It didn’t work.

On the third day (Friday), I finally went to the doctor, more because I’d been out from work for three days than that I thought he’d prescribe anything but rest and fluids.

I walked out with a prescription for antibiotics instead, and a few hours later, I started feeling like a shadow of my usual self, rather than just an Anthea-shaped body without even the energy to write.

Fatigue, dizziness, mucous, and a rather annoying cough are still plaguing me, but I’m back to writing, so I’m definitely on the mend.

Sorry for the long radio silence here, though! I’m working on a project and hope to have big news soon, but I think I’m going to wait til it’s actually done to make any new announcements or bold declarations. There’s no telling, after all, whether I’m really in my right mind yet, or just on my way there.

Sometimes, I’ll write and write, and though the words are fine there’s no real story underneath to hold them together. This usually happens when I think I know what story I want to write.

A lot of writers talk about themselves as a duality – the everyday self who does the grunt work of typing, and the muse, or the writer-brain, or lizard-brain, or the characters, or the story council.

I’m definitely finding that I have the same sensation. That there’s a part of me that can spin magic into a story, and a part of me that can type and edit and spell correctly and remember what the character’s names are, and that successful fiction writing requires a delicate balancing act between the two.

In some ways, I feel like I sit down and start writing, and by doing so I invite my writer-brain to come out and see. I’m coaxing it out, like putting out bits of food to coax a small animal out of its hole. And like that small animal, if I look too closely or too directly at it, then it’ll flee back into its hole and make me start the hole process over again.

But if I manage to coax it out and not scare it off, my writer-brain will start poking at the words I’m writing. Sometimes an image of what happens next will pop into my mind, or I’ll realize something I’ve already written should change in *this* precise way.

Once in a great while, my writer-brain will get confident enough to take over, and then the writing flies but I don’t recognize everything when I read over it again. (Sleep deprivation will also have this effect, but I don’t recommend it.)

But a lot of the time I forget that I’m trying to coax out a shy and temperamental part of my mind, and I write blithely on with no attention to anything else, and then wonder why the story isn’t coming out the way I wanted it to. :-p

Here’s an article on it from Slate: You Need to Learn how to Program.

I figure at one lesson a week, it shouldn’t interfere with my writing time any more than random websurfing, tv-watching and reading do, and I definitely buy the argument that basic programming is becoming as important a skill as being able to type.

(No judgments from me on *how* you type – hunt and peck gets the job done just fine with enough practice, though I do find touch typing to be convenient.)

Writing is communicating with other people, programming is communicating with computers, not just in terms of telling, but of understanding.

You can read all about it, and find links to the ebooks, at his post.

There are several shorter works available for $0.99, as well as a couple of longer options for a few dollars more. I’ve read The God Engines, and it was quite good, even if I wasn’t sure about the ending.

I’m counting this as “week four” of January for the plan I detailed in the last post, and working on a new short story collection: Zombie Variations.

I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, but I’ve been getting in my own way, I’m afraid. For some reason when my thinking brain spins out lots of “cool ideas” for stories based on logic and reason and articles I’ve read about diseases and nature and so on… my writing brain goes on strike. It seems like the first seed of a story has to come from my writing brain, or else it’s not going to happen.

And since I only had two zombie stories and a few scintillas, I didn’t really feel like there was enough to make a collection out of. If I’m going to put something up for sale, I want the buyer to get more than five minutes of entertainment out of it!

Getting out of my own way…

Getting back into writing after time off is always hard, so I started a few days ago with a new short story – “The Zombie’s Cat.”

Then another one just sort of happened the next day – “Henry.” (Another tear-jerker, I’m afraid, like The Last Day of School. I was crying while I wrote it, at any rate.

I think I know how to expand Lanie’s scintillas into a full story now, and Corpse Pose is going to get an edit and polish too.

And yes, you will get to read them! Once the collection is done and posted to Smashwords, B&N, and Amazon, I’ll post a Smashwords coupon here for a free download – my friends and readers deserve it! The coupon will be good for a month from when I post it, and you can download pretty much any reader format from Smashwords, so keep an eye out.

Status Update:

OK, so I haven’t written since Sunday, because of going away for a trade show for work Monday through Wednesday, and being too darned tired to write yesterday or this morning… But leaving that aside, I think my first month has gone very well.

The first draft has 20,528 words, and while it isn’t *finished,* I have a good idea of how the last part of the story goes. So I’m going to settle for writing a summary of what happens next in case I come back to it later, and move on to the next one in accordance with my plan.

I definitely think I’ve learned from the experience of my first month, though nothing solid enough to really talk about. I’m looking forward to what the rest of the year will bring!

Planning:

Speaking of which, for February I’m going to try to pattern my writing as follows:

First week: Introduce the characters, the world, and the key problems, as well as complications.

Second week: The characters try to address their problems and make things worse, but there are hints of what the final resolution will be.

Third week: Achieve the final resolution and tie up loose ends.

Week four: Work on short stories, and maybe put one up for sale on Amazon. This’ll give me a chance to let go of the last long story and its pattern before starting the next one. It’ll also let me start building up a body of work for sale, for readers to find me by.

In fact, I think that’s what I’m going to work on this coming week, as January ends and February begins. I think I might take a fresh look at Changing Course.

I’ve been seeing a lot of short stories published as stand-alones for $0.99, and even bought a couple, so it seems like a more reasonable idea to me than it once did. What do you guys think? A decent way to put stuff out there for new readers to find?

As I mentioned before, I’m trying to get a better grasp of longer forms of fiction than my usual 2000-5000 word short stories, and my chosen method is focused practice. I’m writing a long story each month, and trying to be aware of what I’m learning and where my challenges are as I go. It might be that blogging about that process would be interesting reading, or at least interesting writing.

So I’m going to try to be more consistent about posting – not snippets so much as progress reports, and thoughts on writing as I learn more and play with different ideas and approaches.

For today, for instance, I can talk about some thoughts I’ve been having this week:

Basically, in my usual short stories there is usually one complication in the character’s life, and one resolution by the end of the story. Singular incidents, generally without a lot of context or sophistication.

So for longer stories, there need to be more complications (which I find easy) and more resolutions. (which I think I’ve been missing)

I also tend to lose track of what the story is from day to day. I’m not entirely sure what will work for me to address that, but being aware of it as a weakness is the first step.

Have a great weekend!

His about page also says that “Through his journey Dan hopes to inspire others to start exploring the possibilities life affords them.”

Very cool!

I particularly liked the closing: “Even if depression is “natural” and evolved from an emotional state that might once have given us some advantage, that doesn’t make it any more desirable than other maladies. Nature offers us cancer, infections and heart disease, which we happily avoid and do our best to treat. Depression is no different.”

Tucker and Dale vs. Evil

Highly recommended for fans of silly movies and horror spoofs!

Specifically, I was thinking about how some things I want to accomplish – like writing the sort of novels I’d buy to read, and deepening my yoga practice, and even getting good at my day job – require lots of practice, and slow deepening of strength and skill. There’s simply no short-cut, no way to make it all happen right this minute without all that work.

The shortest path I can take is to start now, if it’s something I’ve been waiting on for some reason, and to keep working on it now, and in each now that I pass through on my way to that unknown future when I achieve my goals.

My mind wants to wander, and my body wants to be still.

I loop my work bag over my shoulder to pull it after me when I get out of the car, snag the bag of Thai food I picked up for supper, push to my feet, and pause a moment before turning back to the car. I need to get my yoga bag out of the car too, or it’ll sit there ’til next week when I need it again, but I really don’t want to. I want to get inside and have food.

*thump*

An empty roll of toilet paper on the lawn catches my eye, and I realize they haven’t picked up the garbage yet – must be because of the holiday – and the top of the bin’s blown open.

*thump*

I pick it up after a long moment of resisting the temptation to overlook it, and stuff it back in the trash, then head back to the car for my yoga bag.

*thump*

I finally look up, wondering what’s causing that repetitive sound, and see a white-clad form standing by a car a few houses down. As I watch, she (he? it?) shuts the trunk, watching dully as it bounces up again.

Zombies, my hindbrain whispers.

I grab my bag out of the car and slam the door, wincing at the noise.

What if it attracts her attention?
What if there are others?
What if I fumble the key?

I don’t fumble the key, and moments later the door is slammed shut behind me, the deadbolt turned. I pull all the shades and check the other doors, shaking my head at my own irrational fears.

Time for Thai!

***

A long time ago, an Emperor decided that he wanted the best painting of a rooster ever. He called the most renowned artist in the Empire, and offered him this commission, promising great gifts if he succeeded.

The artist was pleased to serve his Emperor, and accepted the commission, telling him that he would contact him when the painting was completed.

A month went by, and the Emperor sent servants to check on the progress of the painting, but they returned with no news. After six months, he sent a general, but he too returned with no news.

After a year had passed, he went to visit the artist himself, and demanded that he produce the painting, or face death for failing in his commission.

The artist brought out paper, a brush, and ink. In a few deft strokes, he drew the most lifelike picture of a rooster that the Emperor had ever seen, and presented it to him before the paint was even dry.

The Emperor was impressed by the beauty of the painting, but incensed by the fact that the artist had made him wait a whole year, just to create the promised painting in less than a minute. He called upon his guards to execute the artist on the spot.

Before they could strike, however, the artist begged the Emperor to allow him to show him something. He led him to his house, and opened up the door, and within, filling every shelf and table and piled up in drifts were paintings of roosters, none so masterful as the one he had just completed.

“My Emperor,” he said, “I have not made you wait on a whim. I needed the year past in order to learn how to paint a rooster that would be worthy of you.”

***

I want to be a novelist, and the way to get better at writing is to write novels. Of course, I’m also impatient. I want to be a good novelist now, and if not now then as soon as possible. The only way to get there, though, is practice. Lots of practice. Intensive practice.

So currently, my plan is to spend two hours a day writing new words, not revising or editing.

I’m also planning to write a novel (or novella) a month over the course of the year. By the time I’ve written twelve month-long stories from start to finish, I think I should be starting to get the hang of it!

The primary goal here is practice, so to make it easier to shut off my internal editor I’m not going to be posting or emailing the finished first drafts – knowing that no one else will ever see them unless I’m happy with the result will help me to relax and just write, and see what happens. I might post excerpts as scintillas, though.

To keep me honest, I’ll be posting a scorecard at the end of each month, reporting on how long the story is, a one-sentence summary of the story, my thoughts about the story upon finishing it, and what aspect(s) of writing I think I need to focus on with the next one.

I’ll also be making frequent random posts with interesting links and personal updates.

So far, I’ve done two days of writing on the first novel, close to three hours yesterday and not quite two hours today. It’s based on a dream that seemed to be inspired by The Hunger Games, so who knows if it’ll be worthwhile or utter drek, but either way it should be fun, and educational.

What are your plans for the year to come?

We did a bit of clearing out today – going through our downstairs bookcases and weeding out the things we’re never going to read again (or for the first time, in the case of several books that looked interesting but didn’t grab us enough to make it past the first few pages.)

Here’s a picture, prior to taking them all over to Good Will. (Oh, and a tea-maker, too!)

Keep in mind, though – that’s only from the downstairs bookcases!

So, on another note, I’ve been thinking about what I want to do, long and short term, and I’ve got assorted plans, but as we’re going over to a friend’s house soon, I think I’ll post the details tomorrow.

In the meantime, Happy New Year, and may 2012 be a wonderful and bountiful year for all of us!

“Look, Voan! It’s a gap! I wonder where it goes.”

Iffith peered intently at a patch of air, but it looked just like any other to Voan.

“It’s not the season for gaps,” he said. “You’re imagining things.”

Iffith shot him a disbelieving glance before looking back at the same spot. “You can’t see this?” he asked.

Voan rolled his eyes. “No, and neither can you. Now come on, or we’ll be late for Ferr Nolan’s lesson.”

“Grandfather did say that some people couldn’t see them.” Iffith smirked. “Force-blind.”

Voan bristled at the insult, especially since Ferr Nolan had just confirmed the diagnosis two nights ago. Not that Iffith should know about that. “Fine,” he snapped. “If you’re so talented, then show me it’s there. Stick your hand through. Maybe something will do me a favor and bite it off.”

Iffith grinned. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll stick all of me through!” He reached out a hand and slid it down through the air as if parting a curtain. Then, eyes locked on Voan’s, he took a step and disappeared.

“Dung…” Voan winced at the thought of how insufferable Iffith was going to be from now on. He put on a bored look, so that Iffith at least wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing him surprised or impressed once he came back.

A minute passed, and then another, and the careful look of boredom shifted into a more honest expression of annoyance.

“Hurry it up, Iffith!” He had no idea if one could hear voices across a gap, but they really were going to be late if he didn’t come back soon. “Iffith!”

He gulped, and took a few steps until he stood in the scuffmarks left by Iffith’s feet. Then he felt around in the air, trying to feel the edge of the gap, even if he couldn’t see it.

It was no use though. The gap, and Iffith, were gone.

.

***Alternate POV***

“Look, Voan! It’s a gap! I wonder where it goes.” Iffith peered intently at the strange twist of energy hanging in the air just off the path.

“It’s not the season for gaps,” Voan said, walking past. “You’re imagining things.”

Iffith shot him a disbelieving glance before looking back at the same spot. “You can’t see this?” he asked.

Voan stopped and rolled his eyes in that superior way Iffith hated. “No, and neither can you. Now come on, or we’ll be late for Ferr Nolan’s lesson.”

Iffith stared at him a moment, then realized what that had to mean. No more superior attitude for Voan. “Grandfather did say that some people couldn’t see them,” he said, smirking. “Force-blind.”

The other youngling bristled at the insult, and Iffith knew he had struck a nerve. “Fine,” Voan snapped. “If you’re so talented, then show me it’s there. Stick your hand through. Maybe something will do me a favor and bite it off.”

Iffith grinned. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll stick all of me through!” He reached out a hand and slid it down through the air as if parting a curtain. Then, eyes locked on Voan’s, he stepped sideways into another world.

.

Thoughts…

Depending on whose point of view I choose, and whose part of the story I follow, I can wind up with two very different stories!

Decisions, decisions.

Happy Holidays to all of you, whichever ones you celebrate!

Home for the Holidays

Sylphie woke with a gasp, flinging the covers aside and jumping to her feet before pausing to wonder what had woken her. A quick glance around the room showed her nothing out of place, though, no immediate danger.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through her nose, trying to calm her racing heart and make sure that her brain was fully awake and functioning.

“Two teetotalers tiredly toddling to Tewksbury,” she muttered under her breath. “Mother pheasant plucker, mother pheasant plucker. Rubber baby buggy bumpers.” The tongue twisters came out ungarbled, and the familiar routine helped to calm her further.

She sat down on her bed, wondering if she would be able to go back to sleep, or if she should do a circuit of the house to make sure all was well. Don’t assume. Never assume.

She sighed at the answer. It was going to be a long night if she couldn’t get her paranoia under control.

I don’t know that I’m insane, she thought. The others saw something too. Of course, I’m pretty sure the others were high, so they’re not the best reality check I could wish for.

She pulled on yesterday’s socks one-handed, unable to bring herself to put down the bookmark she held in her right hand for even a second. It looked like a normal piece of cardstock, doodled on in black ballpoint ink. According to her logical mind, that was all it could be.

According to experience, however, it might be something more. Mystical weapon or sign of a mental breakdown, she wasn’t yet sure. Not sure enough to risk being committed anyway.

She skipped the slippers and bathrobe. Socks would keep her feet warm enough, and putting on the bulky robe would make her feel more vulnerable rather than less.

She stepped lightly over to the door, listening carefully. Was that the sound of rustling paper?

She flicked her bedroom light off, and kicked away the towel that had blocked the bottom of the door. Her parents didn’t need to know that she was sleeping with the light on, but she couldn’t open the door without giving herself every possible clue of what waited beyond. Faint light flickered along the crack, illuminating individual fibers standing up from the worn carpet.

She watched for a long moment before deciding that her parents had probably left the Christmas tree on intentionally.

A quick glance at the clock told her it was 12:45, Christmas morning already. It was too late for her parents to still be awake, though, and far too early for her sister to be up. There shouldn’t be anyone moving around the house but her.

She gripped her bookmark tightly, and eased the door open, peering out and wondering whether turning the light on would wake her parents.

A large shape moved in front of the Christmas tree, and her hand flicked out to the switch without a second thought.

She froze in place once the light was on, though, gaping at the red-garbed figure by the tree.

He didn’t look like a department store Santa, or even a movie Santa. He looked like he could have stepped right off a Coke can, or out of a child’s best daydream. His suit looked well-made and warm, his hair and beard looked natural, and there really was a twinkle in his eye as he straightened and smiled at her.

“Ho, ho, ho!” he said. “Good little girls should be snug in their beds, or else they’ll get nothing but coal in their stockings.”

She closed her mouth, suddenly feeling angry. Bad enough she was seeing monsters at school, but now this? “Seriously?” she snapped. “You’re seriously trying to pretend that you’re Santa Claus? What am I, six?”

“Ho, ho, ho!” He reached out a hand. “Come here, child, and you’ll see just how real I am.”
A creak jerked her eyes over to the stairs, and she saw her sister Dryad crouching on the middle stair, just low enough to peer down into the room.

Sylphie could have kicked herself for speaking so carelessly. She didn’t honestly believe the figure by the tree was really there, but she couldn’t just ignore it either. That meant either more talking, waving her bookmark through the air like a maniac, or both. Dryad was sure to tell their parents, and then she was in for it.

“Two little girls!” The false Santa turned and held his hand out to Dryad, revealing a small object wrapped in blue and yellow paper. “Would you like a present, my dear?”

Sylphie was in motion before the last word was out of his mouth. Institutions and insanity didn’t matter in that moment. Figment or not, there was no way she was letting him get near her sister.

She sprinted across the room, envisioning energy flowing from her arm into the patterns on her bookmark.

She could feel the instant when it changed, when the edge started slicing through space itself and leaving an invisible gash hanging in the air. She pushed aside that awareness and focused on directing her swing at the false Santa.

The bookmark hit his red suit at the shoulder and passed through his shoulder and back and out his side without the slightest resistance. She hopped back, panting and keeping her weapon active while she watched.

He looked back over his shoulder at her, his face twisting into a snarl. Then black flame shot out of the slash down his back. It looked unspeakably violent, but it burned silently and without heat, eating away at the stranger’s body until there was nothing left but the small present that fell to the floor with a thud.

Sylphie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to believe that they were safe now.

“Wow…”

The word at her elbow made her jump to the side, although she managed not to strike out at her sister. “Dryad!” she scolded. Then she made a show of looking around the room. With a little luck, she could still make a convincing claim of sleepwalking.

“Did you… just kill Santa?”

Sylphie froze where she stood, then looked seriously at the younger girl. “You saw him too?” she asked.

“Sure,” Dryad said. “And I saw you blow him up with black fire. But… nothing’s burned, so maybe I was dreaming?”

Sylphie closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, then caught her sister in a tight hug. “No,” she said. “No, I saw him too. I saw the same thing you did.”

I’m not insane! she thought, resisting the urge to pick Dryad up and dance around the room for joy. She saw him too! He was real! All of it was real!

A chill ran down her spine at that realization, and she opened her eyes again to peer around nervously.

“So what do we do with the presents?” Dryad asked, pulling out of her hug and reaching for the package that the false Santa had dropped.

Sylphie grabbed her wrist, stopping her before she could touch it. “We’ll have to destroy it,” she said. “There’s no telling what sort of damage it’s meant to do.”

“What, all of them?”

She looked past Dryad, and finally noticed the big sack by the fireplace. It had tipped a little, spilling a handful of identical presents onto the floor, and it looked full to the brim of more of the same.

“All of them,” she confirmed, trying to suppress the feeling of dread growing in the pit of her stomach. “It looks like it’s going to be a long night.”

Also: 100 Artists Rolled into One Man

(Edit: The numbered, limited edition version of the biennial book is $1000, but I emailed to ask and Mr. Hembrey wrote back that if there is enough interest there could be a publishing house version of the book in a more affordable price point. Here’s hoping!)