Pimp It! 2 - Electric Boogaloo

2011-08-02T09:34:00.000-07:00

This time it's infectious!

Okay, so I did one of these before where I do NOTHING but spend a blog post pimping the talents of people I know. And holy fuck do I know a lot of talented people! As always you are encouraged to leave a donation of your own acts of pimpery in the comments. Whore out yourself, your friends, whatever, just link me to more awesome sauce that is to be found in our world!

Let the pimpery begin!

The Strange Family Circus - Phoenix, AZ. The Dr. Reverend Steven Strange and his delectable wife Sahar entertain audiences with a show that hearkens back to Vaudeville and the traveling mud shows. Eating razor blades, taming snakes, swallowing fire, juggling, silt walking...they can even perform weddings! The Strange Family is everything I want to be when I grow up.

Simply Sanity Creations - Cheryl runs this side-business out of her home. She sews and knits quality work and specializes in reusable diapers for children. She made a bag for my daughter that I'd expect to find in a chain store. It's just that good. (And cute!) She has an Etsy store and a Facebook. Go check out her wares!

"Midnight Pool" by Crystal Lloyd

Crystal Lloyd - Glass Artist, Wedding Officiant, Potter, Mother and geek... is there nothing she can't do? (Reach things on really tall shelves. HA! *rimshot*) Seriously, Crystal is a friend of mine with so many talents it's difficult to know where to start. I will, however, highlight her latest artistic passion: glass work. Her work is stunning and is truly worth of the term "art". And she just keeps improving her craft. Crystal has a gift. What's even cooler is that she started this about a year ago, if that, and took to it like a duck to water.

Fish beads, her latest craze.

Sparkly Mallard - Speaking of ducks and glass...My stepmom, Lynne, has been working on jewelry for more than a decade now. I've watched her go from simple lapidary and wrapping to making her own glass beads. She also sews bags and purses. She's made several for my daughter and they always get compliments. Her most recent fascination is making ornate glass beads that resemble fish. She's entering some of her work in the Indiana State Fair this week.

Touching the Monolith - Two of my friends, DeLaJuan Fondue and The Master Bob, wax geek for an hour or so on their podcast Touching the Monolith. Gaming, movies, tv-shows... all things GEEK. Dry wit and a good time. Give them a listen. (You may stumble across an episode about gaming styles with a special guest...that would be me.)

Plaza de Anaya - Tempe, AZ This is a dance studio in Tempe. I used to go there when it was under different management to take poi spinning classes. I *want* to go back, but free time is not something I have in copious amounts. So, that means YOU should go. Belly dance, tribal style, prop classes like poi or fire fan, fire staff... their classes change every 6 weeks or so. Definitely worth a look.

a piece by Nicole

Nicole @ Urban Art Tattoo - Phoenix, AZ. Nicole is responsible for one of my six tattoos and it is not a fair representation of her work. She is a very talented artist--both of body and canvas--and a dream to work with. If you want to get inked, go see Nicole.

Philby @ High Caliber Tattoo - Indianapolis, IN. Not in Arizona? Fine, go see my buddy Philby in Indy. I went to high school with this cat. We were in drumline together. Back then he would do tattoos on people using Sharpies...and they were epic. When he was 16. His work has only gotten better. He is one of the few people in the world I'd be willing to hand a wad of cash and say, "indulge yourself. make it something i'd like".

Renlightenment - I have several friends who work at the Arizona Renaissance Festival (ARF) and among them is Jeremy Martin. He started this series of videos to help educate new performers and it snowballed into something much cooler: Inside the Actor's Studio for Rennies. Jeremy has interviews with circuit performers and plans to add more to his growing list of Renlightenment videos. One day, he hopes to add Penn Jillette to that list.

Tricia Moore & The Circus Farm - Phoenix, AZ. Tricia is a belly dancer, fire artist and teacher here in the Phoenix area. She got to do what many of us only dream of: she ran away and joined the circus! Then she came back to Phoenix and brought it with her. Tricia is adept at several circus arts including hooping, acrobalance and poi spinning. Where I think she really shines is her work with Somoan fire knives. Dangerous, sexy and downright inspiring. And what's more... she's formed a little commune of sorts called the Circus Farm where people can come and share their talents. It's a wonderful, supportive community for circus enthusiasts.

Joanna 23 - Phoenix, AZ. I think Joanna could run the world if she so chose. She is a bellydancer, mother, henna artist, painter, fire performer, teacher and awesome soul. With her husband Michael, she helps run the Firehouse Gallery. Joanna is an artist, pure and simple.

Sabrina Ogden - She's a writer, she's a cheerleader, she's an awesome person. Ya know, she's one of the reasons I'm glad Twitter exists, because otherwise, I wouldn't have stumbled on this fine person. Her tweets are funny, she's got a great wit, but she's also just downright nice. She cares. Go show her some love.

Stephen Blackmoore - Author, blogger. He's hysterical when he gets on a roll. (Oh, shit, last night just watching him, Julie Summerell and Chuck Wendig go to town was hi-fucking-larious!)

Tribe Ohana - You like this? This whole thing where I show you awesome people who are doing beautiful things? Well that is every day over at Tribe Ohana. Like Guise Knights, this is something I am personally involved in, but it's a group that is only strengthened by numbers. It's a pet project of mine that I started with friends based on a few simple principles:

Pay It Forward - If someone does for you, do something for someone else. Keep it going.
Support is currency - While the "real" world needs money, Tribe Ohana is about supporting people. Give support. Get support. It's that simple. No really.
"Ohana means family. Family means no body gets left behind or forgotten."

Tribe Ohana is constantly-growing network that reaches across several states and into Canada....so far. What do we do? You ever find yourself with car problems but no money to work on it? Well, I know a guy who is a mechanic looking for extra jobs on weekends to pay the bills. Need to clean out the closet of baby clothes or old toys but don't want to just schlep to Goodwill? Well, Krista knows someone who is about to have a baby and could use a stroller. Need a music teacher? Math tutor? Robotics specialist? Engineer? We've got those. People have talents, even if they aren't "real world marketable" and people need those things. We help you get what you want and give what you need to give. So check it out and every day can be pimp day. :)

Alright. Now it's your turn. Hit me with people that turn you on and make your existence more colorful!

No Place Like It

2011-07-29T19:23:00.000-07:00

I used to think of "home" as a tangible thing. It was some immutable place that I could pinpoint on a map and find with a compass. It was a place you could get to by boat or a train, even if it was far far away. Landmarks showed the way and gave flavor to worn, familiar paths. "Home" had a welcome mat and a front door. I used to think that "home" was a brick-and-mortar establishment.

After a week abroad, I realize that I was wrong. And I'm glad of it.

Home is much stronger than four walls and a red dot on a GPS. As I witnessed when traipsing around my old stomping grounds this past week, places change. Schools are torn down and re-built. Businesses fold. Houses crumble. Roads are widened and those paths shift in new directions, tributaries that dry or swell with time.

Home isn't tangible. It isn't a stationary place, nor is it something I can pack on my back and take with me. (More is the pity.) Home is not a house, but the memories found there. Home is not a door mat, but the welcoming smile above it. Home is made by the people around you.

Last week, I went to Indiana and saw family and friends I haven't seen in too many years. I went home. I was with people I love and that love me in return. Today, I got on a series of planes and flew 1700 miles back to Phoenix. Home. My daughter's arms around my neck, husband's lips against my cheek, all in one delicious and warm embrace: Home. This kind of dual citizenship was, at a time, confusing. Much like the parable about a man's inability to serve two masters, how can someone feel perfectly at home in more than one place?

My home is a nomadic one. And I'm glad. Because it won't be overgrown by weeds or commerce. It is wherever my Ohana is.

My family. Of blood and of choice.

Letters To/From Home

2011-07-27T11:55:00.000-07:00

So, I made it to Indiana. Thus far my trip has been a mixture of face-searing laughter, mild frustration and happy reunions that leave a wake of sadness where all I can think is, "Wish you were here." I miss my husband, our daughter, our cats and my friends. There are things I want to show them, people I want them to meet, stories I want them to tell. But, teleportation technology being a ways off, I can't always get what I want.

But, as the Stones said, sometimes, you get what you need*.

I got up at the taint of dawn on Saturday to get to the airport. I opted out of the backscatter machine and got a very friendly and professional patdown. Now, some people may not enjoy getting felt up by a stranger at 5 in the morning, but, I wasn't as experimental in college as others. I decided to make up for lost time. Once I was through security, I had about 30 minutes until boarding. I got to the very full gate to find that due to rough weather in Chicago we were going to be delayed at least 2 hours. (I could've slept in, dammit!) Oddly, though, 30 seconds later, an attendant said that we would begin boarding. Good times. Flight was a bit rough coming in to the Windy City, but then that is usually the way. Once I got there, I started to do my Flash Gordon impression and bolt to my connection. Here, we did have an hour delay. After a rollercoaster southward, I landed in my home town, good ol' Indianapolis.

It's different.

The airport has changed, the suburbs have grown up...this place *looks* like my home, but at the same time, it looks almost alien. But, even without my glasses, I could tell that the blurry figure standing at the outer edge of the security checkpoint was my dad, smiling and welcoming me here. He and I got a few minutes to chat, got a rental car and I began my trip north to Logansport.

I took a different route. I've never driven this particular country highway, but damn if it wasn't faster. I didn't have my familiar music or my worn old landmarks on the side of the road (like the greasy spoon/fueling station that suggests you "Eat Here and Get Gas"). When I got to Logansport, I went to my aunt's new house. My family waited there for me. Cousins, their children, aunts...all of them faces and personas I know blindfolded and upside-down, but people who have grown and changed in innumerable and vague ways.

I went in to talk to my grandmother first thing. She's not well. She has these spells. Dizzy, pain, vision going black and just bone-weary. She *is* improving, though. Even with that daily improvement, she knows. She told me that last week she thought she'd be gone this week. That this was it. But, she said, it's almost time. She's tired. It's getting near time to go home.

I spent a few days with her and my aunt. Cousins dropped by and the house was filled with the ring of voices I haven't heard in far too long. Yesterday, though, it was time for me to leave for Indianapolis for a couple of days with my Dad and his family.

I had to say goodbye to my grandmother. And both of us knew the moment for exactly what it was. The last time we'd have to see one another face to face until the next life. I am blessed to have had this moment, I know. It is precious to me. Sacred. But it doesn't change the fact that walking out that door, starting the car and heading south hurt like a bitch.

Us then. (circa 1994)

I fought off tears the whole drive to my Dad's place, telling myself "just make it home, then you can cry". After I got here, though, I didn't cry. I had to get ready and go to dinner with old friends. Back in 7th grade I met a very special group of people. We weren't cool. We were awkward kids who found one another and learned how to be ourselves with one another. Last night, I got to have dinner with 3 of these people...all grown up.

Us now. (Minus 2 but with 2 special guests.)

We realized that we've known eachother for 19 years. Our friendship is old enough to vote! As little as 4 years ago, I saw one of these friends, but for one it has been 13 years. Sitting around the table last night was surreal. We have traded our Jolt cola and Cheetos for Jack and Coke and enchilladas, but the jokes and warmth are the same. We have kids now. Jobs. Wisdom to offer. Experience. We toasted one another because if it hadn't been for this tight little group, none of us would be here. We didn't sit there rehashing old times for hours, or awkwardly trying to get to know one another again. We didn't have to. It was like being with those people from 19 years ago...except more distilled. More whole. And without Nirvana playing in the background.

So far my trip has been a lesson in opposites. Sadness and joy. Reunion and goodbye. Change and consistancy. And due to humidity my hair has been so fucking fluffy I thought small children were going to try to cuddle it and name it Mr. Fuffles. (Seriously, how did I live with this kind of hair volume for 24 years and forget about it?)

Sox.

Today, I've been trying to decompress. I feel numb, honestly. It's been an emotional roller coaster. I sat out on my dad's porch today, intending to read and I was instead accosted by one of the cats. Sox is roughly the size of a small outboard motor and purrs just as loudly. He is all muscle, built like a linebacker. A very furry, adorable linebacker. And he is quite insistant when he wants his devotions. He sat on my lap and demanded pettins for about 45 minutes leaving me with claw marks on my hands (from when I stopped before he was ready) and enough fur on my clothes to really piss off PETA. I tried to stand up at one point and he shifted all of his weight against me so I had to sit down.

I love this cat.

Anyway, I've rambled long enough, I think. I should consider getting lunch or something. Tonight, dinner with family. Tomorrow, I visit my grandfather for his birthday. Then... home to Arizona.

*I would like to just add that I have heard that song no fewer than 3 times in the car this week.

Homecoming

2011-07-21T19:47:00.000-07:00

So, as you may have read on my Twitter feed, I'm going home to Indiana. This week has been an emotional roller coaster, to be honest. Monday, Grandma was saying she was leaving the world soon...that night I got a call from some of the most amazing people in existence offering me extra cash and babysitting so I could get in a car on Tuesday morning and drive to Indiana. Wow. I called my mother than night to ask her if she wanted to do a roadtrip. Tuesday we spent planning, plotting, scheming... it was set. Then Grandma said she wasn't quite there yet. Then, plans fell through. I got mopey and realized just how badly I wanted to go home.

Cue more awesomeness.

I got a few emails from friends asking, "How do we make this happen?" Then, Wednesday, I got a call from my cousin saying, "If you need to be here there's no reason you shouldn't be. A little thing like money should never get in the way." And he bought my airfare.

I am in awe of the people around me for pulling this together so quickly. My husband is a freaking ROCK. Seriously, when Ohana started offering to pass the hat around and get me to Indiana, and Grandma said she was doing okay...I started second guessing. Thinking, "Well, it's not dire, so I shouldn't take these peoples' resources and go." Sean looked me in the eye and said, "So you'd rather wait and scramble when it IS dire? No. Go see her now. If she's fine, then you get better memories."

I fucking love him. He's been amazing this week (and every week)...I'm just floored by his support sometimes.

Now, I'm getting excited. I called to tell Grandma I'd be there this weekend (THIS WEEKEND!) and she practically squealed over the phone. The sheer delight in her voice told me I'm doing the right thing.

As an added bonus, Thursday is my Grandpa Wyman's birthday. He hasn't seen me since 2007 and is always asking when I'm coming home. I had planned on surprising him, but like most of my plans they never work out as intended. But, that's okay. I still get to see him and hand-deliver a birthday card! And, I've made some of my friends back home squee. Apparently I'm going out Tuesday night.

Yeah, I'm making plans, lists of what to pack and stuff. Tomorrow I pack and then get to bed because I've got to be at Sky Harbor at oh-God-thirty in the morning. (I just love the name "Sky Harbor Airport"... makes me think of steampunk books and airships.) OH! Another bonus to this trip... My flights go through O'Hare. I've missed Chicago so damn much over the past 7 years. And I happen to be going on the 7th anniversary of my Blue Man Audition at Briar Street Theatre. So, even though I'll probably be running across O'Hare, I will be in Chicago. *happy smile*

I get to listen to Bob and Tom in the mornings again. And have Sycamore ice cream up in Logansport. I get to see family and friends. I get to show Grandma my wedding rings (her engagement ring and my grandfather's wedding band), hug her and tell her I love her. I get to hand-deliver pictures that Kiara drew for my dad.

Yeah. I'm excited.

Life Lessons

2011-07-20T09:29:00.000-07:00

So, Grubby the Caterpillar didn't make it. Last night, K came into the house with the lifeless larva on a leaf, and asked if she was dead. K started crying because she thought she didn't do enough. This is the little girl who built a bed of leaves around the caterpillar, covered it up, gave it water and then ran into the house to tell me about the "habitat" she made for Grubby. Sean and I reassured her that she did everything she could to give Grubby a chance.

K at age 4.

After a bath, K came into the living room in her little yellow night gown. She told me she wanted to take Grubby back outside and put her on the ground "where she belonged". When we did, K very gently stroked her caterpillar friend's back. Odd to see such a small hand weighed down with such a heavy emotion.

"Is she going to be okay?" she asked.
"Grubby doesn't need her body any more, baby," I said. I've never been one to sugar coat things, especially natural things like life and death. "What will probably happen is that a bird will eat Grubby's body so that it can live. Grubby's soul will go on though." (Yes I think animals have souls.)

"How?"
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe her soul will become a butterfly or moth somewhere."
"Will Grubby's soul become a new egg?"

What a beautiful thought! I told K that I thought that was lovely and she said, "Maybe she's going to be an egg and she'll hatch into a new caterpillar and come see me!"

It's so awesome to watch her grow, to make her own ideas. And holy shit, my kiddo independently thought of reincarnation as an option! Sean and I have told her that no one really knows what happens after someone dies. A lot of people have ideas but no one can be certain. I have told her, though, that dying is okay. It's a natural thing that everyone will experience. It can be sad. It can be hard. But, in the end, it's okay.

4 generations of crazy women. (2007)

This is a conversation we've had to have this week. My grandmother showed the earliest stages of congestive heart failure a few weeks ago. Last weekend she went into the hospital and was admitted for pneumonia. The next day, however, she was released as "fine other than being 90". When she got to my aunt's house, my grandmother sat down for a long talk.

She says it's near time.

When my grandfather died 7 years ago, Grandma had a dream of him in his prime. In her dream he showed her a lovely place, green and lush. She could hear the sounds of hammers striking wood. Grandpa showed her that he was helping to build Their House on the other side. So, every now and again, Grandma will dream of him and the house is closer and closer to completion. She says the last time she saw it there wasn't much more, just that they weren't quite ready for her to hang pictures yet. *grin* When I talked to her yesterday, she said it's almost time to go see Grandpa and the house.

That's okay. She's lived a long life. She's ready. It's okay.

Today she's doing a lot better. Up and moving. Not hurting all over. Still very tired, but that's par for the course at this point.

I haven't seen her since 2007 (when I was back home again in Indiana for my other grandmother's funeral). She's met my daughter and husband. But, I want to go home. I want to see her and hug her and tell her I love her one more time. It's a rare opportunity to be able to say goodbye on good, healthy terms. She's not suffering. She's not fighting cancer or in the last stages of something like diabetes. She's got all of her faculties (well, as much as any of us in that family do). And, this may sound selfish, I don't want to go home for another funeral. Nope. Not doing. I moved away in 2004 and only went back in '07 for a funeral. Nope. Not going back for funerals.

Plans are being made for me to fly away home on a solo expedition. Sean and K have to stay here and keep Phoenix in check. Indy peeps, get ready for massive hugs.

Grubby's story was a great way for me to explain to K what's going on with her great-grandma. It was a good way to approach a very sticky subject. Now, I just have to explain that me being gone for a week or so isn't such a bad thing.

The moral of the story? Hug your family, dammit.

Have a great day, y'all. The kid and I are going to go look at some fish.

EDIT: So, I forgot...while we were outside with Grubby, K essentially crafted a funeral. She said a few words about her "friend", wished the caterpillar sweet dreams, and then piled rocks around the corpse so that "people could find her". I melted. That is all.

Going Buggy

2011-07-17T09:22:00.000-07:00

Something I adore about my 5 year old daughter is that insects and reptiles fail at repulsing her. She actually likes creepy crawlies. She actually looks at bugs with a scientific eye and that's pretty damn cool. So you can imagine how excited we were yesterday to find a caterpillar in our backyard.

First off. We live in the desert. Our back yard is usually more spiders, ants and beetles. So, variety is awesome. Well, a sleeping bag got left outside a bit ago and then dust storms hit, so this thing got ickified. Sean, my husband, was picking it up to inspect the damage and he saw what he thought was just leaf debris. When he tried to flick it off, it tore and a small caterpillar fell out. He'd found a chrysalis!

Internet pic. Closest I could find to Grubby. Clothes moth.

I picked up the caterpillar and showed it to K. She immediately named it "Grubby". I took it out to one of the citrus trees and put it on a leaf, but the caterpillar soon fell to the ground. We decided to leave it alone. Maybe it could eat and make a new chrysalis and continue its metamorphosis. A bit later, though, something told me to go look. It looked bleak for Grubby, so I moved her to the shade of our patio with a few leaves and a stick. I hoped she could be safe there from any predators, the sun and maybe get healthy.

A while later, K wanted to check on Grubby. She hadn't moved, but was still weakly moving when we came around. When I put her to bed, I promised K that we would check on Grubby today after breakfast. Honestly, I expected to go out there and find a dead caterpillar. When we got outside, the leaves and stick were in their places, but no Grubby. Until I picked up one of the leaves. Grubby had used the natural curl of the leaf and some of her own silk to pull the leaf around her. There is silk on both ends of the leaf and it looks like Grubby is building a new home!

This excites me. Yes, clothes moths can be a bitch and a half (if that's what Grubby is), but this is SCIENCE! This is life. This is something awesome K and I can watch together.

Good times.

And now, it is time to get ready to celebrate the birth of a friend. Seven years ago this week, I went to his birthday party and met many dear friends, including my husband.

Yeah. Life is good.

BOOMDEYADA!

One Voice?

2011-07-13T19:25:00.000-07:00

So last weekend a friend of mine pulled me out onto his patio to enable his smoking habit and listen to him bounce around some ideas he's got for potential stories. This turned into a pretty deep philosophical discussion about the shape of the world and where we--as a global society--could be headed. One thing that came up was homogenization and the destruction of voices that are seen as "dissonant". Got me thinking about writers and peer critiques and such.

So tonight I would like to talk about Voice.

Have you ever watched a performance by Blue Man Group? Even a video? If you haven't go here and educate yourself. I'll wait. Now, while it may just look like a few guys in black pajamas beating on Home Depot rejects, there's so much more to the Blue Man. One thing that has always drawn me to BMG is their commentaries on personality.

The performers themselves put ego aside and dress the same as their partners. You don't see Bryce Flint-Summerville or Eric Gebow on stage...you see a Blue Man. And yet, these three near-identical beings are so varied! Each has his own personality. Each performer brings something unique to the table and creates a vibrant character. On the other side of the coin, you have the Blue Man's ideas about what our society is like. The Blue Man sees us as look-a-like drones working in soul-stifling mazes, replaceable cogs in a machine, slaves to the status quo. All at once, the Blue Man presents a mirror and a window into possibility. It's fascinating.

But it wouldn't be the same if the directors and creators of Blue Man Group gave everyone a hard and fast script, if they said, "Be like me and leave all individual nuances at the door." No theatrical or musical performance could rivet an audience if that were the case. Musicians follow a score and play the notes on the page, but the soul of a piece is what stirs emotion in the listener.

So, too, is it with writing.

Just like you can turn on a radio and know a band by the style and sound of the song, you can open a book and find an author's voice. There's a cadence to the words, a flow of speech and dialect that can serve as a literary fingerprint. Jim Butcher sounds different than Charlaine Harris sounds different than Chris Moore et cetra ad infinitum. That's what we love about the authors we go apeshit about. It's that distinct quality that draws us into their well-crafted tales, it's the VOICE of the author.

One thing I worry about, though, with the crop of self-proclaimed aspiring authors. (Never say you're "aspiring". You're a writer or you're not. You can be a neophyte, but if you put pen to paper, you're a goddamn author. Own it, bask in it, bathe in it and fucking cherish it. No apologies.) I worry that many people are aspiring so hard to "get it right" that they are losing their voices before they even have a chance to grow. I worry that with critique groups, some of us are trying to replace an author's blossoming style with what WE want our own to be.

I can read a post on Chuck Wendig's blog and be in absolute awe and say, "Damn I wish I could write like that." But at the end of the day, throwing the word "cockwaffle" into my posts isn't going to make me like him. It makes me a pretender. And it means that I'm not respecting my individual voice.

Everyone has something to say. Some of us may have the same stories to tell, but it's the way we tell them that makes all the difference. What fun would it be if we all sounded the same?

Postcards From the Edge

2011-07-11T08:34:00.000-07:00

Antartica: Day 51. Our rations are running low. We lost Thompson sometime during the night. Morale dwindling. The men speak of mutiny. But I must persevere.

Ahem. Sorry...I'm a little off today. And by off I mean absolutely fucking batshit crazy. Why? Well, let me tell you a story (or four).

Approximately 5 and a half years ago I played a game called Shadows Over Camelot. Fun, cooperative game where 3-7 players are the Knights of the Round Table (quite indefatigable). Players fend off invasions from Saxon hordes and quest for legendary trinkets. Generally entertaining and has a lot of replay value, especially when you put in the "traitor" mechanic. (One knight is secretly working against you. Maybe. *shifty eyes*) So, anywho, I played this game once many moons ago and the next day I had a baby. (Disclaimer: Any correlation between Shadows over Camelot and pregnancy or childbirth is coincidental. If you experience a Grail quest that lasts for more than 4 hours please see the rules because you're doing it wrong.) I haven't gotten to play it since. Friends have pulled the game off the shelf in the interim but never while I'm around and when I've suggested it, I'm overruled.

So, Friday night, we had some friends by to game and hang out. We ended up playing on the Wii rather than doing any table top gaming, but my friend Jeff brought Shadows just in case. He accidentally left it here and I "accidentally" forgot to take it to a party I knew he'd be attending on Saturday.

Yesterday, after taking the kiddo to explore the under sea wonders at the Sea Life aquarium (I saw a starfish's feet!), I decided that I wanted people to come to my house and do my bidding: PLAY SHADOWS!!! I posed the invite on Facebook and got a few people in on the action. What was cool was that a dear friend of mine brought along a guy I gamed with at Phoenix Comic Con who brought a long a total stranger who rocks. There was pizza, caffeine, laughter and a successful game of Shadows. (Finally!) Well, we were all having such a good time we got out Thunderstone. And played til 12:30am.

By that time, I was wired. Couldn't even think of sleeping. Stayed up til 2:30 and decided to try that going to bed thing. At 3:30 I was still awake and listening to the awesome thunderstorm outside. I listened to it until it started to peter out around 5am. By that time, TyGrr (my stripey kitty) wanted snuggles and worship in the form of tummy rubs. And Sean's alarm started going off. When TyGrr was appeased, Sprocket wanted her tithe and it was about 6am.

So, as you can tell by my Twitter feed, I haven't slept! I've caffeinated and right now I feel like a jittery drunken Kung Fu master. Or a particularly insane zombie who doesn't crave brains but cascades on Bejeweled.

When I get tired ... like really tired... I get what I call "your mom" tired. I call it this because at that point, I'm likely to answer any questions with YOUR MOM! I've passed that point and gone straight to Arkham levels of mentally unhinged. And yet, I'm bouncing about like Tigger with a Starbucks IV drip.

OH!

I wanted to tell you... so, my daughter (5, small and cute) woke up this morning. As I usually do when I'm about to make our breakfasts, I asked her to feed the cats.

Her: Okay. I'll do that while you get my breakfast. Can I have toast and butter, please?
Me: Sure. Thank you for asking so nicely.
Her: You're welcome. *gets cat food and puts it into the bowls*
Me: Orange juice or milk today?
Her: Orange juice, please.
Me: You've got excellent manners today. (This is something we're working on as it has slipped recently.)
Her: Thanks. I know I've been kinda bad the past few days. I just wanted to show you that I can be good.

*melt*

With an attitude like that, today's going to be great even without any sleep.

And now, I have too much blood in my caffeine system. Time to go do mom things with a stellar kiddo and hope for the best as far as energy goes.

Have a great day, kids!

Pimp It!

2011-07-09T12:09:00.000-07:00

Today I'm doing a post solely for the pimpage of others. I encourage you to get in on the act. Leave comments to hawk for writers/bands/people/whatever that you like. (No Porn, dude, this is a family show.) If you want to pimp yourself, go for it. Just be hospitable, k?

In no particular order...

1) The Scientific Mom: My friend Amy has started a blog to keep track of the many things she's been doing with her daughter over the past few years. Seriously, I'm jealous of the mom Amy is. She makes me feel lazy. Anyway. Amy has been homeschooling her daughter for...well, ever...and the results have been amazing. For a long time she just posted about her adventures on Facebook, but recently she decided to share her magic with the rest of the world. Amy is a terrific friend, a spectacular mother and one hell of a teacher.

2) Absence of Time: My friend Chris started a garage project of making jewelry. Because of this, we all win. His steampunk-inspired jewelry is not just fashion, it's art. I love his work and wish I had oodles more money to throw at him. He does original work as well as commissions. Earlier this year, mutual friends got married and the bride had the spectacular idea of commissioning jewelry for her bridesmaids. I got this stunning hair clip to add to my collection of AoT bee jewelry.

Good Night Grace. Guy in the white shirt is my buddy Dan.

3) Friends' Bands:

Good Night Gracie Fort Wayne, Indiana. I used to march drumline with this guy named Dan McCoy. Fun, tattooed, terrific player. Turns out that when he isn't being a dad, starting a curling league or growing out an epic beard, he drums for Good Night Gracie. Rocktastic band, tons of fun. GNG throws a great party and pleases the crowd. They do a lot of covers and you can listen to them on their site. Go. Like now.
Collectible Boys Iowa City, Iowa. Again, I used to drum with their drummer, Chris Wood. He's got a few other projects, but this one stands out as particularly stellar. The vocalist for Collectible Boys, Renee Zukin is nothing short of amazing. Their debut album Sense of Redemption drops this week. Indie band with a lot of talent behind it. Check out the teaser tracks on the link above and buy the album!
The New Guilt Indianapolis, Indiana. Fairly new band still growing a following. They're a bunch of talented guys who found one another and are building a foundation for boss work. My friend Brian "Shadows" Burke (formerly of Valhalla) takes lead guitar on this one. Check 'em out. Friend them on Facebook and go see them if you are in the area.
Clay Colton Band San Diego, California. Again, I used to drum with the drummer, B.J. Morgan. Like Dan of Good Night Gracie, B.J. helped me refine my set technique and pushed me to be a better player. Check out their summer tour dates and see when you can experience them for yourself.

Roll for initiative!

4) Guise Knights: So yeah, I'm involved with this one personally, but hey, it's a group thing. Guise Knights is a Phoenix, AZ based gaming organization. What started off as a group of friends getting together weekly to shoot the shit and kill things with dice has turned into a larger group of people scattered about the state (with a few friends in other states that we bring in for events because they rock). We go around to conventions and make the gaming awesome. Our members run and teach several kinds of games, from Dungeons & Dragons, to big box games like Doom and starter games like Dixit. GK also provides game reviews. So yeah, if you need a gaming fix...Guise Knights can help you with that.

5) Artists/Writers/Writerly Things: Okay, so I can't narrow this down, so here's a list of people I think are phenomenal. If you don't see your name here it's probably because I'm just forgetful this morning.

Book Country - Writer's community initiated by Penguin Publishing. You'll find a lot of talent here and great feedback for your work. Fantastic place to connect with other writers. Go. Friend me so I can read your stuff. :)
Gail Carriger - Writes the Parasol Protectorate series (Orbit). Fun steampunk with vamps and weres. I recommend them.
Candace Ganger - Strong woman whose blog is a delight to read.
Julie Summerell - I heart her Twitter. She makes me laugh a lot and also makes me hungry when she talks about her cooking.
Michelle M Welch - Podcast "Theme and Variations", has a trilogy of books out that starts with The Confidence Game. Great wit. And today's her birthday! (Going to her party later. Go show her love.)
DeAnnaKnippling - Writer of "Choose Your Doom: Zombie Apocalypse". She writes about zombies and it's really fun. Plus, she's starting her own epublishing gig. Her tweets brighten my day.
Johanna Harness - Writer, blogger, inspiration. Johanna started the Twitter hashtag #amwriting and maintains AmWriting.org for all of us word hounds. She has a lot of good things to say on craft and navigating the industry. She genuinely wants to see people succeed at their goals.
Zach Reddy - I love his work. Have some on my wall. And he's my husband's brother. I'm particularly fond of his ideas for the 13th doctor. Was very happy to see him in his booth at Phoenix Comic Con this year. He shared that booth with...
Emma Lysyk - Comics and jewelry with quirk and style. A ton of fun.
Britney Lee - Found her work on a whim and fell in love. She has this series of prints of Hawaiian deities and I LOVE it. Wish I had more money to throw at her, too. PLUS! She's living the dream and working as an animator for Disney. She also does paper art now which is stunning. Go look for yourself.
Bald Pirate Photography - My friend Eric Fiallos started doing photography a couple of years ago and he's really flourished. Of course, I am slightly biased, he did my wedding photos. Eric also does more intimate work. He has a talent for making everyone look sensuous and natural.
Captured By Sable - My stepsister has started working on photography as well and her work just gets better and better. Her concepts of composition are unique and delightful to look at.
Monique Reddy - My sister-in-law, married to Zach Reddy. Her photography is, in a word, stunning. She has a terrific sense of the moment and a gift for finding light and color to make a shot go from a digital picture to a work of art.

Alright, so that's my list. For the moment. Add to it. Leave comments pimping out friends, family, co-workers, yourself... whatever. Go thou and explore!

Reunion and Communion

2011-07-08T10:53:00.000-07:00

So last night I had the most amazing dream. (Even better than the Conan O'Brien and Adam Savage dream!) And chances are that if you're reading this, you were in my dream! How cool is that? (You were clothed, I promise.) As is usually the case, I can only remember snippets of it in vivid detail, the rest of it is rather amorphous and has been reduced to a series of snapshots and emotions.

Now, over the years I've done a lot of analysis of my own dreams. I've come to understand a lot of the symbolism that my mind uses to show me things or work through problems. An example: If I dream of the house where I grew up, or a school that I went to, I'm usually trying to work through an issue that happened at that time, when I was in that mindset. I look at my own mind like a high rise condo, so buildings in my dreams tend to refer to minds/attitudes from that specific time in my life. Also, I have vivid dreams. Full color, full sensation. Faces of others, though, can be blurry or completely wrong. Many times I will dream of someone and only get the "feel" of them, rather than see their face as I know it.

With me so far?

Okay. So...last night's dream started with me walking along the halls of my junior high school. I was with two girls that I had passing friendships with. We were all grown up and strolling down memory lane in a very literal sense. So, one of the girls looks at the next room we're about to enter... it's the high school auditorium and we can hear a theater production going on.

"I'm not going in there," she says. "If I had it to do over again I never would've gone in there."

I step away from the two women, look in the door and I see images from my past swirling about. There's my drama teacher, there's my first boyfriend, there's my last performance on that stage. All of these events are walking along the same stage at the same time, all unaware of one another. It's like I can see threads between them, one that leads to another.

I look at the girls and say, "I'm going in."

And as I step inside, it changes. I'm in the high school auditorium, yes, but EVERYONE is there. All of my friends and teachers from high school, people that graduated before me, after me, with me... past present and future of this place are all in one area. The stage is in front of me, the seats are all packed around me... to the left is a huge open door. In the next room I can see a similar place... People mingling and smiling, laughing. Among them I see my college professors and friends that I went to ISU with.

A voice asks if I want to go there.

"No," I say, "I don't need to right now."

So, I stay in the high school auditorium and things get blurry for a while. I walk around, I talk with people, I share memories and smiles. Contact is fleeting but potent. Then, I'm walking backstage and through another door and I'm in the old band room. Once again, the place is bursting with people. Now, all of us are wearing the purple. Satin jackets or letter coats, t-shirts with show themes from decades past. There are people here who marched the drumline before I started elementary school. There are trombone players reminiscing over the "Zifflemeyer" story. Directors are trading secrets. I sit down among a wall of drummers and look down to see I'm in my old regalia--baggy jeans, band t-shirt, Chucks and a band jacket. I've got sticks in my pocket. Everyone there is in their personal prime. Some may be 30 and others may be 16, but everyone is at a place of comfort.

I look around the room and I can see that other me...the one who was mingling with the theatre group in her torn jeans and white button-down. Past her I can see the choir robes and Madrigal costumes. Beyond her I see that room that leads to ISU.

This is where I'm hit with a wave of emotion and the emotion has words inside of it. Kinda like a fortune cookie--only tastier and more filling.

It says - "You are all here. All of you. And you are all as you should be. All parts of you shine. All parts of you have meaning. All of you are good."

I just stand there in awe and whisper, "Wow."

My husband joins me and the memory place falls away. Like a pond reflection rippling when a stone hits the surface.

"I just had the most awesome dream," I tell him. "I need to write this one down."

Yeah.

That was a kick ass dream.
I'm glad I walked into that room.

Healthy Scars - A Rant

2011-07-06T17:01:00.000-07:00

This is a long post. Part of me apologizes for the length. The part of me that feels that people need to talk about this stuff, however, totally doesn't apologize. - jw.

The author's arm.

So, this morning I listened to what Twitter referred to as the #YAshowdown. WHYY Radio featured author Maureen Johnson and Wall Street Journal-ist Meghan Cox Gurdon to discuss last month's kerfuffle over Gurdon's article "Darkness Too Visible". Gurdon believes that current trends in Young Adult fiction (aka. YA) are too "dark" for children to read. While she never exactly defines what constitutes "dark", she singles out books like Cheryl Rainfield's SCARS for graphic portrayals of self-injury, abuse and rape. According to Gurdon:

"...it is also possible—indeed, likely—that books focusing on pathologies help normalize them and, in the case of self-harm, may even spread their plausibility and likelihood to young people who might otherwise never have imagined such extreme measures. Self-destructive adolescent behaviors are observably infectious and have periods of vogue."

After reading the initial article and finding several points to be questionable, author Maureen Johnson began a hashtag conversation on Twitter (#YAsaves) for people to share their experiences. Within hours, 15,000 people had put in their 140-character summations of what libraries of books try to explain - young adult literature that provides a mirror can help people cope with their own hardships.

This morning, the server couldn't handle all of the would-be listeners of Gurdon vs Johnson. I was one of those locked out. This afternoon, however, the mp3 became available and I was able to get an earful. Within minutes, Ms. Gurdon had pissed me off. I'd like to talk a bit about why.

WARNING: What follows may be considered "too much information" for my family and some friends. There will be anecdotes of my own youth which included dealing with molestation, depression, suicidal thoughts and self-injury. For those who are sensitive to such things, consider this a trigger warning. You continue to read as you wish, I understand if you don't. Thank you for coming this far with me.

Still with me?

Hi, I'm Jamie and I'm a cutter. It's been more than 10 years since I last used self-injury as a coping mechanism. (YAY!) At age 10 I was going through a lot of shit. My parents had divorced and that was the good part. Seriously, I danced for joy when I got that news. But, after that, life changed. We had to move, our family didn't live together any more...when we moved, I changed schools. Now the kids at my old school had known me for 3 years, so they'd had time to get used to me being the fat & tall kid. My new school had to make up for lost time. I won't say I was bullied so much as ridiculed mercilessly. (Believe it or not, that stopped around 9th grade, but by that time, I had a constant loop of self-loathing going in my head. But I get ahead of myself.)

Not long after moving into a new house with my mom and starting a new school, I was molested by the kid who lived next door. That is a whole story that I won't get into at this time or in this space right now. AT THE TIME, I knew that I said no to something uncomfortable to someone just a few years older than me. I didn't have the vocabulary to articulate what had happened. "Molestation" was something that grown-ups did to kids, in my mind. What I thought was that I'd almost been raped. Whatever label you put on it, the experience left very clear emotions behind. I felt dirty and wrong. I felt used, betrayed, and that this person was a constant danger. He bullied me for a while after that, physically and psychologically.

I didn't know how to deal with that. In October of 1990, at age 10, I wrote my first suicide note. At 10. Thank whatever deity you choose (or curse them, if you wish), but my mother happened to call at a pivotal moment. I didn't do it and instead asked for help. I started seeing a psychologist. She suggested that I write.

I did, a little, but I also just started internalizing a lot of things. The kid next door moved away, the bullying stopped and I could return to my regularly scheduled "fat ass" jokes. Then, in 7th grade, the nightmares started. Vivid, horrific nightmares of all the things that Kid Next Door could have done. Almost nightly. About a month later, I saw him again, in my school. Every day I had anxiety attacks because he passed me in the halls. He was in my school and in my dreams and I felt like I couldn't get away. All of those emotions from a few years earlier came roaring back...now enhanced with puberty.

I started writing.

Really shitty, angsty poetry began to fill notebooks. Stories about women being violated or hunted...my stories didn't have happy endings. In the end, the rapists won. The hero died. The woman killed herself. Every time. I had friends who were dealing with their own variations on these themes. Dear friends that I still talk to now. We would sit around writing in our notebooks, occasionally sharing them with one another. It was a way to cope.

Things got worse. At 15, I started having suicidal thoughts again. I started scratching at my left wrist, cutting into my flesh as a way to relieve the pressure in my mind. A few of my friends knew, but they had their own coping mechanisms, too. We accepted one another's "pathologies" (as Gurdon calls it in her article) as just another part of that person. Gurdon would probably say we enabled one another, that we should've gone to an adult or something else. All I know is that at the time, self-injury became theraputic. Cathartic. I pulled out of that tail spin, self-injury waned and I graduated high school happy and healthy.

Other things happened after that until I finally broke my own cutting cycles and habits, but all of that happens after I leave the scope of "young adult" fiction protagonists, so, it's for another time.

Now, any of my high school English teachers will tell you that while I could write an essay to blow the bell curve, my reading assignments were abysmal. I did the Cliff's Notes thing...some assignments I flat out ignored because I just couldn't stand Jane Austen. (And yet, I still graduated in the top 11% of my class.) I didn't read much at home, either. When I did read, it was likely to be Dean Koontz or one of my mom's Christian apocalypse books. (Which, I'm sure Ms. Gurdon would say was a mistake. After all, the books I read contained rape, murder and aberrant behavior.) I didn't read young adult fiction when I was a young adult.

I wish there had been books like SCARS in 1994.

I didn't hurt myself because it was "vogue" or because television or movies glamorized it. Kids from that time, back me up on this--it wasn't vogue. It wasn't even on the radar. Suicide, yes. We had suicide all over the place...but cutting? Peer-molestation? Nope. It wasn't talked about and that silence only added to the stigma and shame which just perpetuated the cutting (for me). Now, the kids of that time are growing up and writing their stories. These are stories we needed then. Stories we are telling our 16 year old selves. These books that Gurdon says are too "dark" are a way for us to shine a light into the past and lead ourselves out, but also a way for us to make it worth something by helping someone else NOW.

Gurdon got under my skin when she said it in her article, sure, but reiterating it today on her radio appearance further fueled my ire. To paraphrase, she believes that writing about young protagonists who cut or have eating disorders will "normalize" that behavior.

First of all, Ms. Gurdon, I never woke up and said, "Oh gee, I can't wait to cut myself today!" I never once thought that it would make me cool. I never hoped it would make me an outsider (because outsiders are cool). I never thought it would make me friends. I did it because it helped. Having control over at least ONE pain that I felt was empowering and relieved the pressure in a way.

Secondly...what's wrong with "normalizing" it? The writers who tackle projects like SCARS are taking a group of people that is stigmatized for their "pathologies" and treating them with empathy. They give a voice to kids who otherwise suffer silently. You would have those kids remain in the shadows? The only things these books "normalize" is empathy. And, Ms. Gurdon, there is NOTHING wrong with empathy.

Thank you for listening to me rant. Feel free to weigh in and share your own experiences.

Circus Maximus

2011-06-26T20:51:00.000-07:00

Today was the day! The family and I set out to see the Greatest Show On Earth!

Now, you probably know that I am an avid circus buff. When I was a kid, the circus was one of my favorite things. Ever. I remember keeping my first program for decades. The centerfold was a picture of that year's graduating class from Ringling's Clown College. I looked at that picture a lot and dreamed of a world where I was a pink-haired buffoon bringing joy to millions, travelling all over the country with the Big Show. Some of my most magical memories are from dark arenas, flashlights spinning madly as children of all ages scream into the night because they are astounded by three rings of entertainment. Flying trapeze! Gunther Gabel Williams taming the big cats, even draping one over his shoulders! Human cannonballs, jugglers, clowns... all of it. The smell of the arena, the sound of a brass band... the circus is one of my absolute favorite settings of all time. Many of my dreams take place in a musky tent in the middle of a dusty town. So... getting to take my five year old daughter to her first circus? Priceless.

Define interesting.

But first, our day started off more like Serenity. You know that opening scene where Mal is all "did the primary bumper panel just fall off my ship?" and Wash is all, "this could get interesting?" Yeah (click that link and watch it if you don't know what I'm talking about)... well, Sean and I were in the car and we had a bit of a moment. In the role of Mal? Your beloved Wahine (me). Playing Wash (even wearing the obligatory Hawaiian shirt) was my husband. So, for the past 6 years, Sean has done most of the driving of my car. I'm usually just the captain while he pilots. It's my boat, he gets to drive. In that time, he's put a few holes in my ship, but my mister and my car have held together. As of late, he says that he's heard a knocking and we'd planned to do car work this weekend. Flash to us on the I-10 toward the circus when this knocking becomes an outright shuddering. Then, there's a loud thud, a smash of something against metal and the back wheels got loose for a moment. But, no body flies like my mister...he righted the car without incident and pulled over to the shoulder to assess the damage.

Rear tire lost its tread. We limped to my mom's place and arranged alternate means to get to the circus. (After the show, we got all four tires replaced on the car and all is well.)

Now, the show....the lights went down at US Airways Center and flashlights and glow-in-the-dark scimitars came to life. Drums rolled and soon, the arena floor was home to a parade of sequins, brightly colored stilt-walkers and running liberty horses. Elephants lumbered in trunk-to-tail. It's hard to tell which was more stunning, the glittering costumes or the light in my daughter's eyes.

I started crying.

I admit it. I'm a dork. I cried. I have such warm, fond memories of the circus, that getting to share them with my daughter was epic. It was magical in a whole new way. THIS is what makes being a parent so amazing. Sharing experiences with your children that are new to them...remembering what it's like to live in wonder.

Throughout the show, I found myself lamenting that this is not the same show I saw in the '80s. It lacked the spectacle, the pomp...but at the same time, I was under the spell of the circus. The singular charm of the center ring. My kiddo squealed and laughed and screamed and marveled at the whole thing. She loved it.

And she fell asleep during the second half of the show.

*grin* That's part of it, too, isn't it? That kind of safety and innocence. While ponderous pachyderms perched perilously on their plinths, my little girl slept. I wonder what she dreamed of.

We got home safely. New memories. Laughter. And a souvenir program. Sadly, there's no centerfold of clowns like mine had. But this one is just as magical to her as mine was to me. And that's something. Dinner and a Mythbusters mini-marathon have punctuated an adventurous day. An adventurous week!

Tomorrow, we'll rest.

Right?

Pride

2011-06-24T21:08:00.000-07:00

6/24/11 - Empire State Building

Today, with a vote of 33 to 29, New York recognized that same sex couples deserve all of the rights hetero couples have in terms of marriage.

I'm so damn ecstatic! I want to run outside, dance and hug people. Strangers. I don't give a shit. I'll hug the homeless guy who smells like cheap gin and feet. I'm just that fucking happy.

"But, Jamie," you say, "aren't you a married woman living in Arizona? What does this have to do with you?"

Why yes, gentle reader, I am married and living in a place that is not New York, but that's not the point, is it? Yes, I'm married to a man, but that's just dumb luck. I happened to find what I want in another human being, in a partner, in someone who happens to be a man. Lucky for us.

The reason I'm so happy about this vote...it's a step in the right direction. These stupid labels people have concocted--gay, straight, bi, black, Christian, white, Atheist--these have all been lines drawn specifically to segregate. All of these labels remove humanity from the equation, and thus, equality is removed from humanity.

I am proud that fellow human beings are closer to getting rid of the bullshit. I am proud that my friends who are gay can finally (FINALLY) express their love not just to their friends and family, but legally before God and Country as well. (Or at least State. For now.) I am thrilled that we're closer to realizing that "gay marriage" is not some poison in the well of our society. This is just one more step toward a world that I'd feel okay sending my daughter into. Whomever she turns out to be, she should never be told who she can or cannot love.

New York...freaking NEW YORK! You did it! I hope that the "Big Gay Steamroller" can spread that pride over the country. I hope people here in Arizona get to experience this elation first hand. Soon. We're still working on it. But we're WORKING. and WE will get there. All of us.

Hail to all of us! (Have a safe and happy Pride, y'all.)

Boomde-motherfucking-yada!

Live! From the Center Ring!

2011-06-19T21:40:00.000-07:00

Kick ass performer Dextre Tripp.

Ladies and gentles, direct your attention to the center ring if you would please where our very one Wahine, the Illustrious Blue, will entertain you--no, astound you!--with her tales of daring do.

Okay, so maybe I'm a little punchy this evening. The past few days have been a Convergence of All Things. This happens every so often. Everyone we know has something going on... on the same day. On opposite ends of town. Add to that one stressed out me and you've got someone who's hanging onto sanity by a tenuous thread of spider silk. And that is when running off to join the circus sounds great. Uh-oh... Ringling is coming to town this week.

No really, they are. And I'm sooooo going. Okay, I'm not going to run away to do something like play with fire all day or swing from the flying trapeze. But I will be taking my daughter to her first circus. *bouncy mom* I'm so freaking stoked. I LOVE the circus. Hell, I love circus history. I love carnies. I love it all. It's one of my favorite settings to write and researching the tradition is something of a hobby of mine. So, getting to take K to see the Big Show for the first time makes me freaking ecstatic.

Know what else makes me happy? My Life. Meet me after the jump and I'll give you a few reasons why.

Fear me, minions of evil.

First of all...Friday night. After a pretty stressful week, I got a surprise email from my mom demanding some time with her granddaughter. As it happened, we needed a sitter for a gaming session. Oh look! Serendipity! So, Friday I got to take out some of my aggression on helpless critters under the guise of a Warforged Warden named Six who wields an executioner's axe (brutal 2). (This is Dungeons and Dragons 4th ed for those of you who are going, "huh?") Sitting around a table at the house of friends...gaming...laying waste to evil doers...eating good food...petting the cats of said friends... yeah, it's a good way to spend the evening. Also a great way to let off some steam and find balance. Six reached level 4 and gets to go shopping for new magical goodies to make her even more formidable. Fear my squeaky wrath, ye villains of the Living Forgotten Realms. I will own you. And kill you. A lot.

Be vewy qwiet. We're hunting houses!

Mom, in all her awesomeness, offered to keep K for an overnight, so Saturday morning, Sean and I went to pick up the girl and go house shopping. I have to brag about my kid for a moment. For a 5 year old, house hunting can be just about as interesting as a root canal, but K took it in stride. She is awesome. Her favorite part was testing the acoustics of each house. Being empty and mostly tiled, a good portion of the houses were excellent echo chambers. Always important to test such things. Hee...she loved one of the houses we checked out. It had a Cupboard Under The Stairs! Okay, so it was a closet. But in the back of this closet, was a little hidey hole with a light in it. Perfect for a small person to go crawl in with a book. She spent a lot of time in there and loves the idea of having her own little nook. (Alas, we're not likely to make an offer on that house.)

There is one house we looked at that Sean gave a solid A- grade. I am doing my damnedest not to fall in love with it. We've only started looking and we've still got a lease here... falling in love with a house on the first trip out shopping... yeah. Bad idea.

But yeah. Six houses... one of which smelled of old people. *shudder* We had fun. We narrowed down what we want. And we took a lunch break at Chino Bandito. Hells to the yeah. (If you live in Phoenix and haven't been to Chino, you must go. if you don't live in Arizona...you have to come here and go there. That's all.) So, after speeding back home to change clothes, we loaded up in the car again to take K to her gymnastics class. Sean and I went to dinner with friends who were celebrating their 18 year old daughter's last weekend at home until after Basic Training. Laughter...merriment... a bit of good Reisling. Yeah. Saturday rocked.

And today... Father's day. More awesome kiddo time. Some vegging out with Lego Harry Potter and many smiles shared with the husband.

I'm sitting here and admiring this little life of mine. For as crazy as I felt last week, tonight I am asking, "Can this get any better?"

Yup. The circus is coming to town! (And the husband brought home Thunderstone! *maniacal geek laughter*)

Hope you've all had a great weekend...especially all of the fathers/grandfathers/stepfathers/father-figures out there who make a difference in the life of a child just by being in the room.

Shine on, y'all.

Blog Gumbo

2011-06-16T14:48:00.000-07:00

So, looking at the news buzzing around right now, I realize that I have some opinions on a few things. This post will be random, possibly offensive and may topic jump. (I have a pounding headache and am going crazy at the moment, but more on that later)... so sit back, grab some chai and join me in a trip through my thoughts.

1) Pottermore. Let's forget for just a moment that I haven't seen Harry Potter & The Deathly Hallows Part 1 yet. (I have a kid. This makes getting to movies difficult sometimes. Stop looking at me like that. No, I will not turn in my Harry Potter Fan card. Shut up!) The trailers for the last installment make me squee. The past couple of weeks I've been playing the Lego Harry Potter game. I even tried to start reading Sorcerer's Stone to K, but she's not interested yet. (She's 5, we forgive her and hope this is just a phase.) But... today... the big buzz is about Pottermore. What, you ask, is Pottermore? Well, it's a teaser site. Pink background, 2 owls and a single word (pottermore) hovering over JK Rowling's signature.

This gets a quirk of the eyebrow. O rly? I say. Click on one of the owls and you're taken to JKR's youtube channel. There you will find a clock counting down to some major announcement. Merlin's beard, what could it be?! More from the Potterverse? (Seriously, you don't write one of the biggest franchises ever centered around a character named Potter and THEN start a new project with the same name and NOT include that character. Bad form and highly sneaky. And mean.) So my fangirl heart palpitates at the idea that we might get what I've wanted for years. Prequels! I want to see what Moony, Padfoot and Prongs were up to back in their day. Oh! Or maybe we can see some of Fred & George's exploits before Harry gets to Hogwarts. Will we see what happens after the epilogue of Deathly Hallows? Gah! I'm already going nuts for the final movie(s), now she does this? Shrewd woman.

So what do you think? Do you think it's not a new book series at all but some media tie-in to boost move #7? What do you hope it is? Geek with me on this one.

2) House Hunting. Don't I wish we were hunting THAT House. Yes, all I would have to do is force myself to look at Fox. But, no... not looking for Hugh Laurie (call me). So, Sean and I have been together for almost 7 years at this point. We've got a 5 year old...we got married last year...and now we're talking about getting a house. Like seriously talking about it. I spoke with a mortgage broker this week to see what we can afford...we've been looking at listings for houses and this weekend we are going to look at some of them . All I can think is, "when the hell did I become a grown up?" Yeah, I know that sounds weird coming from a mom...but really...when did that happen? And in the past, Sean and I have talked about getting a house, but it was talk. We knew at the time we didn't have the cash to do it... it was something for the future and sometimes just something to dream about. Now, it's actually happening. We're serious about it and every day something happens to push that forward one more step. Our lease in this house is up in January. Sure, we're looking early, but Sean and I don't want to do this last minute. (When we moved into the place we're in now, we had a month to pack and move out of our apartment...during Christmas. Yeah. Not again.)

So when did I become a grown up? I still don't feel like one. I just feel like a kid with more responsibilities. I still play with my imaginary friends and I can still beat people at Candyland. I don't want to grow up. Don't you lose part of your soul when you do that? Nope. Not me. I'm not growing up. I flat out refuse. Getting older is inevitable. Acting responsibly is preferred. But being a grown up? No. *blows a raspberry*

So yeah, please wish us luck on this as it's daunting and exciting all the same.

3) Weiner. *sigh* I really do wish that ~~politicians~~ people would just learn to be smart about shit. Taking pictures of your cock and posting them online when you're in a sensitive job position? Yeah, dumbass. However, I think resignation was the wrong way to go. Sure, he's in therapy. (And who wouldn't need physical therapy if they had to walk around constantly leaning to the left like that?) But, does this really effect his ability to stick it to the GOP? Does his propensity for finding alone time in the gym to take junk shots interfere with his political views? I'm sure that someone out there will say that this is outrageous. "We can't have immoral people in office!"

*blink*

What planet are you on? If I wanted a moral politician in office I'd move to the country where I can also have a unicorn ranch and where rivers run freely with decaf chai latte. Where dark chocolate and money grow on trees. We don't live there. Moral politicians? Don't they live at the North Pole with Santa and the Easter Bunny?

Point is, Weiner is a voice for good and now, because people on both sides of the aisle are still puritanical hypocrites, we have lost that voice. Did he fuck up? Absolutely. But who hasn't? Scandals come out every week about someone in government. For one thing, this guy had to work twice as hard to get where he is because with a name like "weiner" you're already starting in the back. Furthermore...why do I care if someone posted pictures of his junk online? Jon Kyl is a flat out liar and no one seems to give a shit. If we take a picture of 3% of his junk and post it (saying it's 90% of course) will that make you yell to get him to resign? Pretty please with chai on top?

4) Michele Bachmann. Seriously, can the woman EVER look at a camera? Must she always look off to the side? Dear Buddha, I want a plastic rocket, a pony and for her to not come near the White House.

5) GIVE ME THE BOOK! And while we're talking about teasers... editor Anne Sowards posted a picture of fresh copies of Jim Butcher's newest book GHOST STORY. This is the next book in the Harry Dresden series and isn't out until late next month. I want this book and I want it now. No, I won't go read the snippets online. Why would I do that? I don't want spoilers and I want to enjoy it all at once. In my hands. I want to be able to curse the name Jim Butcher and slam a book shut. Clicking to close a browser just doesn't have the same umph behind it. Along those same lines... Gail Carriger's next book in the Parasol Protectorate comes out in a few weeks. I will have HEARTLESS, oh yes I will.

6) My Book. As for my own writings...I will be starting preliminary outlines for Eli's story. Also, I'm trying to nail down a plot for the zombie sequel. In that case, I have too many ideas for future books and need to sort out what should come next and how to dole out information to get to my end result.

I have to say thank you. The support from you guys these past few weeks has been immense and I can't begin to repay that. The debacle with my now-former-agent actually improved things in my career. Right now, I'm querying again and have some interest in the book. We'll see what happens. Also, thank you all so much for your support on Eli's story. So many of you enjoyed just that snippet that I feel like he has a safe place to tell his story. You are all awesome.

So yeah... that's life around here. House-hunting, book shopping, being Mom. Gaming with friends. It's a silly little life, but I love it.

Balance

2011-06-15T10:51:00.000-07:00

So, I've been thinking lately about balance. With K home from school for the summer, my normal routine is out the window. Hell, ANY semblance of routine is out the window. Yesterday, we took a field trip to the aquarium. Today, I have a metric fuckton of cleaning to accomplish. Tomorrow? Who knows. With a five-year-old around, I have to find balance. I need time for myself (time to write, time to have stillness and quiet). I need to have time with my daughter. I need to get housework done. What usually suffers in this equation is the me time. Just when I think I have something like unto order--a precarious balance of family, self and necessity--something comes along to sweep the leg and I go tumbling down to pick it all back up again.

I've decided that routine can kiss my ass. This is my life. It's chaotic. It's not perfect. It may not be the lifestyle of a "serious, committed, professional writer", but it's my life. As I'm not willing to just flat out ignore my kid or let her build nuclear weapons in the kitchen while I play in my own little worlds with zombies...and I'm not willing to live in a pile of dirty clothes and windows smudged with cat & kid prints...we have to compromise. Part of that compromise is the daily word goal. Does this mean I just don't write? Fuck no. Mommy gets cranky when she can't write... and when mommy gets cranky...well, you wouldn't like me when I'm cranky. (Rawr.) This just means that I take the time I can get and I don't kick myself for not getting thousands of words a day into ye olde word file.

This means that I'm going to stop fighting for balance. I'm going to stop struggling and trying to reign in the chaos. I'm going to love the bomb, as it were.

The also means I just don't have the time I used to for peer critiques on Book Country. I'm sorry, guys. I'll do what I can when I can. And right now, I've got some time. But the zombies...they wants me to talk to them and play in their world. So I gotta go. Later, all.

EDITED TO ADD: Just realized that this kinda sounds combative and defensive. I'm not getting crap from anyone but the voices in my head. There's this voice (it's the same one that two weeks ago told me I sucked at writing and should give up...) and it must have wriggled free of the duct tape and gym sock gag I'd fashioned for it, because now it's saying, "If you were serious about this, you'd ignore your family to write."

No. No I wouldn't. I'm not okay with that. Also, I wrote the novel last year in one month. With the kiddo at home. And felt like I ignored her the whole time. I don't want to do that again. So that voice is who I'm yelling at in this entry.

When I posted this blog, other things called for my attention, so Word sits alone for now. I'm back to the grind of laundry and Momming.

Sunday Quickie

2011-06-12T21:22:00.000-07:00

Say hello to our feline overlords.

So, my brain is fried from a weekend spent out in the sun. We had a great time with some friends on Friday playing some D&D (4th edition; I was running a Drow Warlock for those of you who are curious). Then, after tending to some housework, Saturday saw us heading across town to spend time swimming, gaming, eating and talking with still more friends. We stayed there last night rather than trek back home and make two 5 year olds cry for missing one another and spent today in the pool.

I'm tired.

So, I thought I would write a quick post that has nothing to do with writing, agents, short stories, politics or cons. But what should we talk about? My brain feels about the same consistency as tapioca pudding right now, so I'm not up for much. I thought I'd do a post about... my cats!

TyGrr demands belly rubs!

So, a couple of Septembers ago, I got a call from my friend Zen. She said that a stray had given birth to three kittens at her apartment and that the kittens would be ready for homes just about the time that my daughter K turned 4. Two of the litter were jet black and K's birthday is just before Halloween. It seemed to be kismet.

Factoid: The husband and I rent our house and our lease says no pets. Depressed, I turned down Zen's offer.

Well, flash forward about 6 months...last spring. You know how some people get the "must have a baby" crazies? I developed a strange need to have cats in the house. I grew up with cats and dammit, I missed the patter of paws. So, I talked it over with Sean. He missed kitties, too. We got approval from the landlord and talked to Zen. She still hadn't found homes for 2 of the 3 kittens. Zen, Sean and I got together so we could meet the fuzzies.

Baby Sprocket during play time.

TyGrr and Sprocket, sisters wee, couldn't be separated. That much is certain. They used to snuggle together all the time and it was evident that if one came home with us so would the other. Sprocket was aptly named. Sleek, black and spring-loaded, this one bounced all over the place. TyGrr, stripey with a very fuzzy white tummy, was a little love. She purred and loved getting pettin's. But, it was obvious that she was trouble. How one can fit so much cuteness and mischief into such a tiny body is beyond me.

Last July, the girls came to live with us. They've been a blessing to us all ever since. In that time, Sprocket has gotten to be a big black cat. Her gravity is strong. She sits in the front window of our house all day, soaking up the rays of the sun. Then, she lays down on you, purring, and imparts all of that gravity to you. You can't move. You can't fight it. I'm convinced that Sprocket's ancestors include a Black Hole and the G'mork from Neverending Story. For as big as she is, she has this pitiful little mew.

TyGrr is still a petite little thing. She is our escape artist. She wants to go outside, flop under the orange tree and roll in the reddish dirt...getting it all over her gorgeous white paws ... and our carpet. *sigh* She demands our worship in the form of tummy rubs. Of the two, she is the most vocal.

These are our cats. They make our life a little furrier, funnier and their purrs are just what our family needed to be complete.

Eli - Character Screen Test

2011-06-10T10:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes a character will sit in the back of my head for a while. Last Spring, "Elizabeth" made herself known, but she was pretty quiet. She told me she had something to say, but she didn't want to give me much in the way of detail. She gave me title of her story, but that was it. So, I let her get comfortable back there in the shadows. Recently, though, she's been stirring. Last week, she made it known that she has something to say and she needs to say it now. Like right now.

I'll be honest, I am a little afraid to start this project. I'm used to writing genre fiction...horror, urban fantasy...stuff with magic and gore and humor. Christ, I've been writing about zombies for more than a year and a half at this point! The story I know she has to tell is very heavy and very much out of my comfort zone. Hell, it's YA! What do I know about writing YA? But, this story is an important one. I feel that very strongly. And Elizabeth isn't going to let me get off that easily.

So, today, I decided to do a "screen test". This is something I do sometimes to get a feel for a character, a world, a group dynamic... I'll just write something that isn't intended to be canon to see if the idea is valid, see if I can do it or if it needs to cook some more. Today, the character led me through an introduction. I decided to share it with you. This piece will be part of a future novel, working title: "Banning Elizabeth". I hope you enjoy.

Banning Elizabeth - Eli's Screentest

by Jamie Wyman

Mother put her palms on her knees and wiped a film of sweat onto her otherwise tidy skirt. Wrinkle-free and April-fresh, that’s my Mother. Her fingers trembled, regardless of how many deep breaths she took.

“Well,” she sighed, “Doctor Stranger, as I said on the phone, my daughter has a serious problem.”

The psychologist’s cool voice asked, “And what problem is that?”

Strands of silver wove in and out of Iris Stranger’s blonde locks, defiantly showing the progress of time. Mother was probably cringing, aching to find a bottle of dye to cover the loathsome hairs. I could see Mother’s eyes falling over the psychologist, appraising her, critiquing every last detail from her no-nonsense glasses to the un-ironed pantsuit and unapologetic laugh lines.

Mother lifted a hand and dragged it through the air in front of me, presenting all of my flaws to the doctor. “Just look at her.”

To my other side, Dad snorted. If my mother is Order, Dad is Chaos. (Does that make me Mayhem? Mother would say I’m Pestilence, I’m sure.) With one leg crossed over the other and one arm draped over the back of his chair, tie loose and a couple of buttons undone, he looked almost comfy. But, I know my Dad. When his jaw gets like that—all stony, you can see the muscles moving around in his cheeks as he grinds his teeth—and his eyes turn steely-blue, it’s all but obvious he’s biting back anger.

Dr. Stranger’s eyes flicked over Dad. “You have something to say Mr. Reese?”

Slowly, he looked at my shoes—canvas things that I’d drawn on with a bored pen during chem lab—and my sagging jeans. Each button of my blue shirt held his attention for a second as he counted the way up to my face. Though I’d tried to hide beneath a fringe of bangs and a red ball-cap, Dad saw me. All of me. When I saw the first tears well up in his eyes, I looked away and considered my hands. Too small. So girly.

“There’s nothing wrong with my child,” Dad said, his voice soft and controlled.

I could almost hear my skin sizzle as I blushed.

“Nothing wrong?” Mother barked. “Nothing wrong? Just look at her, for God’s sake, and tell me if you think she’s a normal girl.”

Then it started. The old argument. The raised voices and sharp stares like bullets firing over my head. Did they think I wasn’t there? Did they believe I couldn’t understand? In this worn war between the two of them, it seemed I always disappeared even though I was sitting right there between them.

“A normal teenager,” Dad said. “Has it been so long that you forgot what it was like to be a teenager?”

Mother’s eyes indicated that Dad had scored a hit with that one. “When I was her age, I went out with friends and wore dresses to the school dance,” she hissed.

“Things are different.”

“Oh, sure. I didn’t have a cell phone or the Internet to do my homework for me, but that doesn’t mean a thing. She doesn’t take any pride in herself at all.”

Dad shot back, “Because you tell her not to.”

“Because she has a problem, David. Look at her!”

Once more, Mother gestured to me with her hands.

“What are you supposed to be?” she asked. She jerked at the hem of my shirt. “What is this? Are you punishing me? Do you want people to think your home life is so bad? Do you want them to think you’re a…” she paused and then whispered the word, “lesbian?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and sank into my chair, trying to draw my head inside of myself like a turtle. Why couldn’t I have been born a turtle? That would’ve been easier than this.

The doctor’s voice rang clear as a bell. “I’d like to step back a moment. I see there is a lot of emotion between you three. Elizabeth,” she said, her eyes locking on mine, “it is clear that you have two parents who love you very much.”

Against my better judgment, I let out a weak laugh. “Right.”

Mother’s head whipped to me. “Don’t you start, young lady.”

“Carol,” the doctor said, a hand out to settle Mother. “Please. I understand you are in pain, you are scared, but remember that we are all here to help your daughter.”

“Son,” I said.

And just like that, I’d called a temporary ceasefire. Dad sagged in his seat, letting out a slow breath. I don’t know if it was relief or disappointment. Ever the opposite, Mother gasped, her spine straightening.

“Could you say that again?” Dr. Stranger asked. “I didn’t quite hear.”

I looked between my parents for approval. He didn’t look at me, but Dad gave a soft nod of his head. Mother just rolled her eyes.

I cleared my throat and called out the word again in a voice too high for my tastes. “Son. I’m their son. And my name is Eli.”

Summertime Blue

2011-06-09T10:07:00.000-07:00

Wahine's Log: Star Date 0609.11. I've been boarded by the strange little humanoid lifeform. Her arms twine around my neck and fingers curl in my hair. The will to do anything but entertain and interact with this stunning little creature is being sapped. The muses speak of mutiny.

Alright, so it's summer vacation for my 5-year-old-daughter. She has been home for most of two weeks now and in that time we've done some exploring, some playing and she's helped me get a lot of work done. But very little of that work has involved getting words on a page. She has been exceedingly patient while I've been emailing/phone-calling to clean up the mess lately. Considering I feel guilt about said emailing/phone-calling that keeps me from my first job (MOMMING!), I've been putting off the writing time (for now). That makes me a little ... what's the word? Batshit crazy? Yeah, I think that sums it up nicely.

But, the next 8 weeks aren't going to give me the freedom I had just a few weeks ago from 9 to 2 where words were mine for the taking. Where pages waited anxiously to be filled with my whims and schizoid ramblings. (My mother reminded me the other day of the time I went into meet a child psychologist for issues and told her that I heard voices in my head. No, not crazy, just a writer.) Anyway...summer camp or the summer session our school offers just won't fit into the lifestyle (ie budget/single-car-family) so...I have to get creative. Luckily, this is not new to me. The husband and I spent the cash we COULD have spent on summer camp and a little extra sanity to purchase memberships to the Phoenix Zoo, Sea Life Aquarium and a bus pass. Last week, Sean (the aforementioned husband for those just joining us) and I took the kiddo to the Zoo for water play, elephants and baboons oh my! The best part...

Hello, gorgeous! (photo by Eric Fiallos)

...okay, so our Zoo has free-range peacocks. (Sorry, BronxZooCobra.) When Sean and I got married at the Zoo last year, a certain peacock traipsed through our ceremony site and peeked into the cottage where my bridesmaids and I were getting ready. I swear he looked in and said (in the voice of Old Spice Guy Isaiah Mustafa), "Ladies, you look lovely, but I am fabulous!" But, I digress. So, peacocks roam freely. One of our first stops last week was to visit the Komodo dragons. We heard the shrieking peacock before we saw it.

"Halp!" it said. "Halp! I fucked up and flew into the komodo dragon's enclosure and if I move it might bite off my pretty face! Halp!"

Yeah, this poor peacock was just cowering beneath a small shrub. Jewel-tone blue doesn't camouflage well in the desert. Just sayin'.

We did find a Zoo employee and let them know that one of their birds may have made an oops and I think it did get out safely. We could have imagined it, but I think the King Vulture roosting just across from the dragon had this look of, "Hey, can you let me out? I hear there's going to be peacock for dinner."

So, that was awesome.

Yesterday, Kiara and I took our first excursion into the unknown bus routes. Well, I screwed up and missed our stop, so we did some walking around downtown Mesa. There are definitely worse places to be lost. Downtown Mesa is a grid of cobblestones, statuary, little shops lining the streets, museums, arts centers...it epitomizes "quaint". So, we were en route to the Mesa Public Library because a certain someone has a mad on for this Giant Squid book she got months ago. Well, as I said, I messed up our stop. So, we're walking around and we come across a dinosaur skeleton.

"MOM!" K shouts. "It's the Museum of Natural History! Can we go there?"

I've seen movies that start (and end) this way.

Dinosaurs, rocks and gold panning? Hells to the yeah! I didn't get lost, we had an adventure! We saw a triceratops skeleton and a T-Rex. (I kept hoping a duster-clad wizard would show up and ride the T-Rex out onto Center Street, but alas...) We touched a meteorite that was older than our sun! We panned for gold and came home with a few flecks. Together, my daughter and I navigated a recreation of the Lost Dutchman Mine and discovered what life was like for the Hohokam Indians.

Yeah, as yesterday proves...failure is always an option.

After we'd explored Arizona's diverse past (and gotten freaked out by a stealthy mammoth), K still wanted to go to the library. We walked around the corner and ensconced ourselves in the juvenile non-fiction section. Five minutes later, K's little arms were laden with ten books, each about a different species of ocean creature. Jellies, turtles, sharks, rays, whales...the kid is ready to dive right in to the big blue and see what's down there.

So, I think this means that we'll do a lot of reading and then take a field trip to Sea Life next week and see just what we're reading about. (The stingrays there swim along the top of the tank and wave at you. It's cool! And they're HUGE!)

After the library, we bussed our way back to our end of town and walked a half mile home. And had ice cream. I'd call yesterday a resounding success. Today, we're going to hang out with some friends and swim.

Yeah, this summer is going to rock.

(Mommy still needs some dedicated writing time. Blogs are one thing. If I'm working on fiction, it's like she knows and every time I type a period, she interrupts. Seriously, it's a superpower.)

And now, I'm off to enjoy a day with my daughter and friends.

Until next time, kids!

What Have We Learned From This?

2011-06-08T08:35:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, my parents let me make my own mistakes. If I fell or got hurt by people I'd chosen as friends or got a bad grade due to procrastination... they let me fail and helped me with the fallout. Each time, though, the question was asked, "What have you learned from this?" Even in college when I got my first speeding ticket, Dad asked me the same question. Last week, he asked me again when I told him of my latest foray into "failure".
First of all, I have to say a few things: This post will NOT name names and it will not be a bitch fest. Also, I have to thank Candace Ganger for posting about her own experience. Seeing someone else go public with such grace gave me some strength.

So, the story...

Back in October I queried some agents and a publisher. By the end of the month, I'd signed a contract with an interested agent. I'd done my research, I'd found a few entries in Writer Beware/Preditors and Editors about the agency, but those were for years ago and for people who'd been rejected. All of the first-hand info I got from other authors about the agent and agency said that I would be safe, that this was what I wanted. The high of getting the offer for representation was loud enough that I couldn't hear that Voice In My Head that says, "Dude, bad juju". My gut told me to wait, but I didn't. (Mistake #1.) I signed with her and she told me to keep quiet about it. Don't announce publicly until after we're on submission.

My gut tweaked on that.

Aren't you proud of me? Why can't I announce it? But, being new at this, I figured there was some publishing industry nuance I was missing, so I ignored the gut, complied and went about my merry revisions.

In December of last year, I asked the agent if we were ready to go on submission. She said we were and that I could announce. She sent me the list of our first round of submissions including one or two of my dream editors. I announced it on this blog and elsewhere.

With holidays approaching, I knew that I wouldn't hear anything for a while. So in early February, I contacted the agent and asked if there was news. Yeah, we'd gotten a cold call on the manuscript and a new publisher was looking. That same week, I got an email from the Publisher I Queried (PIQ) in October. They liked the book and wanted to shoot it up to higher editing staff for review, but they'd done their homework and saw that I was agented. So I hooked up my agent and PIQ and agent said the revised manuscript had been sent to them.

Then something happened. Communication completely broke down. She ignored my emails, my phone calls. Everything. She dropped off the face of the planet for more than a month. Just when I was starting to ponder terminating my contract, she called with some news and direction. She wanted a new revision to take into account some editors' notes and do a new submission round. She said she needed them in less than 7 days so she could have it for an event she was attending. I worked my fingers off and had them to her in 3. When I asked her for an update 2 weeks later, she said she was just getting through the revisions. *eyebrow quirk*

I started lining up my ducks and weighing the pros and cons of terminating a contract while on submission.

After another month of ignored emails and phone calls, the agent quit without notice. I found out because she changed her employment on her Facebook. That's right. Facebook. No notice. No nothing. I have since reached out to her to ask what happened but she hasn't responded. (Go figure.) Totally unprofessional. After being a bouncing ball of rage for a bit, I set to cleaning up the mess she'd left behind.

First, I terminated my contract. Done. Then, at the advice of a publishing professional (not within the agency), I began withdrawing my submissions. I also contacted the PIQ to see what my rights were since I'd initiated contact with them pre-agent. In that conversation, I discovered that my former agent never sent them the manuscript. In fact, they'd wondered why I'd just dropped off the radar. Other publishers began replying to my withdrawal notices saying they'd never heard of me, my manuscript or received anything from the agent. In fact, one of them had been closed to submissions for more than a year!

After more digging, it has become clear. My manuscript never went on submission at all. I don't know what she was doing with my work for 8 months, but it was not agenting. That scares me. What if my work is being stolen and there's nothing I can do to prevent it? I can react if I find plagiarism, but can't outright prevent it at this point. Guh...worrying won't help. It's not productive and it's a waste of good imagination.

The good news: In the past few days I've found out that I have several people willing to help and go to bat for me. Bad things happen to talented, good people, but there are people out there who will help you clean up the mess if you ASK. FOR. HELP. I've already got a future for this manuscript. A better one. Only good things can come from this experience.

So, what have we learned from this. Above all else: LISTEN TO YOUR GUT. I had reservations throughout the past 8 months and didn't listen. I made excuses for her...she's busy, I'm new, I just don't know how this really works...I rationalized those tweaks that said, "Something's wrong here." You can't do that. You have to be your own advocate and listen to that voice in your head. Also, put your pride aside and ask for help. Seriously, if I hadn't I'd just be flailing in the dark right now.

So yeah...I know I've been cryptic about this situation the past week. My agent lied and never submitted my manuscript. She left the agency without notice. Again, not naming names. However, I have written to Writer Beware on the matter.

Learn from my mistakes, kids.

Onward and upward into the bright future.