Day Twenty-two-- Disgust, Despair, Dread, Depression, and Disturbed Diatribe

It's rare that I get depressed, but today I am that. It's not over anything specific and yet it's over everything.

EVERYTHING!

Dealing with this new issue with the car is frustrating. The husband has been trying to deal with it, and it just seems to be defying him at every turn. It keeps over-heating whenever it feels like it. I just really want everything around me to continue to function indefinitely. Is that so much to ask? We go through these months where I feel like we're hemorrhaging money--and having our car break down just before our annual big road trip to visit family--and just before Christmas. AHHHH! I just want to go scream into a pillow.

The husband is doing everything right and then some, but I can't seem to help feeling this way. It's like this pervasive sickness that no matter what I do--it's there. I've been sketchy on taking my OCD pills on time and maybe that's a little to do with it. (I don't suffer from depression while medicated or unmedicated unless I don't keep on schedule for my OCD pills.) Also, my husband lost my keys by accident--which also isn't a big deal until it's on top of everything else.

I bumped into someone who'd gotten my books from her daughter and she wanted to know where she could buy the Honor series because she had a lot of friends that wanted to read it, and she wanted to pass the books to them, but she couldn't. It should have made me feel good, but I just feel so stuck. Where do I go from here? What do I do with Honor? Where should I focus my time? I keep thinking that I need to sit down and get out some more queries on Honor, but I feel sacked every time I look in my inbox and see a rejection. Do I really want to deal with that so soon and right now? Nothing ventured is--but still... what if I don't feel like venturing right now? I don't feel like being rejected anymore. Honor is good. People LOVE Honor Among Thieves. Still, the thought of throwing her out to the wolves again fills me with dread.

Ugh. Then, here we are on Day Twenty-two, and I just don't know what to do about Scorched. Normally, I've finished and done a reread by now. What's wrong with me that I just feel so lost? I feel a little stuck over the ending. What am I doing with Scorched? Why do I keep getting nailed with the dreaded Writer's Block in regards to it? I can sense I'm about five thousand words from the end, but I just keep stopping every thousand words because I don't know where it's going. This isn't like me. I'm just so lost.

So, the normal solace I take in writing--is even frustrating.

Today in church we had a discussion about, of all things, the prevalence of profanity and moral decay in the media. Someone said, "What you permit--you promote," and my mom took me to task over profanity when she came to visit. It has me thinking and rethinking what profanity I do "allow" in my current bunch of books. Every time I write, I do so knowing that I'll be basically handing it over to a thirteen or fourteen year old stalker fan to read. Am I okay with the level of language in my books? So far, no one has said anything to me really, but it's just one more thing to think about--especially with Scorched being YA and having more than my usual amount of profanity due to who Scorch hangs out with every so often. (Auto shop guys don't use the cleanest language.)

Speaking of 'F' words:

I feel like a failure that I don't want to deal with queries right now. I feel like a failure because I don't want to clean right now. I feel like a failure because my kids are making me want to scream so frequently. I feel like a failure because I can't seem to write an ending to Scorched. We're stuck on a Sunday and I need to get to Friday. I just can't seem to fabricate four days of stuff. I can't get from Point A to Point B. There is no straight line! AHHHHH! Why? Why is there no straight line? There is always a straight line in my head.

So, I guess if we use the psychology of first and last on this post. I guess human nature has revealed that I'm most frustrated about my car and not being able to finish Scorched. That might be it. I don't know. The rest very well could be filler.

Anyway. This is more of a rant and a gripe than a post, but there you have it. I'm going to go eat frosting in front of the fire and hope for the ending to Scorched to slide into my head.

I hope, hope, hope, hope everyone is having a better weekend than me.

Day Twenty-one- Superstitions, jinxes, fate, lore, old wives tales, and hexes

So, I posted about how valuable "awful" can be, and then my water pump seized on my car on my way to visit my sister. This caused over-heating, and getting stranded, and whining kids. T knows how to push my buttons in a crisis mode--mostly because he gets impatient and can't sense my frustration and stress. Then, he fell apart in a Target because he couldn't have a cheese pizza (when I was trying to buy oil and anti-freeze.) He also dumped poor B straight in a puddle. There was crying from her. STRESS! In the middle, T kept asking, "When are we leaving? I don't want to be here anymore. I'm hungry. I want to go." (T doesn't "GET" situations--especially the more emotional they are. So, in his opinion, I was just wasting time and irritating him.) I'm stranded at my nice, sweet, obliging sister's house without meds, clothes, and the husband is trying to track down parts and figure out how to tow the car. Yeah. So, some awful experiences ARE NOT valuable.

So, I sort of feel like I jinxed my day by posting yesterday. I'm not a superstitious person in general, but I tend to subscribe to the whole "don't say how lucky you are out loud, because it's like asking for trouble" way of thinking. I feel like I can logically justify that in my head because I believe in the devil. On the other hand, I'm baffled by other superstitions like the complete standstill some of the world experiences in regards to the number thirteen.

Black cats? I don't care for cats, honestly. Kittens are cute but then they grow up into controlling bags of allergies. Still, I just found out that people have to keep black cats inside on Halloween. What the crap is that about? They're cats--they're no more evil in one shade over the other. (Yeah... I really don't like cats--partly because they always drape themselves across me as if they know I'm allergic. Oh... and they know. They're creepy smart.)

Ladders--I love to walk under ladders.

Mirrors--Isn't breaking them already enough bad luck in itself?

Despite all of this, I like to write about superstitions and such. I find creepy lore especially interesting. I wonder if perhaps some people believe about superstitions just to hedge their bets--or for a good excuse to take a day off work. (The husband says traffic is disturbingly light on Friday the 13th.) What is it about human nature that creates these strange illogical quirks? Sometimes, it's related to religious beliefs--even if it's just a general "if there is a force of good... there is a force for evil" belief. I also like to write about characters that can wield that "evil power" in some way or another. There is something tangible about the concept of "cursing and hexes." I like that. I guess it's good that I'm not superstitious about writing about superstitions. Nearly every one of my stories has some elements of folk lore or superstition built in.

My NaNoWriMo book deals with demons that are created by fire, and dogs that can drag them back to hell. I also have a "men in black" agency... which I would call a more modern paranoia. Still, demons... demons are fun. (In fiction--probably not so fun in real life. Definitely not actually.) My Honor series deals with superstitions and lore on a near constant basis. Magi, vampires, zombies, cursed objects, elixir of eternal life, skin-walkers, hellhounds, etc. It's all fun and games when dealing with the dark.

Is anyone else as fascinated by the weirdness that is superstition?

Isn't it weird that someone uncomfortable with even numbers actually isn't superstitious? If I could describe it, though, it wouldn't be that the numbers are unlucky so much as "sharp" as if they have an edge to them. I view even numbers with the same leery misgivings that I would a sharp knife being left out. It makes no sense--which is key with OCD. You know they don't make sense--and yet, they are.

Happy Saturday to everyone. Hopefully, I'll be home and in a better mood by tonight. I really hope so anyway. Yesterday was "sharp spike to the eyeball" awful. Today MUST be better. Do you hear me, FATE! Did you hear that??? Fate owes me better than this CRAP!

Day Twenty-- When a heinous past proves golden

Growing up with OCD is hell. I won't sugar coat it, because there is no sugary coating deep enough to take the sting off. I could tell you more but it would take too long and upset my mom--who had no idea and things like this weren't "talked about" when I was growing up.

Still, I survived. I get by. Drugs ease the pain of days and all that. Plus, and this is the real reason I'm grateful, with B having it--I know the worst of things, and I can help her so it won't affect her as much.

Also, and this can't be under-valued, living through things gives you a point of reference as a writer that you just can't research your way into.

My dad was military so I've lived a lot of different places. I've been in a lot of different schools. I've made a lot of different friends. I've had a lot of "first day at a new school" experiences.

My high school experience was bizarre--there is no other word for it. I went through the first three years in the cesspool of moral decay where gangs were prevalent and shootings were frequent, and it was a mad chaos of humanity. The last year I spent at a sheltered school where everyone, other than the guy I dated, was the same religion, and it would have been the polar extreme from where I'd come. I was never popular, but I hung with both crowds somehow. I knew a few rejects--I knew a few popular kids. I saw a lot. I was amused by both those wasting their lives and those sheltering their lives. It felt easy to get into the minds of those around me, because I noticed everything due to my OCD.

After highschool, I did a little college with a focus on English. I stayed in dorms for a while. I went to technical school. I got a job. I got into an abusive relationship. I got out. I met my husband and fell in love. We moved to the PNW--the most beautiful place on earth. I focused on my career for a few years where I met a huge scope of different people and learned what made people tick from an adult's perspective. Then, I had kids--and that opened up the world of parenting, Autism, and therapy. The husband and I went through marital difficulties due to stress. We've bought and sold houses. We've dealt with the suicide of a neighbor. People married. People divorced. People lived. People died. In the middle, I sat watching.

As writers, regardless of what you're writing, it'll only be as real as it is to you.

If you can't understand the lone girl at a new school, you can't write her story. You won't know her story. You won't know how someone will react when they've just received bad news, if you've never gotten a call in the middle of the night--or sat in a doctor's office and heard the words that would change your life. If you've never fallen in love, you can't know what it feels like for the rush of emotions--and the way your heart feels a little like it wants to explode.

If you've never been to Prom, you can't feel the magic.

If you've never been to a funeral, you can't understand the unreality despite proof.

It's true that we'll still need to take a few steps out into the dark of imagination and fill in blanks, but writing a novel shouldn't feel like grasping. You should be able to step into a different pair of shoes and know a few of the steps so you can imagine the journey and the dance.

Anyway, I was thinking about what I've lived through and how much it's impacted my writing. I know why people are the way they are. I know why I am the way I am.

There are days I'd want a redo on despite their value to a writer, so I'm grateful we don't get that chance. If I had to have it easy, I would. Having it hard, though, has been the best resource for my writing, and it's not something you can duplicate or hand to someone else other than through your characters.

One of my friends said that one of my characters is the most like me, but I find myself thinking that every last one of my characters is a little like me--even if it's just in the tiniest way. I'm them. They're me.

Okay, this is a little deep for a Friday--especially after a bunch of silly Flash fiction.

Still, has anyone else thought of how much the bad experiences as well as the good have impacted their lives? Were there specific experiences that really taught you about human nature?

I'll be gone for most of the day, so we'll call it "unplugging" because I also want to work on Scorched. I got a sudden burst of inspiration last night after a week of shuffling along, and I want to work on it before I take off for the rest of the day. Have a good weekend everyone!

Friday Flash Fiction (Bloody Mantis Aliens)

Okay, so I've dragged my flash fiction over from Flashy Fiction. If you're not there--you're square--that's the only reasonable explanation. Each day they post a prompt and everyone so inclined writes like a fiend for ten or twenty minutes and posts it. It's a fun bunch, and they have a November contest which only requires you to post. So, just do it! I order you!

November 14th

Prompt:

"Awww, Trevor! How'd you manage to get blood all over that?"

Mine:

I won't say that vampire hunting is a highly skilled job. It used to be, but that was back when people assumed that vampires were smart and hot. That was when they were still stuff of legends. Now that every fourth person is a vampire--no one wants to track down their neighbor and stake them. Besides, the first thing to go is their minds, and it's like dealing with large, deadly cockroaches really. They were slower than cockroaches, though.

This new recruit they'd stuck me with was as dumb as they came. I'd been bailing him out of one mess to the next.

"Trevor," I yelled again. "Oi! You're supposed to be aiming for the middle of its chest, you git!" All he'd managed to do thus far was to make sure the stupid vamp could never have children. How was his aim THAT bad?

"He keeps moving," Trevor yelled back.

This was what came of dropping the benefits and making it contract work. No decent person wanted to stake effin' bloody vampires at five a.m. when the only company was the sanitation workers.

"Training another?" Tim asked as he dumped the trash from a nearby dumpster into his truck.

"Always," I said. "I'm always training another. We're starting off slow-like here in the burb park, but I think it might be a week before we even make it into the city."

Tim laughed and asked, "Hey. Can I have a try?"

I tossed him a stake. Like a javelin, it flew from Tim's hand and right into the vamp's chest as he was trying to fall on top of Trevor. (Why was Trevor laying there?) The stake had just the right amount of power to dust the vamp, but fall effortlessly next to Trevor.

"That was bloody amazing," I said, impressed.

"Thanks," Tim said.

"Would you ever...?" I started to ask.

"No! Are you kidding? I make twice as much doing this," Tim said. He waved and his truck took off.

Trevor wandered back to me. "He kept moving."

"Yes," I agreed.

If you wanted to call that moving.... The old man had been moving slower as a vampire than he probably had in life--and he looked to be over a hundred.

"You just don't have the killer instinct, Trevor. Come on. Let's go back to the building. Dawn is about to break." I tossed him the spare stake bag to put in our trunk.

"What's with all the pouches of blood in the back?" Trevor asked as I opened the driver's side door.

"Bait. If we can't find any, we drop a bag of blood, and they come for miles."

Trevor nodded and slammed the trunk shut.

It was a quiet drive back. I drove Trevor through some of the more vampire-rich areas on our way back--as a sort of inspirational ride. They scurried around in shadows--just waiting their turn to be staked.

We'd parked the car and gotten out when I heard them.

"What the...?" I asked as I stared into the darkness.

"What's that sound?" Trevor asked.

I saw it... a large pool of blood trailing from our trunk out into the street.

"Aww, Trevor! How'd you manage to get blood all over that?"

There was at least a dozen of them snarling in the dark. I opened the trunk to get out the stakes. That's when I realized that Trevor had upended the bag of stakes on top of the now empty bags of blood. We'd been dragging blood all over the city, and now we most likely had dozens of the giant blood-sucking cockroaches heading for us.

"Well, Trevor, today you're actually going to earn your minimum wage. Try to stay alive until the dawn breaks in..." I looked at my watch. Yeah. I'd been training a new guy tomorrow. There was no way Trevor would last twenty minutes. Maybe I'd let the new guy stake Trevor.

November 15th

Prompt:

I look at him. "Look. We have to end this. We're over."

"Why?" he asks, pouting.

I check my watch. "Um, in about four minutes you're going to want to eat my brains."

Mine:

Okay. That was fun--mostly. Now to the dirty, ugly business of killing.

I look at him. "Look. We have to end this. We're over."

"Why?" he asks, pouting.

I check my watch. "Um, in about four minutes you're going to want to eat my brains." It's weird to be wearing a watch, but we were trying to fit "in."

"Are you sure we don't need to do it again? I liked that," he says.

I roll my eyes.

"Anyway, I'm pretty sure you're wrong," the creature who'd chosen the name "Bob" replies. "I watched that documentary on mantis too. It was the female that rips the head off the male after copulation."

"Are we sure that mantis and man are similar?" I ask--again.

"Bob" shrugs. "The great overlord told us that we needed to watch educational television if we were to properly infiltrate this alien life form. Man... mantis... they're just different breeds of the same thing. We've copulated and I've given you my seed... you're supposed to rip my head off."

"Do I have to eat it?"

"C'mon, Batty, we went to all the trouble to time from copulation to cannibalism--we even suffered through those stupid hair soap and infant butt padding ads to get the timing right. Don't you want to fit in?"

"It's BETTY not BATTY."

"Whatever. I told you to go with Jane," "Bob" says.

I ripped his head off--he'd made it fun. There was no way I was going to eat it, though. It's not like he'd know.

November 20th

Prompt:

"You're late."
"I swear, I have a good excuse!"
"You'd better. You've got three seconds to explain."

Mine:

Courtney was waiting inside the theater with her dagger-sharp eyes poised on the door for my entrance--my very, very late entrance.

"You're late."

"I swear, I have a good excuse!"

"You'd better. You've got three seconds to explain."

Three seconds? Last time she'd given me ten seconds. This didn't bode well for our relationship.

"Aliens," I said. "I was abducted by aliens."

Growling, she hissed, "Owen, you little twerp! What is it with you and aliens? It was cute the first time, but this is the third time, and it's just a little ridiculous to hear from a grown man."

"I swear--it's the truth, Court. They picked me up outside my house, did a little probing, dropped me off here. I'll need a ride to my car. It's on the side of the road about a mile from my house."

She scowled at me. It wasn't attractive, but it seemed a poor time to mention it. "Are you ON something?"

"Like what?" They'd asked me to bring out my girlfriend, but I'd declined--maybe I should mention that--win some points back.

"Forget it!"

Storming out, the beam caught her mid-stride. As they towed her up into the mother-ship I yelled, "Be strong, Court. It's really not so bad--just stings a bit the first time. I'll just drive your car back to mine--if that's okay. Guys, if you could drop her off at my house when you're done, that'd be great."

Looking down at the movie ticket in my hand, I changed my mind. There was no point in wasting nine bucks, and I'd been anxious to see this.

"Take your time!" I yelled up, pointing back at the theater.

The first time took the longest anyway.

Day Nineteen--Nothing like a little Hooky

Diana and I have been discussing this back and forth about our WIPs and manuscripts we've been beta-reading. I really need to go back to the beginning of Scorched and check out my "hook." Does it come early enough? Is it strong enough? Do I immediately bog it down with other things? Is it "hooky" enough? (LOL... that sounds funny, but I'm leaving it.) Does it continue to hook through the manuscript?

I read a depressing post on an agent's blog this week saying that in this market "really good isn't good enough."

So, that goes back to the idea of your "hook" being strong enough. I have to run, but this is like a mental note sent to myself for later to check out my "hook."

"Hey, baby, check out my hook." Wink wink. Nod nod. You know what I mean?

Oh... and I posted a fairly irritable and conservative post on Lisa and Laura Write. The video annoyed me to no end. I like Lisa and Laura a lot, but the video made by another author... left me unimpressed. It's a fairly rare thing for me to be that annoyed, but the video tipped the scale. As I said, though--nothing but love for Lisa and Laura. They rock.

Day Eighteen-- My Beautiful Wickedness

Imaginary rep points awarded to the first person to post where the phrase above comes from. (Aside from Diana if she is reading blogs--we talked about this last week as a possible book title--before I realized it sounded too close to Wicked Lovely--in my opinion. Le sigh.)

Villains. Whether they're metaphorical or real, every story has an antagonist or an antagonistic element. Otherwise it's like Seinfeld--a story about nothing. Well, okay, there are those stories, but they usually bore me. I like conflict. I like angst. I like villains a lot.

I know I bring up the subject of YA topics a lot, but I think this spreads beyond that while still being pertinent.

How evil can you/will you go with your "villain"? Does it seem like sometimes that you have to "off" someone to prove your villain is truly evil? Is it to justify killing your villain in the end? Okay, let's play murder by numbers here:

Dream a Little Dream: Serial Killer (12+ body count) Comeuppance- Hero smacks him in the head with a rock-booyah-arrested.

A Little Crazy Talk: Mad Deranged Killer (body count of one) Comeuppance- Hit in the head with a maglight-booyah-arrested.

Someone to Watch over Me: Stalker (proof of abuse) Comeuppance- Suicide

Face of the Phantom: Psycho (attempted murder and assault) Comeuppance-broken face by chick-booyah-arrested.

For in that Sleep: Serial Killer (body count of two) Comeuppance- Nailed in the head with a baseball bat-so satisfying-arrested.

Quality of Justice: Hitman (high body count) Comeuppance- Killed in defense of another.

Parallel Lives: Multiple villains (criminal mischief and body count of one)- Comeuppance-beat to unconsciousness with a garbage can and/or arrested.

Stories and Magic: Multiple villains (attempted murder in the case of two, execution by another, a barrel of hitmen with an unknown body count) Comeuppance-life ruined/sent to rot in a small village jail manned by people who hate you (my favorite comeuppance EVER) and arrested.

Share with me a Lullaby: Multiple villains ( 12+ body count for some ) Comeuppance- killed by other villains or suicide.

My Little Runaway: Multiple villains (body count of one and attempted murder) Comeuppance- tasered and arrested.

Re: Straint: Multiple villains (hitmen with unknown body count) Comeuppance- poisoned or killed by other hitmen or dying slowly from disease

Sheri's Tales: Multiple villains (attempted murder) Comeuppance- killed by crushing them.

I won't go through the Honors (serial killers, skinwalkers, etc) because it would actually be spoilers, but you get the point.

So, Scorched: I've got multiple pyro demons including one sire (criminal mischief and considering the possibility of murder) Comeuppance-banishment to hell. (As you can see--this is a new and exciting comeuppance for me. I even like to say it in a deep voice.)

Still, I find it interesting that all my villains receive their comeuppance in a very satisfying way. Is this a psychological thing--that I need them to be caught and punished in some way? I need it to be "fair?"

Actually--I do. So little of our lives outside of fiction are fair--and I like to see the bad punished and the good win. When I was reading "The Ruins" it left me dissatisfied, because that didn't happen. So, I guess that makes my writing unrealistic, but I don't care. There is something cathartic about everything working out--even if it's not perfectly. I like to see resolution. I love a good comeuppance.

How about you? Spill on your villains... or your favorite villains for the non-writers. What's their body count or infraction? What's their comeuppance? Do you need resolution like I do?

Can evil triumph?

Does a YA book get a different level of villain than an adult book?

Day Seventeen- Excuse Me, I Speak Jive

Okay, so some of you may remember the above dialogue from Airplane. (It's also why occasionally I say that I picked a bad day to stop sniffing glue... for those of you wondering if I had a drug habit.) They pick the most ludicrous person of all to speak "jive" of course--the older lady.

I'm currently listening to an audiobook that makes me want to stick pencils in my ears because the author thinks she speaks jive. She sooooo doesn't. Her twenty-one year old MC has the out-dated image of what a twenty-one year old was like--well twenty-one years ago... or longer. Her dialogue is hokey. The ideas are old-fashioned. It's just not reality. The problem is that this particular writer has been writing for thirty or forty years. Her audience has grown with her and, lucky for her, they're near her age. Okay. Fine. Write for your fans. That's fine. On the other hand, keep your characters over the age of thirty or forty, because you CAN'T write from the viewpoint of anyone under that age. Ugh. It's so terrible that it defies description. I've tried to explain the sheer awfulness of it, but it's just not possible. The two MCs are like caricatures of twenty year olds. I nearly want someone else to listen to it to share the horror that is this book.

So, that brings me to the topic of "speaking jive." I think about half of us are writing for a YA audience--at least at times. We've discussed language before, but it just keeps dancing around my brain.

I once read a review on Amazon from a mom on a book that was vying for the "Breakthrough Novel Award" and she said something to the effect of: This book is simply not realistic because there isn't any swearing in it. On the other hand, I wouldn't let my daughter read it if there was swearing in it. Well, that's what we call "a paradox", isn't it? I think a lot of parents feel that way. How will our intended audience feel about it?

Do they want reality?

Uhh...

Do they want something that dodges around reality without getting their book snatched yet without being patronizing?

That's a fuzzy line. A really fuzzy line.

That's even before you get to slang... and my personal conundrum: texting.

I'm currently writing the occasional text conversations into this book, but I'm not writing them in "text speak" because it would make my head explode. Seriously. It would. My sister and I text back and forth, and I use full sentences and punctuation. I feel like texting is contributing to the fall of grammar as we know it. I was reading a book with text conversations in it--painful. Agony. I felt brain cells dying.

Suddenly, I find myself questioning: am I doing the same thing this author--who has nearly driven me to drink--is doing? Am I attempting to speak jive when really I'm not?

How do you handle these things?

Now, for the Seussian challenge in regards to texting conversations: "Would you, could you in a box? Would you, could you--with a fox?"

No, Sam I am, I really, really couldn't. If it comes to writing the conversations in text speak, I'll cut them--rather than make my eyes bleed. That's even besides the fact that I can't speak that level of jive. Shudder. It makes me want to climb into a corner and sing songs like Kum-ba-ya.