Demons, Dragons, and Sharp Toys

Everyone has demons. Big, small, fanged or riddled with tentacles, we all have those inner twitchings that make us more, and less, than who we are. They define us, push us, hold us back, bully us forward. Mine have the surprising and frustrating ability to do all of the above simultaneously.  It makes for the most silent and bitter struggles, self against created self, to keep control over my life and not let them have their way with me. I don't alway win. And it's entirely my own damn fault. The balance of power tips over to my inner demons when I allow others to let their demons play in my backyard, breaking my toys and leaving giant piles of dung in their wake.

I need to quit watching the news.

It's not healthy.

Why do we insist on knowing so much of other people's demons? Does it make it easier to ignore our own, pretend ours don't have claws just as sharp? Or does it quiet them, knowing that there are other, larger things that would eat them whole for a snack?

No, I'm not talking of tsunamis, or earthquakes, or any other disaster--natural or man made.

I speak of those who should be silent, yet squawk loudest of all. Those that have nothing but doom, gloom, and dire predictions. Or who broadcast vices and problems like it's something to be proud of and quickly forgiven and forgotten. The politicians. The 'celebrities'. The psudo-news agencies.

You know who you are.

I have a small collection of really interesting knives that I've collected over the years. But none of them have a specific purpose. They are blades, and blades in my mind can be used for ever so many things. But I think I need a new, exquisitely honed blade that I can dedicate to just one single, specific usage. One so sharp that it can slice deeply before the pain registers, and so dexterously thin that it can carve its way around even the most delicate vein.

I'm cutting out the rotten and damaged bruises that other people's demons have left me with. And keeping them at bay with a glitter in my eye, and protective fierceness in my heart. My demons are dragon enough for me to handle. I don't need to welcome them into my heart, house, or home. No more newscasts for me. No more self-indulgent Facebook friends. I'm not reading another Tweet that has links to yet another late breaking story of doom and gloom. Keep your demons.

And get off my lawn.

Bloody-minded Celt

     For many years, I have felt an affinity for Celtic anything—knot work, pagan Goddess worship, bagpipe music, you name it, I loved it. I still do, but now there is a faint, uncomfortable tinge to my admiration. Thanks to my wonderful mother and her genealogy research, I now know that while it is true that I am closely related to the Emerald Isle and her inhabitants, the story is much longer and bloodier than it appears on the surface. Tracing our lineage back, we have discovered that our ancestors had the same fascination with the Celts, but in a more direct and active way. Our beloved ancestors were so fascinated, they came over not once, but twice to check them out for themselves, in the form of:

1.) Viking “exploratory committees” and

2.) Bill the Conqueror’s BFF’s.

Oh.
 

     Now I wonder if it’s more than simply a fondness of the culture, or some echo of the need to make it my own that my forebears were so adamantly pursuing. Or maybe-- and this is coming from modern psychology-- I feel guilty on some ethnic level about taking what was never mine in the first place and want to make it up to them in some way. I think it might be both. There is another level of me that does feel very specifically guilt-ridden and unsure about ever voicing it publicly, in a most modern sense though. In most stories, no matter the medium used to deliver them (movies, books, oral traditions), there is a sympathy for the innocent victims of invading forces, the brave fighters standing shoulder to shoulder against overwhelming odds, giving their lives willingly to defend their families and way of life. Or of the righteous fighters of freedom that conquer evil both on their home ground and abroad. But my own bias in this case is towards my ancestors, and how very bad-ass they were. Strength, surety of purpose, and getting the job done right has always been a turn-on for me, a deciding factor in so many choices of my life. Which puts me at odds with the general outlook of morality and storytelling—I root for not the underdog in this case, but for the violent and victorious forces that crushed a smaller and weaker culture so completely that very little of it has translated to modern day.

And let me tell you, pride and mortification mix into a sour and undrinkable brew.

History has always been important to me, for I have a deep seated need to know exactly where I have been in order to move forward, both personally and professionally, and to examine exactly why I do what I do. This is taking the knowledge to an unexpectedly deep level, and revealing to my astonished psyche why I have the tendencies that I do. I am absolutely convinced that genetics play heavily into who you are, along with the cultural affinities that echo down through every generation. The nature vs. nurture conflict, in my mind, is trying to make human behavior fit into a single, easily definable box. Nice and tidy, I would agree on that.

Unfortunately, human behavior is the farthest thing from neat and tidy as you can possibly get. It is both nature and nurture, combined with a sticky, undefined cloud-like ephemeral quality that is as difficult to define as quantum mechanics. It is the link that all of us have to our ancestors, regardless if we know one iota about them. The way you talk, walk, think, and the tone that underlies everything you do is subtly affected by your lineage. If you don’t believe me, try engaging a dog breeder into a discussion over bloodlines and point of origin. Now that is passion on a level that would make any Viking proud.
 

     I once saw a t-shirt during my brief membership in the Society for Creative Anachronism that said “1066—Not Enough Saxon Violence”. On one hand, I was appalled (I was young and idealistic, what can I say), but on a deeper, more instinctual level I agreed. And that appalled me again. But as I grow older, I realize that humans are violent. More so than the ‘natural’ world. And I understood the need to invade, to conquer, to expand and to take what is not mine. And no, fortunately for my neighbors, I put none of those impulses to trial on the surrounding countryside. But I understand it. And I can quietly say, with a very non-PC flair, that my ancestors were really good with follow through, and I’m proud that they had the balls to do what they did. Go team!

                 

Does This Taste Funny To You?

Every day is open mike night at my house. Humor has a seat at our table, all day, every day. I think it should be a part of daily life to tell at least one joke a day, the worse the punchline the better. I say the worse, because although a great joke told with impeccable timing is a wonder to behold, did you ever notice that there is an awkward silence after all the guffawing is over, and everyone just stands there and wonders what to say next? How can you top the great joke? Naw, the best jokes are the ones that have you groaning at the ridiculousness of the punchline, because they give you something to talk about after it has been delivered. Usually, it is a great segue to deliver another horrible, crass, or just plain stupid joke of your own, kind of a one-upmanship contest of sorts.
I had ample opportunity to do field research on this phenomenon recently when my septic tank mainline decided to go all medieval on us. And by medieval, I'm talking about the 'lack of sanitation facilities' kind of medieval. It sucked. Big time. There was hand-digging in frozen ground for me and hubby, paying rotor-rooter services insane amounts of money to not fix the problem, unspeakable flooding, the works. What saved the whole thing from making it the most miserable time of our lives was straight up potty humor. I started it, and kept at it so ferociously, that even the joke-impaired husband got into the act, and instead of moaning over the hard labor and money flowing out the door (and not down the drains) we laughed about it instead. There developed a certain 'brown' theme that colored every aspect of our lives, both funny and not-so-funny. The overall balance, I tried to keep on the funny side, because anger and tears clean not a speck, replace not a pipe! I had everyone on guard against my 'ninja' humor-- mostly puns that snuck up on the unsuspecting recipient and delivered a punchline either so tasteless or undeniably witty that all they could do was roll their eyes and groan, admitting my mad, punny skills.
But it's all about taste. Most of the jokes told in my house are not fit for public use, they are that freaking bad. And it is a kind of shared secret language in the family that would make no sense anyway to anyone who over heard most of them. It's our flavor, our color, our taste in humor. You might not find a single thing that crosses my lips funny in the least, and I may look at you blankly if you tell me a joke that is over my head or out of my league. But I'll try to get it, to understand your flavor of humor, because I think it's an important way to bond with a person, and to take their measure all at the same time. If I can see what makes you laugh, and inversely, what makes you cry, I can know more about you than if I had a cheat-sheet with your life's bullet points on it. Humor is what makes us, sorrow is what breaks us. So if I knew what makes you whole, and what breaks you down, then all the stuff in between just falls into place.
Oh, and by the way, can you guess what was going through my head as I was staring into my septic tank for the umpteenth time trying to figure out what was wrong with it?

"I don't need this sh*t."


Yep. Mad ninja skills.

Organic, But Not Green

One of the advantages of being a writer is shaping worlds to your own particular viewpoint, and having the characters play out scenarios in the manner in which you envision them. One of the disadvantages to being a writer is the simple, unavoidable fact that sometimes your imaginary friends have a mind of their own, if life is breathed into them with enough passion. They hijack plot lines, blurt out things that complicate relationships, and pull things out of their pockets that I didn’t know they had stuffed in there. Keeping up with them has been hard work, but worth it.  It has made the journey of my writing a surprisingly spontaneous, organic experience-- organic not in the FDA certified way, but organic as in a growing, living thing that pulses with its own life and dreams.  What a long, strange trip it’s been, as the hippies would say.  

Using that particular quirk of my writing, I can tell if a character is doing what is right for them, or if I’m trying to force a point. If I’m writing them into behaviors that aren’t their particular cup of tea, they balk hard, and I struggle to write a single page of dialogue. Days go by, and I’ve done nothing but type, backspace, type, backspace. They’re not happy with me, and sometimes it takes me days to realize where I’ve wandered away from my friends. For instance: I have a new character I’m trying to introduce into the second book, and all my main girl can do is swoon over him.  Trust me; she’s not the swooning type. I have worked this guy over for hotness factor, rugged dude look, manly mannerisms, and intriguing background. I thought I had him DOWN. What I forgot to pay attention to was his situation. He’s an office guy. Pencil pusher. Heroine worshiper. He kisses the ground she walks on. Has the whole Bounty paper towel dude look going on, but gets manicures. He’s perfect, but too much so. He’s not rough enough around the edges, and not mysterious enough, doesn’t have the connection with the outdoors like he should. So my main girl decided to show me (I think by being a complete smartass) that he’s wrong for her, and the plot, by fawning all over him, blushing (!!) and agreeing to a ‘weekend away’ after just one date.

Uh, what?

This from the girl that would rather flatten another guy for breathing even the suggestion that she’s easy, rather than give into obvious mutual attraction. Even if he was half out of his mind with crazy, and didn’t have any control over himself? Didn’t matter. Decked him. And now she’s staring into the middle distance, sighing and having fuzzy-edged thoughts about this new guy?

Pshaw.

I went off the rails somewhere. I think, no, I KNOW it’s the new guy’s fault. I’m going to pluck him out of his comfort zone and toss him to the tigers, see what comes up red. Take him down a notch, rough him up a little. Then maybe my main girl will quit with the heaving bodice act. Wish me luck-I hope none of the tigers escape and maul anyone important.

Tweeky Geeky

So I'm sitting here, tweeking my manuscript for the I-don't-knowth time, watching the Science Channel. I love me some satellite TV--so many truth-based guessing shows to choose from! Science is my weakness, my anti-kryptonite. If knowledge really was power, I would be a hell of a superhero--

LECTURE GIRL!!!!

Oh, I would give the BEST informative speeches. 

"Formation of the Moon--Facts, Fictions, and Shit You Just Would Not Believe." 8pm, Holiday Inn Express conference room.

"Lava Flow and the Formation of Super Awesome Crystals" Call for tour info.

"Obey Gravity--It's the LAW" Book signing at local used book nook.

Since the superhero thing isn't manifesting yet, I'll have to settle on making super friends and super enemies when my book blows up like *gaacckk* Twilight  *gaaaaggggguuuhh*

Sorry, threw up in my mouth a little bit.

I think I've found an agent for my book, if the extremely helpful advice she's giving me is any indication. The manuscript is a thousand times better than when I started, thanks to her helpful insight. And I figure I'm a winner either way--she either accepts me formally, or I just got a bunch of email help from a pro. Help is hard to come by in this industry, the helpful kind, that is. There is an entire industry built around "helping" new authors with everything but sitting their butt down and typing something. Most of it "helps" the hopeful writer out of their money.

 I want to lighten reader's wallets a bit in exchange for giving them something to do on the train. Those people who sell a writer their dreams back to them packaged as a quick and easy surefire novel are scum. SCUM! Just because some one is gullible, doesn't make it OK to take advantage of them. I don't pluck that wallet hanging out of that lady's purse, and I would stop you if I saw you try.

UGH--Injustice, don't get me started. 

Then I might not finish tweeking my book, and then what would you do on the train?

Crazy is as Crazy Does

The insanity online has swelled to a fever pitch--not about one particular thing, mind you, it just is swelling. Like a head wound that needs looked at. I keep trying to foray out into cyber-space, thinking that I can make my voice heard, and that people would be interested in something I might have to say. Unfortunately, there is no way ANYONE can hear me over the white, screaming noise the internet has become. And I'm just not willing to yell louder just to make myself hoarse. There are so many platforms, and groups to join, accounts to manage, that I feel lost sometimes.

Success is just around the corner if you can have enough exposure!
Build your online empire, tie your accounts together, and enough people will notice you and then buy your stuff!!
Millions of readers are waiting just to be directed to your SPLASH!! , FLASH!!, and mostly unreadable crazy-backgrounded website and blog!!!

It's driving me out of my ever lovin' MIND!!!!

I don't like the idea of throwing myself out there, splattered across the internet like some kind of cyber roadkill.

It's

Just

Plain

Tacky.

I don't want a reality show.

I don't want a million followers on Twitter hanging on my every move.

I don't want a web cam watching me cook on a homegrown YouTube reality show.

I don't want to be on TV.

All I want to do is to write well-written books that are well received and mostly well reviewed.

And there are too few hours in the day for me to do that, have a large family, a husband, and a house, and on top of that be a splattering idiot on the internet. Nope. Sorry. Not going to do it.

Oh, and I really do not want to post my weight, workout accomplishments, or what store I'm shopping at.

There is such a thing as TOO MUCH INFORMATION. And to keep my sanity, I'm going to keep most of my information to myself. Just call me an old-fashioned reclusive author. It's what I'm built for.
So I'll just keep this little sane corner to myself, and hope that some nice people wander in every once in a while to say "Hey".

The Sound of Silence, or How Loud The Screaming In My Head Really Is

School's back in session, which means my three sweet, adorable, chaos making, snack devouring, how can you use THAT much toilet paper, darlings are doing drudgery five times a week at the public schools.
Heh.
Just because I'm not prancing around singing "it's the most wonderful time of the year" doesn't mean I don't have the urge, I'm just toooooo busy now.
The summer didn't go quite as I had expected, as you know. So there is a bit of a backlog of projects that need getting at now. Inside, not so much, just the usual cleaning and such, but outside, thanks to the surgery and the triple digit heat I got less than nothing done, all I really managed to do was come up with MORE damn projects as I was sitting in the AC with the son on the couch. But they sounded so small, so easily done in a single afternoon! And now that I thought of them, I can't un-think them. So they'll get done, by goddess! I just hope this autumn is as awesomely autumn-y, like the summer was so very summer-y. Crisp air, falling leaves, that hint of campfire in the air......now THAT'S the most wonderful time of the year!
The outside aside, I have a great big honking son-of-a-you-know-what looming over my head that awaits every time it gets quiet around here. The next book has started to be a bit more impatient now that the crisis is over, and has progressed from light throat clearing to all out screeching at the top of it's metaphorical lungs. The problem with this one, is that it has required way more research, and involves way more emotional whiplash for my main character. Oh, she's going to kick my ass for this one, all the way to the end of the book. I hope it stays within the parameters I have planned for, but knowing her, she's going to send this one off the rails, and hard. I just hope she waits until the end, because if I had to do all this research into ancient Persian monotheism for nothing, someone's going to be screaming, and it's not going to be the voices in my head this time!
Oh, and I fixed the setting that has blocked comments on the blog--so fire away!