I'm Not a Cat, So I Think I'm Safe

So, I'm on Facebook today checking stuff out because I can't think properly and that squirrely situation I have going on with my book refuses to allow me to work it out -- Gah!  *deep breath*  I'm okay.  Really.  Anyway, I'm on Facebook and I finally take notice that I've made friends with a few writers whose acquaintance I've never had the pleasure of making.  Honestly, if I ran over any of these people with my grocery cart, I wouldn't know it was them.



In an attempt to remedy that situation, I began checking out their profiles.  I don't normally spend much time doing that.  I'm more of a log-in, comment on a few things, log-out kind of a girl.  And I know -- I know -- that people don't generally look the way I picture them, but I ran across a couple of people that were, in real life, the exact opposite of how I pictured them.   It surprised me; I didn't think I'd been that far off.



That whole exercise got me to thinking about my characters.  I have trouble with movies, sometimes, when they cast someone as a character that I know, and that someone doesn't look or behave anything like the person I pictured when I read the book.  I find it annoying, frankly, particularly if that character was described in detail.  But, then again, I generally don't like characters to be described in detail.  I like a few details, some general guidelines, and then I like to fill in the rest.  As a consequence, that's how I write.  I am aware, however, that not everyone likes this.  Some people prefer the description.  So, informal poll:  how do you like your characters?  Detailed descriptions, or some things left to the imagination? 



And, just for the sake of my ever-insatiable curiosity, for those who've never seen me, how do you picture me?  Really.  (I won't be offended.)  Leave it in the comments.  I'm dying to know.



UPDATE:  In recognition of the fact that not everyone who reads the blog actually leaves a comment, I've put up an Actual Poll.  My first.  It's very exciting.  It's over to the left if you feel inclined to help a girl out.

I'm Stuck

If you'd been paying attention, you'd have noticed that the ticker hasn't moved.  There's a good reason for that.  I'm taking a class, which is why there was a deadline in the first place.  Tomorrow will be week three of Revision with Lani Diane Rich, author and teacher extraordinaire. 



Through half of April and all of May, I typed my fingers to the bone, trying to finish my manuscript for the beginning of June start date.  I didn't finish.  However, I did believe that I was more than seventy-five percent there.  I was wrong.  So, so very wrong.  After I'm done fixing everything and cutting what doesn't have any business being in there, I'll be about half-way through.  Gah.  The trouble is, trying to revise what I have without having the ending down is tough.  It may also be tremendously counterproductive, since I may have to re-revise once I've written the ending. 



So, now I'm stuck with a dilemma.  Should I try to keep up with the class homework and revise what I already have now?  Or should I finish, get my ending down on paper (or screen, whatever) and revise from there?  Quite honestly, this confusion is causing a brain blockage, rendering me unable to write anything more than rambling blog posts.  At least, I'm blaming the confusion.  We'll just pretend that the blockage isn't a normal occurrence.  Because it makes me feel better, that's why.  Don't argue.  Anyway...what do you think?



In the more mundane realm -- because the previous three paragraphs weren't mundane at all -- the kids are on summer vacation.  We went to Six Flags last Tuesday, and I discovered something.  I'm much chubbier than I believe myself to be.  Either that or they're shrinking the seats on the rides.  Can we pretend that, too?  Shrinking seats?  Sounds good to me.  Also, just for you, Julie -- there is laundry on the couch again, staring at me like Puss in Boots from Shrek, saying, Fold me, please fold me.  I should do it.  It's only towels; towels are easy.  Perhaps if I jog in place while I fold, I can kill two birds with one stone... 



Tune in next time when we examine why, exactly, one would want to kill a bird, whether the stone is the optimal weapon for doing so, and all the fun things you can do if you manage to get two of them.  Or we may just discuss my laundry again.  You never know, the surprises here are limitless.

All The '80s Children, Say "Ho!"

I've been trying all week to come up with something pithy or witty or profound to say here and I've got bupkis.  Nevertheless, I'm all about the entertainment, so here's a shout out to the flourescent, big-haired, spandex-clad children of the 1980s.  I give you -- Safety Dance!  Sort of. 

The Playlist -- Part II

Why?  Because I have been looking at my manuscript too long and now my brain hurts.  I needs me a break, and you all get to be the lucky beneficiaries of my temporary mental overload.  Aren't you excited?  You are, I can tell.  So here it is, the rest of the playlist for my current work in progress.  There are several remakes in there, not because I don't like the originals, but because the mood works better for the story.  Links will take you off site.  Enjoy.



Running to Stand Still,  Elbow (remake)

I Can't Break Away, Big Pig

Running Up That Hill, Kate Bush (Weird video. The judges at Dancing With the Stars would be appalled.)

Don't Fear the Reaper, Blue Oyster Cult

Same Blood, The Academy Is...  (No good link for this one, sorry.)

White Bird, K.T. Tunstall

Can't Find My Way Home, Alana Davis (remake -- No good link for this version.)

When You Learn to Sing, Rocco Deluca and the Burden

Window Blues, Band of Horses

Crazy, Tori Amos

Creep, Scala and Kolacny Brothers (remake -- Yes, they still swear.)



If you want to see the rest of the playlist, it's here.

Oh, Come On!

So I go to check my blog tonight, and Blogger has put up a new design widget wherein I am supposed to be able to make myself a three columned blog.  I have always wanted a three columned blog, so naturally, I jump right on that Blogger bandwagon.  Except, it's not working right.  And now my blog is wonky. 



Please, forgive the general wonky-ness of this blog.  I'm working on it.



UPDATE:  Well, it ain't what I was looking for, but it ain't wonky either.  I'll take it.  What do you think?

Dissenting Opinion

Thanks so much to everyone who stopped in for Terror Tuesday, and double thanks to those who left comments.  Like every other blogger I know, I crave them.  They keep me warm.  So, thanks.



On to business.  This morning, in the comments section of a blog I frequent, I disagreed with someone.  I disagreed politely, stated my opinion, and left it at that.  No biggie.  But then someone called me out, and I've been ruminating on it all day.  However, I am not a troll.   So, I've decided to go at this Supreme Court style and post my dissenting opinion here, because it's my blog and I can.  And Supreme Court style is an accurate way of describing it, because it's the dissenting opinion, which never gets as much traffic, and with which most people disagree anyway. 



Here's the deal, in the comments, someone indicated her displeasure at being called an aspiring writer.  Because, damn it, she was a writer, there was no aspiring about it.  Her point was, just because someone hasn't been published, it doesn't mean they're not a writer.  They do the same work, they simply haven't been paid for it yet.  I can agree with that.  I can agree with that no problem.  But then she went on to say how much it aggravated her that anyone called themselves 'aspiring writers' at all, with which I disagreed. 



I write, I'm a writer, but I haven't written a novel yet, which is my aspiration, so I'm still aspiring.  I'm an aspiring writer.  It's accurate.  And I responded as such.  Only, after I did, another woman -- for whom I have a great deal of respect and admiration -- said (and I'm paraphrasing here) if you write, you're a writer, and saying you're an aspiring writer when you write is like saying you're an aspiring eater while you have a mouth full of food.  I understand what she's saying, truly I do.  But the verb is off.  I'm not aspiring to be a writer, I already am one.  I'm an aspiring writer, a writer who's aspiring to something -- the completion of my novel. 



All nit-picking aside, this bothers me.  Their feelings on this are strong, and they're strong for a reason.  Writing is a hard path to take.  There is a general opinion among most people that writers don't work, at least not hard, that their work doesn't count unless someone publishes it.  This opinion isn't relegated to those who have no idea about writing and the industry and how hard we all truly work and the incredible odds we all face when we decide to delve into it; it's also the opinion of many published writers, and that can be incredibly demeaning.  The writers who posted on that blog this morning are sick of people using terms like 'aspiring writer' to make others feel less-than.  They're sick of being made to feel worthless because of the negative connotation someone else attached to that moniker.  I understand this.  And I agree, but only in part.



I agree that the negativity must go.  I agree that if someone has written that to which they've aspired, they are no longer aspiring, published or not.  I do not agree with giving the phrase the old heave-ho altogether, and I do not agree that the phrase is negative in and of itself.  I actually like it.



To aspire means to have a great lofty goal -- a goal, not a dream or a wish, a goal.  Perhaps it's my procrastinatory history, but having goals, setting them, striving toward them, it's all new to me.  I'm liking it.  I take pride in it.  There's nothing demeaning about it.  So why the negative connotation?  Well...the intent.  The sneer behind the words. 



But here's the thing, I love language.  I love words and the different nuances and shades of meaning they hold.  And I'm not inclined to change the meanings of my words based on someone else's negative intent.  Aspire is a fatastic word with an active, positive meaning. 



I'm keeping it.

Terror Tuesday is Here!

It's here!  It's here!  It's time for the Terror Tuesday Blogfest, hosted by one Ms. Mary McDonald.  Mary, incidentally, has just joined the ranks of the indie-published.  She's got a little taste of her book over on her blog.  If you like what you see, show her the love. 



Okay, down to business.  I wrote this scene as the opening scene for a writing circle that, sadly, fizzled out because Life Got In The Way for the other participants.  Life's a pushy bastard sometimes.  Anyway, I may continue this at some point if Kevin decides to share his secrets, but for now this is what I have.  I think it stands nicely on its own.  What do you think?



Kevin focused on the splinters in the wood a few inches in front of his face and tried to get his breathing under control. It wasn’t easy, the claustrophobia was beginning to get the best of him and his head was pounding. He’d known it was stupid to follow Brian here. His gut had been screaming at him to turn around since he’d first set off. Got to learn to trust those hunches a little more...if I ever get out of here, he thought. Great, another round of hyperventilation. Just what he needed.



Kevin closed his eyes and breathed deeply, concentrating on slowing his heart rate and emptying his mind. It’s okay, he told himself, you’ll be okay. It’s not like they buried you or anything. They’ll let you out....Or maybe they just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Damn. This wasn’t helping. To hell with trying to conserve oxygen. Maybe the extra carbon dioxide in the air would help stop the hyperventilation. How the hell was he going to get out of this thing? That was the real question. That was the real Goddamn question.



He opened his eyes and tried his best to get a thorough look at his situation. The box was a relatively tight fit, with only a few inches of room in any given direction, but the construction was sloppy. The boards were old, weathered, and there were gaps in between some of them that let in a little daylight, for which he was inexpressibly grateful. But that also meant he’d been here for a while. It had been evening when he’d gone after Brian.



If the daylight hadn’t clued him in to the length of his stay, the rest of his body would have. His muscles were stiff, his bladder ached, and his stomach had taken to growling at him. When he’d gingerly reached for the spot on his head where they’d hit him, the blood had been dry and crusted rather than warm and sticky like he’d expected. And then there was the smell. And the cold. He was finding it difficult to grasp how his bladder could ache so severely when he’d clearly emptied it during the night. He was determined to get himself out of the box before he was forced to do that again. The discomfort was one thing, but the humiliation was unbearable.



He found a relatively large gap between the boards near the left side of his belly and reached for it. Something sharp punched through the skin of his palm and he jerked it back toward his body. He felt the skin tear open in a long arc and bit off a shriek. He’d heard nothing but quiet since he’d opened his eyes, but he didn’t want to take the chance that there was someone nearby who was listening for him.



He could feel warm blood dripping down his palm and squeezed his hand shut to try to stem the bleeding. With his other hand, he reached slowly toward the opening again. He felt something cold poking through the wood. A nail. Well that figured. He tried to remember the last time he’d had a tetanus shot and couldn’t.



“I hate shots,” he muttered.



The sound of his voice in the confines of the box startled him and he jumped, nearly stabbing himself on another nail. “Don’t want that,” he said and made himself jump again, laughing nervously. Look at yourself, he thought. Laughing. There’s nothing here to laugh at, Kev. You’re in a box. You’ve been hit in the head and nailed into a box where you’ve pissed yourself and sliced your hand open on a nail and now you probably need a shot!



Shot? Was he really worried about shots? The nervous laughter was building and he fought to contain it before it gave him away, but he was powerless to control it. He laughed until his chest hurt. When his body began to curl of its own accord and he scraped his legs on more nails, he laughed even harder. If I don’t stop this, he thought, I’m going to piss myself again. And a fresh wave of laughter shook him until tears streamed down his face and he could barely breathe.



He didn’t hear when the footsteps entered the room, but he did hear the pry bar squeal as it began pulling at the board directly over his head and his laughter cut off as abruptly as it had come. There was no way he could fight them. The muscle cramps alone would do him in. Panic seized him by the stomach and squeezed. Hard. The urge to curl up into a ball was overwhelming and he whimpered when he realized he couldn’t do it.



Daylight flooded the box, it was brighter than he’d expected. He squinted and blinked up into it as more boards were pulled from the top of the box. By the time the third board came off, his eyesight had adjusted to the light. He had just enough time to wish that it hadn’t before his bladder let go.



So there it is.  Leave some love (or constructive hate) in the comment section.  And don't forget to visit the other folks in the fest.  Links are on the Terror Tuesday page.  Go get your pants scared off.  It's up to you what you do once they're gone.

You Know You Did, Don't Lie.

Now I'm shoving the blog to the side.  Don't say you didn't see it coming; even I saw it coming.  It's a blog about procrastination for Heaven's sake!  It had to happen sometime.  So, what can I tell you that's new, hmm?  The house is a mess, that's not new.  The Leaning Tower of Laundry has once again become the dominant feature in my living room -- do I even need to say that anymore?  I think we can take that one as a given.  I've surpassed my word count goal and still don't have a finished story, but you can see that from the ticker. 



Wait!  I've got it!  I'm entering my first blogfest, because, clearly, I do not have enough to do.  Who doesn't know what a blogfest is, raise your hand?  Well I'll tell you.  A blogfest is a little party we writerly types like to have wherein one of us chooses a topic to write about, the rest of us write about it, and we all post our scenes to our blogs on the same day.  Sound fun?  Of course it does.  The one I'm joining is called The Blogfest of Death, because really, how can you resist joining in on The Blogfest of Death?  There's a little button on the sidebar there that will take you to the rules on Tessa's Blurb, Tessa being the hostess of said deathfest. 



For those of you who write, I hope you'll join in.   For those who don't, I hope you'll come back on July 18th to read all the myriad ways we've found to murder our characters.  See you then!  Well...okay, sooner.  I will blog between now and then, promise.



UPDATE:  I've signed myself up for another blogfest.  It's okay, I'm not really piling more onto my plate by taking part since I already have a little snippet that fits the bill.  It's just sitting there, waiting to be used, so I'm going to use it.  This one's happening earlier, too -- June 8th to be precise -- and, as such, is called Terror Tuesday.   Mary McDonald will be our hostess for the day.  Death and Terror, what more could you ask for?  (I mean without me having to bring wine and snacks to your house.)  Join us, won't you?