5 Things Akin to Professional Jealousy

Yay me! I get to write about Jealousy on Valentine's Day! On this day of chocolates, wine, and optional companionship, here are...

5 Things Akin to Professional Jealousy:

1. Sharting. You can't help but feel it. Best for everyone if you deal with it in private.

2. Using the ice bath in the men's locker room. You come out looking smaller.

3. Swimming afoul of an alligator.  You'll either be motivated or consumed.

4. Vaping. Nobody is impressed and you look like a tool.

5. The flu. Keep your snot to yourself.  Eventually, you'll get over it.

Get to cringing

So apparently I'm supposed to write about a moment of cringeworthy jealousy and what I did about  it.

Gotta be honest, I don't remember ever getting jealous. Calm down now, I'm not saying I haven't been jealous or that I won't get jealous, but as with a lot of negative emotions I do my best to shove that stuff off to the side.

Why? Because it does no one any good.

Focus on the positive. It's better for your mental and emotional health and better for your career.

Now don't misunderstand me, I LOVE a healthy sense of competition. I hear one of my buddies has sold a book and part of me is delighted, but if i haven't sold a book myself in a while, I don't get jealous, I just set my goals and aim to sell one just as quickly as I can.

I'm a mid-list author. I make a decent living. I'm hardly buying a mansion on a cliffside, much as I might like the view. I'm just plugging away.

but the thing is, I actually AM doing what I want to do for a living. I'm writing novels. I'm having a good time. My goals tend to be more along the lines of keeping that going.

A quote from Chris Golden, who  is one of the guys I admire, call friend and occasionally have a friendly competition with: "The rising tide lifts all boats." I agree with that philosophy. If four other authors are all doing well while writing the sort of Grimdark stuff that I write, then the genre is growing stronger. If I am doing my job correctly, I get to ride the crest of that wave. If I FAIL to do my job correctly, I better get my ass in gear and figure out what I'm doing wrong.


You hear people say not to look at the reviews? I agree, unless they are a balm for your possible jealous feelings. Here are a few that soothe me.

"Gripping, horrific, and unique, James Moore continues to be a winner, whatever genre he's writing in.  Well worth your time."
- Seanan McGuire, NYT-Bestselling author of the Toby Daye and InCryptid series

“James A Moore is the new prince of grimdark fantasy. His work is full of dark philosophy and savage violence, desperate warriors, and capricious gods. This is fantasy for people who like to wander nighttime forests and scream at the moon. Exhilarating as hell.”
- Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling author of Snowblind

“The Last Sacrifice is brilliant, devious, dark and compelling. This is epic fantasy at its very best. Highly recommended!”
- Jonathan Maberry, NY Times bestselling author of Kill Switch and Mars One"James A Moore is the new prince of grimdark fantasy. His work is full of dark philosophy and savage violence, desperate warriors and capricious gods. This is fantasy for people who like to wander nighttime forests and scream at the moon. Exhilarating as hell."
– Christopher Golden, New York times bestselling author of Snowblind

"With The Last Sacrifice, James A. Moore has triumphed yet again, delivering a modern sword and sorcery tale to delight old and new fans of the genre.  With its intriguing premise, stellar cast of characters, and flavorful horror elements, this is damn good stuff."
– Bookwraiths
"This was a very good read."
– Purple Owl Reviews
"Epic fantasy at its best."
– Amanda J Spedding
“Grimdark as fuck!  So in a word “’GREAT’”.
– The Blogin’ Hobgoblin
"I liked The Last Sacrifice a great deal.  I’ve always enjoyed Moore’s work and don’t see that changing anytime soon.  He just keeps getting better.  Check this one out and see."
- Adventures Fantastic
"What's Moore to say? People fighting Gods? Bring it! This is a great addition to James A. Moore's line up."
- The Book Plank
"I love it. This is a story that turns the genre story arc on its head, mixes up the motives of heroes and villains, and muddies the waters of divine intervention. A fantastic, surprising start to a major new series."
- Beauty in Ruins
"I found The Last Sacrifice to be highly engaging, magical with a distinct grimdark feel and the world herein is richly imagined and cleverly wrought and brought to life. I can’t wait to read the sequel and I am now also eager to check out the other works by this author. I highly recommend this book to all lovers of fantasy."
– Cover 2 Cover
"I'd recommend this and I'll be keeping an eye out for the next one. More evil Grakhul/He-Kisshi action please Mr Moore!"
– Ribaldry's Books
"I was just turning pages as fast as my eyes could devour the words."
– On A Dark Stormy Review

“Moore has laid the groundwork for a trilogy that promises to be loaded with terrifically grim fantasy storytelling. I might even call it epic. There is a lot of swift, merciless violence in this book, mingled with an undercurrent of very welcome, if very dark, humor. All of it together takes me back to what made me giddy about epic fantasy way back when. I’d say I’m happy to be back, but I’m not sure that’s quite the right word for a book packed with this much violent incident. Let’s say instead that I’m bloody satisfied.”
– Rich Rosell for the B&N Sci-Fi & Fantasy Blog

To sum up, James throws in elements of horror, dark fantasy, low magic and some amazing world-building into this boiling mix that somehow seems to work. Spinning off the staid old genre story-lines into a new direction with this epic take on God versus Man, The Last Sacrifice is a solid start to the sordid grim-dark tale documenting the end of a bleak violent world. The lines between heroes and villains blur as Gods seek to end the world.--Smorgasbord Fantasia

The point of these quotes is to simply clarify that jealousy does no good.  It serves absolutely no positive notion. I do not covet my neighbor's wife (Though I have more than once thought a few of my neighbors were lucky so and so's). I do not covet my neighbor's book sales, either, i do my own thing and then I try to be the best at what I do. If I'm failing, cool, it gives me a goal to reach for. We should always have goals, my friends, because without them we risk stagnation. 

Jealousy is like anger, best used as a tool to improve and motivate yourself. That's my statement and I'm sticking to it. 

On Professional Jealousy - and Three Ways to Shut It Down

Last weekend I got to visit my lovely writer friend Grace Draven - that's me enjoying the gorgeous trees in Texas hill country - and this weekend my fantastic writer friend Anne Calhoun came to visit me. As a result, I've had about ten days worth of intense writer conversation and am wrung out.

I'm also late with this post because of it. Last week I didn't do one at all, though that was largely because the topic was Flash Fiction and I just don't much like doing those. Flash fiction can be an interesting form, but my fiction-writing energy goes into my current project and I find working on anything other than that feels tangential at best and counter-productive at worst.

I am, however, blessed by having these friends to talk writing with and my well has been refilled to brimming.

And this week's topic is about writing relationships: A Cringeworthy Moment of Professional Jealousy & How You Dealt With It.

One aspect of having friends who are also writers, especially those who write in the same genre, is that competition can rear its inevitable head. It's an unfortunate aspect of the business. Even if we are not competitive by nature, the industry thrusts us into competition with each other. Who wins the award? Who made that Top Ten list? Who got a more lucrative publishing contract? And then there are the "tournaments" that well-meaning readers and bloggers construct to celebrate their favorite books. In many of these, authors are encouraged to recruit votes to get their book to "win" and even to trash-talk "rival" authors and books.

It can all be very difficult. We can intellectually understand that the business is variable, book love is subjective, and all of the fandom is good and goes toward exposure for everyone.

But the truth is that professional jealousy can be a huge problem.

It can kill friendships.

It's happened to me. It's happened to writers I know.

No matter how valiantly we may try to fend off the demons of jealousy, they are insidious and pervasive. Frankly, I would never give the advice not to be jealous or competitive. That's like advising people not to get angry at bad drivers in heavy traffic. Sometimes we can be Zen. Sometimes we lose our shit.

That's being human. And we wouldn't be human if we didn't occasionally note that the other monkey got a great big handful of berries and we didn't.

FOR NO GOOD REASON.

So what would be my cringeworthy moment of professional jealousy? There are so many to choose from. There was the time my crit partner who was querying at the same time as I was got a three-book deal for $30K and I didn't sell my book for two more years and then for no advance. Or when an agent who passed on my book picked someone else's and got her a six-figure deal.

Or every time a Top Ten List features a book in my genre that isn't mine.

Or every time someone recommends another author's book instead of mine.

I mean, I tell you people - I could easily spend every day in the throes of professional jealousy. There are so many opportunities to do so. There are plenty of authors who succumb to this.

And I'd be lying if I didn't admit to you that I sometimes feel it. I also sometimes suggest that other drivers do anatomically impossible actions with the brains they clearly don't have.

The key is not to pretend we don't feel it, but instead to deal productively with that energy.

1. Channel

Jealousy - or covetousness - is wanting what someone else has. Do I want that award, that contract, that spot on the Top Ten List? That's good energy that drives me to improve. I remind myself to channel it into my work to make it better. It's good to want things. It's better to work hard for them.

2. Consider the Big Picture

It's easy to covet that one thing someone else got, but I always ask myself if I'd trade places with them. A lot of times I might want that contract, but I wouldn't want their asshole of a spouse or chronically ill parent. Everyone struggles with their own pain - I make myself consider what that person's burden is, and if I'd take that along with their blessings.

3. Eyes on Your Own Work

This is one of my personal mottoes. Why am I even looking at a list I'm not on, at contract numbers for a sale that isn't mine? I learned it in school and I learn it again every day. I don't need to see how the kids next to me are doing. I have to keep my eyes on my OWN work.

Heavens know, I've got plenty to keep me occupied!

4. Celebrate Others

I'm adding this one after some online conversations, because it's been pointed out to me that I do this, too. Yes - I make a deliberate effort to celebrate the successes of others. By taking that energy and channeling it into joy, I refuse to let jealousy take hold. It becomes easier and easier to feel like when someone else - particularly a friend I love and who loves me in return - triumphs, it's my happiness, too. I'm not sure it's fair to expect anyone to do this automatically, but it's a skill in generosity of spirit that can be deliberately cultivated. Practice, practice, practice!

Snowflake Flash Fiction for Winter

VS Note: I'm not a fan of writing flash fiction actually but someone in this group keeps proposing it. (Glares suspiciously at all the other Days.) I grew up in Upstate New York, so I'm very familiar with snow and winter and coldness; however, having lived in sunny Southern California for a long time, it was a bit hard to get myself into the mood.

But I said to myself sternly, I am a WRITER so I can WRITE. Here's my story:

She and her sister snowflakes drifted in the wind, to and fro, sparkling as they spun and twirled. This was her favorite part of being a snowflake – the ride through the sky, so far about everything, dancing carefree.

The swirling winds began to subside and she drifted lower and lower, but still enjoying the sensation of flying.

Music wafted from below, seeming to surround her. It was a lovely tune, repeating over and over. She saw flashes of color beneath her, where the snow had failed to settle or been brushed aside. There was a castle, with stone turrets and gallant banners waving in the same wind that cushioned her descent. A small pond lay beside the castle, frozen over, and skaters moved about in time to the music. She saw the handsome prince, heir to the kingdom, waltzing with his lovely princess, her long blue skirts and blond hair flaring out as he spun her in one giddy turn after another. Two other couples kept them company, their clothing less sumptuous but still bright and cheery on this gray afternoon.

Snowflake hoped they were warm enough but there was nothing she could do about it. The nature of winter was to be cold outside, after all.

She received an unexpected lift  from an eddy and sailed over the pond, almost wishing she could have drifted onto the princess’s gloved hand, to receive the admiration she knew she was owed, for being a unique, delicate crystalline beauty.

Apparently she was destined to land in a spiky evergreen tree, there to nestle on the branches with her sisters until the wind or an animal disturbed them. She put an extra spin into her forward motion, to make the landing as spectacular as she possibly could. If one couldn’t fly forever, one could at least demonstrate one’s superb abilities until the flight was over.

The music stopped.

“Again, Daddy, again!”

The monstrous voice filled the air and the snowflake shuddered. A moment later the wind blew from everywhere, the castle and the pond were above her for an impossible moment and then snowflake was flying way up into the sky again.

Giddy with joy, she realized her journey was starting all over. Maybe this time she could land on the princess’s hand as she waltzed to the tune the musical snow globe played.

Cold Outside - Flash Fiction for the Frozen

     Fire painted the stone walls of the throne room red. Corva Frostmache stood before her mother's throne, surrounded armed men. Dortel, the self-styled lord of the clan, sat forward, studying her, a hint of triumph in his too wide smile.
     "The charge is sedition, Corva," he said. "How do you plead?"
     "You sit upon the throne of the clans, my mother's rightful place, and you ask that question? The Gods strike you down for the murder of the queen and for usurping her throne," she replied.
     "Enough." Dortel waved a plump sausage of a hand and sat back. "Put her out."
     Elmat, a wizened skeleton of an advisor, hesitated, looking between Corva and his lord. "Sir. The vote."
     "Am I not lord here? There will be no vote. Put her out."
     "It's the frost moon!" the older man protested. "The cold . . ."
     Dortel's self-satisfied smile turned Corva's stomach. "Mayhap the cold will cool Corva's temper and her attempts to stir up treason."
     Her fists clenched. "We are the Frostmache. Justice is our call."
     "You were the Frostmache," he corrected. "A new age has come. No more will our mothers rule our clans. The might of our arms will bring riches and new glory to our age. . . Damn your plucking at my sleeve, old man! What do you want?"
     "You sought my wisdom, sir," Elmat said.
     "Speak it, then!"
     "You are young, yet. Much has been forgotten. Legend says the Forstmache draw their power from winter itself. If you mean to stamp out the line, you would do well to cut this one down where she stands."
     "This is your advice? Fairy tales and the means to make a martyr of her?" Dortal demanded. "You're older than I thought. You would give a rallying cry to those mired in a past swept away."
     "By your brutality," Corva said.
     "I will not sully the edge of my blade with her blood," he spat. "Get out and die, witch. We'll seek your corpse for burial come the thaw."
     The huge, iron-banded oak doors boomed. Snow and razor sharp crystals of ice snarled in on the wail of the wind.
     Corva lifted her chin lifted and strode for the door the usurper's soldiers held.
     Elmat met her at the door, a frown upon his lips that deepened the furrows already plowed across his brow. He held out a hand.
     A single coal from the hall fire. That much tradition they'd observe?
     Corva sneered. "Keep your pity, old fool."
     His frown deepened and he thrust the warm clay holder into her hand. "It's cold outside."
     She nodded. "Your wisdom is wasted when you speak it to one who will not hear. Cold you say? I'm counting on it."

Cold? It mentions ice...

Many things are happening right now, so I don't have a proper blog post for today.  It's supposed to be Flash Fiction (not my forte) on "It's Cold Outside", but I live in Texas and it was 84º today.

Instead, here's a little tease from my secondary Work-in-Progress.  (In other words, not A Parliament of Bodies, or anything to do with Maradaine.)  This is from the Space Opera WIP tentatively called Banshee...

---

“Tell us who she is!  Tell us how to defeat her!”

Hagchlek made a noise that was oddly like laughter.  “You won’t.  You still do not understand what you are dealing with.  She is a human from Mars.  Do you understand what that means?”

Two of the shock troops came hustling around corner.  Kengle switched her rifle to sonic mode, and fired a boom down the hall.  They dropped clutching at their heads.

“She’s coming,” Hagchlek’s interrogator said.  Hagchlek kept going.

“Do you know what Mars is?  It was a desolate, icy rock in the humans’ home system, and humans came and said ‘We’ll make this into a place we can live’ and by fire they did.  They did that on dead moons and toxic planets throughout their system. And then humans piled into ships that crawled slower than light and lived and died in those boxes so their great-grandchildren might find a new home on another world, and when the worlds they found were also desolate rocks, they bent them to their will.  If you think some challenge is impossible, I tell you, you haven’t met humans.”

“What is this mad species?”

“They are what you have brought on your head.  We fought them for generations and no setback, no failure could deter them.  When they collectively decide to defeat a problem, they will not be stopped.”

“But she’s just one human!”

“And one is a plague upon you.  And know this: even if you kill Samantha Kengle, all you’ll succeed in is bringing all of humanity on your head.”

February 2017 Flash Fiction

Its Cold Outside


The days had darkened and the frozen flakes had fallen. The rain came, creating a mist as it threatened to wash away the layer of snow but Winter fought back. The temperature dropped and now the white world wore a glistening topcoat of ice.

In the darkened forest, the bare branches were bowed from the weight, but reflecting the moonlight, the trees glimmered like ghosts. Zaiera viewed it from her open window, raising the fur-lined hood to cover her head. She did not want to mar the unbroken beauty of this crystal-covered ground, but leaving footprints was unavoidable.

She lowered her pack, then moved to sit on the sill.

She was going. The best they could do was follow. But they could not stop her.

Flash Fiction: Baby, It's Not Cold Outside

Seven inches. There should have been a minimum of seven inches of fresh snow on the ground. Those seven inches should have been layered atop ten more, minus two for melt and refreeze. The weather frogs had promised. It was February, after all.

Instead, flowers had not only germinated, they'd begun to bloom.

The only seven inches he'd loll in this year was in his orthopedic bed. The canvas cover had worn to a softness that cradled his aching hips and shoulders. He winced as the degenerative disks in his lower back sent spasms down his left leg.

Next year then. Maybe next year he'd mush across fields blanketed in thick snow. The frigid winds ripping through his coat. The snowflakes clinging to his face, giving the world a lovely haze. The pure silence of a breathless wonderland waiting to echo his call. ...

Next year. Maybe. If the drugs kept the pain at bay. If the next stroke didn't take mobility from both legs. Maybe next year.

With a grunt and a grumble, the old husky shook in his harness and boots and went back inside.