Some Pennies for My Thoughts

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Hello my lovelies.  Summer, though technically a week away, is in full swing in firespark's realm.  It's too hot outside; the garden, as usual, is overgrown and under-utilized (though there are a few green tomatoes on the plants, which means they're faring better than last summer's tomatoes); and the day job still takes up too much of my time and brain space (which has nothing to do with summer--it's just one more thing to complain about, and I like things in threes).  The writing life is limping along, but I did just receive my first writing paycheck for a couple of articles I did last month.  Like the tomatoes, this is a definite improvement over last year, when my total writing wages were exactly zilch.  They were little things, these paid-for articles, and not the fiction I long to wrap my days with, but it's still money and it's still writing.  I'm a happy spark. 

Here's a bit of randomness I'd like to share with you.  If you like random, read ahead.  If not, I bid you adieu until my next maybe-random-maybe-not post.

Best Fortune Cookie Fortune Ever:

Well, maybe the 2nd best.  My now-deceased grandmother once told me she'd found a fortune at a Chinese restaurant that said, "Help!  I'm trapped in a fortune cookie factory!"  I never saw this notorious fortune with my own eyes, but if she was telling the truth, THAT would be the best fortune cookie fortune ever.  If she was pulling young firespark's leg, however, then this is the best fortune cookie fortune ever, which was found by a friend and promptly handed over to me, seeing as how I'd be able to fully appreciate it:

~ Book lovers never go to bed alone. ~

Oh, you know you chuckled.  ;)


Mittensmorgul is going through a writing crisis.  It's related to... RESEARCH!  (full horror movie scream... key up scary reeeeeee-reeeeee-reeeeee hacker music)

Her story is set in a city where she doesn't live, and, as my friend Sarah would say, her google-fu powers are failing her.

She writes:

"I just need to know what the first possible exit street from the lower deck of the bridge is. My MC needs to be waiting there to pick up her surveillance on the bad guy's car. AND I CAN'T FIGURE THIS OUT!!! GAH!!!"

This is the sort of crisis which strikes fear in the hearts of writers everywhere (and if it doesn't, it should).  Why?  Greg Rucka said it best in his article, Why I Write "Strong Female Characters"

"The reader is smarter than you. The reader is always smarter than you. And the reader knows when you've taken a shortcut, or phoned it in, or are trying to pull a fast one. And the reader don't like it one bit."

Oh mittens... I feel your pain.  And your fear.  Stay strong.  I've been informed that help, via red-headed carrier pigeon, has just landed.  The exit has been found.  It's going to be okay.  

Stay tuned for our next episode of Writing Life Beyond 'What You Know.'  

Over and out.


Petre is pondering research, too.  Is there something in the air?  Weeeeiiiiiiirrrrd... 

Research and Doing Art Right

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Research.  Research, research, research, research.  Research.  Oh gods, I don't know what I'm doing!  Write what you know...  But I don't want to write what I know, I want to write about a sociopath who takes over the world as we know it.  I want to write about a nation corrupted and laid to waste from the inside out.  I want to write about wars and power struggles and places I've never been and occupations I've never had.  *whimper*

So... research.  Research, research, research.  Anybody know how to research destroying one's own government FOR FICTIONAL PURPOSES without showing up on some kind of Homeland Security watch list?  Love the paranoia.

Hehe...  heh.

In other news, Amanda Fucking Palmer (sorry for the language, kiddies), has done it once again.  Her Kickstarter project for her next full length studio album has been funded by fans, both new and old, 10 Times Over.  You read that right.  Her goal was $10,000 and we, the people, with no help from any record label, have raised/donated over a million dollars to make this album a reality.  And there are still 51 hours to go (from the time of this writing).  I signed up and donated my meager five bucks, just to get all the extra stuff.  And because I believe in what she's doing--making music, on her own, supported by no one and nothing but fellow musicians and her fans.  This is how art is supposed to happen.  And it's why I'm sharing it with you here.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Pen and Print by David Reber Hammer's Photography
Hello, friends!  Just dropping by a quick note to let you know my dear friend, T. Z. Wallace, has managed to earn a spot in a contest, and I want to shout about it a little.  It is Miss Snark's First Victim's Secret Agent contest, and our lovely Ms. Wallace is May Secret Agent #3.  If you click on that last link (the red words saying "May Secret Agent #3" just to your left . . . I've linked them again in case you missed them the first time), it will take you to T. Z.'s entry, at which time you may find yourself drawn into the first scenes of a rather riveting story.  Once you've feverishly read through every word, you may then find yourself compelled to comment about this story, to say how it made you feel, why you kept reading, and maybe even a little constructive criticism (writers do like feedback, after all).  This would be the desired effect.  If even one of you first read this, and then read that, I'll have done my job.

For the record, I do love her opening ever so much.  But I won't try to sway you with my own opinions, however weighty they may be.

Happy reading!

I Was a World Book Night Giver

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

It's true.  This year, I was a World Book Night giver, and it was one of the greatest experiences of my life.  Never heard of World Book Night?  That's not surprising if you live in the US, as this was our inaugural year (even so, we had 25,000 givers across the country!  Let's have a big 'Woot!' for that!),  and it was only the second year for the UK and Ireland.  For those who don't know, it works like this:  you sign up, pick your top 3 favorite books from the list they give you, hope you get your first choice (I did), and then wait until you get the email saying your books are ready to pick up.  You then pick up your free (yes, free!) books and, on April 23rd, start passing them out to the literary-deprived like Santa Clause passing out goodies from his big red bag. 

I have to say, for my first time as a WBN giver, it was a pretty special one.  I've been using the term "full circle," which is the most apt way I can put it.  There were 30 titles to choose from.  One of them was a work by Stephen King.  As most people know, sai King is a very prolific writer, so really, WBN could have chosen from any of his 49 novels (and counting).  However, they happened to choose The Stand.  Why is this noteworthy to me?  Being a King fan (yeah, no big reveal there), I've read most of his books, and The Stand isn't even my favorite (though it's in the top 10).  But, you see, it's the way I first came to that story, long ago, in another life, that made the ability to give this particular piece of fiction like a little slice of kismet to me.

When I was 15 years old, I was in a bit of a pickle with my mother.  We were homeless and running from enemies unknown and unseen, except by her.  When you are a woman with a teenage daughter, you are desperate, and you have no place to go, where you go is a shelter.  A battered women's shelter, to be specific, because their locations are secret and this secret will, theoretically, keep you safe.  We were there to disappear, to Escape.  It's a long, sordid story (well, maybe not so long), and I'm not going to tell it all here.  But, suffice it to say, my world was in complete disarray.  We stayed at several shelters that year, and it was at one of those shelters that I came across a copy of The Stand.  The boyfriend I had left behind in a calmer, and to my 15 year old mind, more Utopian realm, had been after me to read this particular novel (this was before my disappearing girl act, you understand).  I had read two other King novels, also at boyfriend's request (he was the catalyst that started the SK fire within me; who knew I'd turn out to be such a junkie?), and had already developed a healthy appreciation for the man's work.  So, I snatched it up.

If you don't know, The Stand is an epic* post-apocalyptic fantasy/horror in which a runaway flu-like virus developed by the US military infects nearly the entire US population and wipes out life as we know it.  A few puzzlingly immune souls remain.  And they, the scattered survivors, must come together to fight the ultimate battle of good and evil.  It's a fantastic story and I recommend it to anyone.  Seriously.  Of course, when I cracked open the first pages of this rather lengthy tome, I was in the midst of a full-blown, snot-oozing summer cold, and had half convinced myself that the end of the human race would start with me.  But, I read on.

Looking back now, I realize just how much those books, and that book in particular, helped me through some of the most terrifying times of my life.  It didn't matter that what I was reading was scary in its own right.  It was the voice of the author, the truth of the characters... I knew it would be okay.  Not that it would end well, there's never any guarantee of that, but whatever happened would be just as it should be, would be, well, I've said this before: true in the telling.  I trusted him.  I knew Uncle Stevie (as he now refers to himself on occasion) would see me through.  And, while I was reading, no matter how unstable the world around me, I wasn't afraid.  I had an anchor, a link to a world where people write amazing and creative things, touch the human spirit, and share it with the rest of us.  I wasn't alone.

And now, I thought, here I am, April 2012 and all grown up, and I have the opportunity to give books--that book--to anyone I like, no strings attached.  Can you guess who got the first several?  I went crazy and called or emailed every shelter I came across.  Some responded, some didn't.  The local battered women's shelter never got back to me, and I think Catholic Charities might have thought such filth (it's a horror novel!) was unfit for the poor unwed mothers they put up in the shelter I inquired about.  But I got to hand them out to a soup kitchen (I know a lady who volunteers there and she said she's got some regulars who try to circulate and trade any books they can get their hands on) and, most fulfilling, to our youth services emergency shelter.  That last one is for kids ages 12-17 who are homeless, runaways or somehow displaced, and need a safe place to go.  A place for teenagers, to keep them safe... that resonated.  They got the bulk of my loot.  The rest were handed out randomly to strangers at the downtown bus station, to my downtown parking garage attendant, to unsuspecting patrons and employees at a Whole Foods Market.  Some of them were probably readers already, and nearly all of them stared at me for a moment while they tried to process who I was and why I was holding out this phone-book-thick paperback to them.  It's free?  Um... And then I'd quickly explain, this is just a fiction novel, Stephen King (maybe you've heard of him?).  It's not religious propaganda and I'm not selling anything.  Really.  Free.  They got the picture in the end.

Presently, the deepest most desperate desire of my heart is this:  that even just one of those twenty copies I distributed touches someone the way it touched me.  That someone going through hard times has found a safe place in this work of fiction, and that it helps to carry them through.  Whatever literary gods there are, I pray you grant me this one wish.  Please.  This is how I pay it forward; how I can come full circle.

Will I be doing this next year?  Most definitely.  A new year, with new book choices.  How could I resist?  I hope I do this every year for the rest of my life.  Viva la World Book Night!

*by this I do not mean 'epic' the way my son would say, "Hey mom, this pink bendy straw is totally epic!"  I mean the dictionary definition of epic, as per,  to wit:


 [ep-ik]  Show IPA
adjective Also, ep·i·cal.
noting or pertaining to a long poetic composition, usuallycentered upon a hero
in which a series of greatachievements or events is narrated in elevated style: 
Homer's Iliad is an epic poem.
resembling or suggesting such poetry: an epic novel on thefounding of the country.

True Confessions of a Writer 'In Process'

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

My friend GingerGirl has done something awesome, though admittedly a little intimidating.  She's given herself a deadline to finish her novel, has been working on it daily for about . . . a month now? (is that right?)  . . . and has inadvertently guilted me into getting back to my own novel.

I can do this.  I can.  I can finish this thing.  Why not?

Why not, indeed.  I've been working on this novel for a few years now and I am ashamed to say I'm nowhere near the end.  I say the problem is not enough time, because of my job and my family and my responsibilities (you know, the endless list of excuses).  That, however, isn't the whole truth.  It's not even half the truth.  The real reason I haven't finished this story is that I am afraid.  I suppose that's true for most writers (at least, that's what they say in interviews), so I'm in good company.  But, what am I afraid of?  Yep, the usual.  That I'm just not good enough.

It's not writer's block; I see the story, I know my characters.  In fact, I love my characters.  They're like dear friends of mine (though it's sometimes a sad fondness, since I know a few of these darlings will have to die).  I can experience the world in my head--the scenarios, the highs and lows, the pain and joy.  I feel this story, and sometimes it explodes in technicolor brilliance behind my eyes.  But . . . can I tell it?

I have pages and pages of what seems to me like wordy, meandering drivel, with the occasional "good" sentence or scene.  And I don't mean "good" as in "well written."  I know how to revise and rewrite until a thing is honed for maximum effect, and I'm comfortable with the fact that this is a first draft and things are a bit slipshod at this stage.  No.  By "good," what I really mean is true.

If you're a writer, you know what I mean.  Well, I assume you do . . . we probably haven't met properly, so I can't say for sure.  I think it's safe to say, however, that most writers know and love their stories, as I do, and just want to be true to them, in the telling.  These funny, thoughtful, explosive, terrifying, poignant stories that live within us just needing a little nurturing by a competent mother so they can be birthed into existence and learn to walk around on their own.

So, no pressure, right?  Right.

I'm going to get back to my novel, now.  I've got a villain who's trying to take over my whole head, and I'd better get him in check before he wins.  As I said last post--a year of doing.

"Go then, there are other worlds than these."
- Stephen King, The Gunslinger

Aye.  Thankee, sai.  Wish me courage.

2012 Arsenal: What We Have

Monday, January 2, 2012

Hello, all.  Seems I'm always good for a New Year's post, huh?  (Even if it is a day late.)  I won't keep you long, however.  No, just a little blip of a post.  I don't have a lot to say that hasn't been said more thoroughly and eloquently than I could ever manage.  It's 2012, after all--a big year, according to, well, everything.  An election year in one of the most strained political climates of our time, the apocalypse, the end of the world.  You know, all that fun stuff.  All I know for sure is that, for me, this is a 'doing' year.  And for the world, this is a 'changing' year.  I am certain things will get worse before they get better, because isn't that the way it always goes?  But that's all right because we have each other, and we have ourselves--our dreams, our hope, and our tenacity.  We can build from there.

In the Archdruid Report, our hero John Michael Greer addresses this very same concept with his most recent post, Hope in a Cold Season.  He talks of hope and courage and our waning sense of entitlement.  "Courage, for example, isn’t a facile assurance that one is destined to win. It’s the quality of character and the act of will that does the right thing in the face of danger and fear."
Yes, Mr. Greer. I quite agree.

Ebbs and flows are everywhere--some things grow stronger while others grow weaker--as we move closer and closer to a critical point that will tip our country in a new direction.  Through it all, we must remember that we are still here.  Everything else is possibility.  

"Feel no shame for what you are."
     - New Year's Prayer
        Jeff Buckley

This next is a phenomenal video.  (It's worth watching in full screen, if you can.)  Somehow, it seemed apt.  Here's to a new year of growing in all the right ways.

"I put my soul in what I do."
     - When I Grow Up
        Fever Ray