They Live

I've been up all night. Last Saturday I attended a Masque. I wore feathers and flowers and leather. I slept between two beautiful people. I haven't slept.

The wall broke. The first slap-dash words of the musical have slipped the surly bounds of my cowardice. They have form. They live.

There are fairies in the work lights. They cast little shadows, onoffonoffonoff, and they make my eyes hurt.

I'm not sure this vacation has been entirely good for me.

I'm Hungry.

Today, I joined the Critters Writer's Workshop.

Okay, I signed up a couple days ago; but today, I sent in my first critique, which means I'm eligable to submit my own work now. It's the first purely positive step I've taken for my writing in a while. Besides, you know, writing.

I'm trying to get out of Archaeology. It's a cool job to have, when I have it- which isn't very often. I'm looking at a nice little gray-box job in a nice little lab full of people with piercings and big open laughs, so while I may have to dress and play nice for clients, its reassuring that it's such a cheerful place.

This transition has me nervous. If I get the job, I will have a decent wage and benefits. Benefits out the wazoo, to be precise; healthcare and dental and paid vacation days galore. And that kind of scares me.

I'm afraid that I won't work as hard on my writing if I have it that easy at work. I'm afraid that having all of that will make the cost of leaving that much more expensive. Because my goal in life is not to have a nice job with benefits and a decent writing career.

It's a stupid fear; I was well provided for in high school and college and I sure as hell got a lot of writing done then. Being hungry, that hurts your writing. Having constant headaches because your wisdom teeth are impacted, that hurts your writing. Living in hotel rooms and the tiny hothouse world of Archaeology with nobody to talk to because they're all stoned out of their minds, that hurts your writing.

This starving artist stuff is crap.

I always thought that hunger was a last resort kind of problem. But the only person who's upset when you skip a meal is you, and compared to the accusing small print on bills, it doesn't seem like a big deal. I have money, it's just not mine. I could eat more. I should, really; I fucking do physical labor for a living. But I never realized just how stressful it is to judge every meal in light of how many calories you're getting per dollar, how much fiber, and have I actually eaten fresh meat today, no, so I better have a pb&j, but I'm so goddamn tired of ramen pasta and peanut butter sandwiches and god I would kill for a steak or hell, one fresh fucking salad.

I don't make enough money to really feed myself.

That's a hell of a thing to swallow.

Suddenly, I'm not so nervous about this job. Huh. Imagine that.

Dead Lines

The worst part of this gig is the waiting.

Let me be clear; I am talking about the wannabe writer gig. The worst part about archaeology is the sketchy income and the poison ivy. But in writing, my personal demon is time.

I have no deadlines, except the ones I give myself. Some might consider this a luxury, and that's just dandy for them. I hate it. It means that instead of some nice, reasonable editor person setting my expectations, I get the voices in my head.

"You'll spend your whole life like this, you know. Tapping and tapping and tapping away, with nothing to show for it. Nobody cares about the never-weres."

"You could die tomorrow. Do you really want to die without this story finished?"

"How long has it been since you've done something that impressed anyone? Honestly. We really should find another gig."

"You could die tomorrow."

"You could die tomorrow."

"You could die tomorrow."

I am afraid that I will die without having added a single breath to the universe.

I'll take your deadlines over mine any day.

The Top Five Fairies You've Never Heard Of

The Ganconer - A fairy that makes love to maidens, and then abandons them; the maidens then die of longing within a week. Ganconers haunt lonely valleys, and tend to smoke a small grey pipe called a dundeen.

Other names: Gean-cannah, The Love-Talker

References: An Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs; "The Love-Talker" by Ethna Carbery

Gyl Burnt-tayl - A slutty kind of Will-o'-the-Wisp. Leads travellers astray, in more ways than one!

Other names: Jenny Burnt-tayl

References: An Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs

Fetch - A death omen. A Fetch is identical to the person fated to die; sometimes it appears to that person, sometimes to their friends.

Other names: Co-walker

References: An Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs;

Buttery Spirit - A fairy that can only eat ill-gotten or cheaply made food designed to fool the public- think Mrs. Lovitt's Meat Pies. Will eat a tavern out of business unless the tavern-keeper mends their ways.

Other names: None, though it is a close relative to the Abbey Lubber

References: An Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs

Tarans - The souls of babies who die unchristened. They cry a lot, rather like alive babies.

Other names: Spunkies

References: An Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs; A Tour in Scotland By Thomas Pennant

The Long Silence

Haven't posted much lately, for a rather exciting reason- I'm agent shopping for my manuscript! So of course I'm polishing and writing synopses and query letters and the like.  And I've just started a musical project with a composer friend of mine. All quite exciting, all quite time-stealing.

That being said, I shall return to the land of fantasy and let the internet survive without me once more. Ciao!

On Graveyards and Kittens and Whiskey and Store Brand Allergy Medications

My computer insists that whisky is spelled with an "e." I am not convinced. I am convinced that allergy meds before bed is better than in the morning, but I am also convinced that the combination of miss-spelled liquor and medication is ill-advised, as well as the over-use of hyphens. Or en dashes, or whatever.

I am convinced that an evening of drawing in the style of Junko Mizuno while listening to the grave works of Neil Gaiman is going to lead to rather strange dreams. Though the whisky and medication may help. I'm also convinced, now, that my kittens are chasing the ghosts of former hotel occupants around this room.

When I was six or seven, I would read a book about monsters before bed every night, because if I read it, I would dream. I liked dreaming, and I really liked that I had hit on a way to make sure it happened. I can't remember what book it was, but I remember the dreams.

I dreamed about flying, and tornadoes, but not as often as I do now. I dreamed about having adventures with other kids my age, in a world where the parents were gone and it was just us against the adults. These were scary dreams, but not too scary. I don't think I ever had a proper nightmare, growing up. I'm not entirely sure I've had one now. Even the ones about tornadoes- those are the nicest, actually, when I wake up. Like I'm a reset button that's been freshly pressed.

Graveyards are like that, too. I feel as if I should be spooked, but usually I just feel warm. I met a graveyard the otherday that was rather straight-laced, and I was disappointed, but hardly spooked. I haven't met enough dead to say, but so far, I like them.

I've left the novel be, for a bit. I think I'll give it until the end of the week. I can't push it any further; it's too big now, too much inside of me. I want it out, out into the world. I want the monster sated for a little while. Drawing doesn't feed it; no, the art is simply fattening up an entirely new monster to muse for me.

My boss asked me why I do archaeology. I do it because I hated law school, because it pays (though not enough), because I get to be outside and daydream, but I also do it because it puts me in hotel rooms with nothing to do but write and write and write and draw and think. I think when I am rich and famous I will still do it, when I can, on vacations and such- but it does not call to me, and I am ok with that. I like to have my grand passions, and my casual affairs.

I think I have so many words in me each day; if I do write them in a novel, then they will come pouring out here. Bless you, any and all who listen anyway.

Sleepless in Ghent: Part Deux

Update: Done!

The last chapter has finally, finally ended. Sure, I got two hours of sleep last night, but they were the most restful two hours of all time. My bloody ending is finished.

One last pass for grammar and continuity. You can read the current draft here.

La la lalala laaaaah :) Have a lovely day, everyone. I will endeavor to not smack myself in the face with a shovel.

Sleepless in Ghent

I cannot sleep tonight. It might have been the 20 oz. Baja Blast Mountain Dew, but I wouldn't want to proceed without more data.

I'm working on the ending of my novel. I've been working on the ending since... oh... late December? Early January? Over three months now. I wrote the whole bloody first half in three months.

Huh. I didn't realize that until I typed it.

I'd heard somewhere that endings tend to be rough because they get the least work; you edit every other part of a story on your way to the ending, so the ending gets the short end. If this ending blows, I can at least shoot down that reason. Over-editing, for the win!

I need to sleep. I seriously need to sleep. I was sick this morning from bad Chinese, and I was almost late one other day this week (from wonderful, obsessive drawing). Archaeology is my day job. I need to show up for it!

I wanna I wanna I wanna make a webcomic. That's keeping me up too- the ideas, the images, buzzing between my ears. I wanna be done with this book. I want pretty little bug-eyed freak comic characters to be my babies for a while, not this white whale of a text. (There. Multiple alarms set for the morning. Maybe now I'll get there on time.) I haven't drawn this much in years. I come home from work, I eat, and then I draw and write until I pass out.

Except today. Today I played Guild Wars and then I discovered I'm to the point that if I don't write and draw then I can't pass out.

Being unemployed made me not trust Archaeology. I mean, it's a nice job, except that I can't write when I'm out there. Being unemployed made me trust writing. Everything else was worse; writing was better. It hurt a little to leave my story, even though I was editing, even though I was tossing out endings, deleting pages and pages of work with out a second thought because, after all, it just meant another day to write.

Hrm. Separation anxiety? It's possible. I've been writing it in fits and starts- three months here, three months there- since 2005. I just want it to be right, before I let it go. I keep telling myself, if I bang out the text of the ending, I can let it go for a month before I edit. But a part of me wails at that. I am editing. I've been editing for months, really. I WANT IT DONE.

My Baby!

You can read my baby, my darling, my novel here! It's at HarperCollins's authonomy.com; it's a bit like American Idol for unpublished manuscripts.

Here's a quick summary:

The prophecies are being fulfilled; the Kingdom of Erne is about to enter a new heroic age. At least, that's what the temples think, until Kalli of Aeson and her baine, the dragon Kalong, come to the Academy. She thinks she's there to study. They think she's there to die tragically and unite the Avatars. Neither comes to pass. Instead, Kalli finds herself caught up in epic events and cursed with a peculiar immunity to divine intervention.

This Was Going To Be A Comment and Then It Was Too Long

Go read this post.

This quote more or less sums up the part I object to:

"Speaking of blogs, in the past fifty-two days (since my blog relaunched on January 5th), I have had 1,822 unique visitors. That means more than three times as many people have read my blog in less than two months than read the average novel in its entire run. I don't make a dollar off this blog, but in almost four years of blogging, thousands of people have read my writings. People I have never met email me; I run into strangers who mention they saw my latest post. What more could I ask for?"

Money. You can ask for money. I understand that the industry is changing, but the starving artist thing is bull. The idea that you should labor over anything that other people then consume, eagerly, and simply be grateful for their attention is lame.

Take a long hard look at webcomics; they have already made the shift that the writing industry might. And there are people right this minute that live off of their work. Saying technology is changing the game so we should all just quit playing is stupid.

I Don't Want to Inspire You

My friend Thom can be quite poetic when he talks about his music. He talks about touching lives, changing the world, inspiration. I don't get it. I mean, I kind of do- you write a love song and a boy plays it for a girl and they fall in love and it's their song. I understand the mechanics. It's just that inspiring people never occurs to me when I write.

I don't think about life lessons or self-improvement. I think about the puzzle. Who is going to do what, and why, and what will happen? What if someone else does this other thing? I make characters, wind them up and send them out to wander through an arena of my own design. I think about the people who will read it- but the people I picture want to escape the real world, not read a manual about it.

I don't want you to feel inspired when you read my stories. I want you to feel obsessed. I want to give you this other world with it's other people, this pretend world where there is such a thing a closure (sometimes) and the good guys win (sort of). This world where things happen for a reason, and with a little work on your part you can find out what it is (maybe). I want you lost and free. I want you banging down my door, demanding to know what happens next. I do not want you to have a warm glow in your heart-cockles; I want you fearing for the lives of your imaginary friends.

Super Stress!

I am unemployed.

Except, not really- if I were really unemployed, I would be able to collect unemployment. I am on the payroll, but I am most certainly not getting paid.

This is the suck.

I have a car loan and student loans and a bill from law school to repay. I am sleeping on my mother's couch. A draft of my novel is finished and I have the suspicion that it is complete crap. The suspicion stems from this: the plot is flimsy and the characters suck and the fantasy world that I built is utter bullshit and both unconvincing and uninteresting. (The hook still looks good, oddly enough.) Also the ending is weak. Also none of the side-plots are resolved.

I am not on a dig THIS VERY SECOND because some people at another company dropped the ball. I need that goddamn ball! GIVE ME THE BALL.

I thought I should take a break from the writing, to give myself more perspective, but I'm thinking that was a bad idea. Because the magic still works- while I'm working on a project, the world fades. I need that. I need escapism. In the Land of Escapism I am the Pretty Pretty Princess. But I also need a job and so I am taking today to apply for some summer positions for the government. Tomorrow I go back to slaying dragons.

Warm Ups

If I had known I wouldn't have a dig for the whole month of January, I probably wouldn't have gone to Miami. I love UC, and now I love Miami, but... yeesh. It took some financial back flips to pay the bills this month.

But, a good friend offered to pay my way to Boston, so now I'm on his couch and blogging as a warm-up to editing/outlining my novel. I'm experimenting with the outline thing, in that I'm outlining after writing instead of before. When it comes to writing, I don't like a lot of plans, but I feel like I need a more explicit concept of the book if I want to edit it. Basically I'm going through each chapter and scene and asking myself, "What does this scene do for the plot or characters?" and then noting that. Hopefully it will help the process go quickly, because I want to send my baby out right this second but I feel like that would be rather unprofessional. Though with the amount of time it takes the publishing industry to do anything, it might be six one way, half dozen the other.