But...Why?

As you all know by now, I'm writing a novel.  In point of fact, it's a contemporary fantasy novel.  For those who don't already know, Wikipedia defines contemporary fantasy as being the type of fiction "...in which magic and magical creatures exist, either living in the interstices of our world or leaking over from alternate worlds."  So your Harry Potter, your Twilight, your American Gods, your Dark is Rising, etc., are all contemporary fantasy.  Got it?  Good.

So, I've got this novel, and it's plot -- as far as I can tell from my research -- is relatively original.  It's great, I'm loving it.  But there are holes, and holes must be plugged.  The only way to plug holes is to ask Why?  Why would your protagonist not know who she is?  Why would your antagonist be after her in the first place?  Why does your love interest like her and why does she like him?  Why does she choose to pursue the issues before her?  You have to Why? the hell out of everything.  If you don't have a satisfactory answer, you need to get one.  And you need to make sure it blends smoothly with all the other answers you've already found.

That's where I am right now, figuring out my Whys and plugging the holes.   When I'm stuck for an answer, I remind myself that, in the world of my book, I am God.   I'm the only one with all the answers, even if I haven't figured them out yet. 

What about you?  If you write, are you Why-ing yourself to death?  If you don't write, how tightly do the holes need to be plugged in the books you read?  Do you let some plot holes slide, or are you the book police?  Let me know in the comments.

The Rules Have Changed

"I only write when I'm inspired, and I make sure I'm inspired every day at 9 a.m." ~Peter DeVries

In the beginning -- that sounds really epic, doesn't it?  Like a pronouncement from God, "In The Beginning..."  Okay digression over.  In the beginning, this whole blog was an exercise in change.  I wanted to see if I could change my slovenly, schlup housewife ways into motivated, highly-effective-a-la-those-10-highly-effective-habits-type-books ways.  Those highly-effective ways have never come naturally to me.  I have lots of grandiose plans, and I'm perfectly capable of carrying them out, but I'm always stymied by my own laziness.

There are those who tell me I'm not lazy, I can't possibly be lazy with four children to chase after, but let me tell you -- I bring new levels of inventiveness to laziness.  You have no idea.  And, in the interest of not tarnishing my image further, I'm not going to go into details.  Suffice it to say, Me = Lazy Sod.  As such, I have made it to the ripe old age of thirty-seven (heh) with no appreciable accomplishments.  (No, I don't count the kids, because, while they're wonderful and I love them, anyone with working ovaries can have kids.  Just ask the social services office.)

I am happy to say, the landscape is changing.  As a result, the rules must also change.  SO...I'm here to lay 'em down.  The new objective is for me to get The Novel written.  I have come to the realization that writing is not just Work, it's A Job, and I must treat it like A Job.  To that end, every day, for at least a solid two hour block, I will work.

Now, it has been said that the writer is always working even when he or she is not writing.  We're turning ideas around, we're developing characters and plot, we're looking at ordinary things and trying to figure out how we make an interesting story out of them.  However, none of that matters for shit if it doesn't get written down.  And I haven't been writing; I've been ruminating.  I've been doing it mostly out of fear of the sheer, daunting task ahead of me.  You see, I have to start over.  I know I already told you that, but I haven't actually done it yet.  Remember the essential equation here, folks:  Me = Lazy Sod.

Morris L. West said, "In a longish life as a professional writer, I have heard a thousand masterpieces talked out over bars, restaurant tables and love seats. I have never seen one of them in print. Books must be written, not talked." 

Right.  So, for at least two hours every night, I will write.  And I will do so until I type The End.  Time off ends today.  Wish me luck.

ZombieLuv Comes to It's Conclusion

As you know, I recently participated in the ZombieLuv flash fiction contest hosted by Mari's Randomities.  It is now three weeks later and the Winners have been announced!  There were so many terrific entries, I don't know how the judges managed to decide.  But they did, and you can find their decisions listed here on Mari's blog.  The winners will be published at various times in various places, so check them out. 

To save you the suspense, I was not one of the contest winners.  However, I did place second in the popular vote, so a HUGE thank you to all who voted for me.  You made my week!

Thanks to Mari for wrangling this rodeo, and Congratulations! to all the winners.

The Blogfest Of Death!

Well, folks, here it is, my entry into The Blogfest of Death.  You may link back to all the other dealers of death at the blog of our illustrious hostess, Tessa Conte, over at Tessa's Blurb.  I urge you to go and read all of the other sure-to-be-wonderful entries into the fest (after you read this one, of course).  This is an excerpt from my short story Harbinger of Spring, which you may read in its entirety by clicking on the little tab at the top of the page.   In this snippet, we join our boy, Roger, as he hits a little bump in the road during his bid for freedom.  For those of you who've already read this story, there's a little bonus story entitled Injustice in another tab at the top. *This story is no longer available.  Sorry, folks.*  Feel free to indulge.  However, for everyone reading, be advised that this material is in no way intended for kids.  As I've said before, in my world, kids = under 18.  If you're under 18, go away.  Everyone else, enjoy the death and mayhem.  Sickos.



Just as he was about to turn onto the long, rutted dirt path that passed for a driveway in this shit hole, he noticed something wrong. Something very wrong. There were tire tracks going up the driveway, and they were fresh. Shit! Just Fucking Hell!



He briefly considered just driving on by and leaving from a different trail-head, but gave that up as a bad idea almost as quickly as he’d thought it. Everything he needed -- the gas, his I.D., everything -- was back in that cabin. Thank the Good Lord he’d brought the rifle.



He went carefully up the drive, watching for headlights all the way and considering his options. He didn’t want to kill anyone else, not if he could help it. June had been one thing, she’d brought that on herself, but this guy was just doing his job--out there earning his living like any other real man (and probably giving it over to some bitch who thought she deserved it just as fast as it hit his hands). There was no doubt in his mind that it was a cop. Who else would it be?



He decided to try and fake it. If he could make the cop believe that this was his place, even for a little while, he could buy himself enough time to skedaddle on out of here. All he had to do was keep it simple, just like the rest of the plan. Tell him that he was having trouble with the Missus and that this was the doghouse. Tell him he’d be leaving in a day or two. Thank him for stopping by. That sounded good.



As he parked the car and stepped out, the bright beam of a police flashlight hit him in the eyes, stopping him in his tracks. Which was okay because he still had his right hand inside the car wrapped around the rifle; he was trying hard to keep it from the cop’s sightline. He looked to the left to try and see past the spots that had bloomed over his vision and noticed the State cruiser parked there. He could only see one flashlight beam, though, so that was okay. Just one cop to deal with.



“Can I help you, Officer?” he asked in the calmest, most sincere and respectful voice he could muster. It still didn’t sound right.



“What’s your name, sir?” the cop replied in his best official-business voice.



“Don LeCompte," he answered, giving the name he’d seen on some papers in the cabin. He hoped the cop didn’t actually know Don LeCompte. “What brings you here?”



“We’ve had a report from one of your neighbors that they’ve been seeing smoke coming from here. They said this place is usually vacant this time of year. What brings you here, Mr. LeCompte?” Neighbors? Shit. He didn’t think there was anyone close enough to this place to call themselves neighbors; that‘s why he‘d chosen it. Looked like he’d been wrong.



“Oh, you know, just some trouble with the wife. She’s pissed off at me. Sent me to the doghouse," he grinned, waving his hand toward the cabin. “You know how it is," he finished with a shrug. He wished the God damn cop would get the God damn flashlight out of his eyes. He held his free hand up in front of his face, hoping the cop would take the hint. He didn’t.



The cop was quiet for a minute, just standing there shining that fucking light in his eyes, before he said, “Can you step away from the car and show me some identification please, sir?”



Fuck. Well, there was no way around it now. The only I.D. he had on him, other than his own, was the one he stole, which did not say “Don LeCompte” on it.



He thought about his aim for a fraction of a second. He presumed the cop was a righty, which would mean he would probably be holding the flashlight in his left hand right next to his face--at least that’s the way every cop that had ever pulled him over had held it, must be the training--so the aim would have to be down and to the left of the beam.



He said, “Sure,” turning his body slightly to make it look like he was fishing for his wallet. In almost the same motion, he took a large step backwards to the left, swinging the rifle up to his shoulder. He took as long to aim as he dared--it was important to hit him the first time, he wouldn’t get another chance--thumbed the safety and pulled the trigger.



The shot was deafening. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that whatever neighbor had been able to see the smoke from the wood stove would probably be able to hear that shot as well. He’d better get on the fucking stick.



With the noise from the shot, he didn’t hear the cop hit the ground, but the light that had been shining in his eyes a moment before was now laying at an odd angle in the snow and he headed towards it. He picked up the flashlight and shined it where he thought the cop ought to be. Yup. He was dead all right. The middle-aged cop’s sightless eyes stared up into the snow, his face twisted in shock, the snow beneath him melting in the warm, black pool that was spreading from his back.



Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. There wasn’t enough fuck in the whole world for this mess. They’d know he was here, now. They might even figure out where he was headed. Even if he knew how to clean this mess up, which he did not, he had no time. Well, he’d figure that out later. He thought he’d have a day or two, minimum, before they’d be able to peg him for this, maybe more. It took time to process evidence, right?



He’d just go on into Canada as planned, get cleaned up and fed, and then maybe head west. They had trees out west, too.



But he had to get moving. Now. Whatever time it took to process evidence didn’t matter for shit if some dispatcher noticed that Super Cop here wasn’t responding and sent someone out here to look for him. He didn’t have much time.

Just a Reminder

Hey folks, just wanted to draw your attention to the little "Blogfest of Death" button on the right hand side of your screen.  On Sunday, July 18th, I, along with fifty (yes, 50!) other writers will be killing people with impunity and abandon.  Yippee!  It's gonna be a massacre!  *eh hem*  Come back on Sunday to read the myriad ways we'd kill people if we could get away with it we kill off characters whose times have come.  Mwahahahahaaa!



Possible Bonus:  I may have another short story posted in the tabs at the top for your sick, twisted pleasure.  Maybe.

You Said It, Toni.

There are an awful lot of blogs out there right now that are dedicating themselves to helping authors power through the funk caused by rejection.  There are writers who tell of having written six or seven novels and querying for years before ever landing themselves an agent.  There are many who have given up and gotten "real jobs."  This is a brutal business, very few will achieve even minimal success, and every writer/publisher/agent blog out there is clamoring to hit writers over the head with this fact.  Oh, they're quick to offer a "Hang in there!" at the end, but the rest of the doom always seems to overpower it.



I spoke to Magnum about this several months ago.  I explained how useless writing can make a person feel.  It's a good deal of time devoted to work that will, according to the odds, never see the light of day -- or the light of publishing.  Same thing.  One begins to feel that one is wasting one's time, not to mention everyone else's time.  For me, it's multiplied by the laundry that hasn't been done and the sheets that need changing, the floors that need mopping and the dishes in the sink.  Oh, and by the way, I don't even have a degree in this stuff and other people have trained for years to do it, what the hell business do I have even thinking I can compete?



Magnum wisely advised me to think about why I was writing it in the first place, though he probably doesn't even remember.  I think he was absorbed in an episode of Top Gear at the time.  Still, the question remained.  What was, ultimately, my reason for taking on all of this? 



The simple answer is, if I don't, these people that are stuck in my head will drive me completely barmy and I'll wind up in an I-love-myself jacket.  And this is true, but it's not the whole truth.  I'm writing this story because I want to see it written.  It's my story.  I may not get it perfect, or even passable, but it's mine and it wants writing. 



I think the ultimate question is this:  If you knew today that this story would never see publication, that no one other than your mom would ever read it, would you still write it?  In my case, the answer is Yes.  So I write. 



Toni Morrison, who will always be far more eloquent than I, said this, "If there's a book you really want to read but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it." 



Exactly.







TOTALLY SELF-SERVING UPDATE:  They're taking votes for the zombie luv over at Mari's Randomities.  If you liked what you read, go on over and leave a vote for me in the comments.  If not, don't.  Vote for whomever you like, who the hell am I to tell you?  But if you're feeling charitable, go on over and throw me a bone.  This concludes my shameless begging for today.

Starting Over. Again.

For a while there, I was humming right along with The Novel.  It was choppy and needed revising galore, but I was getting it onto the page.  Then I started my class.  I took Revision with the marvelous Lani Diane Rich; it was excellent.  I learned more in those six classes than I had gathered in months of searching and reading on my own.  Trouble is, it broke my flow.



See, I stopped writing in order to do the classwork.  There was a lot of analyzing involved.  Rather early on in this process,  I realized that a great deal of what I'd written needed to be chopped and/or rewritten.  I started trying to rewrite without having my ending solidly attached and it wasn't working. 



Now, I'm a mangled mess of writerly disorganization.  I can't go back to writing 2,000 words a day like I had been, because changing what needs to be changed in the beginning is going to change the ending.  I have to find the bones of it, get the skeleton pieced together, then add the flesh bit by bit -- from the beginning.  I have to start over. 



I've been moping about this for a little while now.  It's a tremendously discouraging thing to look at all that work and realize that at least half of it's going to have to go.  But it needs to happen.  So, as of today, the counter is reset at zero and I'm beginning again.  It'll be slower this time; I'm still putting the skeleton together.  But, hopefully, when it's done, it'll be stronger and worth the time of any who care to read it.  And, really, that's all I can ask.

I Got Nothin'

My gut tells me that Zombie Luv has been sitting on page one for too long and it's time for a new post.  However, we're in the middle of a heat wave and my brain is only semi-functional, so I'm barely getting by with the damned book, much less blog posts.  Terrible.  Terrible, but true.



So what do I do?  Well, I tap into the genius of others and share it with you, of course.  Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Axis of Awesome.



And for those of you keeping tabs, the evil specter of the dreaded laundry monster has once again reared its ugly head all over my couch.  Don't come to visit.  Okay, you can, but don't expect to sit anywhere comfortable.

Zombie Luv Flash Fiction Contest: Rose

Alrighty, zombies and zombettes, here's the entry I warned you about promised you. It's a love story per contest rules, but it's also a zombie story, as the post title suggests, and therefore not suitable for the younger set.  I call it Rose. Enjoy.





The first bite was horrible. I remember it, how it tore at my scalp. I remember screaming, and underneath, praying. Praying to die quickly and thoroughly, not to become one of them. It was so stupid.





I didn’t know it at the time, how could I? None of us did. Aaron and I kept hidden along with the rest of them, cowering in our corners, trying to stay alive. It’s funny, how little we knew then.





After they found us, crouching in a cellar with the spiders and the rot, Aaron and I were separated. I didn’t know it for a while, there was pain and delirium and the feeling of life falling through the bottoms of my feet, and it was hard to think for a time. Eventually, I woke, but I’d changed too much by then to count minutes or days. Time moves differently in this life. My awareness is different, now.





Knowing what we became made it twice as difficult to take losing him. In the time before, we’d made a pact. If either one of us got caught and turned, the other would kill the zombie we’d become. We’d promised to make it as quick and painless as possible, that’s how much we’d loved each other. We’d even saved one bullet each for the occasion. Just one -- bullets were hard to come by. It was a useless gesture. When they came, we never got a chance to use them.





I went back to look for him when I’d regained myself, but there was nothing left. By then, the dead were nothing but piles of broken bones with the marrow sucked out. Those of us who’d become zombies had scattered. There was no way of knowing what became of him.





I mourned him there in the cellar for a while. When I finally let the last of my hope die, I left and joined up with the first group I saw. They welcomed me as warmly as their forms would allow. There’s safety in numbers in this life, more so than the last. It’s too easy for the humans to pick off the stragglers. New zombies -- more zombies -- give us all a better chance. It’s the only way for us to survive till the next phase, we move too slowly otherwise.





That may be the thing I dislike the most about this form, the slowness. The flesh sliding off feels weird, and not being able to talk to the humans, to tell them what’s going on, stinks. But the slowness is the worst. I’ve lost more friends than I can count to simple slowness. Of course, I can’t really count very well these days, so make of that what you will.





Anyway, on a night much like this one, with stars speckling the sky and a breeze blowing in from the north, we got a big group together and went for food. Caroline, one of the older ones, had sniffed out a hidey hole at dusk and had come back to get us. We were almost there when we saw another big group headed for the same place from the other direction. The poor people must have been so hopeless watching us come. We converged on them like lava on a mountain, creeping, inexorable. The bleak misery in their eyes would have broken my heart if I’d still had one. I wanted to console them, to tell them it would be okay, but I couldn’t. This phase of our evolution didn’t allow for it. I did my best for them, though. I only killed if they made it necessary.





I didn’t see the kid with the rifle until it was too late for me to do anything about it. People screamed all around us and the intoxicating scent of blood and brain filled the air, but he never wavered. His rifle was trained on my head and his hands never shook. I was going to die -- real death, this time, not what the humans thought was death. A part of me, buried deep, wished that I still had the ability to cry. More than that, I wished I could close my eyes. I couldn’t, though. My eyelids had fallen off long ago. I didn’t even have time to turn around.





Then it happened. I heard it before I saw it, and I thought it was the rifle. I stood there, waiting for the bullet to hit me, but it didn’t. It hit him. The kid with the rifle fell to the ground and the other zombies around me fell on him like vultures while I tried to make sense of it.





That’s when I saw him.





He didn’t look like Aaron anymore, but I didn’t look like Rose anymore, so what did it matter? What mattered was that he was there, just across the room. He held the same gun he’d kept to execute me. I don’t know how he’d managed to hang onto it during the melee that night, but he had, and I wanted to cry again because I was so grateful. And because he was there.





It took us a while to make our ways across the room. Too much was going on and we moved so damned slow. But then he was there and I could touch him and, even though we couldn’t talk right then, I knew he’d never leave me again.





We never broke contact over our meal that night, just as we haven’t since. We will finish off the rest of the humans side by side. And when they’re gone, our evolution will move to the next phase. Together.







Here are the contest guidelines:



•Word count: maximum 1,000



•The story must be a romance between two zombies. Make it as horrific as you like. ;)



•Stories containing animal cruelty, torture, graphic sex or violence, any form of exaltation of violence, racism or other forms of prejudice will be immediately disqualified.



•Post your entry on your own blog, with a title resembling this:



Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: Story Title



•Leave your story title and a link to the story entry post as a comment at mari's randomities: http://marisrandomities.blogspot.com/



•Copy and paste the contest logo and the guidelines at the end of your entry post.





















Don't forget to stop by the comments and tell me what you think.  Go ahead.  I can take it.

Contest!

I'm a glutton for contests.  Truly.  Writing contests suck me right in, I can't resist them.  Enter Mari over at Mari's Randomities.  She's hosting a Zombie Luv Flash Fiction Contest.  How the hell am I supposed to resist that?  I can't; it is folly even to try. 



So what's the challenge, you ask?  To write a short story, under 1,000 words, about love between zombies.  A post-mortal romance.  The winner will be chosen from all the entries on July 15th, and there are Prizes.  Writers love Prizes.  Yes, you do.  Yes, you do!   Eh hem.  I am no exception.  And, since I find myself unable to resist entering, I'm going to throw my story into the mix.  You should, too.  Because, hey, Prizes!



My story will be up in the next post.  Fair warning, there are zombies involved, which means there are "eww" moments (I hope). 



Contest rules and writing guidelines are here.  You have until July 10th.  Don't leave me to face the zombie apocalypse alone.  And don't procrastinate.