Holver Alley Crew Cover Reveal!

Many things on my plate today, so no regular blog from me, but here's something exciting: Cover Reveal for The Holver Alley Crew!  
http://qwillery.blogspot.com/2016/12/cover-reveal-holver-alley-crew-by.html

Another beauty from Paul Young.  He's really done well by me.

Cthulhu's Holiday Hits

We are supposed to be writing a flash fiction piece based on our favorite holiday song...but I'm feeling sassy so I've instead changed the words of a few holiday classics. Consider yourself warned.

O Holy Night

O Holy night, Cthulhu now is rising 

It is the night of The Great Old One's re-birth
Long lay the world bereft of his despising
Til he appeared and the soul felt it's dearth
The daemon-sultan Azathoth rejoices
As the world breaks and people everywhere mourn

Fall on your knees!

O hear the shoggoth voices
O night malign!
When comes the shoggoth horde!
O night malign!
O night, o night malign!

And at his sight, all sanity shall cease
Sweet dirge of death in mournful chorus raise we

Dagon! The Mother of Pus! Yog-Sothoth!
Shavalyoth!
Their names forever praise we

R’lyeh, R’lyeh
O night, o night malign
R’lyeh, R’lyeh
O night, o night malign
R’lyeh, R’lyeh
O night, o night malign

Cthulhu's Plunderland 

Slay bells ring, are you listening?
In the lane, entrails are glistening
Horrifying sight, we're dying tonight

Crawling in Cthuhlu’s plunderland

Gone away is the succored
Here to stay are the interred
He sings to Dagon, as we’re quartered and drawn,
Crawling in Cthuhlu’s plunderland

In the darkness we can summon D’endrrah
Then discover she is really foul
She'll say: Are you buried? We'll say: No ma’am
But you can do the job when you're in town

Later on, when things are dire
And we roast upon the fire
He’ll burst and abrade the blisters we've made
Crawling in Cthuhlu’s plunderland

In the light we can summon Tru-nembra
and dance until we have a nervous breakdown
We'll have lots of fun with him and Yog-Sapha
until they decide it’s better to let us drown

Though the snow don't stop his killing
He prefers those who are unwilling
He'll frolic and flay
the R’leyh way
Crawling in Cthuhlu’s plunderland

Crawling in Cthuhlu’s plunderland
Crawling in Cthuhlu’s plunderland

Here Comes Cxaxukluth

Here comes Cxaxukluth, here comes Cxaxukluth,
Right down Cxaxukluth lane
Ghroth and Daoloth and all the outer gods
Plannin’ a new reign
Worlds are breaking, children quaking
All are cursed with a blight
When he’s a-stalking better say your prayers
'Cause Cxaxukluth comes tonight!

Here comes Cxaxukluth, here comes Cxaxukluth,
Right down Cxaxukluth lane
He's got a chains and complete disdain
For boys and girls again
Hear those slay bells, wrangle entangle,
Oh what an amorphous sight
Blood so red you’re better off dead
'Cause Cxaxukluth comes tonight!

Here comes Cxaxukluth, here comes Cxaxukluth,
Right down Cxaxukluth lane
He doesn't care if you're rich or poor
He wants to cause you pain
Cxaxukluth knows we're Cthulhu’s minions
That makes everything right
So fill your hearts with R’leyh cheer
'Cause Cxaxukluth comes tonight!

Here comes Cxaxukluth, here comes Cxaxukluth,
Right down Cxaxukluth lane
He'll come around when the shoggoths cry out
That it's his arcane domain 
Peace on earth we’ll never know
If we just follow the alt-right
So beware beware the new regime
Cause Cxaxukluth comes tonight!

O Tentacles

O Tentacles, O Tentacles!
You move just like a serpent!
O Tentacles, O Tentacles,
You move just like a serpent!

Hanging from Cthulhu’s face,
Slither-squirming with an air of grace.
O Tentacles, O Tentacles,
You move just like a serpent!

O Tentacles, O Tentacles,
Your sucker cups are toothy!
O Tentacles, O Tentacles,
Your sucker cups are toothy!

Each arm doth hold many bites
Surprising me when you hold me tight.
O Tentacles, O Tentacles,
Your sucker cups are toothy!

O Tentacles, O Tentacles,
How tightly you do squeeze me!
O Tentacles, O Tentacles,
How tightly you do squeeze me!

For every breath I cannot breathe,
Brings to you so much joy and glee.
O Tentacles, O Tentacles,
How tightly you do squeeze me!

The Origin of Elves: Flash Fiction

He could hear them. Their rages. Their threats. Their tantrums and tirades. The words flowed down sewers and rattled under bridges. They clinked along chainlink fences and skittered over concrete alleys. They flew on wings of rancor and fear into the darkness where sunlight never reached.

They came to him.

Every pernicious word uttered by a child lingered in the cavern, etching the name, date, and location on cold stone walls. Every new naughty child caused a hair to grow upon his lanky body. The more caustic the brat, the darker the hair. The crueler the crime the longer his horns. Whenever the whelps drew blood his nails grew, thicker and sharper.

He danced his talons along the balustrade and surveyed the workshop below. Thousands of tormentors, bullies, and  unholy terrors labored over toys, games, and technologies they would never own. Oh how they toiled, their grimy malnourished little bodies bent and hunched. Not a word dared to be spoken, not a tune braved their misery.

Only when they'd truly repented would they be set free. He was in no rush to let them go. Good laborers took time to train. And patience. He had an abundance of one and none of the other. Plus, as the population expanded, so did the workshop. He was always shorthanded.

Lo, the holy days were finally here, when the children of the world faced the consequences of their words and deeds. Time to replenish the workforce.

He shouldered his bottomless bag and plucked a hair from his chin. The magic of the season opened a portal to the first of many new Entitled Little Vicious Evil Shits.

Elves.

Beware Krampus. 

Tonight, he is coming to town.*

*Krampusnacht was last night, 12/5. Call it literary liberty. 

Twelve Days for the Twelve Kingdoms

As Veronica hinted in her post yesterday, I have similar exciting news! The duology that Grace Draven and I did together, FOR CROWN AND KINGDOM, was picked as one of the Best Books of 2016 by Library Journal!! We are over the moon. What tremendous validation for our joint effort.

Which means, of course, that we'll have to do another!

I think the others of the SFF Seven are trying to drive me mad, because this week's topic is Flash Fiction Based on Your Favorite Holiday/Festival Carol/Song/Hymn. Tempted though I may be, I shall not cringe from this challenge or shirk my bloggerly duty. Unlike OTHERS I could mention who sometimes bail on topics. *cough*

Since I'm looking at the December 27 release of THE EDGE OF THE BLADE, I decided to riff on Jepp's Twelve Days of Christmas. Now, the world Jepp lives in doesn't have Christmas, and if it did, she'd probably loathe this song, but she still can give it her own particular spin.

~ ~ ~

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me an endless flask of Branlian whiskey.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me two paired daggers and an endless flask of Branlian whiskey.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me three mountain ponies, two paired daggers, and an endless flask of Branlian whiskey.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me four hunting hounds, three mountain ponies, two paired daggers, and an endless flask of Branlian whiskey.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me five broad blade knives, four hunting hounds, three mountain ponies, two paired daggers, and an endless flask of Branlian whiskey.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me six swords for swinging, five broad blade knives, four hunting hounds, three mountain ponies, two paired daggers, and an endless flask of Branlian whiskey.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me seven sets of leathers, six swords for swinging, five broad blade knives, four hunting hounds, three mountain ponies, two paired daggers, and an endless flask of Branlian whiskey.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me eight nubile maidens, seven sets of leathers, six swords for swinging, five broad blade knives, four hunting hounds, three mountain ponies, two paired daggers, and an endless flask of Branlian whiskey.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me nine sultry ladies, eight nubile maidens, seven sets of leathers, six swords for swinging, five broad blade knives, four hunting hounds, three mountain ponies, two paired daggers, and an endless flask of Branlian whiskey.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me ten lords for mounting, nine sultry ladies, eight nubile maidens, seven sets of leathers, six swords for swinging, five broad blade knives, four hunting hounds, three mountain ponies, two paired daggers, and an endless flask of Branlian whiskey.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me eleven stalwart fighters, ten lords for mounting, nine sultry ladies, eight nubile maidens, seven sets of leathers, six swords for swinging, five broad blade knives, four hunting hounds, three mountain ponies, two paired daggers, and an endless flask of Branlian whiskey.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me twelve dead spies, eleven stalwart fighters, ten lords for mounting, nine sultry ladies, eight nubile maidens, seven sets of leathers, six swords for swinging, five broad blade knives, four hunting hounds, three mountain ponies, two paired daggers, and ...

an endless flask of Branlian whiskey.

(The last is all she really cares about!)

No Freakouts Here

My Christmas cactus is blooming now so I thought I'd share

Some weeks I think I'm here to be the odd one out amongst the SFF7 when it comes to craft-related topics...wait, that didn't sound right LOL!

But I don't freak out about my writing. It's my story, I'm telling it, it'll turn out the way I want...if I hit a plot roadblock or challenge, I have my proven ways of sitting down and looking at alternatives...

Maybe if I have to find at least one time of semi freak, that would be my first Revise and Resubmit (R&R) letter because I'd never seen one before, there were lots of suggestions (three solid pages as I recall) and what does this all MEAN??? Luckily our Jeffe and several other kindly people talked me off the ledge on that one and I did eventually get the book revised and sold. I'll never see another R&R because I self publish now and I'm not writing one to myself.

Introduce a snake into my environment and I will freak out.

I will also levitate as a result, as proven by the fact that one summer morning when I realized I had just stepped over a six foot rattlesnake, which was now rattling and poised to strike, I found myself safe on the top of a five foot stone wall with no memory of how I got there.

So, moving on, some fun news to share from last week:

The Pets In Space anthology Pauline B. Jones and I co-created, and for which I wrote 'Star Cruise: Stowaway' was named by the Library Journal as one of 2016's Best Books! (And not to steal her thunder, but applause, please -  Jeffe will have some terrific news of her own on this same topic tomorrow - yay SFF7!) I think I can safely say all nine of us scifi romance authors in Pets were so excited. It was a great group and a fun project.

And yesterday I found out that the Star Trek audiobook "City on the Edge of Forever" was named as one of AudioFile Magazine's Best of 2016! Why does this need to be mentioned here, you may ask? Because yours truly had SEVEN whole words of dialog in that audiobook, playing an Enterprise Crew Member! (I'm know my contribution had no part in the selection of the story as a "Best" - not kidding myself about my non existent thespian skills but hey, I am in the credits on the cd box, I got to autograph the script when I was done recording...) Congratulations to Harlan Ellison, SkyBoat Media and all the wonderful actors who created the audiobook. Thanks for letting me play a teeny tiny part in it, which was this Star Trek fan's thrill of a lifetime (ok and maybe I freaked out a bit, being a Red Shirt...)

On to next week's topic.....

5 Writer Freak Outs

Didja ever start a project - maybe you're painting a the house or knitting a baby blanket - and filled with glee, you break out the rollers and brushes and slap up some color, or start casting on stitches? You can straight up SEE how this thing is going to look. It'll be amazing! For a couple of hours, maybe, it IS amazing, because you're conquering your chosen corner of the world.

 

Then your fingers cramp mid-knit one, pearl two. Something in your back shoots daggers up your spin mid-roll of paint. Okay. Okay. Human limits, right? You've made good progress. No need to kill yourself over a project that can't be finished in a day. You pack up and put your toys away so you can go soak the muscle protests in a hot shower. Then toast your project well-begun with a glass of wine. Tomorrow is another day, right?

 

But tomorrow dawns with work. Family. Emergencies. Bills to be paid. And a project left hanging. But you'll get to it. You'll get to it.

 

Until.

 

You realize the baby you were knitting that blanket for was due to be born yesterday. You get a call that your parents/in-laws/people you want to impress with your adulting are coming to visit in a week. You freak out because you have to finish your half-done project NOW. Your freak may look a little like this photo wherein after nearly a decade of living aboard a sailboat, Hatshepsut FINALLY figures out the docks are surrounded by water.

 

Holy Crap! What's That Wet Stuff?

 

 

Writer freak outs look a lot like the weirded-out cat and, for me, they come in a few distinct flavors

.

1. The Deadline Freak

2. This Book Sucks and Cannot Be Redeemed Freak

3. The OMG, Who Am I and What Are Words Freak

4. The I Have No Clue What Happens Next Freak

5. The I Need My Ivory Tower Now Freak

 

Since I have an advanced degree in Drama Queen when it comes to writing, I have become close, personal friends with all of my freaks. We party. And by party I mean staring sightlessly, hopelessly into the distance while slamming dainty little cups of oolong.

 

BAR KEEP! ANOTHER!

 

Existential angst notwithstanding, I've done this enough times now that I can predict when and how I'm going to wig while attempting to draft. I'm good for 25-30k words into a novel. That's proof of concept. If a beginning goes that far without a hitch, it's good for at least 90k. But at that 35-30k point, I'm going to get stopped by the numbers 3 and 4 freaks. I know to expect them. Plotting gets around those. There may be another number 4 freak at the midpoint. A revisit of to plotting notes helps. The This Book Sucks Freak is usually reserved for near the end of the book and tempts me to just throw it all away. Nothing for that one but to laugh it off and muscle through. Muttering "POS draft" like a mantra helps, too. The number 5 freak is reserved for when the rest of life tries to crowd in all angst-ridden and demanding. I long for isolation and silence so I can write the damned words. As it turns out, though, I've discovered there are precious few ivory towers in my vicinity. So it's up to me to suck it up and write the words anyway.

 

Easier said than done, but done it must be. Sorta like those walls you were painting chartreuse and mauve. Or that baby blanket you were knitting. Make it a little bigger and you could call it a hand made quilt and give it to the kid as a high school graduation present - something to take to the college dorm room. Did you just drop a stitch?

 

 

That Moment in The Novel Writing

I'm not prone to the freak-out, especially while writing.  As I've said before, I'm pretty big on structure and outlining, but that doesn't mean I don't make discoveries and revelations along the way.

And sometimes, when you're about two-thirds through the novel, you hit this sudden epiphany, where you realize, "Oh, there's a thing happening here that needs to be this."  It could be a revelation about why someone is doing something, or why you've been using a certain storytelling device, or the next level of a character's plan, and all of a sudden, everything clicks.

Almost every time, that's when the story you're writing hits the top of the roller coaster, and then you drop down and it's off to the races.  You know the whole story, all the tweaks you need to put in earlier, each scene for later that you're going to need.

It's a little scary, but it's also really fun, because a lot of the time, it's just a matter of how fast you can get the book out of your fingers.

I say this, as I reach the point in the Lady Henterman's Wardrobe manuscript where I am almost-- almost-- about to go over that peak.  Almost.

In the meantime, look who was interviewed over at File770.  I give up a few secrets for the future.  Just a couple.

Freaking Out

Talk about timing...

The topic is the moment where, as an author, you freak out.

Today. Today is the moment where I freak out. To explain better, let me share my most recent facebook post:

CROMMMMMMM!!!!
That moment where you realize in your manuscript you named these beings X and later made reference to them as if for the first time and called them Y.
*headdesk**headdesk**headdesk*
This is like having a bunch of necklaces tangled and knotted together and you have to do so many little adjustments from this strand then that one and back again....*headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk*
--goes to get another cup of coffee, and maybe some ice for the head and wonders if chocolate could fix this, or if choclate created this...--

Yes. I freak out when I realize WELL AFTER I SHOULD HAVE that I made a major goof within a manuscript. I should KNOW better. I should BE better.

Going for that coffee now...

Chapter 5: In Which The Author Freaks Out

Dear Readers, beginnings of books are the hardest for me to write. It's showing up solo for a party full of people you don't know and trying to decide how best to present yourself. Wait for the hostess to introduce you to a few like-minded folks? Burst through the door and shout, "How 'bout 'dem Bearcats?" Slink around the perimeter with your coat still on, looking for the family dog? Find the smokers shivering on the patio only to recall you quit ten years ago?

So. Many. Options.

By Chapter 5, I know I've chosen the wrong one. I'm closing in on the end of the first arc and it's not lining up with where I know the middle and end are heading. The stakes aren't high enough. Or they're too high too soon. The opening "everyday" situation doesn't succinctly convey the normalcy of an abnormal world. Too many people are introduced too soon. It's too bland. It's too confusing. It's too...

GAH!

Now, imagine you're in sitting in your car, just outside the party venue, getting ready to head inside. Nude lipstick or red? Handbag or just keys? Coat or no coat?

Breath mints. Definitely breath mints.

Freaking out.

In every book there comes a moment of self-doubt. It's damned near inevitable.

Sometimes it happens early on, and sometimes it happens much later. In the case of my Aliens novel it came very early on as I thought about all that had gone before, including two of my all time favorite movies. Usually it's when I'm rounding the last bend in the story.

the self doubt comes in and I wonder if everyone will realize I've been bluffing my way through the writing process this entire time.

Two bits of advice. The first is my usual statement to writers of all sorts. Sit your ass down and write. By that I simply mean finish the first draft as quickly as you can, before the self doubt makes you go back a reread a dozen chapters and start changing this. Save that for the second and third drafts, when you have more time and less to lose.

You might think that advice is counterintuitive. You're welcome to that opinion. If, however, you have half a dozen short stories and two novels sitting in a virtual drawer until you can get motivated to work on them again, you have already fallen victim to the problem with not listening to my advice. Lloyd Alexander offered a simple quote in his Chronicles of Pyrdain. He said there are three principles of learning: See much, study much, and suffer much.

Guess which one I think works the best? I've met far too many writers who never finished a manuscript because they kept going back to tweak this and that before the end of the story. Make notes, move on. that's my advice. You can always fix it in the rewrite. Same answer for research. perhaps you NEED to know the migratory pattern of the Canadian Goose. Awesome. Make a note. Look it up when yo';re done writing. the information will still be there and you will not have slowed down.

My other but of advice is the same that every coach on the planet has offered to every athlete that fell down and got scraped up or took a blow that hurt but caused no major injuries (Which is also my advice for a break up, but that ls neither here nor there.).

Walk it off.

Sure it's uncomfortable as hell. Sure your world is ending.

Walk it off.

That is all.

Added bonus, I threw the following on Facebook and my Genrefied blog, but I like it so I'm throwing it here, too. A brief section from THE LAST SACRIFICE that I found satisfactory. No context offered.

“We have come to warn you. Your father sent us. He says if you do not change your path, you will die here soon. Die, or worse.”

“My father is dead.” Beron smiled, pleased to have caught the man in a lie so early on.

“Yes, I know.” The man nodded. “That does not mean he does not look out for his son.”

Superstitious nonsense. Still, a chill walked through Beron’s body.

“You have given your warning. Was there anything else?”

“You misunderstand. He means now. Physically. You should change your path or you will suffer greatly.”

“My path is chosen. I have a great distance left to travel and diverting would only make the challenge of arriving at my destination greater.”

The lean man sighed. “I have offered the warning. May the gods be with you.

“So far, of late, they have not been.”

Writing Freak-out Moments - And Why You Shouldn't Freak Out

Our topic this week is "The part of the writing process when I freak out."

Which... it would be easier to pick a part of the process where we DON'T freak out. Writing seems to depend on freaking out in the same way stage performances feed on nerves.

Also, it really depends on the book. Each one seems to comes with its Personal, Super-Duper, Individualized Major Freak-Out Moment. You know the one - where you realize that it was idiocy to attempt that book, that it's irredeemably flawed, and that THIS will be the book to end your career.

Still - it's occurred to me that I should journal my moods on the progress of writing each book because it might be for me that the Personal, Super-Duper, Individualized Major Freak-Out Moment occurs pretty much at the same parts of the book. My big three are:

1) 20-25%
2) Midpoint
3) Last ~15%

The level of freak-out varies. It helps if I can remember that I pretty much always stall at least a little bit at those stages. And the flavor of the freak-out is different for each of these.

20-25%

Usually the first 20% of most of my books goes really fast. This is the honeymoon phase. Or, as I call it, Babylove. So much potential. The concept is bright and shiny. The words come fast, sweet and hot. But around 20%, I usually slow. My critical brain kicks in and I start thinking about how I'm nearing the Act I Climax and how much needs to be set up by then. Even if I'm not consciously aware of this impending threshold, I find myself slowing, cycling back, revising and tweaking. I start to wonder what the hell I'm doing - then I realize: oh right! First Act freak-out. Finally it's set the way I want it and I move on.

Midpoint

The midpoint freak-out is definitely worse with some books than others. People offering writing advice will often dole out the wisdom that if your Act I is solid, you'll cruise right through the "midpoint sag" or the "mushy middle." I've never been able to draw a correlation. (Read: I think that's BS.) I do believe that *not* having the stakes set in the first act can contribute to a sagging middle (where basically the characters run around, stalling for time until the big climax), but having a sterling first act guarantees nothing. I think we've all read published books with amazing premises and openings that gradually fall apart as the book progresses.

Despite all of this, to me, the midpoint freak out is tied to the fact that it's the turning point of the story. In other words, the STORY is in freak out. It's not really the writing. Just ride the waves and know the storm will pass.

Last ~15%

Finally, I start to slow again near the end. It's weird. I do it every time and this one, at least, I've more or less learned to anticipate. It might not even qualify as a freak out - except that inevitably a deadline is looming and it's precisely the time I *don't* want to slow down. But I do. It's not always that I don't know exactly how the story ends (though sometimes I don't). It's more that I have to feel my way into it, plus I'm all emotional about the book ending, plus the emotions of the final climax, and, and, and...

Okay, it qualifies as a freak out.

Regardless, the point of all of this is that these phases are expected and part of the process. Keep on keeping on and those, too, shall pass.

Who Was Most Influential For Me?

Our topic this week was to talk the person who was most influential on our early writing career. I agree with some of the others who have said that at different times in your writing life, different people will be most influential. To that end, Andre Norton is, and always will be, the most influential in terms of the original spark that set me loose to write my stories set in the stars. She fired my imagination with her many varied worlds, including the science fiction, Witch World and her ancient Egyptian novel Shadow Hawk. I just needed much more romance than she was able to include at the time she wrote. To my great regret, I never met her but she was my inspiration.

The person I really want to talk about today was the most influential in terms of my ever getting published and also on being independently published. My daughter Elizabeth. As my girls grew up, they always saw me writing away in the evenings and on the weekends. (I had a fulltime day job at NASA/JPL.) I made one or two not very serious efforts to submit a manuscript somewhere, at a time when you did it kind of the way Joan Wilder did in “Romancing the Stone” – a big messy pile of typed paper, in a box held together with rubber bands. Although I was mailing mine off to fall over the transom into the slush pile, not having drinks with my editor in NYC. I had no editor, no agent and no idea how to get one.

Beth is also a writer, among her many varied talents. A Berkeley graduate, she worked very hard at her craft and became a published author years before I did, with several books at various publishers. She did a lot of research on the industry and the new trends, including self-publishing.

One of E. D. Walker's titles

E. D. Walker

In late 2010, I decided to get serious about becoming a published author, in part because I was energized that I actually knew a published author – my daughter! I wrote a paranormal romance novella and proudly ‘submitted’ it to Beth, for a serious critique. We agreed she would lay it on the line, really provide blunt feedback and tell me what areas I was lacking in. I’ll spare you the entire list but it turned out I was making ALL the newbie mistakes, probably plus a few. Show versus tell, info dump, and head hopping were the most egregious, along with near total lack of interesting stage business for my characters to do, and ways to show emotion through actions.

 I’d asked for it.

 I accepted it.

There was about a week where I said, that’s it, I’ll never be published.

The world was dark.

But writing is like breathing to me. I HAVE to do it. And I was definitely at the stage where I wanted to start sharing my stories, not just write them down for myself…so I had to learn how to write successfully in the here and now.

I picked up the story again and tried to work through the issues. Beth sent me blog posts, how-to posts and more. She provided more feedback (as did my other daughter, who is a freelance editor). I felt I was making progress. I abandoned the paranormal novella and its flawed plot, which will probably never see the light of day and worked on my science fiction romances instead. Beth sent me a link to a Carina Press call for Ancient World romances because she knows how much I love stories set in ancient Egypt and – feeling inspired – I wrote what became Priestess of the Nile and sent it off.

And in late summer 2011 Angela James gave me The Call. Carina acquired my story.

I can’t ever express enough gratitude to Beth for all the tireless help she gave me, and continues to provide as needed.

She was also instrumental in my going into indie publishing, with Wreck of the Nebula Dream in March, 2012. I’ll save that story for another day because coincidentally, I’ve finally written the sequel to that book. It’s the sequel my readers have asked for most often and now the book is here! Star Survivor is the continuation of the story for Twilka and Khevan.

Here’s the blurb:

The survivors of a terrible wreck meet again—but this time only one can survive.

The long-awaited sequel to The Wreck of the Nebula Dream…

They survived an iconic spaceship wreck together. She never expected to see him again … especially not armed to kill her.

Twilka Zabour is an interstellar celebrity. She built on her notoriety as a carefree Socialite who survived the terrible wreck of the Nebula Dream, and launched a successful design house. But now the man who gave meaning to her life, then left her, is back–this time for the worst of reasons. Will he kill her … or help her survive?

D’nvannae Brother Khevan survived the Nebula Dream in the company of a lovely, warm woman, only to be pulled away from her, back into his solitary life in the service of the Red Lady.  Now Twilka’s within his reach again–for all the wrong reasons. Khevan will do everything within his power to discover why Twilka has been targeted for assassination, and to save her.

But Khevan is not Twilka’s only pursuer. Will allies Nick and Mara Jameson arrive in time to aid the couple, or will Khevan and Twilka’s ingenuity be all that stands between them and death?

Buy Links:

iBooks      Amazon    Kobo       Barnes & Noble

Early Influences: The First

Think back to high school. You know that unhappy kid few friends and nothing much to look forward to? That was me. I was writing stories no one ever saw. Mostly as a means of entertaining myself when I was lonely and bored. It was often in those days. Sure, I'd had a creative writing class and I did just fine writing papers and essays, but it hadn't occurred to me that I *could* write. It was just something unremarkable the bland kid in the third row (me) did to transport her out of a lackluster life.

Due to some really messed up scheduling on the school's part, I ended up taking science classes out of order. Sophomores were supposed to take chemistry, then biology as juniors. I didn't get the memo. The school plunked me in a biology class filled with upper classmen. Mr. Peter Wiles was my biology teacher. He'd been involved in early nuclear research for the Navy. We knew there were some hair-raising, compelling stories Mr. Wiles could tell, but he wouldn't. Instead, he spent his days actively interested in each and every kid who came through his classroom door. Regardless of how moody, angsty, and sometimes surly teenagers could be. He made you want to think well of you - no one wanted to disappoint him. Not even the football players who only needed a D in his class in order to keep playing. Mr. Wiles got better from them, and they all seemed happy to give him the extra effort he requested. He even took me aside one day to inform me that I was a fraction of a point behind his highest scoring student that year - another sophomore tucked into one of his classes. Mr. Wiles wanted me to push just a little harder on my work and on my tests because he knew I could close that final gap. When he introduced me to his wife one day, she brightened and said "Oh! Pete's talked about you!"

I was surprised, because who talks about miserable teenagers no matter how well they score on your tests? Then I swelled up with pleasure and pride. Maybe I really was friends with my extraordinary biology teacher. At some point that year, he assigned a project. He gave us a multistep experiment to perform. We were to write up the hypothesis, the experimental protocol, document the actual experiment, and then write our conclusions. It took us weeks to wade through, but we finally turned in our papers. Some days later, he returned them. Mr. Wiles liked to hand back tests and papers in ranked order - highest scores to lowest scores.

I'd had a good time with the assignment and I knew I'd done pretty well. I knew I had. He gave back papers, stopping at student desks and saying something good about each paper. With each one he returned, my heart sank and my alarm grew. He wasn't stopping at my desk. Never before had one of my tests or papers not been returned within the top five. High school wasn't a good time for me at all. I had very little to cling to. My academic performance was about it and here I'd gone and messed that up in some way I couldn't comprehend. I must have gotten the lowest score in the class. That meant I'd disappointed my friend. And me.

Finally, Mr. Wiles, with one paper left in hand, came to stand beside my desk. He stared at the paper a moment, then looked at me. I must have looked terrified. I don't think I'd taken a breath since midway through his trip through the classroom.

"I saved your paper for last, because it needs some explaining. Highest score. Not just in this class. Out of all of my classes. It's brilliant," he said.

I blinked.

"The writing is clear. Concise, but detailed. Specific. If you don't become a writer, I'll haunt you until the day you die."

I laughed, but I was so relieved I cried, too. It must have been the reaction he was hoping for. He spent the rest of the period grinning.

A few weeks later, the substitute teachers started. Shortly after, we got word. Mr. Wiles had lung cancer. He didn't finish the school year, opting for treatment instead. Early in my junior year (when I had to take the chemistry I'd missed the year before), he died. Broke my heart. But his threat to haunt me made me smile. And the legacy of his faith in me and my ability to write, survived.

He was the first person ever to tell me I *could* write. To make a big deal out of a skill that I'd regarded as a kind of life preserver. He made me look at it differently. He inspired me to appreciate what I'd learned to do. And, in typical Pete Wiles fashion, made me want to try even harder. Not because he asked, but because he seemed so delighted by what I'd done.

So I write. I may have taken a few detours through the years, but I'm a writer, Mr. Wiles. Even if I sometimes wouldn't mind being haunted - just to get to see my friend again.

My Biggest Early Influence, aka Navigating the Hurricane

This week's topic is talking about someone who was a good influence on you early in your writing career (aka, someone you're thankful for).  I'm going to cheat slightly here, and pull out a piece I wrote when I was asked to do a bio for one the guests of honor at ArmadilloCon, who coincidentally, is exactly that person in my life.  (Plus, it's the holidays, and I've got plenty on my plate, so I'm allowed a bit of a blog-cheat.)

---

I’m in a car in the middle of nowhere on a deep, deep back-country road. Flash floods and washed out roads have forced my journey home off the main highway, and then off the side road. I’m literally in a moment one plot-point away from being a horror movie cliché. But it’s cool, because I’m riding shotgun with Stina Leicht.

All right, here’s the sitch: We were both on panels at ComicPalooza in Houston, scheduled for a last-panel-of-the-con slot at 5pm on a Monday. My wife had to drive home early, so I asked Stina for a ride back to Austin, and she was happy to oblige. So we get into Locksley—her blue Miata—and hit the road. Problem: there’s been serious flooding in Austin, and the heavy storms are making their way to us. Our respective spouses are texting us, “You might want to stay in Houston” messages. But we’re both thinking A. the storm is coming to Houston, so that’s not a better choice and B. no, we want to get home. And this is Stina Leicht I’m with. She’s navigated the choppy waters of the publishing industry, including the implosion of her first publisher, and came through with two Campbell nods and brand new flintlock fantasy series hitting the shelves. Rain ain’t gonna stop her.

The first time I saw Stina was ten years ago at the ArmadilloCon Writers Workshop, my first time attending it. I was sitting in the room, surrounded by strangers and feeling a bit intimidated, especially with that panel of professional and experts at the front of the room. And then this woman walks—nay, strides—into the room like a gothic warrior intent on conquering. But, you know, cheerfully. She walked right up to that panel of experts and said hello. And I thought, “I don’t know who this woman is, but she’s clearly the champion of this workshop.” I was right about that—she finished up the con weekend getting a manuscript request from the Editor Guest of Honor. That’s not something that happens very often. Actually, having been involved in the workshop in varying capacities for the last decade, I don’t think it’s happened since.

Stina took over coordinating the ArmadilloCon Writers’ Workshop shortly after that, which is how I got to know her. In running the workshop, she repeatedly showed her dedication and commitment to learning as much as she could about her craft, and then turning right around and sharing what she learned.

So, back to riding through that storm (spoiler: WE LIVED)—we just about made it to LaGrange when our phones lit up with TORNADO WARNING SEEK SHELTER. Stina pulls us into a gas station for a few minutes while we check the radar. The worst of it is just ahead of us, and past that? Clear sailing. If we just get through it.

Stina’s car, Stina’s call: “Let’s wait for the rain to be less… horizontal.”

Fifteen minutes later, gravity starts behaving again. We push through the downpour and past the other side. The sun is setting ahead of us, filtered through a heavy blanket of orange clouds and lightning across the sky. It’s a gorgeous alien horizon, and we talk about Ray Bradbury’s All Summer In A Day.

Then everything stops dead. The highway is flooded, and the troopers tell us to turn around. When asked for the best route to Austin, we get a shrug. I go into navigation mode and find us an alternate path that, near as I can tell, is clear. Rural country highway, but it’ll get us there. There’s already been hell and highwater, so we press on.

See, that’s the thing about Stina. She charges full-tilt. She’s not fearless, but rather looks the fear in the eye and beats it. She stood at the Gates of Mordor—or rather, the gates of traditional publishing— and proved her worth. But then she turned around to those behind her and said, “Hey, look, it can be done. Come on!” That’s what she did running the Workshop for seven years. And after a couple years of reading my stuff, she said, “You don’t need to be taking this workshop anymore. You should help me run it.”

She knows that the real secret—the honest to goodness this-is-how-you-do-it secret to succeeding in this business—has nothing to do with special clubs or handshakes or having the right cousin. It’s about doing the best damn work you can do.

Take her first two books—Of Blood and Honey and And Blue Skies from Pain. She didn’t just say, “I’m going to write about Ireland in the Troubles, so I’ll watch In The Name of the Father and get to it.” No way. She did the work. She read primary sources. She emailed people who lived through it. She took classes in the Irish language. She did everything in her power to make those books right. That’s how she works. They don’t give two Campbell nods to just anyone.

So, our country highway was also washed out. I figure out a new route to get us around that, but we are going deep into Nowheresville with this detour. Now it is totally dark, and the cell reception is spotty. We’re a breakdown and castle away from Rocky Horror territory, which we comment on. Then we miss a turn, leading us to a dead end where we see a sign that makes us both burst out laughing.

GRAVEYARD

We turn back around at get back on track, eventually getting to a clear part of the main highway and back to Austin. Three hours later than we originally had hoped, but no worse for wear. We had gone through the gallows humor phase of our trip by that time.

“I mean,” I said once we were in the clear, “If we had died together, it would have boosted our careers. Well, at least mine. I’d have been the Ritchie Valens to your Buddy Holly.”

Fortunately, you’ll have Stina Leicht around for some time to come. Even still, you might want to pick up Cold Iron and pre-order Blackthorne now. 

Early Influences

The obvious answer to this weeks question is: my first editor. But, because I have previously posted about what I learned during that time, allow me to step back even further, to a time before writing was a career and lingered still in that space where hopeful peeople stash their dreams.

My senior year of high school I returned to public school after six years in a private religious school. It was at this time that I met Mr. Grandy, my creative writing teacher. It was a great class; instead of the standard English class with increased difficulty offered at the private school, I finally had a class where what mattered was applying what I had learned bby diagramming all those horrid sentences.

It lasted only the last semester of the year, but it was the best part of school. We wrote and made a movie, we followed class prompts for assignments, and we got to work with fiction. The teacher took note of my work which tended to be much longer than the assigment dictated, and after we talked some he asked if he could take a look at what I had written. Delighted, of course, that someone wanted to take a peek at my words, I said yes.

This was the first time someone other than family or friends had read my work, and since he was a creative writing teacher I figured he knew what he was talking about, so when he came back with nothing but encouragement, I was happy, stunned, and motivated.

That stayed with me for years.

Before my first book was released, the publisher sent me two advance copies. I jumped through some hoops but found and contacted Mr. Grandy. It had been 17 years since I'd last seen him, but he remembered me and he agreed to meet me at the local Barnes & Noble. He brought his wife. I brought my mom. I gave him one of my two copies, signed on the thank you page where his name was first. We had a fantastic time that evening, talking, catching up. It meant the world to me to share one of my advance copies with him because he was the first person who made me feel like I really could do this.

I will always be grateful that he went the extra step and took my work home to read over the weekend. He didn't have to do that, but because he did and because he encouraged me, I held on to that.

I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving with your nearest and dearest, and I hope that you remember those who encouraged you and that you take it upon yourself to offer genuine encouragement to others.

Blessed Be.

Early Influences: The Naysayers

The person(s) most influential on my early writing career:

The Naysayers

I've met a lot of them. Some of them were probably spot-on about my questionable talent. A few were just assholes. Most likely didn't care enough have a thoughtful opinion. "Can't" is easier than "can." "No" is more convenient than "yes."

Alas, I'm stubborn. I was raised by an awesome family who said I could achieve anything I set my mind to.

Nannynannybooboo. Sticks & stones. I'm not giving up. 

All I needed was a clue. I'd happily work to earn success. I would learn. I would improve. I would do what it took to get what I wanted. Still will. Still do.

Somehow, I'd managed to get a degree in English Writing without learning a damn thing about the publishing process. (This was in the days long before the Internet and Self-Publishing. Back when personal computing was breaking into the mainstream.) Query letters? Synopses? Pitches and hooks?  I didn't get those answers until I joined Romance Writers of America (RWA). Gods bless 'em, they were the only group who accepted unpublished, utterly clueless aspiring authors into their ranks. They gave me the information I desperately needed, supplied avenues for networking, and set me on a path of continual learning to improve my craft.

It's been a while since I've penned a romance, but the generosity of the Romance community is something I still hold very dear.

Hat tip to the naysayers. They'll always be there. Pushing me to be better. Ensuring I enjoy every moment of proving them wrong.

The most influential person in my early career.

There are at least fifty, all for different reasons.

So today I pick one and I'll explain at the end of my tale.

The first professional convention I ever went to was the a meeting of the Horror Writers of America. It was the same year they became the Horror Writers Association, but that didn't happen until later in the weekend.

It's Thursday night or Friday night. I think Thursday. Keep on mind this was a loooooooong damned time ago now, and I looked around a room full of authors that I had read and admired and was terrified. Seriously. Who the hell was I to talk to the likes pf Peter Straub, Rick Hautala, Charles L. Grant, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, all of whom are in the same room with me and chumming it up? Awestruck? Maybe. But mostly I was terrified. Somewhere around that same convention was John Carpenter. John-Freaking-Carpenter!!!!

So, yeah, I hugged the wall, helped myself to a diet drink and and observed the people around me, absolutely overwhelmed.

A man a few years older than me moved closer and asked me my name as he offered his hand. I shook his hand and told him who I was.. He was diminutive next to me, but let's be fair, a lot of people are. I was taller, probably weighed twice and much and I couldn't have been more grateful to someone for speak to.

For the next ten or fifteen minutes we chatted, and I relaxed and the next thing I know, this gut with longish hair and a beret and casual clothes is leading me around the room and introducing me to people I never thought I would be in the same room with and they are, as a whole, treating me with respect and and courtesy.

And when it's done and I'm suffering from a case of too much smiling because, damn, I met some really cool people, the man shakes my hand again and says "My name is Charles DeLint, Jim, and it's really nice to meet you."

Charles-Freaking-DeLint. Another writer I never expected to meet. Another writer I had had admired while reading several of his books, for his eloquent prose and amazing stories. Turned out he was an amazingly nice guy, too, who was kind enough to spend a few minutes with a nervous wreck and to make sure he met everyone and felt at home.

Believe me, he was amazingly influential on my early career.

I've tried to live up to his example at every convention. Be gracious, be kind, be welcoming. It hurts nothing and you never know....

Keep smiling and have a great Thanksgiving, folks.

I am often reminded how much I have to be grateful for.

The Right Words at the Right Time - Supporting Newbie Authors

THE CROWN OF THE QUEEN will be available as a stand-alone novella on November 22! (You can preorder now at Amazon, Kobo and Smashwords.) If you already have FOR CROWN AND KINGDOM, this is the exact same novella in that duology with Grace Draven. You can get mine alone for $2.99 or both of us for $3.99. A deal, either way!! If you haven't read it, THE CROWN OF THE QUEEN takes place between THE TALON OF THE HAWK and THE PAGES OF THE MIND. It's told from Dafne's point of view and bridges the events in the aftermath of TALON and sets up her book, which is PAGES.

Our topic this week is "The person(s) most influential on my early writing career."

This is like picking literary influences - there are so many!

But it's been fun to contemplate, thinking about those very early days in my late twenties, when I finally realized I wanted to be a writer instead of a scientist. It was really difficult for me to tell people about that.

Because, well, it sounds silly, right?

In telling people I wanted to write books, I felt like every other person who's ever made noises about "someday writing that novel." And, to be frank, many of the people I talked to about this enormous pivot in my life plans pretty much nodded, smiled, and blew it off as so much wishful thinking. Those were the nice ones.

My PhD adviser - with whom I had a contentious relationship at that point as I struggled to complete my degree - said, "I think writers need a lot of self-discipline, to work steadily on projects over time - are you sure that's for you?"

Ouch.

Others were kinder, but "helpfully" presented statistics on the impossibility of such enterprises. One friend, however, one of my sorority sisters from college, sent me two books on writing. She probably went to a bookstore and asked for something to send a budding writer, because they're two of the classics. More important, she sent a note with them that said, "The only people who are annoying because they talk about writing a novel are the ones who never do it. I know you will."

That meant everything to me.

I could go from there, to those early classes and the various writers who took their time to teach me - because the list is long of teachers who did so much to help me along, which is part of why I teach, in turn - but it was the people who gave their whole-hearted supported who made that initial difference.

It's easy to crap on someone else's silly-seeming dreams. Of course they don't have the writer's discipline yet. That comes over time. Of course the odds are stacked against making a living as a writer. They're even higher for the person who never actually writes the book.

So, this goes out to Sandy Moss, who sent me those first books and - most important - the faith at exactly the right time.

Turns out, you were right! As always.

Much love to you, too, in TTKE.

Fuel for the Fire

I love all of this week's posts. Excellent, thoughtful, high-minded reasons for writing. I wish I could jump on the band wagon. But I can't. Cause I stand firmly on a line. It reads 'CRAZY'. Allow me to explain.

You know when you think you're alone and you aren't just talking to yourself, you're having entire conversations? The voices in your head are addressing you and it would be super impolite not to answer back? Only you do so aloud and it turns out you weren't alone and now everyone is looking at you like you belong in a straitjacket?

What?

Only me? Damn. That is totally why I write. Why I have to write. There's a throng in my head. I mean, sure, we all know we have voices residing in the gray matter. Mostly the voices of our parents and other loved ones, right? Most of us can still hear Mom telling us that if we keep making that face, it's going to stick that way. Those are the normal ones. The expected.

That's not all that goes on for me. It's crowded upstairs - crowded with a bunch of people and voices whose names and faces I do not know and never have known. From time to time, one or two edge out of the crowd, pull me aside, and they tell me who they are. From that point, I have no choice. If I don't start writing, I'll be on my way to an involuntary hold in a psych ward some where because those voices will not leave me alone ever again until I get their story down.

I get that this sounds like hyperbole and I can see you rolling your eyes from here, but I swear this is a thing. I can call my mother. We'll be chatting about everything under the sun BUT writing and out of the blue, she'll say, "You aren't writing, are you? I can hear it. Get off this phone and go work before it gets any worse." Every single time, she's right. There's a pressure that builds up inside - a little like that Alien movie - something trying to claw its way out through my sternum. It isn't comfortable. The only remedy is to get words down. Get a story on a page.

That's the fuel. And so long as I use it wisely, I avoid psychoactive medications and I eventually get a book out of the deal. So while I'd love to tell you I have some great intellectual drive or will of iron that gets from Chapter One to The End, it's more a feeling of responsibility to those voices inhabiting my head because each individual in the crowd is awaiting a turn - a chance to come to life on the page.

So maybe, the real truth is that the fuel for writing is as much a god complex, an over developed sense of responsibility and stunning hubris.

Or I'm just nuts.

What Fuels The Words

I've been talking the past few weeks about driving forward, about the endurance, doing the hard work. That's really the only way books get written.  So then when the next question comes and it's, "So what drives you to do it?", I have a hard time answering.  Because, to me, it's almost like "why are you breathing oxygen?"

In the latest episode of Westworld-- without giving serious spoilers, when confronted with why he's done the things he's done, he answers, "I just wanted to tell my stories".  I feel very much the same way.  I know the stories I want to tell, I'm never plagued by writers' block, at least on a macro level.  (On a micro level, I sometimes don't know how a scene is supposed to work, and that's frustrating.  Sometimes a project isn't quite coming together and gets put to the side... but there's always more projects in the works.)   

Of course, right now I'm in a position of privilege.  I'm writing books that are already under contract-- doing work that I know where it's going to go.  Back when I was writing books without an agent or a publisher?  There I was fueled just by the fire in my gut-- that I had to tell the stories of Maradaine, and get it out there in the world.  Someone once told me that writing novels was a thing you only did if you can't imagine not doing it. I think that's about right.  And I'm still not satisfied.  Each novel, I'm hungry for.  

And I bet you are as well.  So get down to those word mines, and get to work.  No one else is going to do it for you.

Inner Drive

Last evening, my family went to the movie theater to watch the filmed version of the National Theater's production of Hamlet, starring Benedict Cumberbatch. (Amazing. Go see it if you have the chance.)

It was not a live feed, but it lost none of the live theater vigor and momentum that a film simply cannot reproduce. Film is distanced by editing and changes of scene and setting, but in theater they do all that right before your eyes, right now. The actors and crew work magic and transport you from your seat to another time and place. They sing, dance. They deliver lines as if they've just revealed their deepest heart and you weep with them. I've worked around theater. I've been to some big productions. I used to play in a rock band. Live performance can transmit an enormous amount of energy between performers and audience and back again.

My son, who was a good kid drifting through his youth as many kids do, decided a few years back that he wanted to try acting. I encouraged it. He landed a decent role in the smaller of the local theather's next production. He was amazing...line delivery, at ease on stage. And that kid blossomed. Grades went up, confidence increased, and he stopped drifting. He had realized he had a motor and could decide exactly where he went and how fast. He learned he was in control of his life.

Much has occurred since and now he's about to embark on a role in a web-series. He is beyond excited. So am I.

I knew seeing this stage play (even tho filmed) would be good for him. At intermission we talked and it became clear that he had just realized the bar could be set much higher than he had previously thought. Do you have any idea how awesome it is to see a kid's eyes sparkle because he's humbly admitted to you that he knows he has a lot of work to do--and is eager to get started?

That kid works out regularly. He eats right. This has influenced me; I've lost fifteen pounds so far.

I recognize his inner drive. It brings joy to my heart. All I have to do is encourage and support him, scope out the next steps, shine the light on them and get out of his way. He wants to do it. He is willing to work. He is willing to learn. He makes every effort to be prepared for the next opportunity as he climbs.

I was like that once. I'd drifted.... Good at art. Good at writing. Really good at playing music. I decided to focus on the band. As a seventeen year old girl who had been playing guitar for a year and could rock on-par with local fellas of twenty-one to twenty-five who'd been playing for six or seven years, a chick who could play the solos but tended toward more melodic emotive notes than the blazing jibberish so many did...I had something. I had talent and drive inside me. I played for hours and hours every day because I wanted to.

But I didn't have parents who understood how good I was or who had a clue how to help me be what I wanted to be, even if they had wanted that life for me -- which they didn't. They permitted me to be in a band and rehearse and play in the bars, but they set up road blocks as well. Eventually, my fire for that turned to embers. I allowed it, influenced by family ties and a near-deadly experience with electricity. Besides, too many people (read as too many attitidues + too many decision-makers + not enough of my interests) needed to be involved and it wasn't sustainable without total support.

But words...I didn't need three other people to be on board with the story to write it. I didn't need to use the car to go write. If I was up late writing, my folks didn't have to wait up for me.

I allowed their path for me to become mine. It failed. After I'd tried it their way, twice, I did what I had originally wanted to do. I went to college, but I did it as a mother of four and still managed to graduate summa cum laude. I've had six novels published by a major NY house.

I'm not done yet.

My drive is still on. My motor is churning hard and there's fuel a-plenty to burn.

Recognize that thing you do that gives you some joy. You know, that thing you do for you, the thing you're passionate about, the thing you've worked hard to nurture your talent around. That thing you willingly give your 'free' time to, it's your thing. Like the energy transferring from actor to audience and back, when you do your thing, you feed your fire and that fire feeds you. Be willing to work and learn. Be willing to fail and try again. Make every effort to be prepared for the next opportunity that comes. Never give up. The pursuit gives you not only joy, but personal character. 

Motivated Writing: Embrace Your Weird

What motivates me to put words on the page? All my glorious and sundry weirdness. Oh, I know some of you think I'm a stickler who doesn't need to buy diamonds because I can poop my own. That's...occasionally true. However, being an introverted control freak does not limit my very special brand of odd. It fuels it, dear readers. It totally fuels it. How so? ~cackles~ Allow me to list the ways:

1. Many of the conversations I have with myself are awesome and need to be inflicted on the world.
2. After I've properly organized all the items on a store's shelf, I pay for my goods (when the cashier asks if I want paper or plastic, my answer is usually "you too"),then go home to pen total chaos inspired by shampoos in the conditioner rows.
3. When invited out to dinner, I order pie. Preferably cherry, though apple will do in a pinch. 5-course meal? Lovely. Bring me a new slice each round. Oh, and add ice cream for the main course. In my worlds, that's no reason for a date to leave. It's how the protagonist levels up her magic. 
4. Thanks to anxiety attacks, I will randomly get up and walk away, out, around, through...whichever direction keeps me in motion and distracted. Yes, socially, that's considered beyond the pale of rude; though, it is a fascinating character study in diverse reactions to a single unconventional action. Once I make it home--safe within my refuge--writing the revolt and abandonment scenes are rather easy. 
5. Finally, control. Complete. Total. Mistress of the Universe control. I have a plan, a list, and a timeline. Life is perfectly under con--wait, what the hell is that?  When did the sole of my shoe start flapping like a duckbill? The dog has ten minutes to do his outdoor business, why is he taking fifteen? The niblings are invading two days early and one has the bubonic plague? I have the next five pages word-for-word ready to roll from my mind, why is Windows taking thirty minutes to update?  ~shakes fists at sky~   KHAAAAAAAAAAAN! Godsdamn life. Full of plot twists.

Embrace your weird, dear readers. It's all the motivation you'll ever need.

What Motivates Me?

I haven't written much this week. It has nothing to do with the election and everything to do with the fact that I am busy.

I have a day job. We had a discussion, me and the management. The thing is the coffeeshop is understaffed. I appreciate that. For the last two weeks it's been just at 40 hours per week. As of today, I'm back to around 25-30. That is acceptable.

Along with my frequent partner in crime, Christopher Golden, I am teaching a writing course that's taking approximately fifteen hours of research and editing each week, plus three hours each Sunday for the actual class itself.

Now and then life gets in the way and there goes a few more hours lost to contemplation as a widower freshly on the wrong side of fifty. We can file that one under "shit happens and get over it," but that doesn't stop the way my life changes and I have to deal with it.

I'm starting the second book in a trilogy. It's fighting me. That, too, goes under "shit happens and get over it."

I have a lot of friends who are positively reeling from the election results. I mean staggering emotionally as if Rocky Balboa unleashed a few hundred blows on their souls instead of their bodies.

We are reaching that time of year when I tense up. I'm aware of it. I know it will happen. There is nothing I can do about it. Saturday night at World Fantasy fell on the 29th of October. That would have been my twenty-eighth wedding anniversary. The 27th was the thirty-first anniversary of my first date with the woman who shared a very large portion of my life with me.

December 23rd will be the seventh anniversary of the day I came home from work and found my wife dead.

And again, it all files under "shit happens and get over it."

There's not much to say about that really.  I will look at these issues, I will reel from them, and then I will move on, because as Stephen King once said (and I'm paraphrasing) "There are two choices in this world, get busy living, or get busy dying."

I still prefer to live.

And then Tuesday happened and the common sense I expected to prevail did not. A great number of people are staggered, as I have already stated. I am not.

I do not agree with any racist policies. I believe that people who want to have same sex lovers, or who have had that choice removed by their biology, should be allowed to do as they please so long as they do not force themselves on anyone. I believe that any transgender going through a grueling process that is harsh under any standards, physical or emotional, should be allowed to identify as they see fit. I believe that this country embraces freedom of religion, not just certain faiths. I firmly stand by my belief that the color of a person's skin, or the gender of the person in question, is not a significant or proper way to judge them. I prefer to judge the character and actions of a person instead and I expect the exact same courtesy. I believe that we should be allowed to say whatever we damned well please, because of the First Amendment, but I'm okay with each and every proviso added to that Amendment. I believe that green cups issued by Starbucks are just green cups that were meant to encourage unity and not an attempt to corrupt the universe. I also believe the red cups showed up a week or so later.

I believe that once upon a time I had a beautiful, wonderful wife and she died. I believe she suffered a lot in the process and I suffered with her. That partner in crime? Chris Golden? He was my anchor for a lot of that. He helped me get my perspective back. He pointed out, and rightly, that a lot of my time was spent in anger when my wife was at her worst, because her illness was something that I could not fix. It cost me a small fortune and medical bills drove us into bankruptcy. That was medical bills AFTER insurance.

All of the things that I have mentioned are the fuel that helps me write. They are facets of who I am.

My next books starts off with a husband trying, and failing, to save his family. Every event that takes place from that scene on is directly connected to his actions and to the actions that brought him into play as a man on a mission of salvation, redemption and revenge.

Don't think the connection is lost on me. it wasn't conscious when I started writing, but, yes, I am still dealing with the death of my life partner. I'm still looking back from time to time and wondering how different my world might have been if we'd had children.

I still contemplate the fact that I could not help her more than I did. As I have said many times in the Dinner for One essays, it is what it is. These are events that shape my worldview. They are only the smallest sampling.

The next few years could well be some of the worst this nation has seen. We don't know one way or the other. Time will tell.

Now that I've said that, I'll go ahead and point something out to you.

Mostly I'm a happy person. I've cut a lot of the negatives out of my life. The emotional vampires, the people who made me miserable with their attitudes, they are gone. I moved away. I moved on.

Mostly I'm an optimist.

Mostly.

When I am not, when there are things that anger me or make me afraid, I tend to work them out i n my fiction. Not all that long ago a customer pissed me off in the worst possible way. Ratter than drag his ass outside and tune him up the way I wanted to, the way my inner savage very nearly demanded, I let it go.

Then I killed said ass in a book instead. No one could ever prove who I killed in a court of law and the customer in question is alive and well, but I know who I was killing. I still see him regularly and we get along fine. And if he pisses me off again, I'll tear his soul to pieces in another story or book.

And I'll do my best to remain optimistic, regardless of what the world throws my way. I may not always succeed, but I will try.

On Wednesday morning I went to work from 4:30 AM until 1:00 PM. I did not post onFacebook or twitter or anywhere else. I contemplated the forthcoming change in my country and my world.

Instead of going on a rant or contemplating how royally screwed we are as a nation if the man who is going to be our president keeps his words from the campaign trail (he won't, not all of them at least, none of the POTUS do) I thought about it and posted the following advice that I will try to live by while I contemplate the darker anniversaries coming my way and President trump's ascension into the Oval Office:


It's exactly this simple: Lead by example. Be the person you want to be. Be kind. Be thoughtful. Be optimistic in the face of your dread. Hatred solves nothing. Fear is the tool of terrorists, and I will not live in its shadow. Hatred weakens us all. 
Don't fall victim to the tools you find offensive. 
Don't use those tools in an effort to strengthen yourself. 
But, also, be ready to defend yourself if you have to, and to defend those who are hurt or weakened. Do not tolerate bullies.
Be a good person. In the end that is all we have.

It is what it is.