This program temporarily delayed.

Well, it's post day. I had planned to write a post ahead of time and have it go up automatically, but you know what they say about the best laid plans. I'm neither mouse nor man, but awry they went anyway.

So, while I'm off enjoying myself at the NEC-RWA Conference, you all enjoy this.

See you Tuesday!

Now Entering Phase III

You probably know by my bi-weekly reminders that I'll be going to a conference at the end of this week. I'm Very Excited.

Now, I know I started out being all nervous and twitchy, but that's normal for me. That's Phase I. Let me 'splain.

I'm generally an introvert, and I live in the woods. Real, live human interaction on any sort of a large scale is a foreign language to me. Well, not totally foreign. It's more like a language that I grew up speaking, but then I moved to a different country and haven't had occasion to use it for some years. I have to think about it to get it back. Or, if I'm going to stop hacking this metaphor to pieces and get to the point, I have to calm down. That's the end of Phase I, the calming. It usually takes about a week. Two, tops.

Which brings me to Phase II. I like to call it the 'WTF, Delia?' stage. As in, before I had kids and accepted trees as my only neighbors, I had a job. I had a good job that required public speaking, deadline management, confidentiality maintenance, and *drum roll* interaction with the general public. I've already done all this stuff. Hell, I was even good at it. So why am I so nervous about doing it now? WTF, me? Then I yell at myself a la R. Lee Ermey, and I pull my shit together. Because, above all, I'm a pragmatist.

Then, about a week before the offending event -- oh, say...right about now -- I enter Phase III. I'm excited. Really. I cannot wait. Nearly three full days out of the house? With no kids? And other adults? To talk about BOOKS? Holy crap, I cannot wait. I cannot wait!

So, yeah, now I'm spastic. Poor Megan. She has to room with me. At least I'll be walking into the place without being all sorts of nervous. Which, honestly, I knew I wouldn't be. It's just kind of hard to tell when I'm stuck in Phase I.

On a totally separate note: Happy Birthday, Magnum. You make my life awesome. <3

Sometimes you just need a cookie.

Sometimes you have weeks where everything goes well. Everything that needs to happen, does happen. Things go as planned. People, events, and money cooperate.

Sometimes you have weeks where your spouse is working overtime. There are school open houses, talent shows, and parent-teacher conferences to attend, but you're late for all of them because your youngest keeps having "accidents" on the way out the door. The dentist gleefully informs you that you'll be paying him again soon because your child has a cavity. You return home from the dentist to find that the water heater has decided it's time to give up the ghost and has spewed water all over the basement floor.

So there's that.

However, since I'm an eternal optimist, I'll give you something fun to play with while I glue my hair back to my head. Here you go. I'll be over here thinking like Howard Jones. And when I get my hair glued back on, I'm going to do this with it.

Short Stories

Hello. I'm Delia, and I like short stories.

Always have, really. I buy anthologies, I subscribe to webzines, I read them on blogs. I enjoy them. It's wonderful to sneak a little piece of fiction into my day.

I always have a book or three waiting for me. But there have been times when I've had the opportunity to read for a few minutes, but didn't because I knew I wouldn't be able to get back to it for a while. I suppose it's a facet of my reading personality. Once I start a book, particularly if I'm enjoying it, I don't like to put it down.

Short stories offer me a way around that. I'm still reading, still enjoying someone else's creativity/characters/world, but there's no long-term obligation, as it were. I don't have to worry about whether I can get back to it, because there's nothing to get back to. Also, there's something about a well-written shortie. Anyone who can weave an interesting and engaging plot and character arc in such a small space has my undying admiration. And envy, frankly. I'm big enough to admit it.

So this week, I'm reading Mishell Baker's blog. Mishell is an author I found while trolling for short stories. I read one of hers, Throwing Stones, and loved it, so naturally I began cyber-stalking her. What? Don't look at me like that, you do it, too. Yes you do! Anyway. Roughly two weeks ago, she had another story published. Great again.

Which is why this blog post of hers caught me off guard. In a nutshell, she said she disliked short form. She didn't like reading them because they didn't give her enough time to become vested in the characters. She didn't like writing them because, well, it's hard. She writes epic, fantastical sci-fi. This does not lend itself to short form. Truly.

Then, a few days ago, along comes Stephen King in an interview with the Atlantic Monthly and tells the whole world that, though he loves short fiction, he thinks the only people reading it anymore are new writers looking for possible markets for their own shorties.

Sad. It makes me sad.

So, I'm coming to you, dear people. Tell me what you think. Do you like short stories? Do you read them? Why or why not? Please tell me I'm not the only one.

Exercise

So you all remember the challenge, right? I had to write a story using the words you gave me last Friday. They were: pleasure, flogging, hard, quintessence, buttercup, persnickety, cello, calliope, and forlorn. Surprisingly, I did not write erotica.

More surprisingly, I'm going to keep this intro short. When I do these things for my blog, I try to keep them under one thousand words for the sake of people who don't have all damn day to read my blog. This time around, I was...unable. This quickie rounds out at 1,400 words.

As such, I'll just say thank you to Skye for the gift of the word calliope, and get to it.

Muse

My mom once told me that my name was one of those where-you-were-conceived types. I like to think that she and my father were at a hotel near a carnival or something, not mashing the keys on some poor, innocent steam organ. Unfortunately, the latter is more likely. When people ask, and they always do, I tell them, "I was named Calliope after the Greek muse of epic poetry." It sounds more impressive than, "My parents did it to circus music."

Mr. Graham in two thirty-seven got a huge kick out of it -- my name, I mean. Every time I walked into the room, he sang Manfred Mann at me, much to the dismay of Mr. Eno, one of our more persnickety residents. Mr. Eno favored classical music, heavy on the cello. I don't know whose idea it was to pair our oldest resident with our youngest, but whoever it was clearly didn't like Mr. Eno.

I backed into two thirty-seven that afternoon carrying fresh sheets and towing the laundry cart. Ingrid had pulled Mr. Eno's exercise duty and I was taking advantage of his absence to change his bed. I pushed the door open with my rear-end and immediately heard Mr. Graham sing, "With a boulder on my shoulder, feelin' kinda older, I tripped the merry-go-round."

"Afternoon, Mr. Graham," I said, giving him the long-suffering look I'd perfected for just such occasions. He didn't see it. His attention was buried in his notebook, as it usually was this time of day, but his normally hurried pen was still. "How are you feeling today?"

"Good, good." He threw me a smile without diverting his attention from his notebooks. "Even better now that my muse has arrived. Thou hast a disposition sunnier than a buttercup in a golden glade. The very quintessence of jocundity."

I used to roll my eyes at these proclamations of his, but I stopped that a long time ago. Truth be told, I liked them. They were sweet and always kind, and lord knows you don't get a whole lot of that in a place like this. Mr. Graham was more pleasant by far than the rest of the residents. Most of the staff chalked it up to his being here on a volunteer basis while the others residents had either been shelved by their families or were simply too old and sick to know better.

I didn't buy it. I couldn't think of anything that would make me happy about having so many physical disabilities and illnesses that I'd have to check myself into an assisted-living facility in my forties. That had to be hard, no matter what your attitude. So when he sang that tired old song at me for the thirteen-millionth time and waxed poetic about my sunny disposition, I smiled and did my best to make it sunnier. I didn't want to be the one to turn Mr. Graham as forlorn as the poor potted daisy Mr. Eno's granddaughter had brought last month.

I finished Mr. Eno's bed and watered the drooping daisy from the tap, missing the usual scritch-scratching of Mr. Graham's pen. "Is there anything you need before I leave, Mr. Graham?" I asked as I gathered the stale linens.

"Yes, Calliope," he said, and his tone struck me as odd. The smile had left his voice. When I glanced up, he was regarding me with a seriousness I'd never seen in him before.

"What is it, Mr. Graham?"

"Would you come sit by me?" he asked. I checked his face for signs of his usual teasing, but there were none.

"Are you all right? Would you like me to page the doctor?"

"No, no. I'm fine," he said. A dim ghost of his smile settled on his face. "I just...I just hoped for a few minutes of my muse's time."

I hesitated. Every ounce of my training and experience cried out for me to call the doctor. Weariness had suffused his face, and that alarmed me. Also, I'll admit, a smaller, more shameful part of me got hung up on the verbal flogging I was sure to receive if I didn't get the other beds finished before their occupants returned to them. So, yeah, I hesitated. But only for a second.

I dropped the linens into the rolling canvas bin that should have been visiting other rooms by now, and pulled up a chair. He held his hand out to me, palm up. "Would you mind?"

This time, I didn't hesitate. "It would be my pleasure," I said, and slipped my hand into his.

And it was. It was an intense pleasure. Because the instant his hand closed around mine, my mind, my psyche, my entire being swelled and expanded. I filled like an empty jug with thoughts that were both so profound that I felt truly enlightened for the first time in my life, and so simple that the weight and truth of them made me want to weep with the sweetness of it. Idea and emotion joined to flow like liquid energy through the synapse of our clasped hands and into Mr. Graham. David. His name was David. A cruel joke by a mother who knew at his birth how little he'd ever resemble Michelangelo's creation.

He tipped his head back against his pillow, his eyes closed, his mouth opened in a rapturous sigh. Or so it seemed, for a moment. Then the moment was gone. And I was just Calliope -- Nurse Thayer to everyone but him -- and he was just Mr. Graham. A very tired, very sick looking Mr. Graham.

I pulled my hand from his slowly, not wanting to insult him. "You're not looking so hot, Mr. Graham. I think I'd better page the doctor."

He allowed himself a weak laugh. "You can't go by that. I've never looked hot in my life."

"Stop it, Mr. Graham. You know what I mean." Ingrid chose that moment to lead Mr. Eno back into two thirty-seven. "I'll go page the doctor," I said, hustling from the room. Behind me, I heard him whisper, "My muse."

Over the next few days, Mr. Graham buried himself in his notebooks despite all the tests the doctor had us drag him through. I tried to get him to leave them in his room, but he wouldn't have it. "Final edits," he said. I didn't fight with him. I was too tired from having lay awake each night, attempting to recapture just one of those weighty truths.

Two weeks later, the notebooks went out with the morning parcels. I was relieved to see them go. He wouldn't take the pain medications while he was still working, but it was clear he needed them. I was always his nurse during the afternoon, so it fell to me to put in his IV. I lingered on his hand, searching for a vein, searching for that lost connection. It came to nothing. Mr. Graham slipped into a morphine imposed stupor and, no matter how many times I snuck in to hold his hand, the revelations of that afternoon eluded me.

After a few days, Mr. Eno complained that I was disturbing him. A week after that, Mr. Graham was gone. I cried that night, something I hadn't done in ages. It felt like the world had lost something special with Mr. Graham. Or maybe it was just that I had. Either way, I found myself thinking of him at odd times, praying for some sign from him as I drifted off to sleep.

Then, one day, there he was. His name shone from the book displayed on the 'Local Authors' table at the book store. It's cover bore a portrait of Calliope in her golden crown, which was obviously meant to look classical, but didn't. She took her repose on the glowing gold-foil letters of the title: MUSE.

I'd be lying if I said my hands didn't tremble when I opened the book. I believe it was more excitement than nervousness, though. I flipped through the pages, intent on finding the beginning of chapter one, when the dedication caught my eye. It read, "For Calliope, My Muse."

It doesn't mean anything, I thought. The book is obviously about her, it's just a coincidence. I flipped to the next page and read.

Chapter One
The one time Calliope had bothered to ask, her mother had told her that her name was of the where-you-were-conceived variety.


So that was it, folks. I hope you enjoyed. And if any of you take this challenge, I want to know about it so I can go drool over your awesome writing. Have a fantastic weekend, all!

Chores

The trouble with laundry is that it is never, ever finished. I mean, unless you do your laundry naked, there's always something that needs washing.

Dishes, at least, give you a few hours before they come back and smack you in the ass. You can actually clean all of them. And for a little while, if the kids aren't home, or if you order take-out and use paper plates and plastic utensils, they may actually stay done.

Writing short fiction is like doing the dishes. It's compact. I can get most of it in the dishwasher. The rest of it, pots and pans, the good knives, wiping down the counter and scrubbing out the sink -- that all happens in the editing. And if I've done it right, the thing gleams when I'm through. It goes out into the world all sparkly, to be accepted or rejected on its merits. I hope.

The Damn Novel is laundry. No matter how done you think you are, standing there in front of a newly emptied laundry basket in your bathrobe with no skivvies on, there's always that one shirt with the grease stain from the time when you had that particularly juicy burger and it dripped in the wrong direction and a little bit of melted cheese went along with it and even though the pretreater specifically said it would get out grease stains, do you think it did? Noooooo.

(No, no. It's all right. I'm fine. Just...breathing deeply. Right then.)

The question is always, "Have I done everything I possibly can to make this MS shine."  I suppose it's a confidence issue. I could question whether it's really ready to send into the world until the moon grows devil horns. Ultimately -- assuming it really is as ready as I can make it -- I just need to suck it up and get to sending. Or querying. You know what I mean.

Laundry sucks. (The real laundry, not The Damn Novel. I love The Damn Novel with an unhealthy fervor. Okay, not that much. I'm ready to let it go. Mostly.)

Coming Friday!: A short story using the words: pleasure, flogging, hard, (no, I'm not kidding, these are the kinds of readers I have) quintessence, buttercup, persnickety, cello, calliope, and forlorn. This should be interesting.

Inspiration

"If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot." ~ Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

I do my best to draw inspiration from every vein I can find. Some things, though, provide more inspiration than others. For me, nothing inspires more than a good book.

This week's book was The Talisman by Stephen King and Peter Straub. (Quelle coincidence, non?) It was a re-read, but it had been years since the first go-round and I had been missing little Jacky Sawyer.

So I'm reading along and enjoying myself, and up come Mr. King and Mr. Straub with an amazing turn of phrase, defining an entire character in one sentence without breaking a sweat. And suddenly I think, Holy crap! That's how you do it. I get it now!

It's a wonderful feeling. It makes me want to run straight to my computer to apply what I've learned (which, I'll admit, I do sometimes). I only wish I could remember it the next day. I'm thinking this was King's point, what about you?

All right, so read, read, read -- that's one source of inspiration. But you know what else I love? Writing exercises. Love. Them. Random words, weird prompts, interpreting illustrations, any of that stuff. It's so much fun.

*raises geek flag* Hooowee, look at her fly!

So, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to ask you to leave a word in the comments, any word you like. On Sunday night, I'll collect all the words and write them into a little story. Sort of a blog-warming. Or new URL warming. Whatever, it'll be up next Friday.

Also, I'd love to hear what inspires you. What get's your creative energies flowing? Please share. And if you feel driven to collect those words and write a little something yourself -- well, criminy, put it in the comments, link to it, do what you gotta do. I want to read it. Show us your brilliance.

Where Eagles Soar

This was an eventful weekend for me. I did a great deal of shopping and even had some success finding clothes for the conference.

I also got my business cards. I'd show you a picture, but they have all my personal info on them and, well, I'm sure you can figure it out. But they're moody and slightly creepy and right up my alley, so there's that.

My family, on the other hand, spent the entire weekend watching this:



Video clips at Ustream
Eagles. With babies. Live!

I have to admit, Momma and Poppa Eagle feeding the little eaglets is way more interesting than my misadventures in clothes shopping. I mean, look at them. I don't know if it's the eagle mystique (there is one, I'm sure of it), or the cute and fuzzy eaglets (different than cute and fuzzy bunnies, bonus points if you get the obscure reference), but watching Family Eagle is downright addictive. Like chocolate. Or pretty glassware. Or holiday themed socks.

What?

Anyway, this is what I have for you today. The miracle of life and the struggle to survive, birdy style.

So, how about it, folks? Have you ever found yourself captivated by something so ostensibly boring? Collecting pretty glassware? Being the geek with the holiday socks? Take a small time-out from watching the eagles and let me know.

Wheee! New digs!

All right, all right, so they look like the old digs. But the old digs didn't have my name on them, did they? No indeedy.

If you followed me over from Procrastination Rehabilitation, I thank you. If you were a follower and would like to remain a follower (That sounds bad, doesn't it? Like I'm Jim Jones or something. I promise I won't make you drink any Kool Aid. Unless you really want to, in which case -- I like strawberry, come have a glass.), you'll need to re-click the little follow button. (Whew, it took a while to get there, didn't it?) Same goes for feeds/subscriptions/links. They'll need changing.

The other blog will remain open for a few months, just to redirect people. I will not be posting there anymore, though.

We'll be back with real posts on Tuesday. In the meantime, I hope you're not getting snowed on.

Thanks so much for going through all this with me. It means more than I can say.