Be My Villain

E Tira Forte Vento...

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 00:23:00 +0000

Caruso is probably one of the most overdone songs in, well, ever. Still, I stumbled across this rendition done by Lara Fabian and as I sit here listening to it, it blows through me, grabs debris I've been holding on to and flings it out into the world. It feels like this singer was inspired to do this song just so she could give voice to things I lack the talent, courage, and eloquence to say for myself. I don't even speak much Italian, so there's still a cloak of linguistic protection in which to wrap myself - I never said that. She said it, and she was just singing this old song.

Not Working Just to Survive

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 10:21:00 +0000

Matt over at Comics Cavern said something to me today that really rattled me. I am certain that he meant nothing sinister by simply saying that he had no idea I wrote fiction, but it really made a few things hit home.

First of all, I DO write fiction, or at least, I did. In replying to Matt, I sent him links to the two-part story I wrote as supplemental material for my friend Shawn's last novel. After sharing the links, I re-read that story, and you know what? It's freaking good. Not only is it good, but I actually like it. Not only do I like it, but other people, whose opinions matter to me, like it. Why then, did I stop doing something I like and am good at?

The answer isn't easy, but it is simple: because I don't like it right now. Why don't I? That's not so simple. My hope is that this is just a temporary state of being brought on by ennui and general sick-of-it-allness with regard to how I'm currently earning my income. I've been working as an independent contractor, and the work I'm doing is just not stimulating. It's like endless homework assignments for the boring class I can barely stay awake for on the days I force myself to show up. It's not that it's difficult work - it's that sitting down to write used to be something I looked forward to. Now, I'd suddenly rather do the dishes or watch endless Three's Company reruns than compose sentences, so when the paying work is done, I'm so sick of writing that the novel doesn't get worked on. No PoetryAssignment entries are done. No PopBunker posts get done. This blog doesn't get updated.

In short - the joy is being unceremoniously sucked out of writing. This is a problem.

Problems, however, have solutions, and I refuse to accept that this solution is an empty set. I'm going to start right away applying for different jobs. I'll have to give up being able to set my own hours, leave when I want, and work from anywhere, but I still think it'll be a net gain.

This recession is a bitch. I feel compelled by it to say that I'm grateful to have any income at all, even though it breaks my heart to hear how many friends are saying the same thing as they spend day after day in jobs they hate. We are all grateful just to be able to survive. That is so far from okay that it's not even funny.

I will not be defeated by it though. You know what I did yesterday? I sat on a (really tiny) stool at Meltdown Comics and interviewed Scott Ian*.

I sat there, with a microphone up my shirt and hot lights on my face, talking about comic books with an honest to golly rock star so you know what? You're damn right I am not working just to survive. I've been invited back to Meltdown next week to join the guys on their podcast to talk about women in comic books.

I need more of this in my life. These things make me feel alive again. Last night, when Vito from Comics on Comics asked me how I felt about being on camera, I said, "not a problem," out loud while a hyperactive pogo-stick went off in my chest. Even though I was terrified enough to send a couple of spastic text-messages to Michael, who I knew wouldn't hold it against me later and gave me a calm shot of confidence in return, there was not a chance in hell that I wasn't going to see this through.

I can't express how truly grateful I am to have had that experience, and that's not obligatory gratitude to which I feel duty-bound to give lip-service so the Universe won't smite me. That's real thanks, for answering the question "why the hell am I here?" My mind, heart, and spirit have all taken a beating lately, and this chance to be among people who care about what I care about, who refuse to settle for mediocrity, and be not a spectator but a peer among them has re-lit my pilot light.

*For an in-depth report, video of the interview, and chance to win autographed copies of Lobo: Highway to Hell, keep an eye on PopBunker.net.

The Sphinxes' Eyes

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 08:02:00 +0000

If you don't recognize the above, then you're probably one of the ones who make me feel old. In case you are, or if it's just been a really long time since you've seen The Neverending Story, all you really need to know is that the sphinxes you see there are the first gate the hero Atreyu must pass en route to the Southern Oracle, where he hopes to find the means to keep his world from being ripped to shreds. In order to make it through this first gate alive, one must be confident in the pureness of his heart. Anyone with ulterior motives or uncertainty about this being the right course of action will be flash-fried by laser beams shot from the sphinxes' eyes.

It's a simple enough set-up. Be confident, and you live to get your answers. Waver, and everything falls apart while you sizzle. The Southern Oracle is 10,000 miles from the Swamps of Sadness. That's a long walk when you don't have a luck dragon to take you most of the way.

I got some advice this week, and as I walk, I'm trying to follow it, even though the execution is so alien to me, I don't feel like myself. Hopefully, by the time I get to the sphinxes, I'll have been able to decide if it's worth it. Hopefully, my heart will tell me either to make the leap of faith and not look down for the safety net, or to stop and figure something else out before I approach the gate. Hopefully, when I do get there, the sphinxes' eyes will stay closed. Maybe then, I'll get to ask the Oracle where to go from there.

"Who is Colin Farrell?"

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 10:34:00 +0000

About a year and a half ago, I got this text message from my mom, who was in California for a work-related conference, that just said, "Who is Colin Farrell?" This kind of random question isn't really odd for my family. My brother will probably never get a smartphone or use 411, because he just calls or texts me to ask where he can get a Bob Marley t-shirt in Virginia Beach at 2:00 in the morning. Anyway, I told my mom, who admits to just not being good with names, "He's an actor - you like him. He's one of the pretty ones. Why?" It turns out she accidentally had tea with him in her hotel. I think she'd have preferred to accidentally have tea with Hillary Clinton, who was also a guest there at the time. The next text message I received from my mom during that trip was asking me for the identity of the tall, attractive African-American actor on Heroes. I don't watch the show, so I had no answer for her other than, "why?" As it happened, she'd collided with him on a staircase. Along with the willingness to shoot the breeze with just about anyone, klutz runs strong in our family, you see.

All of this is to say that my mom has had more quirky Hollywood moments during her visits than I've had since I moved here. Yeah, this is my way of saying by the way, in case you didn't know, I moved to Los Angeles. I got to California on the 5th - Guy Fawkes Day, which I know we don't do in America, but it's easy to remember, remember.

I've been chastised for not writing about this sooner, and also for neglecting tales of driving across the country, experiences I've had, and people I've either gotten to meet or see more of since I got here, but I'll get to it. I promise. Just not today.

Vanity Goes After a Fall

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 07:19:00 +0000

I don't remember the first time I heard about my mom's antique vanity; it's just one of those stories that gets repeated in the family every once in a while and just becomes part of the backdrop of the world as you know it. The world as I grew up in it included the broken pieces of the vanity, of which I only caught one glimpse when I was little, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The story goes something like this: About 30 years ago, my mom was moving to a new apartment and, being surrounded by brothers and brothers-in-law, was not lacking in hands to help load her furniture on to the truck to move it. Unfortunately, said brother-type-people didn't do a very good job securing things and well, when you add a steep hill and gravity to a poorly-secured vanity, nature does the math and gets a grim result - all over the pavement. Ever since that day, my mom has lived by the rule "if I want it done right, I'll do it myself," and who could blame her? Lucky for her, and for the rest of us, she's competent and capable at just about anything she sets her mind to. She may be but little, but she is mighty, my mom is, and she loves as fiercely as she does everything else.

I, on the other hand, am not so little and not so mighty, not by myself anyway. I like to think of my philosophy a little more in terms of what happened to the vanity next. Sam Kelley, my great-grandfather, was a bit of a notorious packrat in the family. I was only 8ish years old when he died, so I didn't really get to know him, but from what I do remember, he was also a kind, gentle-souled sort of man. I like to think that this was the driving force behind his saving everything, as much as Depression-era thrift. Why else would he have gathered up the splinters and shards of my mom's beloved heirloom and stashed them away in his cellar, where they remained until after he died? I asked once, but no one would tell me anything other than I wasn't supposed to be poking around in the cellar.

Therefore, I'm left to draw my own conclusions. I have decided that Sam Kelley just couldn't bear the thought of seeing something treasured by someone he loved thrown away. I have decided that this was his way of loving - perhaps a subtle way, one that may not be noticed by anyone who didn't go looking for it. I could be reaching with this one, but it comforts me to know that this is at least a possible and plausible explanation, because I know how beloved he was, and still is among those who were lucky enough to know him. It comforts me because I see this pattern in myself and wonder if I might have gotten it from Sam.

I'm sure I could spend hours with an analyst to break down all of the reasons it's hard for me to come right out and just say "I love you," or why I smile and nod and keep my distance when inside I'm screaming for the chance to let go. I don't even think I could learn to flirt if it were taught at the graduate level. Well, whatever the reason, my heart or my shoes, I am who I am, and maybe, just maybe, people will see my unconventional declarations of affection for what they are. At least my apartment doesn't have a cellar, though it has got a vanity.

Rabbit Loses More Than His Tail, Part 3 (conclusion)

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 19:37:00 +0000

Now Rabbit not only has a long skinny tail replacing his old fluffy cottontail, but one of his long ears has been blunted. Butterfly has fared no better and is hoping for some peace and quiet to recuperate on her cloud.

Butterfly had finally managed to fall asleep, but almost as soon as she'd drifted off, she was ripped awake again. Something was hurtling toward her, and before she could register what it was, it had knocked her from her resting place. Her musings about the indignity of one such as she falling to her death were interrupted by a new set of terrified ponderances as she found herself suddenly clasped firmly in the beak of a sparrow. She fought as hard as she could, but that's not saying much.

To her continued surprise, Sparrow glided to a stop on the next sturdy-looking cloud he came across, spit her out, and then collapsed. Once she realized she was still alive, she thought about jumping for joy, but passed out instead. When she came to, Sparrow was still there, still lying on his side. Butterfly crawled a tentative pace forward and noticed that the cloud was reddish and dissolving around the unconscious bird.

For a moment, she thought about just trying to fly away, but her conscience wouldn't let her. After all, Sparrow had saved her from falling, even if he had been the one to cause the fall. Besides, she probably wouldn't make it very far with only one good wing.

"Hey," she called out, nudging Sparrow with her foot. When he didn't stir, she kicked him a little harder, earning a startled "Ow!" and a "What the...?" for good measure.

When he'd gotten his bearings, Sparrow explained that he'd been minding his own business, singing to himself in his tree, when Rabbit had told him about a shiny new birdbath that had been installed in a neighboring yard.

"The birdbath was there, all right, but so was the little Antichrist with an equally brand-new pellet gun. Little bastard got me right where it counts," Sparrow said, holding up his own tattered wing.

Rabbit, Butterfly thought. Always with the ever-loving Rabbit.

"We gotta do something about that guy," she said.

"I think we'll be lucky if we can get off this cloud," said Sparrow balefully. "We've got one good wing apiece and this thing is breaking up fast."

"Well, we've got one shot then," Butterfly stated with a determined nod. Before Sparrow could reply, she wrapped her good arms around him. The cloud was almost completely disintegrated as she screamed, "Fly! Now!"

Sparrow wanted to argue, but knew there was no time. He squeezed his eyes shut and beat his good wing for all he was worth. To his surprise, they did not fall to their death. They were falling, to be sure, but with Butterfly's wing working with his, the descent was slow and controlled. They were going to make it.

Sparrow opened his eyes just in time to see Rabbit poking his nose out of his hiding place.

"Look!" called Butterfly, who had spotted not only Rabbit, but Cat, who was crouching in the alley shadows, watching the oblivious Rabbit.

With a little more effort, the pair hang-glided right up behind Rabbit, letting Sparrow catch him by his remaining long ear. Rabbit screamed and squirmed and wriggled so hard that his ear broke right off in Sparrow's beak. Deciding he'd worry about how ridiculous he looked - with two blunt ears now AND that stupid long tail - he made a break for his hiding hole once more, but Cat had other ideas.

Butterfly and Sparrow watched as the speeding trickster fled, while they made gentle contact with the ground.

"At least we know Cat will never give up," Sparrow chuckled. "That guy has a serious one-track mind."

He was right, as you know. Cats have chased those long-tailed, blunt-eared rodents ever since, in a neverending symbiosis, whether they know why or not. What you might not know, however, is that without ever formally deciding to do so, Butterfly and Sparrow were also partners from then on. Neither ever flew on their own again, but when they got tired of walking, all they had to do was lean on each other and the skies were theirs.

Rabbit Loses More Than His Tail, Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 02:09:00 +0000

When we left Rabbit last, he had just sent the beautiful but poisonous Butterfly unwittingly into the lair of Alley Cat, satisfied with himself for defeating both his enemies at once.

Having dealt with his tormentors so quickly, Rabbit decided to focus on getting a new tail. He felt off-balance without one, but he couldn't find anything fluffy; all around him were just vast stretches of the tall grasses of the field.

"It's only temporary," he told himself, sticking a long, whiplike blade of the golden grass to his fur where his tail had been. He was too busy examining his handiwork to notice the winged, purple streak hurtling toward him.

"Asshole!" Butterfly screamed over her shoulder as she darted past Rabbit. Cat was hot on her heels, knocking Rabbit head over long-tailed behind in pursuit of his new prey. One of Cat's razor-sharp claws caught Rabbit's ear, slicing half of it right off and flinging it backward into the alley. Cat stumbled a little, giving Butterfly the chance to get ahead, taking refuge on a low cloud.

With Butterfly out of reach, Cat turned his attention once more to Rabbit, who had made a few hops toward the alley in hopes of retrieving his ear.

"Not again!" screamed Rabbit, and he skittered back into his hiding hole. Cat glared and growled down at him for a few moments, but was too hungry to stick around for long and soon went back to the alley to scrounge in the dumpsters.

While Rabbit shivered and Cat scrounged, Butterfly panted and whimpered on her cloud. One of her wings was shredded to ribbons. She'd lost an antenna, and a couple of her legs were hanging useless at unnatural angles. Still, she was alive, and all she wanted was sleep. Deep, peaceful sleep, floating along on a cloud was the perfect way to recuperate - quiet and alone.

To be concluded...

This sketch of Butterfly came first. Words and story followed.

Rabbit Loses More Than His Tail, Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 17:55:00 +0000

Between writing articles I'm getting paid for (yay!) and posts to start arguments at PopBunker.net (also yay), I haven't written much fiction. I found the idea for this in one old notebook recently, and found a few paragraphs of it in another, newer notebook. Part of my family is Native American, specifically from the Seminole and Seneca tribes. When I was younger, someone gave me a copy of Chief Jim Billie's CD of songs and stories. My favorites are the ones about Cufe-Laksv, the trickster rabbit.

One summer evening, Rabbit decided to take a shortcut home. The alley was shadowy and full of junk, but he was confident in his cleverness and hopped forth. Rabbit might have been clever, but what he failed to realize in his infinite wit and wisdom is that alley Cat, while not terribly bright, was a lot bigger and had very sharp teeth. Before Rabbit could even think, he was running for his life. He did manage to outrun the hungry Cat and dive down a hole, but not before Cat had snatched off Rabbit's fluffy tail. As he recovered from the shock, Rabbit vowed to get revenge.

The next morning, Rabbit emerged from his hiding place. With the sun shining, it was easy for him to spot Cat, who had gone back to sifting through the dumpsters in the alley in search of food. Rabbit was wondering what he could do to get back at Cat for stealing his tail, when Butterfly meandered by on a scrap of warm breeze.

"Hey, Butterfly!" Rabbit called to her. "I heard a rumor you were poisonous. Is that true?"

"Damn right, I'm poisonous!" she snapped back. "So don't get any funny ideas!"

"Who, me?" said Rabbit, all innocent surprise. It helped that Butterfly was kind of a bitch. He wouldn't feel so bad now. "I was just making conversation," he began again. "What I really wanted to say was that someone planted some honeysuckles over on the other side of that alley and I thought you might want to know."

Butterfly blinked. "Wow, thanks," she said and flew off in the direction Rabbit was pointing.

Staring after her, Rabbit congratulated himself on settling the score for two insults at once.

"That was almost too easy," he thought with a grin.

To be continued.

Another Tuesday

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 00:56:00 +0000

A few years ago, my friend Scott and I were in the habit of eating Mexican food and walking at the beach on Tuesdays. Now that the weather's getting cold and I just found myself wondering if they'd shrink-wrapped the palm trees at the beach yet, I remember a Tuesday when those went from being one of my least favorite things in existence, to one of my most favorite. I was complaining that they were so tacky I didn't understand why the city even bothered with them since they're not even native to the climate here.

"Yeah, well, neither are coffee and white people, and I don't see you complaining about either of those, so quit bitching," Scott replied. Shut me up.

Perspective: Pass it on.

My One Piece of Advice

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 16:30:00 +0000

This goes out to all aspiring... anything really! I'm going to speak mostly to writers, because that's what I am and what I know, but I know actors, musicians, artists, craftsmen, and owners of all kinds of businesses who would agree with the one piece of advice I'm going to give you about how to succeed in your chosen field.

Are you ready?

Here it is: Use Twitter.

Hush your mouth if you just read that and started protesting because there's too much spam or too many idiots on there to make it worth your time. Are you hushed? I'll say it again.

Use Twitter.

It's that simple. You want me to show my math now, don't you? I suppose that's fair. I'll give you a glimpse of my network. I'll name them at the end, but these are writers I get to interact with, sometimes just commenting on daily life, but often talking shop as well. We all bring different things to the table, including our own areas of expertise, education, personalities, and yes, contacts. In the list I'll share with you, I'm only including those I've actually exchanged dialogue with. There are many more I follow because I like what they have to say and/or because they post helpful links and tips. I follow and communicate with more than just writers, but we'll stick to them for this post. If you'd like an introduction to some good folks in another industry, just ask. If you're already on Twitter, what are you reading this thing for? Skip to the end and consider it my ultimate #FollowFriday post.

I know it can be intimidating, this vast sea of names and brief bios. You may be wondering where to start, who to follow, and what to do with followers once you've got them. Luckily, it's very simple: join the conversation. You know what Twitter really is? It's a chatroom that isn't limited to any one topic. You get to tailor your own environment to be populated by people who share your interests. It becomes this great Venn-diagram of people with whom you can discuss any (and I mean any) topic under the sun.

Are there spammers and idiots out there? Of course they are, but there's an easy solution: don't follow them. Block and report the spammers, and if you don't like what someone is posting, you don't have to follow them. Is that a little bit of a hassle once in a while, sure, but let me put it this way: every single writing job, paid or unpaid, that I have gotten in the past year can be directly traced to a contact I made on Twitter. Every one, without exception, fiction and nonfiction. Think about that. I have added to my resume, gotten my name out there, gained the experience that prospective employers want, honed my craft, and because it doesn't actually go without saying, made some friends and had fun. I have done all of this without it costing me anything but time and effort, and let's face it, if you're not willing to spend that, you're not going to be successful at anything.

Okay, now your prize for suffering through my lecture! I promised you a peek into my little black book, and so here they are, some of (by no means all!) my favorite writer-people, in alphabetical order with just a few words about who they are:

@AlexBledsoe: Published novelist, loves his family, can quote Phantom of the Paradise!
@babesmcphee: Playwright and member of the Sacred Fools Theater Company. Her blog can be found here.
@BeTheBoy: His blog often makes me want to die laughing until I remember it's non-fiction, and then sometimes I want to cry. His wife is @slackmistress, who is a professional writer with her own blog and list of sites where her work can be found (including @ValemontU). Their @DaisyJDog is also on Twitter, and is always good about reminding us of the simple things in life. Why stress out too much about having a bath, when there is sure to be cake later, from @SusinaBakery (you see how it spirals out?)?
@coderster: Participates on PoetryAssignment, maintains her blog, and will be her area's NaNoWriMo Municipal Liason this year!
@CorbSilverthorn: The irrepressable Editor of Silverthorn Press. As passionate about the craft as he is silly, which is to say, quite a bit.
@David_N_Wilson: He does it all - writer, blogger, NaNoWriMo winner, and tireless fount of encouragement and useful advice.
@drunken_hopfrog: Mastermind behind PopBunker.net, where no cultural phenomenon is safe.
@ElwoodJBlues: A new voice on the pop culture blog scene. His personal blog has been entertaining us for a while now, but he's branching out, contributing to the @ComicStop's blog and more.
@GeoffJohns0: Okay, I haven't exactly had dialogue with him, per se, but he once sent me a Direct Message, so I'm counting it because it makes me feel special to include Geoff Johns on this list. You'd do it too, and you know it.
@hownottowrite: The best writing cheerleader on Twitter! Every day, he produces these oh-so-quotable messages that just keep you going! Also, his avatar is King Moonracer. You can't beat that.
@joethepeacock: The most successful self-published writer I've ever known! Whatever he's doing over there, he's doing it right. He blogs, too!
@JohnnySix: evil genius behind The Twitter Novel Project (@tweet_book), to which @blondie80 has also contributed supplemental material. Also, he controls the weather. I've seen him do it.
@jsmithready: Writer of urban fantasy novels gracing the shelves of a bookstore near you! Her characters, @ShaneMcAllister and @CiaraGriffin tweet, as does her cat, @Misha_Guy. In her spare time, she enjoys flamingo ping-pong.
@melissaoyler: Graphic designer! Blogger! Novelist! NaNoWriMo winner! Cheerleader! PoetryAssignment editor! I could go on!
@michaelrholmes: Renaissance man with firm standing in most segments of the Venn-diagram currently asserts his right to stand in the writers' circle with his adaptation of Forbidden Zone. Also actor of stage and screen on the other side of the script!
@neilhimself: I couldn't leave Neil Gaiman off this list, even though my interaction with him has been limited to one book signing and a brief exchange on Twitter about fountain pen ink. Mr. Gaiman sets a high bar for good writing citizenship, and I think we would all do well to follow his examples.
@PointlessBanter: as you might have guessed, the editor of PointlessBanter.net. If you like funny, check it out. If you write funny, he might let you guest blog!
@shadowsinstone: Her characters jump right out of their stories and make you believe vampires are real and among us, getting drunk, falling in love, and ready to hit on you or insult you depending on their moods. @crookedfang is my favorite, but don't tell him I said that.
@stina8753: Frequent collaborator with @shadowsinstone while maintaining a separate body of work. She's completed one novel and is continuing to forge ahead with her bright writing future. Her characters tweet too, with @unpleasantries at the top of the list.
@the0phrastus: Another man who wears many hats, or maybe one great, big, multi-colored hat with patches of words, paint, and magic.

Writing is largely a solitary occupation, especially for freelancers and those others who work from home. Thanks to Twitter, though, it doesn't have to be quiet, lonely work. If a co-worker is someone who works along with you in the same occupation, you get to have them - as many as you want, there to bounce ideas off of, commiserate with, and network with.

Yin and Yang, Holmes and Moriarty, Tweety and Silvester...

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 17:47:00 +0000

You know, this blog is titled Be My Villain, but I almost never post anything that actually has to do with villains. Today, I'm fixing that with mention of one of my all-time favorite villains, the Joker. I know, I know, get in line. That's hardly esoteric. People retweeted the hell out of my comment yesterday that no matter who wrote any given comic in which he appears, Joker will always be voiced by Mark Hamill in my head.

Why? Because everyone loves the Joker. Oh, you don't? By all means, think about why not and be ready to discuss it when I re-read The Killing Joke and dive into all the other great volumes I haven't read yet (feel free to make suggestions in the comments, but show your math & tell me why - don't just post a list). Final Crisis and Evan Dorkin's World's Funniest are next on my list. I've never read either and have heard mixed reviews about the former, but whither Virgil leads, Dante will follow, having not been led astray yet.

I just finished reading Batman R.I.P. and though the Joker isn't the central villain, he makes a big enough appearance to enhance my experience of the book. It wasn't on my list, but my LCS had a copy on clearance, and I picked it up while I was there on other business. Remember that I'm born-again to comics, and I haven't read even close to all that's on my list. This was not my favorite Batman story, and like I said, it isn't really a Joker story, but I did like this book. I'm getting used to Morrison's style the more I read, and I'm finding it a good balance to Geoff Johns's relatively straightforward method in the Green Lantern books I've read recently.

For some reason, more folks than usual have been interested in talking about this particular book. Since Twitter is limited to 140 characters at a time, I invite you to join the discussion I've been having about it on Goodreads:

Batman: R.I.P. Deluxe by Grant Morrison

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

View all my reviews >>

I, Writer

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 16:59:00 +0000

Let's face it - I haven't been much of a writer the past couple of months. Stuff happens and yadda yadda, but no more. This past week, I hauled myself over the wall and turned in some new material.

Shawn, friend and wordsmith behind The Twitter Novel Project, invited me to join the ranks of those creating supplemental material to accompany his work in progress. That was months ago, but at long last, I buckled down and got it done - if a little late, needing to be done in two parts instead of one, and almost nothing like the original idea.
Part one, Pandora's Toybox and part two, Dark Side of the Moonracer are listed as Supplemental 4 and 4.5, respectively. If you find yourself bored and wanting something to read, I'd love to know what you think.

After some really wonderful feedback (my favorite being "...makes Blade Runner look cute."), I'm feeling energized and like I want to take advantage of the momentum. It's a good thing, too, as I'm not lacking for projects! As it happened, the other day, I was accepted into a sort of freelance writing network that almost takes the "freelance" part out of the equation. No invoicing, no tracking down payments, just taking assignments, turning them in, and getting paid. This is exciting on a few different levels.
1. Someone FINALLY wants to pay me to write!
2. I can do this work from anywhere, which means that as soon as I figure out where I'm going to live, after my current job ends, I really am going to get to move to California.

In addition to that, my friend Chip has asked me to write some stuff for the website for his women's self-defense classes, and I owe Sue at Mosaic some more WM3 material on the Justice Undone blog. Furthermore, that's all not even mentioning the really fun stuff - the robot stories that keep a-brewin' in my head. The one linked to above is hopefully just one of many to come, though obviously, they're not all going to be set in Shawn's novel.

I've just had this feeling of nostalgia lately for the certain class and panache of the kind of robot tales you just don't see much anymore. Isaac Asimov and Philip K. Dick knew how to do it, as did the various minds behind Robot Carnival, but a lot of the new stuff just doesn't do it for me. I have a hard time articulating exactly the quality I'm talking about, but hopefully, you also know it when you see it and want to see more of it. I know there are at least a couple of you out there. This is gonna be fun.

Jonathan Livingston Sea-Chicken

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 02:40:00 +0000

This one's for Sherry, to whom I promised a sea gull story, and not just the one about how Cooper once convinced Jason that the official name of the sea gull is The Native Virginia Sea-Chicken, because gulls, don't'cha know, are just chickens who can fly. Oh, Jason. Poor, simple Jason.

No, a better story took place a good 5 years after Jason and I went our separate ways and I found myself working at Waldenbooks during my last semester of college. If you've ever worked in a book, video, or record store, you know how accurate Clerks is when it comes to customers who need "that book by that guy," and you can spot 'em a mile away. I answered the phone one fine day and before I could finish my "how can I help y--," I was cut off by a strong, yet gravelly voice.
"Yes, ma'am, my name is Kenworthy, and I'm lookin' fer a book."
Pause.
"Okay," I began, but was cut off again.
"I don't remember the author's name, but I can tell you it has to do with sea gulls. My friend tells me I have to read it. D'you know what book I'm talkin' about?"
"Not off the top of my head," I said, "but let me check the computer."
I looked, and after a few more minutes of conversation with Mr. Kenworthy, was unable to narrow down the huge number of results my search had returned. I told him if he could get a hold of his friend to ask the author or title, I'd be happy to find it for him.
He called several more times that day with such helpful clues as to the books's identity as "It was written by a man!" and "It's about a boy!"
Finally, at the end of the night, as we were about to flip the sign to closed, the phone rang again.
"Now listen," said Mr. Kenworthy, "I want to tell you something. My wife was an Indian woman, of the, uh, Native American persuasion y'see (Persuasion? Yes. That was the word he used), and her family's name was Seagull. Now, every morning for twenty years, we'd go and have breakfast down that little place over there by your store, and she always saved some biscuits to throw to the gulls. And those damned birds'd swoop in and eat those biscuits, then shit on my car. Every morning for twenty years. So my friend tells me th'other day, I gotta read this book - Jonathan Livingston Seagull, on account of this woman that did to my life what those birds of the same name always did to my car. So can ya get me the book or not?"

You can't go home again, but at least you can shop there!*

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 03:44:00 +0000

My turn to be inspired by Melissa, who is helping her parents move and finding all kinds of fun things.

Since I left you on kind of a downer (kind of, she says?) with the last post, I figured I'd take my turn at Weird Stuff You Find When You Move. As you probably know, I'm planning to move to California in the nearish future, so I figured it'd be wise to go through all the stuff I have stored in boxes in my mom's attic and closets.

First: a fortune wedged between the sleeve and the cup of coffee. "Listen to me: the one you seek also seeks you."

Rock climbing gear! The same gear being used during the Dust In The Wind story (which, incidentally still gets a ton of hits from people searching for Kansas lyrics. Sorry, folks. It's just me).

Hood from my college graduation regalia. What do they really expect us to do with these things, anyway? Secret society, anyone?

Sketchbook, circa 9th grade. I think this was copied from a poster a friend had hanging in her room.

For some of my younger readers, this is what is known as a "cassette tape." This archaic device actually holds a half-dozen tracks laid down by Chris's high school band. Of course I hung on to it; aside from the fact that I had an enormous crush on him back in the day, something told me he'd be a part of the music scene for a long time to come. And he is, which makes this officially blackmail material! If you're reading this, Mr. Rock Star, my terms are simple: before I die, you will sing Humanity for me again one day, you grok?

Another sketchbook. This one, I think was from 11th grade:

Add to that about a gazillion Marvin the Martians of various sizes and materials, more art supplies than I could possibly know what to do with, and a truly daunting pile of books. I'm sure I'll come across some really weird stuff sooner or later.

*and thankfully, this did not happen. (thanks, M.H.)

The Bittersweetest Song I've Got

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 15:55:00 +0000

I've only ever lit one cigarette in my life. If I have my way, I'll never light another. That one and only belonged to a friend who had grown too weak to do it herself, and just as it would never have occurred to her to ask, it never occurred to me to refuse.

I was working as the receptionist at a skilled nursing facility (read: nursing home), and K.D. was a patient. She was a bit of an anomaly, being significantly younger than the rest of the patients, there simply because it was the only way she could receive the medical care she needed. I don't remember the point where we became officially friends, but it had a lot to do with the fact that neither of us particularly cared to spend our free time indoors with fellow patients or coworkers, respecively. We'd sit on the covered porch, shouting to each other from opposite sides of the walkway because K was a heavy smoker and I'm allergic. It didn't take too long for us to realize we spoke the same language. Her dry, sarcastic sense of humor was not appreciated by the nurses, and she existed on different plane from most of the patients.

For example, I'll spare you the description if you don't know what a wound-vac is, but when K became burdened with one, she introduced it to me as "Loretta," matter-of-factly stating that she wasn't going to live with something and let it in to her bed without so much as knowing its name. I didn't know a whole lot about Multiple Sclerosis before I met K, so while I knew she was ill, obviously, it wasn't clear to me just how grave her situation was - not that it would've made much difference in our friendship.

As we talked away lunch breaks and slow afternoons, drinking coffee and blathering on, we gave each other the best thing you can give another: stories, those pieces of ourselves that the other person can't physically experience, but only know through us. She gave me the benefit of mistakes she'd made and youthful follies, and I gave her a way to experience things she could not, confined to a wheelchair. When "we" took up kickboxing, she didn't much care for it at first, but eventually, she got cable installed in her room so she could watch MMA and at least enjoy the schadenfreude as she watched strangers beat the tar out of each other.

Because our friendship was destined to be brief, we didn't know each other's families or visit each other's hometowns, but we knew enough and our lives were better for sharing them with each other for those precious minutes every day. One Monday, I was excited to go to work. I'd been to the beach over the weekend, and had pictures to share with K, whose greatest regret in life was that she was no longer able to visit the shore herself. As I pulled out of my driveway, I noticed a little girl, waiting for her school bus and holding up a glittery posterboard sign that said, "IT'S THE BEST DAY EVER!!!"

When I got to work, I stopped by K's room to find that she was out. I took a post-it note from her bedside table and recreated the little girl's sign and stuck it to the door. About ten minutes later, my boss called me into her office and told me K had been taken to the hospital. I never got a chance to say good-bye. I'm not sure why I did, but I went back and stared at K's door for a while, then took the post-it I'd stuck up there and shoved it in my pocket, angry and righteously indignant at the irony of it.

When I look back on that day now, as it was almost exactly 2 years ago, I try to think of it this way:
That day, I lost a friend, and it was one of the worst days ever, but to a little girl somewhere in North Carolina, it was the best day ever.

P.S. I still have that post-it note. I'm looking at it right now. It's been taped to every desk I've sat at since that day.

Better Things

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 17:04:00 +0000

Inspired by Michael-inspired-by-Melissa-inspired-by-Whitney, a tale of self expression through body modification:

A few years ago, during this extended period of upheaval I was going through, I decided that there wasn't enough change going on in my life and therefore started dying my hair purple. I got various reactions ranging from "wow, purple, huh?" to "whatever floats yer boat," but the best of all came from Andrew's mom.

Andrew and I more or less grew up together, having met in middle school, when I was in 8th grade and he in 6th. I don't really remember when we started hanging out or why his mom had such an intense dislike for me, but we did, and she did. His brother Seth and I got along just fine, from the first day we met, when he climbed out from under his decrepit Karmann Ghia, up to the elbows in grease, and chased me around the front yard demanding a hug. But Mrs. D? She was just not a fan of yours truly.

Shrouded in nearly as much mystery is the point in time when she decided that I wasn't so bad after all. One day after I'd graduated from college and Andrew was still away completing his undergrad, I ran into his mom at the pharmacy. I almost didn't recognize her since it'd been a while since I'd seen her, but she walked right up to me and gave me a great big hug. From that day forward, it was like we were old pals.

Cut to a year or so later. I'm about drive up to Richmond to visit Andrew, and he asks if I wouldn't mind stopping by his parents' house to pick up his cello and bring it to him. No problem. They live right around the corner from me. My hair is now purple and I've recently separated from my now-ex-husband. I pull into the driveway right behind Mrs. D and help her carry in her groceries, put them away, then am invited to sit and chat for a minute. She shows me some interior design elements she's added to the house and then goes to get the cello. It's not until I've got the cello in one hand and the doorknob in the other that she seems to notice that something's different about me.

She squints and says, "Oh, so you've done something new with your hair."
"Yeah," I said, "I just thought a change was due."
She nods and thinks for a moment before responding, "You know, my daughter did the same thing when she broke up with that boy she was seeing -" she pauses to lay a hand on my shoulder and look me deep in the eye before finishing, "-don't worry. It got better."

Just following orders

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 15:23:00 +0000

My horoscope for today:

Aries: You may be thankful for a persistent friend who has stood by you through thick and thin. You are inclined to express your love and appreciation, yet you may be so overly effusive that your true intent becomes lost in your words. For now, a simple and straightforward message is worth a lot more than one that rambles on forever.
***

Therefore, here it is, plain and simple.
If you've seen my best and my worst, and shown me the same,
If you make me smile on good days and bad,
If you still make it a point to ask how I'm doing when you're having an awful day,
If you've let me in and accepted my invitation when I opened the door to you,

Thank you. I'm glad you're in my life, and I hope you choose to remain so. If you're wondering if I'm talking about you, the answer is probably yes.

Ghost Reel

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 03:19:00 +0000

This is maybe a slightly less boring post than the one from earlier. Maybe. You be the judge.

While talking to Michael today about Halloween and the shortening of days, I remembered a poem that I once started to write. I'd jotted a few lines down after a class discussion I'd led in teaching Maxine Hong Kingston's The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts to my 12th graders. In giving them some cultural background to prepare them for the story, one student quietly wondered what happened to the souls of the baby girls who never survived infancy, either killed or left to die of exposure as so many were in not-too-long-ago China. I didn't have much of an answer for him, in part because this was the same kid who once asked me if I thought hurricane Katrina was God's way of punishing all the gay people living in New Orleans, but that's another story.

Anyway, the notion stuck in my head, and since it came up in conversation today, I wrote a few more lines and since I had nothing more pressing I felt like doing, sketched an illustration to go with it. The result:

In case you can't read it, it goes (with a little editing, like ya do):

The law of the land said to leave them behind,
all the girl-babies, where no one would find
No one except for one all in white -
With her, their souls would find endless delight

A beautiful vision, with flowing moonlight hair
that swirled and curled and danced on the air,
She called to their spirits and drummed on her gong
to teach them the steps so they could dance along

What you'd see when her hair was lifted by the breeze,
A visage in bone, a sight to make your blood freeze.
Around her they dance, dressed all in red
The souls of the girls who don't know that they're dead.

Is she a monster who robs them of rest,
Or is she a mother who gives them the best?
To be sure, you and I would find her a fright,
But we're not tiny
and dead
and alone in the night.
***

Author's note: Incidentally, after reading all of this Green Lantern, I find this oddly similar to the character Karu-sil, with her long hair and scary face, but you know what they say about there being no truly original ideas...

Tools of the Trade

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 22:58:00 +0000

There's a very easy way to tell when I'm being a more productive writer. Productivity is directly related to how ink-stained my hands are, and with how many different colors of ink. I don't know why I feel compelled to handwrite things before I type them up, but I do. It doesn't matter that this often creates more work; it's just how I operate. In recent talks, it turns out that some people I know find this interesting, and some have asked more specific questions about the pens and ink I use, so I thought I'd share the answers with you.

Pens:
I'm not a pen collector. I have a few different pens that I've acquired because they meet various needs. The first fountain pen I bought, and have been using today, is a 1924 Waterman #52, like this one:

For everyday use, I also have a medium point Pilot/Namiki Knight. I've gone through a series of cheap pens, mostly Pelikans (Future and Pelikano Junior) and found that they're really not worth it. Even the fine pointed ones of those are too broad for my taste, and the ink feathers and blots (and is therefore wasted). I do have a nice, inexpensive eyedropper-filled generic pen, modified by the gents at Swisher, which only set me back around $5-10, and that's the one I toss in my bookbag or purse without worrying that it'll get damaged.

The main questions I ask when I'm considering a pen are: Is the point fine enough? Does is sit right in my hand without getting heavy or chafing? Is it going to last? (sadly, my former favorite, a Sensa Meridian, failed that test, and the company went under before I could get it replaced) Do I like the way my handwriting looks when using it? Those things might not matter to you, but they're my criteria. I didn't say "how much is it?" because cost is relative. I don't even look at the higher end Cartiers or Mont Blancs because I already know I can't afford them. At around $50, the Namiki is the most expensive I've purchased. The Waterman was a great eBay find at around $25.

Ink:
I love that there are more colors out there than moods I have or stories I'll write. Somehow, it just helps my creative process to fill the pen with a shade that suits the thing I'm writing. My favorite everyday inks are Private Reserve's Purple Mojo

and Noodler's Dragon's Napalm

If you get a letter from me in the mail, odds are good that it's in one of those (or crayon, but that's a different story).

Today, since I'm writing kind of a creepy story, I'm using Private Reserve's Black Cherry, which I think looks like dried blood*, in the Waterman pen.

Some other favorites: Waterman's South Seas Blue (when I had my own home office, I had paint matched & did the walls in that color); Noodler's Gruene Cactus; J. Herbin's Poussiere de Lune; Noodler's Baystate Blue (which I love, but use very rarely, as it stains like crazy).

Like I said, these are just my personal preferences and habits. My friend Scott has a newer Waterman pen, and will only use Waterman's inks in it. Sam likes a pen to be pretty as well as functional, and so gravitates toward Monteverde and Sailor. You get the idea.

*and Mr. Gaiman agrees

In Blackest Day, In Tightest Tights...

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 17:12:00 +0000

You may or may not be aware that, for reasons not entirely clear even to me, I suddenly decided I'm reading comics again. I'm picking up things here and there as recommendations pique my interest, but mostly, it's all about Green Lantern and Blackest Night. This has turned out to be a pretty awesome endeavor. Not only am I really enjoying the books, but it's turned out to be a multi-media interactive extravaganza!

Todd, because he's awesome, sent me some black power rings upon learning that I didn't have one, and I shared them with Chip and Sam:

After setting that picture of myself as my userpic on Twitter, I got a direct message from Geoff Johns himself, saying, "nice ring!! ;)" The guys tell me that this is because being both a nerd and a girl gets me bumped to the front of the line, a gender bias they find most unfair.

To support this new Green Lantern habit (and because he's awesome), Michael sent me the new First Flight cartoon dvd, complete with bonus Duck Dodgers (IN THE 24 AND 1/2 CENTURYYYY!!) Green Loontern episode (I mean, how cool is that?!). My inner child reveleth big time.

Following this, I've really enjoyed the discussions about various aspects of the characters and storylines. Most of my questions are met with a resounding chorus of "just keep reading!" and of course, they're right, but I especially love that I know the kind of people who can have a conversation about comic books as literature and philosophy.

Join me on this adventure, won't you? It should still be pretty easy to find Blackest Night #1 (and maybe even #0 if you ask the folks at your Local Comic Shop reaaaaaallllly nicely!)!

Why I'm Grateful for Broken Sunglasses

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 00:06:00 +0000

The day got off to a rotten start. No details; just trust me. It was a bad morning. After spending my lunch break ranting and in tears about it, I went on to have my next appointment blow me off. On the way to the appointment after that, my sunglasses broke. Just... broke. Fell right off my face in pieces with no jarring or anything. It was just their time.

After that appointment, I looked at the address for the next one and realized there was a Sunglass Hut in the same little shopping district and figured I could stop there and get a decent pair, which I'd been meaning to do anyway. I walked in and was greeted by the nicest sales clerk I've ever encountered. Actually, it turned out he was the store manager. He found me what I wanted and kept a friendly stream of conversation going while I checked out. In talking to him, I learned that his aunt very recently died of breast cancer, and that he and his mother had just been talking about trying to find some way they could get involved with raising funds and awareness for research and patient services. Guess what I do for a living. I hooked him up with everything he needs to get a team going for Making Strides Against Breast Cancer - paperwork, t-shirt, all that good stuff. By the time I left, we were both in tears and he was squeezing the life out of me with a big hug. He didn't even laugh at me when I walked right into the storefront window, thinking it was the open door.

Now, I'm not only the proud owner of a pair of decent glasses with polarized lenses, but I made a friend and feel like I'm doing a good job, even if the hard numbers don't always agree. Hooray for broken sunglasses.

Busy, busy, busy.

From Here On It Got Rough

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 20:18:00 +0000

A friend recently admonished me that "Einstein said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting to get a different result." She said this in response to my telling her I'm serious about wanting to move to California. Why would she say that, you ask? From here on, it gets rough.

A few years ago, my life sort of fell apart, or I let it fall apart. Either way, I found myself profoundly unhappy with my state of being - head, heart, and spirit - and was pretty miserable for a while until I decided that I needed to make some pretty big changes. Things happened that turned my attention to North Carolina. I had friends there, people who made me feel welcome and accepted for who I was. That warmed my spirit. The job market seemed better there, and after months of searching in my current community with very little success, my head was going to explode if I didn't expand my search to find something soon. Also, my heart was being tugged in the direction of a guy who I'd started feeling things for. So, what did I do? I moved to North Carolina. I found a job. Hooray for the head. I grew closer to the friends. Hooray for the spirit. At one point, it seemed like I'd even get the guy. Hooray for the heart.

How did it turn out? From there on, it got rough. I lost the job. I started having problems with some of the friends, though many friendships did remain intact and flourishing. I didn't get the guy after all. Head, heart, and spirit were all once again waning. So, what did I do? I recognized the signs and decided that once again, a change was due.

I went to California on a trip that was a long time in the works and finally became possible. I have friends in the LA area and in the northern part of the state whom I'd been promising to visit as soon as I could afford it, and at last, I could. One friend had been telling me for 2 or 3 years that if I came to California, I'd never want to leave it, and oh, he was right. In California, my spirit was lifted. I got to see some friends I hadn't laughed with or shared stories with in far too long. I met new friends who seemed glad to have me among them. I got to see the sun set over the ocean and see places where the mountains run right into the surf. I'm sure I disturbed the woman who sat next to me on the flight back to the east coast; I tried my best to hide it or stop it, but I cried most of the way, feeling not like I was going home, but like I was leaving it and with no clue as to when or if I'd ever be able to return.

Back in North Carolina, I resumed my search for a new job, but started wondering what the prospects were like in California, so I started looking and liked the look of things, seeing quadruple (or more) the results found for my searches on the career search engines. Moreover, I was seeing jobs that I could foresee being happy in, rather than just putting up with because they paid the bills. So?

So, I've landed in Virginia for now. It happened that I found a temporary job right in the heart of my old stomping grounds, accepted the position, and here I am - in my old room, in my old town, but determined not to fall back into my old life. Here's where Einstein comes in.

In order for this to be a step forward and not a regression, I've promised myself that this temporary job and living situation is just that - temporary. It's a stop on the way to California. Why? Because once again, head, heart, and spirit are pulling in unison in one direction. As before, there are no guarantees for any of the three to be satisfied, but in all three areas, I sense possibility, and I suppose I could decide that the risk was too great, that there's a big difference between moving 200 miles and 2,000 miles, and no one would fault me for playing it safe and giving up... except for myself.

If I give up, play it safe, listen to Einstein, then one day, I'll be at work, at some job, staring at the clock, waiting for the day to end, and my head will ask what if? And then another day, or perhaps the same day, the local news will be on, and I'll be disgusted with the members of my community, and my spirit will ask what if? And then, if I'm having a really rough day, or two, or three, and I'm by myself, or I'm with someone who doesn't truly make me happy, that's when my heart will chime in, what if?

For me, that outcome is the risk that's too great. To those who still don't understand, I'm sorry. From here it's rough on you.

I Love Surprises

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 05:28:00 +0000

...the good kind, anyway. Not like when someone slams on the brakes in front of you in traffic or a bill auto-withdraws early. I mean the kind where you check the mail and find

from Michael on Monday, when you know he only put it in the mail on Saturday, and especially when you're not 100% sure what it was going to be.

This seems an ideal time to plug the show to which the pictured little red book is referring. Go and bookmark http://www.fz6d.com, especially if you'll be in the LA area next May, so you can be sure to catch his adaptation of Richard Elfman's Forbidden Zone at the Sacred Fools theatre.

Incidentally, the CD, which is unrelated to the play, is pretty bitchin if you like a little Elvis in your indie rock (and I do).

Mil gracias, Mikeycito.

The Story Behind The Story

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 04:10:00 +0000

My friend Drew used to own a bookstore, and since I was between jobs during that period of time, and I'd met Drew in the first place because I worked for him at a different bookstore, it was only natural that I went to work for him again. Except... "work" isn't quite the word for it. Unfortunately, business wasn't great, so there was a lot of sitting around and shooting the breeze. On one such occasion, we somehow got onto a discussion about Stephen Hawking and colonizing the moon and comets and... all kinds of things. I don't remember exactly the point in the conversation where the words "eat the comet" were uttered, but they were, and the phrase stuck in my mind.

It just happened that I left the bookstore that evening and decided on a whim to stop by the pub, knowing that big-brother Josh would be there and a cold beer sounded good. As it happened (was meant to happen?) Josh was indeed there, but so was his friend Chip, with whom I'd only been vaguely acquainted up until that point. To make a long story short, I made not only a new friend that night, but a new writing buddy. My work had been stagnant at that point as I was driving myself nuts editing and re-editing a story until I'd gotten sick of it. It had been months since I'd really produced anything new, but when Chip started sending me stories and new chapters, I felt the muse stirring.

Not long after that, I'd picked up a job at a tiny diner in the industrial part of Norfolk. It was just the owner and me all day, and we had very little in common, so during the slow parts of the day, instead of trying to force conversation, I started jotting down story ideas in the margins of the day's newspaper, which always got piled next to the cash register after the breakfast rush. At some point, I remembered "eat the comet," and came up with a character, a scene, another character, a head in a jar...

I sent the beginning to Chip, and he informed me that finishing the story was not optional. Turned out it wasn't easy, either. I've often referred to it as my red-headed step-brainchild because of all the fits it gave me. If you count all the times I had to walk away from it for weeks or months at a time, all the while enduring well-deserved guilt-tripping and needling from Chip, who had taken a personal interest in the story after I threw in a Star Wars reference, it took about a year just to crank out those 1500 or so words. I wrote other things in the meantime, but for Chip and Drew, I had to finish it eventually.

I'd never been that impressed with the result, but they loved it. I eventually revised it some more and sent it to other friends, who shocked the hell out of me by reporting that it had made them laugh. I sent it out to a few magazines & ezines, but no one was interested. Oh well, I thought, feeling like it wasn't my best work anyway, and that it had made my friends smile, so that was really all the paycheck or validation I needed for it.

Cut to a few years later. I hadn't even read Eat the Comet in months, possibly a year, when I got a message from Corbin Silverthorn about a new page launching at Silverthorn Press, asking if I'd support the endeavor by contributing some writing. It was with mixed feelings that I sent him EtC. I knew that this story was not my best work, but is the most apropos for that particular site, so off it went, my problem-child, back into the world.

It turns out, Corbin liked the story too, and it wasn't long before I received another message from him saying he'd like to use it and feature me as the first writer showcased on the new page.
You can find it here.

Once it was up, I went ahead and read the story again. I still have mixed feelings about it. I still feel like it isn't my best work. At the same time, it is my work, and I finished it, and it doesn't completely suck. Every time someone new tells me they enjoyed it, I remember that that's what this story was all about. It wasn't about dazzling the world with my talent and manipulation of the English language into something that'd win prizes. It's about a certain kind of people - my people, and how sometimes, it's okay to be flawed and dorky.

I hope you like my little story, but if you don't, that's okay. It's not for everybody. It's not even for me (I personally think I should have left in more of the head in the jar), but maybe it's for you, and if it is, I couldn't be happier.

The Stars Agree

noreply@blogger.com (Heather) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 13:48:00 +0000

As a quick addendum to yesterday's post, my horoscope for today says:

Aries: You often push the envelope when you become excited about what you are doing. But now your enthusiasm might be less about what you do than what you say. Although you could be slow to discuss your ideas for fear of rejection, once you start talking it may be tough for you to stop. Don't overplay your hand. Share what's most important and then be quiet.

So there.