Author Page! And Other Stuff...

I officially made and official Author Page over on Facebook. I'm not sure this was the right thing to do, since I don't have any books out (besides the poetry anthology, Poetry Pact 2011, which you can buy here, if you like poetry. It's modest, but has come great poets (not me) involved, and poems that range from complex to Byron and Frost-type (me) and is a fun read) out but since so many submissions ask about Author pages and how many followers one has, and so on and so forth, I thought I ought to have an official page. At the very least, I can try to start accruing followers and such. If you're feeling kindly, please go here, and follow me.

The 'other stuff' is mostly just musing about how difficult it is to keep writing sometimes. Not difficult as in, you've got writer's block, or anything like that, but difficult as in, you've got so many stories in your head that want to be written, but you don't know which one should be the next one. There are so many options here, and I find myself flickering back and forth between several. Currently, it's between A Life Once Borrowed, which is a contemporary (with magical elements, though just how much magical elements is still unclear) inspired by the Scottish ballad, The Daemon Lover, and a completely new WIP, tentatively titled The Weight of a Shadow, which is much more fantasy. I'm also continuing to plug along with the Castalia memoir, and the super secret project.

Also, it's always interesting to find out that you were walking around with an injury you didn't know you had. Since I'm now off the blood thinners, I've finally gone to PT for what we thought was rhomboid pain, which has been causing me an increasing number of severe headaches. After initial treatment of the rhomboid and neck issue my PT guy traced the origin of the trouble back to a lump that I've had for about seven years, since a tragically clumsy 'almost' fall in the shower. Turns out that lump, is not one, but two torn muscles, which have subsequently scared and developed adhesions to the structures around them. Nice. On the upside, at least we discovered this now, as opposed to five or ten years from now, at which point, there might not be a way to fix things. And my shoulder is healing. I'll have PT for another couple of weeks but already the torn area is beginning to resolve and the lump is less than half the size it was.

And, because life is always better with old lady cats, here's a random photo of Face, who often sits with me while I'm writing. A fitting copilot when I'm working on the Castalia memoir. 17 years young, she is. And still death to any mouse she sees, as well as random feet.

She had a skittish soul, that girl with the faraway eyes...

The title is part of the first line of one of my WIPs. Specifically, the memoir I'm muddling through about Castalia, where I worked for thirteen years, and would still be, were that an option. I have so much to say about that period in my life, and yet each sentence is wrought of blood, extricated from my mind like a pale splinter of bone being pulled free from flesh and muscle, each spell spent working on it an exhausting and painful bout of self-inflicted wounds.

I'm in a maelstrom of life right now. Not because bad things are happening, but because many things are happening, but happening around me, while I'm secluded from them, even though I want to be a part of them so very badly. I am trapped inside a glass ball, tossed from wave to wave, caught by the storming winds, and pulled by the currents, yet completely unable to influence my own movements in any manner.

I know, so Eeyore, so emo, such a downer. I don't mean to be, and I'm not depressed.

More, I simply feel disconnected. Friends have books coming out (!) some have second books coming out (!!!) others have gotten agents (!) In the non-writing world cousins have had babies (*squee*) best friends have had babies (*more squeeing*) people have gotten married, other people have died. Everyone is doing things, going places. Meanwhile, I float in my sea-tossed glass, still writing, still fixated on that one goal of attaining an agent or a publishing deal. I don't begrudge the ships of friends, the schooners, and galleons, the sleek yachts or catamarans of other's lives setting off on different courses, but the distance between us has never yawned wider. They ride currents of wind and air, choosing their route with rudders and sails, while I bob at the mercy of the elements, unable to even cobble a ship together, never mind a process of steering it.

My cage is only made of glass. If I struck it, it would shatter. But that would leave me exposed to the sea without any means of staying afloat, so for now, I keep my hands fisted at my sides, hold all my weapons, the chafing frustrations, and irascible truths, that could fracture the insubstantial globe close against me, where they scrape and cut away at my calloused insides, but cannot damage the fragile cage. And I wait, scribbling stories across my own skin, putting them where I can never forget their sound, where they might safely wait until they can finally be recited within the sheltering glow of the campfires of others' minds. Those stories are all that matters, all that will be left once the body they're written on has dried an turned to dust, their passages impermeable to decay.

Should my glass some day finally be thrown onto the rocks of a seaside town, or hauled up in the belly of a fisherman's net, at least there will be stories inside it, if nothing else. Indelible traces of the bones and skin that made them so long before. Stories that will be heard and told and retold and reformed and passed from one mouth to another ear, to be regurgitated yet again in yet a new body. Immortality, by its truest definition, gained by accident through the act of creation.

So, here I bob and sink, and rise and fall, contained, and railing against the sphere around me while at the same time I resist doing anything to escape my cage. For now, I wait. And write. Always, I write.

Driving All Over The Place And Going Nowhere...

I figured it was time to throw another post up, you know to stay in the habit of posting... at least every couple of months... or so... Anyway, I'm *finally* over whatever abominable plague I had. At leas, I'm over it enough to feel like a million bucks, but I suspect I'm still slow enough that once I'm *TRULY* over it, it'll seem as though I've been sick for most of my life. Point is, I'm back to doing stuff, laughing and snorting, and writing. Also, mowing the lawn.

Anyone who's known me for any length of time will remember that I'm not normally allowed to touch things like the weed eater or lawn mower. This is because like some sort of rogue EMP wave, I can break the shit just by touching it. No joke, this happens a lot. On smaller things (like watches) the stuff just stops working for no obvious reason. On larger things, it's sometimes more obvious (split main belts, ruptured things, whatever) but the result is the same. Shit no work, no more. So normally, I don't touch it, and that solves the problem.

But Dad, while he's doing fine, is at a point where stuff like riding the mowing for two hours, affects him more and more. So I'm his replacement. I know, terrifying. It's like sending Chris Farley to stand in for Chris Pine. Not the same. But after a lesson from Dad, I managed to mow the whole property without dying, killing anything or breaking anything. Sunday, I repeated the procedure (except that I forgot to mow the back lot...) and succeeded again.

While I was driving the mower the first time, I was hit with yet another story idea. I know, I know. You're thinking Just pick a story and write it, kid! But the problem is that I don't have anyone waiting for the stories, so I just keep plodding along with them instead of running a marathon, and along the way I find shiny new things to pick up, and eventually I start dropping other shiny things that I've gotten tired of carrying. But I do remember where they all got dropped, so I can go right back and pick them up if anyone is ever interested in them. This is what happens when you drive all over the place and go nowhere. You start playing make believe while you're driving.

In my case, that means that while I'm writing, but not moving forward toward publication (not that I can tell, anyway) I tend to have many multiple projects going at once, and sometimes, they get traded out for new projects, which eventually get set aside so I can work on older ones. But at least my engine is still going. And when that gate toward publication finally opens, I intend to roar down the racecourse without a backward glance, my stories flying behind me like banners in the wind!

In Which I Ponder Things, and Probably Whine A Little

Or maybe I whine a lot. Not that I'm feeling whiny, but it's hard to lament (not to be confused with complaining) the fact that I can't write the way I want to, without feeling like you sound at least a little whiny, since the reason I can write the way I want to is because I have a job, which is paying the bills since writing is not.

But I digress.

With all of the backlash and discussion about Stacey Jay it really makes me look at my own situation. I found the entire thing shocking, that an established author with a fan base would meet with such indignant rage. Admitting that maybe *how* Stacey carried out the kickstarter, she still didn't do anything wrong. In fact, I just googled 'author kickstarter backlash' and found pages of authors and independent directors, and other people all promising to create stuff if you pay for them to be able to create it. So why naysayers fixated on Stacey, I'll never understand. Anyway, the thing that scared me the most about all of that, is that I would have already done something like a kickstarter if I thought it would  bring in enough money to allow me to write full-time. And I'm not a published author. But the idea would be that I could write something, and self publish it and those who funded the project would get their book, and I'd get to write full-time.

Now I know that this fantasy of mine is just that, a fantasy. It's not logistically or rationally sound all the way through. But it seems like it could be the best idea ever. And if I ever managed to get an agent, then a publisher and actually sell a book, you're damn straight I'd do a kickstarter to fund other books if that was what it took to stay published, because I already made it, I'm not about to fold and go home now. And to be fair I'd probably do a kickstarter in regard to, say, the memoir I'm working on that involves a local historic estate, with photographs and stuff, prints of which could be included as pledge rewards, etc. It would be more feasible and marketable than an unknown fiction. Plus, since I live right where the book is set, I've got the ability to put it out in the public that would be most interested in it.

But I digress again.

The point of all of this, I suppose, is just to ponder how much us authors are willing to do, and risk, in order to be able to write. I spent thirteen years working on a farm that gave me much more time to write and create, and I spent every moment that didn't involve farm work, or horse work, on writing work and trying to better myself as an author.

Now I'm in a job that has cut my writing time by more than half. I'm literally (on average) down to writing (and by the word 'writing' I mean first drafts, second drafts, editing, working on critique partners' stuff, queries, etc) from 8-bedtime in the evenings. And I get up at 6am. Which, if I'm lucky, and I don't happen to have insomnia (thank you, blood thinners, and it's not a writeable type of insomnia, just an brain dead no sleep type) means I get two hours. TWO HOURS. I know for some writers, that's a huge block of time. But for me, who was accustomed to basically 8-9 hours a day of 'available' writing time (even when I was at work on the farm, I could often write) it's been extremely difficult to use that those two hours productively. As a panster, I'm used to just sitting down and going with it. But now I've got to triage WIPs into what is more viable, or marketable (in a broad sense, vampire vs something totally not done, or whatever) and at the same time balance anything else that needs tending, like editing finished drafts, or anything else in the stages of writing. As a result, I've shelved the only competitive manuscript (still with an agent and publisher, but I'm a realist and not holding my breath by now) and I'm not even thinking about agents at the moment. If I had any sort of guiding necessity (deadlines, agent guidance, whatever) it would be much easier. Instead, I'm in this very vexing position of 'the sky is the limit, just keep writing and create but only do it in two hours - in the evening, even though you're often a morning writer - and that's it'.

I find myself evaluating how little I could live on, but in todays economy, I'm pretty much already there. *If* nothing comes up unexpectedly, I *might* be able to put aside a little money every month. That's if I do not travel anywhere, do not buy anything extra, do not use money for anything besides established bills (phone, groceries, health insurance and one, small, credit card, standard animal maintenance) The moment crap hits the fan, any money saved is gone. At the moment, on top of regular bills, I've got one cat on $260 a month medicine (for at least 6 months) another who's hit old man stage and needs dental work, $700 on top of the $300 that just went out the door to get him prepared for the dental stuff (vet trip to have a senior work-up and blood tests to make sure there's no other health concerns) and along with that, all my own bills that are accruing with this blood clot. Because, we wouldn't want the health insurance to actually pay for anything health related, would we? Still bracing for the ultrasound bill from when I was diagnosed, plus all the blood work, which will continue weekly, since I'm not on Coumadin, which I could afford, unlike the synthetic blood thinners they originally put me on, but I couldn't afford. Not that I'd rather be dead from a thrown clot. I've got tons of family support, I'm going to be fine. The point is, this is a struggle with a full-time job. I don't see how it's possible for someone like me (single, childless) to ever just 'quit and write' like I read about authors doing.

Are there any other single writers out there who don't have significant other income to rely on? Any helpful tips for a panster who's trying to squash herself into a small cubicle of strict structure?

Lost in Faerie... I'll Get Back To You...

Okay, I'm not really lost... not really... But I'm EVER SO SLOWLY working my way through a much cherished ARC of Faerie Winter by Janni Lee Simner and freaking ferrets riding calliopes I'm in love with it. Utterly. Irrevocably. *sighs and resists the urge to pick up aforementioned awesomeness*

I've also been totally lost in my own dystopian world, working on a companion novel to Evernow. I am so into this can of worms that there's no getting me out without a fish hook... This kind of writing is like a drug for me, which is a little disturbing, but since it costs me nothing, and might pay my bills one day I guess it's a good kind of disturbing. Whatever, I'll got with it :)

Oh, and while I'm on the subject does anyone who might read this have an opinion/experience with querying a companion book? I mean, this is a just companion book, and unless something changes, it'll be able to stand alone. It takes place many years after Evernow, and thusly references to the Endings and the time before them are much more vague. Is it okay to query this book (tentatively titled Anima Rising, AR for short, you may now begin with the pirate jokes :) assuming that I don't have an agent by the time it's ready to query? Should I just reorganize my brain to see the two books as having no actual 'order' between them, and just see them as two books taking place in the same world? Or should I still view Evernow as the 'anchor' book to the set? There's probably a third book floating in my head, another companion/stand alone. Any impute will be appreciated.

In other news, Christmas is in full swing in our neck of the woods, so we've been doing stuff like getting a Christmas tree, and decorating and helping my grandmother (code name Gang) put up her tree. Dinner is calling... but here are a couple of pictures of Gang's tree...

It's nine feet tall and absolutely inundated with ornaments, many of which are older than me. The glass beads and tinsel are also ancient by decorations standards.

This is an ornament that Gang made back in 1972 in a craft class she was taking. Yes, only in my family can you have May West rendered as a claymation mermaid... It's been a cherished game, though, for all of us kids to rush to the tree every year on Christmas and be the first to find her...

I'm doing it again...

I'm doing it again... posting multiple times after not having posted in a coon's age... I can't help it. I'm sitting here engulfed by this paradox of dysmorphic emotions with no one to talk to about any of them. I feel very professional at the moment. I feel as though AGMG is just a breath better than EVERNOW. I'm meeting writing goals. I'm managing the 'business type' side of writing - aiming for and hitting word count, editing within a certain time frame, strategizing for why this ms is marketable - and I'm already planning out my next big project. I have outlines for the next WIPs I intend to invest most of my time in.

I've chosen two:

GENESIS

Miakoda Auster has never been normal, and she's never wanted to be normal, which is good, considering that she has a history of doing things like killing rabbits with her bare hands as a kindergartner. Then at fifteen she's diagnosed with Adolescent Onset Rheumatoid Arthritis. If that wasn't bad enough, the drugs they put her on to try and help the arthritis wreak havoc with her body and health. As soon as she turns eighteen, Koda leaves her parents, all the drugs, and the awful heat of North Carolina behind, and heads for the brisk sea air of Skagway Alaska, where her older brother Graham lives as a fisherman. And that's when things start to get weird even by Koda's standards. Despite her quick temper, and generally ill-sorted attitude, she finds friendship with Iliamna, the new girl at the Scholl Hole were Koda works as a meat carver. But Iliamna isn't what she seems to be, and Koda soon learns that she had a destiny far different from the one she's now facing. A destiny stolen from her by the Rheumatoid Arthritis that's deforming her joints and causing her constant pain. Koda is a Genesis. A werewolf created by spontaneous mutation. One of only three known spontaneous wolfen, Koda doesn't belong to any of the existing five Lines. Instead, she has the ability to create an entirely new Line. Founding a new bloodline is a goal coveted by all wolfen. But Koda can never shift her shape. She can never take on her wolf form because her crippled joints can't withstand the forces of shifting, and the doctors have warned that a pregnancy might well kill her. But that won't stop the wolfens of rival Lines from battling over her, or claiming her for their own against her will. Caught up in a war she wants no part of, dealing with her own emotions over discovering what she is and facing the fact that she can never fully embrace her wolf side, despite her desire to do so, Koda must rely on Iliamna and the other members of the Eventide Pack, the only wolfens who care about her for more than her ability to found a new Line. But the arrival of a new wolfen, an ancient wolfen who has never before aligned with any Pack, threatens everything and soon Koda finds herself facing all the complications of werewolf love on top of her growing troubles.


ROOK THIEF

Etienne Ryan is happy just to get every day things done, like opening her toothpaste and taking care of her beloved silver oak tree. Rheumatoid Arthritis makes that almost impossible sometimes. Luckily, her older friend Trey won't let her wallow in her troubles. With her sharp tongue and tough attitude, Trey constantly pushes Ed to do what she can, when she can, to keep trying even when she feels hopeless. Trey is used to pushing Ed. Since Ed's father was killed in a tragic fire a year ago, Trey's been looking out for Ed, helping her with her father's bookstore, the Dreaming Hole. Billy Conrad looks out for Ed too. It was Billy who pulled Ed from the burning house, saving her from the fire that killed her father. But Billy is a little overprotective. Of course, considering that it was Ed's best friend, Liam, who set fire to her house, Billy's protectiveness is hard to argue with. When a new boy named Oren begins trying to win Ed's friendship though, things get a little complicated. Although he's secretive, keeping his scarred face hidden by hooded sweatshirts, Ed is quickly drawn to Oren and his unique perspectives. As their friendship deepens, Billy's concerns over Ed's safety grow too, and the tension between him and Oren soon becomes an all out war. And then there are the letters that Ed keeps getting from Liam. In them, he warns her that he isn't her enemy, the Rook Thief is. Sorting through it all, Ed begins to suspect that Billy might not be her hero after all, Liam might not have set the fire as everyone thinks, and the fact that Oren's scars resemble those on her silver oak, which was burned in the fire that killed her father, might not be just a strange coincidence... and all three of the guys fighting over her might be something other than human. But who is the Rook Thief? And who can Ed really trust?




I started working on Genesis because Koda showed up in my head and refused to stop driving me nuts until I addressed her situation. But I had already begun working on Rook Thief. So now I'm writing on both of them. Well... I was writing on both of them. At this precise moment, I'm not writing on anything due to the 'possibly fractured' finger which makes it impossible to hold a pen, but you get my meaning. That both stories involve girls with RA is coincidence. I often give my main characters something challenging with their joints because it's a subject close to my heart. I know, unfortunately, what it's like to have to ask someone to do something like tear open a packet of sugar for you because you don't have the strength to manage it. But Rook Thief was the first WIP I started where my mc had RA. Then later, Koda showed up with her own obvious complications. Several people have suggested that I shelve Genesis because werewolves have 'been done'. I HAVE always sworn that I wouldn't join the werewolf ranks (although I admit to being Team Jacob...:) but Koda isn't the sort of girl you can just say 'no' to... so here I am, writing a werewolf book...

Am I bananas? Should I ditch the furry dramarama and focus on Rook Thief? Should I keep at them both? Is there even room for another werewolf book? How different would a 'different take' on the werewolf thing have to be for you to take a gander? Do you just gag thinking about werewolf stuff? I'm all excitable because I already love the characters within Genesis, but it might well be a star-crossed love considering the glut of furry heroes and heroines in the marketplace...

Please, discuss! What WIP are you working on, even knowing that it might be a labor of love rather than a best seller?