Reset

Hello friends.  I know you've probably given up on me.  It's been six months since my last entry (which feels very much like saying it's been six months since my last confession).  The world . . . my world . . . has changed so much since then.  When I left you, fluctuations in the system and unreliable connections meant the airship that was my life was on borrowed time, and would soon require an overhaul.  Finally, predictably, the engines failed, requiring a quick and dramatic rerouting of fuel and power.  I did what needed doing, and now this ship can fly again, back on course.

Unfortunately, all that triage meant my poor blog was left behind, dying in the sun.  I considered leaving it there.  I doubted I'd hear too much protest, and perhaps it was time.  Perhaps Notes from a Sentient Observer was tired and wanted to be left to its own private, dignified demise.  But then, after some soul searching and a little external inspiration, I had a change of heart.

That inspiration came when I heard about this amazing storytelling project called cowbird.  Cowbird is a common space on the internet where anyone can tell their stories, both real and fictional.  In their words, "Stories help us be students and teachers of life. They help us make sense of our lives, and they help us find meaning."  This is what I have always believed, and this is why I first created this blog--to tell my stories, share my musings, hopefully inspire discussion, and maybe find a little meaning along the way.  I may someday contribute to the cowbird project, as in awe of its existence as I am.  But, for now, I will simply attempt to breathe life into my own little public storytelling space.

Getting On With It

If you are (or were) a regular follower, you probably notice that I've changed my name to something a little more "real world."  It's true, this is the real me.  For all of my old blog friends, this is the grand unveiling, as it were.

Overhauling Airship Angela meant that suddenly I had a lot more freedom to do this life thing the way I really wanted.  This lead to some discussion with my dear friend and writerly cohort, T. Z. Wallace, which brought us both to the conclusion that we needed to Get Serious about this whole freelance thing.  This meant getting Linked Ins and starting a freelance page (not up and running yet) and getting all our crap organized.  She's a bit seriouser than I (being the mad driven ginger she is), and is always at least 2-3 steps ahead of me.  In the wake of her considerable dust, I have been attempting to get all my respective craps together.  And since I have decided to keep this blog, it is now linked to the other writing crap I do, say thank you.  Hence the dropping of "firespark" (ah, but I admit I was a bit sad to see her go) and the embracing of just me, Angela B.

On a more personal note, my offspring and I have acquired new living quarters, and I have a new love in my life.  I will henceforth refer to said beloved as Mr. V.  I have a feeling Mr. V will creep into my tales often.  My greatest joys and inspirations typically do.

I will also tell you I am not so afraid anymore.  This is one of the many perks of the recent overhaul and subsequent upgrade.  It means I will be hiding less, and giving more.  It means I will be less of a stranger and more of a friend, as I always intended to be.  I hope it means my stories will be richer, and my posts more frequent.  We're going to talk about life, you and me.  We're going to discuss all those things I observe and ponder, if you'll indulge me that much.  Stuff in the world, stuff in my head.  It's all fair game.

Some Pennies for My Thoughts

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.  ;)

Wait...

THIS JUST IN
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.

Update

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

http://petrepan.blogspot.com/2012/05/late-at-night-and-fiction-research.html?showComment=1339639035255#c3898597279907800707 

Research and Doing Art Right

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.

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/amandapalmer/amanda-palmer-the-new-record-art-book-and-tour

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

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 dictionary.com,  to wit:

ep·ic

   [ep-ik]  Show IPA

adjective Also, ep·i·cal.

1.

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.

2.

resembling or suggesting such poetry: an epic novel on thefounding of the country.