NaNoNuts2005

The First Two Days is Just a Warm-Up

2005-11-04T10:35:00.000-06:00

I just did my annual "rip it up and start over" thing (so apparently it's not an excess of preplanning that does this to me). I'm behind on word count, but not all that far behind, once I started writing something I could get into. I guess the first two days is just warm-up, no matter how I approach the thing.

I've gone from depressingly melancholy mainstream to gothic horror in the last 48 hours. I've switched from third-person limited POV, past tense, to first person POV in mostly present tense, with occasional flashbacks and general grammatical awkwardness (that despite a degree in Rhetoric & Writing, I can't quite figure out how - or bring myself - to fix). It works the way it is, although I'm wondering what part of my subconcious dreamed up this story and these characters and insists on telling it this way. I suppose a good edit in December will bring to light all the technical mess and whatever doesn't work can be weeded out. But right now, I'm liking it just the way it is, as evidenced by the fact that I scrapped nearly 3000 words and added nearly 4500 in half the time it took to write the first bit.

Enthusiasm, I'm finding, is as good for word count as gratuitous sex and rambling dream sequences. Besides, I'm now working on something I might actually want to submit to a publisher one day.

Virtual Pets...

2005-11-03T20:11:00.000-06:00

Well, we don't have real ones! But we thought these were fun.

adopt your own virtual pet!

For Those Who've Just Stumbled In, and a Note on Sleepwriting

2005-11-03T08:48:00.000-06:00

Odd searches that have led people here:

Microsoft has too much time on his hands
nanowrimo "session confirm" (Actually, I get that. The old "session confirm" error - and yes, it's down again this morning.)
restless leg syndrome wikepedia (Did you mean: restless leg syndrome wikipedia?)
curling calendar
underachiever sense entitlement (Might help to use quotes and change that to "sense of entitlement")

Well, no matter how you found your way here, kick off your shoes, make yourself at home, and...welcome.

I fell behind on the word count last night, although I'm close to 3000 words now and feeling pretty confident that I can pull ahead again tonight (if I watch Alias and ER but skip Night Stalker and whatever else is on from 8:00-9:00 PM). I also have a For Authors newsletter due Monday, and about 800 pages of documentation to review by tomorrow, and assorted other time-consuming tasks...

But what is it they say? If you want something done, ask a busy person to do it? Sad, but true.

And the "healthy writer regimine" does seem to be working for me, although I still had an urge to sleep at 10:30 last night, without reaching my word count goals. Actually, I fell asleep at the computer and typed:

... but I can see her reaching into her bag, pulling out an unused vapor

What the hell was that? I was talking about the character's future likelihood of meeting Mr. Right, falling in love, getting married, and having babies. "An unused vapor"?

Looks like I needed the sleep.

Blast from the Past!

2005-11-02T09:44:00.000-06:00

I found my first-ever NaNoWriMo blog, from 2001. Not to scare the newbies, but I thought some of you might get a kick out of it. (Ed. note: I did actually go on to publish the @#$% thing, despite what I swore at the end of this.)

October 21, 2001

I'm ready, I'm ready! I have 50,000 other things to do before I can even THINK about starting this novel (but that will always be an excuse if I let it be, won't it?) - and I know that October is the month to wrap up loose ends in anticipation of NaNoWriMo - but it's all I can do not to start!! Aaarrrgggghhhh!

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to write a novel in just one month? 50,000 words in 30 days? 1666.66666666667 words a day? Scary, yet irresistible idea if you've ever toyed with the idea of writing a novel... well, one of these days. One of these days is NOW.

October 22, 2001

They say "write what you know." But who the heck wants to read about a happily married tech writer with two kids? Ah. "Embellish," you say? There's a thought.

"Tina sighed as she waded through stacks of paper covered in blood. Red ink, of course - but to Tina it was the blood of her hard-birthed manual, the love child of Engineering, painstakingly researched and written, now cut to shreds by Marketing. As Tina reached into the drawer, rummaging for a bottle of white out, her fingers found the Exacto knife. She smiled in satisfaction. Nice and rusty and dull."

Naah. Definitely needs a sprinkling of space aliens and a dash of ninjas. And more caffeine!

Chris Baty, fearless founder of NaNoWriMo, asked the rhetorical question, "Are we really within a dairy product's expiry of starting?" Well, not if you're lookin' at a nice hard Black Diamond cheddar, we're not...

Eeeeek! Yep, he's right - according to the milk and yogurt in my fridge, he's right! I don't know whether to panic now or start doin' the happy dance!

October 23, 2001

Did Lisa (another NaNoWriMo Nut) say "a story to a dead person"? That's a novel idea. Here I was, playing with cliche ideas like stories about dead people. What are space ninjas without a few ghosts to play pranks on them, anyway? A little eerie howling in the night? But stories to dead people? Like, what, little graveside bedtime stories? (Ooooh, sometimes I even creep myself out!)

October 24, 2001

You can run, but you can't hide. Anyone else starting to feel as if the real challenge to this NaNoWriMo thing is avoiding all the "attractive nuisance" obstacles so cheerfully flung our way? Like journals, boards, partners, more boards (lest we get bored), more boards (for those who like to get carried away), other people's journals, email, IM, chat... and a little light escapist reading, RPGs, and real life for those times when we just need a break?

October 25, 2001

That was depressing.

"Tina sat, glassy-eyed, in front of her monitor, waiting for the chime that would signal arrival of the 'ratings' from a horde of equally glassy-eyed reviewers. She bit the ragged edge of a hopelessly frayed nail, thankful that she hadn't invested in a pricey French manicure. Fingernails on a keyboard were only slightly less irritating than fingernails on a chalkboard, anyway. Tina dreamed of the trashy-but-entertaining fiction she could be writing, as opposed to the dry-but-equally-fictional technical documents she'd be editing to the truthful nuggets at their core in the wee hours of the morning. Ding! The first of the reviews announced its presence in her inbox."

"Tina tested the blade with her index finger. A ragged cut, only a few epithelial layers deep, appeared. She was able to squeeze a drop of blood from it, but barely enough to fall, splat!, on the page. Next, she stood in front of the heating vent and did jumping jacks. Once she'd worked up a good sweat, Tina leaned over her tattered draft - now covered in red ink, toner smears, and a pathetically anemic drop of real blood - and dripped. Just then, her boss walked by and noticed her office door was ajar. No look of horror, no raised eyebrow at the sight of a wild-eyed, sweat-soaked technical writer wringing blood from her own finger - she noticed the rusty Exacto knife in Tina's hand and said, with a small smile of self-satisfaction, 'Good! I see you're going to cut it as I suggested a week ago!'"

October 26, 2001

I'm humming to myself. Little voices in my head sing, "The waiting is the hardest part... oooh, the wa-a-iting is the harrrrrrdest part..." (Or am I just being Petty, here?)

See, the problem with best-laid plans and too much time on your hands is that you start second-guessing everything, overplanning, spinning mental wheels (like hamsters in an exercise ball)...so what seemed like a GREAT idea Sunday is starting to bore me to tears. I don't like my characters. I don't like the whole idea. Maybe it's because I'm THINKING about it, not WRITING it. Wouldn't want to CHEAT, now, would I?

October 27, 2001

"I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience."
- Henry David Thoreau

That's a nice explanation for an online journal, don't you think? (Or are you thinking, "She needs to get out more!"?)

October 30, 2001

I've knuckled down to the serious business of meeting deadlines and clearing the calendar for November, yet for every item I scratch of my to-do list, another worms its way on! If it weren't for two kids, a husband, a father-in-law, and a gaggle of coworkers, I think I'd run off to the hills for a taste of the hermit life...

On the other hand, it's very hard to write convincing characters and dialogue when you cut yourself off from the society of others. So far my daughter is the only person I know who's begging me to turn her into a character in the "sucky novel" as I've been calling it (trying to lower my own expectations to such a degree that I can turn off the inner editor and critic long enough to crank out 50,000 words NOBODY will want to edit come December). I've warned her about things like me taking literary license - she still wants me to do it. She also wants me to make her character a goth punk rock star wannabe. (And that's as close as she'll come to BEING one in THIS lifetime, so long as I have any say in the matter!)

I had an amazingly productive day at work. I think that tonight, instead of worrying about November and my lack of a plot, or working myself to death in order to stay three steps ahead of upcoming projects at work, I'll sleep. Might be the last chance I get for 30 days!

Ooops, no - the goth punk rock star wannabe has just asked if I can stay up long enough to stick her volleyball jersey in the drier when the wash cycle ends...

November 2, 2001

Day 2, 10:45 PM

Sleep, or keep typing? I'm only 2358 words short of my goal for the past two days. I can knock that off in the morning, while the laundry's spinning, right?

Why is youth wasted on the young? I'm not old yet, but I'm too old to pull an all-nighter. Shoot, it's not even eleven, and my eyelids are drooping.

November 3, 2001
2726 words behind. But that's good. I'm up to 2275 words, and I'm not done for the night. I refuse to eat or sleep until I've logged at least 4500 words. Thank goodness I haven't sworn off coffee!

The story is starting to take on a life of its own. But WHY is my narrator a 12 year old BOY??

November 4, 2001

Oh, yes - one more note before I give up for the night and go to bed. Today's soundtrack is "Offenbach: Gaite Parisienne; The Tales of Hoffmann: Intermezzo" performed by the Boston Pops, conducted by Arthur Fiedler. This CD also includes the Overtures from Orpheus in Hades and La belle Helene, and a medley from La Perichole.

Very inspirational! The writing pace definitely picked up after I switched to this CD from Jurassic Park. I think it has a more upbeat tempo - and the melodies make my fingers want to dance across the keys!

* * *

Andy's sister, Kylie, says it's only fair to give her equal time. I don't know about that - but here's a glimpse:

Kylie couldn’t get a button back on without sewing her own fingers together, but she could create an entire prom ensemble with a few scraps of fabric, thermal bonding, a soldering iron, a handful of nail heads, and a hot glue gun. Instead of the mousy brown macramé belt, she’d cinched in her already tiny waist with a wide band of steel-studded black leather.

Her eyes were a dusty, bruised combination of midnight blue, lavender, and charcoal. Her lips were ice blue, rimmed with something darker, raisiny. On her left ear, she wore a silver cuff that looked like a little dragon perching there, claws out, ready to pounce on the unwary fool who might try to kiss her.

* * *

6138 words as of midnight Sunday, November 4, 2001.

Now that's progress. Not GREAT progress, but fairly steady progress. I spent a fair amount of time today editing, changing POV from a limited first-person POV to a more omniscient third. I hope that 12-year-old Andy, my first narrator, won't feel hurt and desert me - but there are things happening in the story that he simply cannot know or tell me. Others are demanding a voice, now, too.

But if you're wondering about Andy, here's a bit of a character sketch from the godawful novel that has nothing to do with the plot, such as it is:

Andy sketched the female reproductive system with colored pencils, but as Mr. Schaeffer droned on, it became a map of Utera, a town of myth and legend, populated by strange races and exotic beasts. Ovaries became the town reservoirs; a uterus morphed into the town square. The worried townsfolk had gathered to hunt the saber-toothed weretiger that had been preying upon their children...

"Andrew, would you care to share with us what must be the most incredibly detailed rendition of a woman’s reproductive parts ever drawn in this class?" Andy hated it when Mr. Schaeffer sneaked up behind him like that. Reluctantly, Andy handed over the drawing. There were a few stifled snickers from his classmates, who were mostly glad Mr. Schaeffer had chosen someone else to pick on this time.

Mr. Schaeffer studied Andy’s detailed and colorful map for a full minute before saying anything. The corner of his mouth twitched oddly as his eyes took in the tiny schooners under full sail that navigated the twin rivers of Fallopia, protecting the town of Utera from rogues and pirate mermen who threatened from the southernmost inlet of Cervericus. "Hmm. Fascinating."

He handed the drawing back to Andy without showing it to the class. "Quite nicely done, Andrew," he said softly, moving on to extol the virtues of birth-control to a restless class full of Seventh graders.

November 6, 2001

7244 words. Not too shabby; still behind schedule, but catching up. Time for bed...

November 7, 2001

Another NaNoWriMo Novelist, Steev, writes, "I'm already a bit obsessed with the word count feature in Microsoft Word. I seem to be checking the count every paragraph or so." Glad to know I'm not the only one.

Isn't this akin to checking the contents of the refrigerator every 10 minutes or so, just to see if there's anything new in there since you last looked? You know you haven't gone to the store, and you're reasonably sure the elves haven't restocked while your back was turned, but... yeah, just one more time. Maybe your tastebuds have changed.

If I'm developing an obsessive-compulsive Word word-count disorder, I have at least discovered that I'm capable of editing and adding to the word count. It's slow going, but for every passage I've deleted, I've added more detail or explanation. It's a painful method that's partially satisfying my need to keep things moving and my need to satisfy and silence the dastardly internal editor/critic. (I'm thinking of making my internal editor/critic a character in my novel, then torturing her for several days before finishing her off with a grisly death scene inappropriate for readers under 17.))

* * *

7244 words and holding...

William was sick yesterday. Novel-writing is inconsequential when you're a Mom, worrying about a sick child. Katie had violin and drum lessons last night; she and I stopped at Starbucks on the way home, and by the time we got done I had no energy or inclination to write. I don't even feel bad about that. The good news is, William is fine today and the doctor gave us the green light to send him back to school! (He's at that age where staying HOME from school is a drag, instead of the other way around, so he's thrilled to be back with his friends!)

So, today's question: Can a frazzled, disorganized, very relieved tech-writer, wife, and mother write 4425 words before collapsing tonight of utter exhaustion? AND clean the house before her uncle comes to visit on Monday?

Did I mention that my husband has offered me a challenge? He says he can get in 5000 games of Freecell on his computer before I can write 50,000 words of my novel. He's up to 200 and something (he didn't tell me how quickly he can play a game of Freecell), but yesterday he bought a new joystick for his computer and it's slowed him down considerably. He and William have been playing Flight Simulator and neglecting the Freecell, so I can reasonably expect to stay ahead of the game for now. Have you ever watched a 5-year-old perform a successful take-off? That was wild...

J.J. has also offered to pay me a penny a word by way of encouragement and monetary incentive, which comes out equivalent to the cost of a cheap paperback at the grocery store - not a bad deal for a 30-day novel that, by definition, is likely to be embarassingly awful and unpublishable. I like to look at it as him buying the first copy of my book. Right now, he owes me 74 cents - about equal to a can of Coke. I think it's a good idea that after almost 18 years of marriage we don't nickle and dime each other to death, don't you?

November 8, 2001

Another NaNoWriMo novelist wannabe (who shall remain nameless only because in the depths of my little black heart, I really do sympathize, wrote, "i've only written about 425 words... has anyone written less??? i thought i'd have more time to write, but i dont.. ahhhhh... what can i do to make time to write?? any ideas???"

No. None at all. Not one single idea. Except maybe, "Apply butt to chair. Start typing." Or, as Tom Clancy said to me years ago, "Just write the damned book."

Geez, we writers have more excuses than the beach has grains of sand, don't we? (Hey, some of mine - at least lately - have even been pretty good.) But let's face it, books don't get written by excuses. Editors get bored with excuses. Publishers cancel contracts if you can't make deadlines. So my motto this week is "no whining."

That's as bad as making New Year's Resolutions. Can I amend that to be next week's motto?

If anyone sees my internal critic/editor wandering around, mumbling to herself, carrying a very deadly razor-nibbed fountain pen loaded with blood-red ink... there's a contract out on her. (And a padded cell for anyone who actually SEES her, of course. You can see your own, but you can't see MINE.)

8021 words. I may manage another 20 before I bore myself to sleep. I am not amused...

November 9, 2001

If I pound away hard enough and long enough at my keyboard, I will eventually turn out the collected works of an infinite number of monkeys...

November 22, 2001

Notice the huge gap here between entries? Oooh, someone must've suddenly been hit with the "failure-is-not-an-option!" bug...

Ack! Halfway through the month, the founders of NaNoWriMo have changed the rules - looks like there will be no "official wordcount verification" (understandable, given the response to this year's novel-writing marathon event, but disappointing to those who'd like the NaNoSeal of Approval, no doubt). We're all on our honor to report our word count and declare ourselves "winners"!

Personally, I couldn't give a rat's patoot - but that's because I'm stubborn and because I know that even with "official" verification, I could be bested by someone who wrote 25,000 words, selected the whole blasted thing, hit CTRL+C and CTRL+V and presto! 50,000 words. So it's always been a matter of personal satisfaction and honor.

On the other hand, it irks me to see the rules changed halfway through the game - kind of like the time I did the March of Dimes Walk-a-Thon, and it snowed. The morning we started the walk, it was chilly - maybe 60 degrees - and I was dressed in jeans, thick socks, tennis shoes, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt. I carried a lightweight backpack with a different pair of shoes, and hoped to be carrying the sweatshirt if the day got warmer.

Instead, less than 5 miles into the walk, it started to rain. By 7 miles, it was snowing. By 10 or 12 miles, it was snowing HARD, and another walker - a teenaged boy - and I huddled together in doorways of downtown Akron businesses for warmth. We couldn't see anyone walking ahead of us or behind us, and assumed that most had given up. We were tempted to give up, but neither of us were quitters and I guess we were full of adrenaline. One thing was certain, though - we had to get warm and dry, and I had to get a change of clothes, or we were going to die.

We looked down the side street; the only business that appeared to be open was the Chat Noir Lounge. We shuddered at the neon sign and decided that was no place for us - especially as it was about a block off the main route and no one was likely to find us there if we ran into trouble. Our only other choice was the no-tell motel nearby. The clerk was gay and openly so; he was also quite gracious about letting two sopping wet, half-frozen kids use the phone and sit in the lobby, dripping onto the vinyl chairs and linoleum floor.

We waited while my parents brought me a change of clothes; I dressed in the back seat of their car. My legs were blue from the dye on my jeans; the jeans had frozen stiff and stuck to my legs, cracking at the knees each time I bent them. My parents explained that the March of Dimes was giving the full 20 miles' credit to anyone who managed to make it to the 15 mile mark, in view of the horrible weather and hardship involved in making it that far.

The young man with me - I don't know that we ever exchanged names - and I decided that wouldn't be quite fair. My parents agreed, though they'd have preferred to take me home right then and there, and to heck with claiming 15 miles, let alone 20. So we trudged onward, though knee deep snow. We checked in at the 15 mile mark, and kept trudging. At 18 miles, the sun came out. I stopped at Wendy's for a burger; the young man went on, knowing that if he stopped again, his legs would quit working. I hurried to catch up, after wolfing down a double with cheese.

We both made it, and claimed our 20 miles. I saw him briefly, at the mall; we grinned at each other and hugged, as if we'd survived a war. I never saw him again. I was especially proud to collect on my pledges that year, knowing I'd really EARNED every penny. I was 12 years old at the time.

Guess I still have that stubborn streak. I just broke 23K. 23,874 words, to be exact, and still plugging away, determined to hit the halfway point before I sleep!

Ah, yes... for those of you who thought turning the true story of the walkathon into fictional word count for the novel was a good idea, I'll give you one more excerpt:

* * *

It's true. Dream sequence's are a desperate writer's best friend (or worst nightmare). Great for long, rambling passages of meaningless drivel that may or may not reveal strange things about the inner workings of the tortured artist's mind... (let's not go there, shall we?)

*** EXCERPT from the crappy novel ***

In his dream, he was running. Only it felt like swimming. His arms flailed in the mist, legs cycling and kicking against air as thick as barley stew. It was foggy, and the street lights looked like eerie yellow spaceships, suspended just slightly overhead. He had no idea where he was, but he kept moving in one direction as if he did. He wasn’t afraid, but he kept seeing faceless people in the shadows. They didn’t know him or pay any particular attention to him, but he searched their featureless heads for something vaguely familiar. He opened his hands and found that he was carrying a pair of eyes – bright, green, intelligent, and very alert. Strangely, this did not surprise him. He stared at the eyes, thinking that they somehow might speak to him. They stared back, unblinking, for they had no lids. Slowly the skin on the palm of his hand split open, the cut edges of skin curling apart and forming something like a mouth. Andy thought that it would sting; he was amazed to find that it did not hurt at all.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am you," the mouth answered. "I thought surely you would know me."

"Ahhhh," Andy answered. Everything made sense, now, of course. Everything was crystal clear. He put the eyes in his pocket and patted it, reassuring himself that they were safely tucked away. He swam on, under the orbs of yellow light.

* * *

A novel in 30 days? Heh... dream on.

31,126 words and still ticking...

November 29, 2001

43,007. Only 7000 more words to go. Sounds easy, right?

Would be, too, if I didn't have a job. In today's world, I'd rather keep the job than finish the novel, so I'll be writing those 7000 words on my lunch hour (maybe) and between 7:30 and midnight tomorrow night. I'm tired just thinking about it, but I figure the adrenaline rush will kick in around 9 PM tomorrow, and I'll overshoot the mark by at least 500 words!

Hey, all I need is one more superfluous sex scene and a couple of bizarre and twisted dream sequences. Or is that superfluous dream sequences, and a couple of bizarre and twisted sex scenes?

Read Monty (11/26/2001), starting with Monday and on through Thursday of this week. I think we have a mole in NaNoWriMo.

December 1, 2001

I think I hurt myself!

First, to Chris and deannajjones and others: it's a cruel thing to challenge a prideful, perfectionistic, professional, deadline-driven writer with an unreasonable goal and make it sound like a heroic feat worthy of... anything. I wonder if a hamster has ever DIED on the wheel?

Second, I now have to keep telling myself "It's okay. Nobody EVER has to see it. No one said anything about HAVING to edit it, or even having to look at it again. It's FINISHED. Get it? FINISHED." Somebody tell me to write a GOOD novel in, oh, 12 months - okay?

Third, I'm actually sick of coffee. At midnight, my neck whispered, "Remember those two collapsed discs? They've decided they're jealous and want a part in the novel." They started dictating dialogue. Thank God it was almost over by then.

Fourth, don't start on the "Stupid Word Tricks." It never would have occurred to me to try using Word's Autosummarize feature on the damned thing if y'all hadn't started that. I laughed so hard I snorted hot coffee up my nose! Normally, I wouldn't mind so much, but as I said earlier, I'm sick of coffee. Now my nose is mad at me, too. It's joined forces with my neck, and the muscles in my arms have started spasming, trying to get my shoulders up to where they can whisper in my ears, so I suspect they're all in on it now, too.

Fifth, I woke up this morning and looked around the house with bleary eyes. Good God!! How did it get to be such a mess in just two weeks? Was I that out of it? Chris, next year's Grand Prize ought to be a six-month certificate for "Molly Maids" (or similar local outfit of the winner's choice). Reward? I'm about to reap the punishment for my folly...

It's been a blast. I have a special admiration for the following participants (who stuck with it all month whether they made goal or not): the Polar Bears Fifth Grade class, anyone under 16, anyone whose college major didn't involve English, Literature, Creative Writing, Rhetoric, etc., anyone whose novel is in English but whose native language isn't, anyone who
tried this while juggling school and/or full-time employment, and anyone who had to accommodate family demands during November.

I think I need a shower, a handful of Advil, and an afternoon of housecleaning (mainly to figure out where on earth I put my sanity this past month!).

Congratulations - everyone!

I quit at 50,869 and will NOT be taking this piece of @#$% into "NaNoEdMo" come December!

I Did Not Start Writing at Midnight!

2005-11-01T08:43:00.000-06:00

Severe thunderstorms rolled through our neighborhood late yesterday afternoon, threatening to ruin Halloween for the little ghouls and goblins who'd been so looking forward to dressing up like normal children and politely requesting candy from loved oneSevere thunderstorms rolled through our neighborhood late yesterday afternoon, threatening to ruin Halloween for the little ghouls and goblins who'd been so looking forward to dressing up like normal children and politely requesting candy from loved ones and trusted friends.

Fortunately for my son, he'd already attended a Halloween party at daycare. We went home, turned out the lights, and had him go from bedroom door to door to play trick-or-treat. It just wasn't the same. If he'd been four, it might've been a passable substitute, but at nine, it's just a gesture of love. At least he understood that, and consoled himself with the fact that he could claim half ownership of a large Costco bag full of assorted, fun-sized chocolate bars.

My daughter was having a rough time of it. Halloween is one of her favorite holidays, but it has some sad memories associated with it, too. She'd planned "all year" (she says) to go to a haunted house, but her current boyfriend had to work. He'd forgotten to ask for the night off. I wasn't too thrilled with the idea of her going alone, but I wasn't too jazzed at the prospect of going with her, either. Not my cup of tea. And we got into one of our pointless, silly shouting matches over something else, at which point I said "Why, exactly, would I want to go anywhere, or do anything with you? You're just hateful." Well, that stung. She got less hateful and I can't stand to see her sad. So I agreed, and she set out to dress me up properly for the "occasion." I looked like a middle-aged, overweight, 1980s version of Madonna (with a whole lot less skin showing). I still have glitter in my eyebrows. She got into her costume, and off we went. In the rain. To Houston's Phobia.

My daughter wanted to go to The Asylum. I didn't care which of the four attractions we went to, so long as it wasn't the one in the woods (too muddy!) or the one with the evil clowns (causes flashbacks to a recurring childhood nightmare, and I'm not sure whether I'm relieved or more creeped out by the fact that so many people – including Stephen King – seem to share it). We had trouble finding the place, and when we did, the dirt parking lot was flooded and full of squishy mud. I wondered if they'd be able to get a tow truck back there if we got stuck.

One nice thing about the crappy weather: the lines were blessedly short. We heard hideous shrieks and bodies thudded against the walls near where we stood. K. gave me a stricken look and grabbed my arm, practically yanking it out of its socket. "I'm not going in there. I am so turning around and going home!"

"Gee, and here I was, counting on you to protect me." My child is three inches taller than I am, at 6'2". Cringing like a little girl doesn't suit her. I just rolled my eyes and laughed. Pretty soon, we were gently shoved through the darkened door, into The Asylum.

And immediately assaulted by a maniac who climbed the walls and hung, leering and drooling, over our heads. I grabbed K's hand and dragged her under the guy, praying he could hang on long enough he wouldn't fall on us.

Ah, clearly the inmates were running The Asylum. There were token nods to various horror movies, but for the most part, it was a menagerie of grinning, bloodied, scarified freaks jumping out at us from every side, swinging upside down from above us, and skittering crab-like across the floor around our feet. They can't touch you, and you can't touch them. That was the admonition upon entering, and the mantra my brain began to chant. Actually, they looked like they were having a lot of fun with this, and I might've stopped to chat – "I see you're off your meds again, dear," or "You really have to want to change, if you're to get well, but I do believe you enjoy running with butcher knifes…" – if I hadn't been a teensy bit worried about dragging my terrified daughter out of there with her mind in one piece. I did stare back and yell at one or two of them, just to see if they'd flinch. They probably get that a lot.

Meanwhile, K. has yanked off both my arms, making it difficult to steer her through the maze. The bloody stumps are starting to hurt, and I'm getting a little testy. At one point, she threw me up against the wall. Now I'm starting to suspect where those noises were coming from, earlier. I'd grab a lunatic and throw him at her, but that's kind of hard to do with bones sticking out of my shoulders. The blood is starting to pool at my feet.

I grab my arms back from my ashen-faced child (child? for the love of God, she's seventeen!), and with the help of the wild-eyed patient she's been beating black and blue with them, manage to reattach them to my shoulders. (It wasn't until later, at home, I realized they'd been attached backwards – no wonder driving home was such a challenge! – and had to get my husband to switch them 'round so I could type this.)

At the exit, I felt a moment of blessed normalcy – just a moment – as I breathed in the cool night air and looked out into the gloomy woods. And that was when we heard the yank of a starter and the roar of a chainsaw…

Okay, at that point, I turned around on the ball of my foot, grabbed K. by the arm, and said "I'm outta here!" only to be confronted by a second guy with a chainsaw, blocking our exit. "Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!" I muttered under my breath (with apologies to Diana Gabaldon). The smell of gasoline hit my brain. "Shit, those things are real!" It was my turn to yank K.'s arm out of its socket as I dragged her through the real exit doors to safety.

"Were you scared, Mom?"

"Yeah, right," I answered, trying to sound cool and slightly sarcastic. "Were you?"

"Uh, no. Yeah. I mean, not really scared scared. It was fun. Thanks for going with me."

The bloody stumps where my arms were reattached miraculously healed upon hearing those words.

By the time we got home, it had stopped raining. I took my son out for some real trick-or-treating. He dressed up as the Grim Reaper, but the mask was hot so he kept taking it off and holding it up in one hand. "To be, or not to be…"

"I think that's 'Alas, poor Yorick…'" I laughed.

It turned out to be a fun and memorable Halloween, after all. We went home to tally up the candy haul as ghostly clouds raced across the sky, bringing a cold front that would make this morning feel like fall, finally.

NaNoResolutions Progress

Sleep, check. Like a log, deep and dreamless. I guess a trip to The Asylum didn't bother me on a deeply subconscious level. I did not spend the night running from chainsaw-wielding maniacs.
Breakfast, check. Scrambled eggs and coffee.
Multivitamin,check.
High-potency B-complex supplement, check.
Inositol, check.
Water, yeah…8 ozs. so far, plus two cups of coffee. Okay, fine, I'm going for a refill. Blech.
Exercise, hmmm. Does getting your arms ripped off while dragging your teen through Phobia count as a cardio workout?

Updated (after lunch):

Water, check. At least 48 ozs. so far today. Just kept slurping it down over lunch and letting the waiter refill it.
Lunch, too much of it. Went to the new Lupe Tortilla's with Sherri and Martha. Ordered Chicken "Lupe" - very tasty, but too filling, even at a half portion. Indulged in far too many chips, charro beans, and spicy salsa. Really need to quit doing that.

Updated (11:49 PM):
Time to sleep…

Water, check. Water, water everywhere. If I can sleep without waking every hour to get rid of it, it'll be a miracle.
Dinner, check – chicken, spinach, and cheese pasta with salad. Scratch that, I didn't eat the salad. Need to up the veggie intake, but that's what vitamins are for, right? Okay, wrong. Had plenty of tomatoes in the salsa at lunch, anyway.
Sleep, soon – on my way, in fact.
Word count, great! 2390-something, and I'd keep going, but I've started putting myself to sleep. Whether that means I've had a long day or I'm just writing a really boring novel, only time will tell.

Writing Progress: Current NaNoWriMo Word Count

Y'know, I've been known to write emails longer than 1667 words, so I really have no excuses for falling behind. I know that, but I have a frightful tendency to procrastinate. I thrive on deadline pressure. I sometimes wish that weren't true, but it is a handy skill to have when you need to pull rabbits out of hats at the eleventh hour.

I still have no plot (no problem!) and no characters have reared their ugly heads and deigned to play on my empty stage. That's fine, though – as I've said before, too much preplanning tends to kill the joy; the outline and note cards end up being trashed by Day 3. Seems a waste of time and effort, and it can be very discouraging.

So. It's time to go to work. Not on the novel, mind you. Just…to work. I'll write more, later. Bet your sweet bippy I will!

(This post, by the way, is just over 1400 words. Too bad I can't count it towards today's total, isn't it?)

Updated (11:54 PM):

Over 2390 words!! Yay, me!

Okay, forget that 2380 words.

It's a nice feeling, ending the day ahead of schedule and ahead on the word count. But it doesn't mean much, yet. Another 2000 tomorrow, and the day after that, and it will start to mean something. Maybe.

The good news is, I have a story. I have characters. And now and then, my characters yank me around and make me tell things their way – thus explaining the POV shifts and the sudden jump from third to first person. It's all good. And it doesn't completely suck.

Countdown Begins...

2005-10-31T14:52:00.000-06:00

Day 1: One Day Before NaNoWriMo Begins

After lunch at Del Pueblo - crispy tortilla chips; fresh, spicy salsa; pork fajitas and chicken tortilla soup - which I jokingly think of now as "the condemned's last meal," I ran over to GNC and picked out some a good multivitamin for women, a high-potency B-complex supplement, and brain food. I knew that choline and inositol were supposed to be good for your brain, for forming and improving memories, but I didn't know that inositol was supposed to be good for reducing stress. The store manager said it would take about three weeks to see the full effect and know if it was significant, so I bought just enough to try it and share with my daughter. I've taken one dose of each; the inositol I mixed with calcium-rich 2% milk. I'm not sure what's had a more relaxing and invigorating effect: my new "healthy" resolve, the vitamins, or the quick shower I took after lunch, before getting back to work.

Water. How easy it is to forget that. Hold on a second, while I run downstairs to pour another glass. 32 ounces so far, today. Cheers. Salut! Ick. I am so used to drinking coffee to perk me up in the afternoons. Something warm and flavorful, anyway. I remember this, too, from Weight Watchers. Supposedly, we lose our natural thirst when we don't quench it regularly. It comes back. I remember. I mean, I know it does come back, but I'm not there yet. I try to imagine it filling parched cells, flushing out toxins, reviving my Piscean soul - but I'm not nature-girl. Maybe a wedge of lemon would help me gag it down. The good news is, I've lost over a pound of water weight since yesterday - and that's weighing in after pigging out! (The bad news is, I ate so much salt over the last week, that yesterday I looked about nine months pregnant. What's up with that? I'm kind of back to normal, now.)

I didn't eat breakfast this morning. I blogged about doing it, instead. What? That doesn't count? Okay, okay. Tomorrow, says Scarlett, is another day. I went up (and down) one flight of stairs. Once. Okay, but the day's still young and if it doesn't rain, I'm taking my son for a long walk through the neighborhood, trick-or-treating. That's exercise, right? My daughter wants me to go with her to a haunted house - if I do that, I'm claiming it as my cardio workout! Anyone know how many calories are burned by typing?

I am planning to sleep tonight. Let everyone else start writing at midnight - I still need to dream up a story!

NaNoResolutions

2005-10-31T08:05:00.000-06:00

Forget New Year's Resolutions. I've only made one I've stuck with: Never make another stupid New Year's Resolution. But I think November calls for one.

Write Healthy. NaDruWriNi is a fun parody of NaNoWriMo, and I can get into the spirit of it, but alcohol just makes me sleepy. I don't write wild and crazy stuff after having a drink or three, I crash. Same goes for too much sugar, too much sodium nitrate, or too much food - period.

I've never bought into the idea that drugs enhance creativity, either. I've known people who smoked pot or got drunk, and they were mostly legends in their own minds, until the high wore off. Most of them didn't even have the good grace to be embarassed, later; apparently, there's a reason why people forget what they did the night before.

So while I'm not going to pass judgement on those who choose that path, I know it doesn't work for me. And if I'm going to get through 50,000 words in thirty days - while working full time and caring for a family of five - I'm going to do it healthy. (Why, oh why, does NaNoWriMo coincide with the end of hurricane season and the beginning of flu season?)

Hydrate your brain. Here's a good starting place: Water: Do Writers Need It? by Milli Thornton. Clearly, I drink too much coffee and too little water. I'm going to go buy a big sports bottle of water and keep it at hand - filled up and chilled - throughout November.

Never skip breakfast. I learned this one from Weight Watchers. Paradoxically, if you want to lose weight, don't skip meals. Skipping breakfast is a great way to train your body to store fat and a good way to screw up your sugar levels in the morning.

Take a good vitamin/mineral supplement. Sure, we should be getting all we need from the food we eat, but that's assuming we're all getting plenty of fresh fruits and veggies, and not loading up on fast food and pre-packaged convenience meals we can throw in the microwave after a long day at work.

Exercise. It's great for revving up the metabolism, getting trim, and staying in shape, but it's also terrific for releasing all those lovely endorphins that make us feel relaxed, de-stressed, and happy.

Sleep. How could I have omitted this crucial element the first time I posted this entry? Sleep-deprivation is a nasty, evil thing. (Oh, I know, some writers swear by it. Claim it gives them visions. Claim their characters only talk to them when they've had two hours' sleep in the last forty-eight. I'll bet.) Sleep deprivation slows our reaction time and makes most of us miserable and cranky. I don't write well when I'm miserable and cranky. I write miserable and cranky prose; I might even churn out a morbid sonnet. But it's not good and I'm not happy or fun to be with when I'm doing that. Eight hours is an unreasonable goal during NaNoWriMo, but I'm going to aim for at least six or seven, every night.

Quit smoking. Yeah, yeah - I know. I only mention it here so my friends won't be tempted to bitch about it in the comments section. Not during NaNo, okay? That's asking too much. But cut down? Yep, already doing that.

Any more suggestions? Keep 'em simple (it's hard enough turning over a new leaf - I don't have time for complicated regimens right now) and share them in your comments.

Happy Halloween!

2005-10-31T06:07:00.000-06:00

Anyone else getting an intimidating blank, white page instead of the NaNoWriMo forums? Seems to be some sort of problem with "session confirm" - I guess those Aussies and New Zealanders are burning up the bandwidth as they kick off November 1 just a tad bit early...

That's okay, they have to finish their novels a day earlier than the rest of us, too.

It's great having kids. For one thing, I get to go trick or treating, and nobody gives me dirty looks. Here's hoping it doesn't rain tonight. Last night, they were giving it a 50/50 chance. I don't even remember the last time it rained on Halloween, so I guess we're about due. And this is why it's a good idea to buy candy you like to give away - just in case no one comes and you end up passing out your own treats, to yourself!

Here's a Halloween treat for you:

When I was 12, I discovered the thrilling, chilling, guilty pleasure of CBS Radio Mystery Theater, hosted by E.G. Marshall. It was probably the last real dramatic radio series ever aired. CBSRMT came on after I was supposed to be in bed. I would turn on the radio, as low as possible. As I listened secretly, in the dark, from the opening with its creaky door and E.G. Marshall's somber "Come in, welcome…" I could feel the goosebumps rise on my arms, and the small hairs at the base of my skull would prickle and stand on end. It was through CBS Radio Mystery Theater that I discovered some of my favorite authors, including Edgar Allan Poe and Guy de Maupassant. It was here that I learned just how versatile an actor Fred Gwynne really was; if not for CBS Radio Mystery Theater, I might never have known him as anything but Herman Munster. Click this link to listen to a few episodes of CBS Radio Mystery Theater on your computer.

Apologies

2005-10-30T01:33:00.000-06:00

To the poor fools who stumbled onto my blog while performing the following searches:

erotica
girls plugged into latex

I'm sorry. I'm laughin' my ass off, but I'm sorry. I don't think you meant to end up here, did you? (That second one took me a while to figure out - I wasn't even sure how you ended up here, but I guess my little article on copyright essentials was kinkier than I meant for it to be!)

And We're Off!

2005-10-28T23:45:00.000-05:00

MLs ChuckyBones, Pyro, and the Houston NaNoNovelists have officially marked the beginning of novel-writing season with the Houston NaNoWriMo Kick-Off Party tonight at Central Market. It was good to see so many enthusiastic, energetic, interesting - albeit slightly crazy - writers show up in support of the event and their fellow writers.

Houston Municipal Liason, "ChuckyBones"

We got the low-down on the Houston/Austin Challenge and the regional newsletter edited by Vilate. After that, we were encouraged to get to know some of our fellow writers by introducing ourselves and playing "Guess My Genre." Given that I haven't got a clue what I'm going to write, starting November 1, I posed a special challenge. We decided George's novel sounded like "sports erotica" (and don't we all wish we could invent a whole new genre that promises to be so lucrative - just in time for next year's World Series?) Okay, okay, not really - more like "literary mainstream" with a sports flavor - but we all liked the idea so much we agreed to collaborate on a sports erotica anthology come December.

Houston Municipal Liason, "Pyro" with First-Time NaNoNovelist, George Slaughter

Newbie Initiation Rites included having first-time novelists and anyone who hadn't yet come up with a title for their NaNoNovels write and recite a limerick. George exercised a little "creative freedom" in his interpretation of the word limerick, but gets extra points for turning it into an ode to his NaNo buddy: me!

I'm a NaNo rookie
And that's really neat
I'm committed to this project
From my head down to my feet
If I don't finish my book
Yes, that would really suck
But Holly here encourages me
To write about folks that fornicate

Newbie Initiation Rites Include Beatings with Giant Pixie Stix
George Slaughter Being "Encouraged" by Me to Recite Poem

An Off-Shoot of the NaNoWriMo Phenomenon

2005-10-27T13:50:00.000-05:00

Conveniently situated on a Saturday night at the end of the first week of NaNoWriMo...

Writers - Beware the Kitchen!

2005-10-27T06:58:00.000-05:00

A couple of days ago, I started getting bruise-like pain and cramping in the muscles on the outer edge of my hand. I can feel the tight knot of a muscle spasm, but it also feels like I whacked my hand repeatedly against a brick wall.

Last night, I slept with my hands wrapped around a heating pad. Helped some, but not enough. What could have caused this? The thought of some repetitive stress injury or monster case of writer's cramp horrified me. I recently got a new laptop PC at work. Could that be it? My hands aren't used to using the little pointing device and touch-pad, and that does cause mild discomfort, so I use a regular keyboard and mouse when I can. But surely that isn't enough to cause this much pain! And I'm not the sort of person to go smacking innocent brick walls with my bare hands.

I have arthritis in my neck. But this would be a new symptom - alarming. Surely a pinched nerve in my neck isn't causing muscle cramps and bruising in my hand! Okay - search Google. (I know, most normal people would just call a doctor. But what to tell the doctor, eh? "I woke up with swelling and cramping in my hand... no, no, I haven't been punching brick walls.")

Start with "structure of the hand." What the hell is that muscle called, anyway? Hypothenar... pinky-finger side of the hand. Close enough. Search "hypothenar" and...what? Keep it simple. "hypothenar" and "cramp" - definitely a cramp. And up come a bunch of articles on something called "hypothenar hammer syndrome." (Never heard of it. Great. Another "syndrome.") Sure enough, most of these links also mention "writer's cramp." Not good. I don't want this to interfere with my writing. I know I'm the poster-child for bad ergonomics, but so far I've avoided any serious repetitive-motion disorders, like carpal tunnel syndrome. I'd like to keep it that way.

I read up on this "hypothenar hammer syndrome." What the heck? Looks like something you could get from repeatedly smacking a brick wall with your hand. "Pounding, grinding motions with the palm of the hand." I think back. Did I smack a wall?? I'd know, wouldn't I?

Aha! The light dawns. Three days ago, I used the handy-dandy vegetable chopper to chop onions, cilantro, lemons, and celery to make dinner. Very cathartic. Bam! Bam! Bam! Yep - pounded the hell out of it with exactly that part of my hand. I'd forgotten all about that. (Dinner was good, by the way, but not good enough to warrant all this discomfort.) It's amazing what knowing the logical root cause will do in alleviating pain. I mean, it still hurts something awful, but now I'm thinking the damage isn't likely permanent - one small culinary fit is more likely to result in bruising than in a "syndrome" - it'll heal, and avoiding it in the future is as easy as chopping veggies with a good, old-fashioned knife.

I'm off to apply some ice. Here's hoping I don't lop off a finger next time I cook. Cheers!

OSH Answers: Hypothenar Hammer Syndrome

Just a Little Peace and Quiet

2005-10-25T16:22:00.000-05:00

“Dammit! I don’t have anything to wear!” A pair of hand-tinted Christina Velati jeans flew over the railing and hit the floor in a crumpled heap. Angie yanked open her dresser drawer and threw it on the floor.

Charlotte cringed at the drawer’s high-pitched, grating squeal of protest—just before the loud thump overhead shook the ceiling light fixtures. “Angie, just find something to put on and let’s go! You’ll be late for school!”

“I don’t care. I’m not going. I have nothing to wear.” Angie stood in the doorway wearing nothing but a flimsy, nylon kimono to which she’d helped herself from her mother’s closet. The sullen teen threw herself melodramatically across Charlotte’s bed and sighed.

“You are going. Now get dressed. You have a closet full of clean clothes; go find some and put them on. Now. You have five minutes.” Charlotte bit her lower lip hard to rein in her temper. This little scene was merely another encore in a year-long run of bad performances by her daughter. Charlotte massaged the back of her neck and pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Christ,” she muttered, half curse, half prayer.

“Fine. Why don’t I just go in this?” Angie stood in front of her mother, feet planted defiantly apart, hands on her hips, and let the kimono fall open to reveal last summer’s barely-faded tan lines.

“Why don’t you, Ange?” Charlotte shrugged and grabbed her car keys. Angie would not have the satisfaction of shocking her mother or hearing one smidgeon of outrage or indignation in her voice. “If that’s the look you want to be remembered for in the yearbook, let’s go.”

“God, you are such a bitch. Mother.” Angie practically spat the word “mother” and added to it under her breath. She snatched up the discarded jeans and tugged them on, hopping first on one foot, then the other, as she struggled to pull them over her hips. Charlotte noticed that her daughter hadn’t bothered with underwear, but she said nothing. She just closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten. When she opened them again, Angie was dressed. The girl’s eyes were like smoldering coals burning into her mother’s heart, searing her at the very core of her being. This child she had loved so completely, so unconditionally, so fiercely from birth now seemed, more often than not, her bitterest enemy. Charlotte craved a respite from the neverending war their relationship had become. She felt sure that Angie craved it just as desperately, but neither of them knew how to bring about a truce.

The two of them rode in silence to the high school. Angie got out of the car as quickly as she could, slamming the door hard on her way out, just for good measure. Charlotte burned rubber in the school parking lot; it had been hard to hold the anger in check, and she felt an immature need to make a statement.

Angie looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes, then linked arms with a lanky, sloe-eyed boy and headed to class. “She’s insane,” the girl confided in her friend.

~=*=~

Charlotte had an idea. It seemed a brilliant idea, but she knew that she could never share it with another living soul. She drove to the hardware store, smiling to herself as she tuned the car radio to the Oldies station and started to hum along with the Beach Boys.

~=*=~

After several productive hours spent in the dim light of the old cellar, Charlotte emerged in the kitchen covered in sweat and light gray powder. She had never imagined she had any talent for remodeling, beyond choosing trendy wallpapers and countertops for others to install. She definitely had a talent for spending Peter’s money, but for the first time in her life, she had built something substantial with her own two hands. Thinking back on the transformation she’d wrought in the cellar, Charlotte grinned with pride. She would have to finish the job later, of course, but the hardest part was done.

The thought of ending a life brought her nothing but a sense of peace.

~=*=~

“Hi, honey, I’m home!” Peter’s voice carried up the stairs, clear as a bell. “Charlotte? Angie?”

“Up here,” called Charlotte, straightening up from what felt like a permanent crouch after spending the last thirty minutes cleaning junk out of the hall closet. Charlotte massaged her lower back, kneading tension knots with her fingers as she flexed her spine. Aches and pains in muscles and joints Charlotte didn’t know existed were the fruits of her day’s labor.

Peter met her at the top of the stairs and gave her a perfunctory little peck on the lips. “I invited Joe Johnson and his wife over for dinner tomorrow night – you don’t mind, do you, Char?” Peter surveyed the mess on the landing - the unsorted odds and ends that spilled out of the closet and defied explanation as to how they fit in there in the first place.

“Oh, no, of course not,” snapped Charlotte sarcastically. She was hot, sweaty, and aggravated. The thought of entertaining the Johnsons tomorrow night on short notice was just icing on the cake. “Shall I cook a standing rib? Whip up a little crème brulée?”

“We could do burgers on the grill...”

“Oh, that’s sure to impress your boss, Peter.”

“I’ll call and postpone.” Disappointment was evident in his tone. “I’ll tell them Angie’s sick, or something. Where is Angie, anyway?”

“I don’t know, Peter. Out. Wherever it is teenage girls go to defy their embarrassingly horrid mothers.”

“Isn’t it a little late for her to be out?” asked Peter. He was concerned for his daughter’s safety, but something in Charlotte’s voice set off alarms in the back of his mind.

Charlotte gave Peter a look guaranteed to wilt lettuce. Imitating her daughter’s all-too-familiar, scornful expression, she rolled her eyes and said, “Duhhhh.”

“I’ll go look for her.”

“You do that.”

Peter frowned, started to say something, then shut his mouth quickly as he thought better of it. He hurried downstairs, grabbed his keys, and went to comb the neighborhood for Angie.

~=*=~

Charlotte stepped back and gave a small nod of satisfaction, pleased with the work she had done. The stones fit together perfectly. The mortar was smooth and even; it dried quickly, and the wall was good and solid.

It would take Peter a while to find the body; by then, Charlotte would be long gone. Charlotte smiled.

~=*=~

One by one, Charlotte lit the fat candles she had brought with her. Their soft radiance cast dancing tongues of light and shadows upon the walls. The silence was so complete that Charlotte could hear the sputtering of the wax as it was sucked up the wick and drawn into the flame.

Charlotte opened a bottle of Satterfield Chardonnay. It was the bottle Peter had given her for Mother’s Day. Feeling decadent, she swigged it straight from the bottle. There was no one around to care, or to be grossed out about the backwash. She cracked open the new Sharalyn Feltzer novel she’d been saving for—for what? Six months? Waiting for a quiet afternoon, when she could read for a few hours, uninterrupted?

Ahhh, thought Charlotte. This was better than a hot bubble bath. She stretched and turned, cradling the book comfortably on her forearm, losing herself in the story. There was no one to disturb her, now. Charlotte read until her eyelids grew heavy. Her arms felt like they were made of lead, and she let sleep overtake her. The book fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Charlotte, who had never known an uneventful night’s sleep, slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion. A smile curled the corners of her lips. One by one, the candles hissed and died for lack of the oxygen needed to burn. Charlotte could not hear the voices on the other side; she could not hear the soft, fleshy fists pounding on the unyielding stone fortress that she had built around herself. She could not hear her daughter, who had been hanging out and smoking pot with friends – could not hear her apologize. Charlotte could not hear Peter’s desperate attempts to smash through solid rock and well-made mortar. She would have told them, if she could, that her walls were built to last.

If you enjoyed this short story, check out the other nine in Dealing with the Demon…and Nine Other Stories.

NaNoWriMo Interview

2005-10-20T00:28:00.000-05:00

My answers to Aleiav's questions.

1. Why did you decide to do NaNoWriMo?

It sounded like a challenge. I love a challenge.

2. Have you done it in the past?

This will be my fifth year. The first three years, I swore "never again!" Now, I can't imagine doing November without doing NaNoWriMo.

3. If you have can you share an experience you might find useful to this years' participants?

Don't take yourself or your writing too seriously during NaNoWriMo. That's an open invitation to the inner critic, and a sure-fire way to fall short of the 50,000-word goal. If it's not fun, you're doing it wrong.

Don't put yourself down and don't give up. You are allowed to write a miserable first draft. In fact, if you're a perfectionist, I highly recommend it. It's very liberating; resisting the urge to edit can be a challenge in itself. Just declare December (or January) "NaNoEdMo." You can let the inner critic back in when you're ready to revise and polish the book. I usually need at least a month before I'm ready to look at the book again, let alone edit it.

4. If you could tell people about NaNoWriMo in one sentence, what would you say?

NaNoWriMo is a crazy writing marathon in which the goal is to write a complete 50,000-word novel in thirty days, and the only prize for "winning" is the self-satisfaction and pride that comes from saying "By golly, I can write a novel - I did it!"

5. Do you encourage others to participate and why?

Oh, absolutely. It gets the creative juices flowing, makes you feel a part of this wacky and wonderful community of people who are determined to try - and not afraid to fail - at writing a novel in thirty days, teaches you something about yourself and what works (or doesn't work) for you as a writer, and gives you some clues as to whether you're at all disciplined and deadline oriented. Other than sleep, what have you got to lose?

Trust me, your friends will not make fun of you if you don't win. They may think you're crazy for doing NaNoWriMo in the first place, but they'll admire you just for trying.

6. Are you hoping to get published and if so, how?

That would be nice, of course, but it isn't the primary motivation. I've been published, so the novelty's worn off but it's always nice to see your work in print.

7. Give a two or three sentence summary of your proposed book and it's title.

Can't do that until mid-November. Judging from my relative successes and failures over the last four years, I've decided I'm better off flying by the seat of my pants. If I go into this with a plan, I'll spend the first day or two doggedly working towards the plan, only to scrap it in disgust on day two or three. Why waste 24-48 hours of writing time that way?

8. Any additional comments on NaNoWriMo?

See How to "gear up" for NaNoWriMo. Those were my "lessons learned" after my first year, in 2001.

Troop #66613

2005-10-14T15:35:00.000-05:00

A twisted little St. Patrick’s Day story smooshed together with sparkly bits of Halloween, for your pre-NaNoWriMo entertainment.

Starr Darkside pulled up to the curb in front of Sammy’s 24-Hour Grocery Emporium. Eight little girls, from Adventure Scout Troop #66613 hopped out of the van, ready to unload and set up shop on the brightly-lighted sidewalk in front of Sammy’s. They had landed prime curbside space at an hour guaranteed to bring them customers with a case of the munchies. Their troop leader, Starr, opened the rear doors and helped the girls pull out a large, folding table and chairs. Two girls started unloading cartons of cookie boxes.

“Let’s set them up in a pyramid shape!” cried Elvia, the youngest. She collected pyramids of all shapes and sizes, and despite her tender age, could be considered something of an expert in Egyptian funerary arts.

“They’ll topple over, silly,” chided Moira. “Line them up just like the headstones at Arlington.” Moira, the oldest, had just gone on a field trip with her class to Virginia, and was enthralled with the orderly white rows of markers. Math being her best subject, she had even insisted on counting them and determining the percentages of the dead buried there by decade.

The girls finally decided on a neat row of smaller pyramids, organized by cookie type and aligned under the direction of Moira, who insisted that each pyramid must be constructed out of the same number of cookie boxes.

Bella and Donna offered to take the first shift, selling the cookies. They were twins, and almost impossible to tell apart. Bella had a little dark purple fleck in the topaz-blue iris of her left eye; Donna had a golden speck on her right eye, and a habit of biting the nail on her left index finger.

“It still needs something,” mused Lily. Lily was very big on “presentation,” and had decided that she wanted to be a chef or an interior designer when she grew up, despite her limited diet and a personal penchant for pine and crimson silk. “I know!” Lily reached into her purse and grabbed some dried and blackened rose petals, which she artfully tossed between the boxes and around the table. “A wreath would have been so much prettier,” she said ruefully. “I wish I’d thought of it earlier.”

“Very nice, girls,” said Starr, proud that her girls were cooperating so well. She emptied a few cookies from her own stash into a bowl so the girls could give out samples, if their engagingly toothy grins weren’t enough to convince potential buyers. “Now we just sit back and wait for some customers. Elspeth, stop chewing your lower lip!”

Starr sighed. Elspeth had a habit of biting and sucking the inside of her lip until her mouth was red with blood. She had even bitten down so hard, once, that she broke a tooth. Elspeth’s mother had had a fit. It had taken weeks to find a doctor who understood that her child needed nice, pointy crown to match the corresponding tooth on the other side, and did not want the other ground down to match the broken one.

“Sorry, Mrs. Darkside.”

“Oh, look,” said Starr, pointing across the nearly deserted parking lot. “A customer!”

The girls perked up a bit and smiled invitingly. It was an old man wearing a worn, plaid flannel shirt and blue twill pants. He walked slowly, his back slightly bent with the weight of his many years. His eyes were clear and bright, and missed nothing. He nodded curtly, and looked as if he would walk right by their table without buying, given half a chance.

“Would you like to buy some Adventure Scout cookies, sir?” asked Rowan. The little girl clutched a ragtag wax doll in one hand beneath the table, and surreptitiously dug her fingernail into its tummy. Be hungry, she thought, smiling sweetly at the old man.

He stopped abruptly and turned like a puppet on a stick. “How much?” he asked, blinking. He looked less sure of himself than he had when he walked up to the curb.

“Three dollars a box,” said Bella and Donna in unison.

Sam Raven’s wife had him on a strict diet, but cookies would go so nicely with the milk she’d asked him to pick up from Sam’s. He studied the interesting arrangement of boxes on the table, considered his choices, and decided that he could counter Elsie’s disapproval by buying the low-fat Raspberry Puff Pastry Crème cookies. She might even let him have two or three of them before bed.

“I’ll take a box,” he said, digging three rumpled dollar bills from his pants pocket. “Thank you, ladies.”

“Thank you, sir,” the girls said politely.

“Ooooh! Would you look at that?” said Elvia, pointing towards Always Best 24-Hour Food Mart across the street. “Troop #317’s brought a—-a unicorn!”

“What?” cried Starr, staring at their rivals. “What kind of stunt is that?”

“Betcha they’re all working on their Marketing badges,” grumbled Moira.

“Or their Care of Mythological Creatures badge,” sneered Rowan. “Only I think they’re going to fail that one – they’ve painted the poor thing green.”

Starr cringed. She had no love of unicorns, but she could almost feel sorry for this one. The girls in Troop #317 had indeed painted the horny horse a bilious green, and sprinkled it liberally with shimmer dust, the latest teenage fad. Her girls wouldn’t be caught alive wearing the sparkly cosmetic they’d dubbed “fairy dust.”

“Oh, gross,” said Linda. Even rosy-cheeked, sunshine-blonde Linda, whose taste for pastels and romance novels the other girls tolerated only because they adored her, had no tolerance for the perky, cute, giggly, innocent, sickly-sweet dispositions of the girls from Troop #317. “Isn’t that against some rule or something, Mrs. Darkside?”

“I’m afraid not, girls,” sighed Starr. Discouraged, she watched a crowd of curiosity-seekers gather around the unicorn. It quickly became obvious that in order to pet the unicorn, customers had to buy a box of cookies.

“That’s just underhanded,” growled Lily. “Maybe we should’ve brought Dudley along.”

Starr ruffled the girl’s hair and smiled sadly. “Most people don’t want to pet a bat, honey. Remember how long it took us to get Linda to hold Dudley?”

Rowan laughed at that, remembering Linda’s fear and revulsion when they’d first caught Dudley and made him the Troop Mascot.

Linda blushed. “Well, I like him now!”

“I know, sweetie. But I don’t think Dudley would help us sell cookies.” Poor little Linda. She would never grow nice, sharp, pointy incisors. Linda belonged to the world of cookie eaters. Already she harbored a secret passion for vegetables and chocolate. Much to Starr’s chagrin, the girl even ordered her burgers well done. When the rest of the girls drank nice, healthy, warm blood, Linda drank cherry-flavored Kool-Aid. Starr considered it a small miracle that Linda wasn’t in Troop #317, herself.

“I’m hungry,” whined Elvia.

“Well, kids, we have to sell at least ten more boxes to buy a pint. Split eight ways, that’s hardly even a snack. And with a puke-colored unicorn prancing around over there, it’s not likely we’ll sell any more tonight.” Starr sighed. Why did it always have to be so hard to do things the right way, the Adventure Scout Way? She longed to fold up their table, ditch the cookies in the dumpster behind the store, and take the girls on a nice nocturnal hunt.

“Why’d they paint the poor thing green?” asked Bella.

“Because it’s almost St. Patrick’s Day,” answered Donna, wrinkling her nose with disgust.

Just then, three beefy teenaged boys, members of the local high school football team, stumbled up to the table. It was clear that they had been drinking beer; Starr could smell it on their breath. She steeled herself for trouble.

“Hey, ladies, wassup?”

“Would you like to buy some Adventure Scout cookies?” asked Lily.

Rowan pressed her thumb into the doll’s softened wax belly and bent it slowly at the waist. One boy spun away from the table and vomited in the parking lot.

“Oh, Joel, man, that’s sick.” The other two giggled at him, then remembered they were trying to look cool for the girls.

“Hey, baby, I don’t have any money, see, or I’d buy some of those cookies from you sweet things. How about givin’ us some, anyways, jus’ to be nice?”

Rowan looked at the boy with wide eyes and suddenly pinched off a bit of the doll’s tummy wax, making it look a little like an anorexic Austin Powers. The boy’s eyes flew open wide with shock as he doubled over and howled in pain.

“Are you boys okay?” asked Starr, flashing a quick look of disapproval at Rowan.

“Maybe some cookies would help settle your stomachs!” added Linda brightly.

“I think maybe I have some Pepto-Bismol in the van, if you think that’d help,” said Starr. “We were just finishing up here, anyway. If you could help us carry these things back to the van, I’ll see what I can do for that stomach ache.”

“Uhh, sure, lady. Yeah,” said the tall one, called Ronnie. He pointedly let his eyes travel slowly up, then slowly down, Starr’s generous curves. Meanwhile, Jake was flirting with Bella and Donna, licking his lips as he indiscreetly fantasized about the underaged twins.

“And maybe then you could, um, drop us off at our friend’s house?” added Joel, pointing at his friend Jake, who was still clutching his stomach, playing the sympathy card with the girls.

“Sure, we’d be happy to do that, wouldn’t we, ladies?” Starr sighed. All too happy to do that, she thought. “C’mon, girls, let’s pack it in for the night.”

They loaded up the back of the van and piled in. With the boys, there were no spare seats, so Elvia, Lily, and Linda sat on the floor in the back.

“Mrs. Darkside?”

“Yes, Moira?”

“We’re all very hungry, you know. I was wondering,” said Moira, looking pensive, “if we were willing to take full responsibility for our actions, wouldn’t we – I mean, you know, if we – you know – wouldn’t we be ‘using resources wisely’ and ‘making the world a better place’?”

“Moira, darling, you’re starting to sound like a lawyer. Linda, sweetie? Close your eyes a moment, will you?”

“Oh, it’s okay,” said Linda cheerfully. “I’ve watched before.”

Starr sighed and nodded. “Okay, then. Help yourself to some of the cookies in the back, if you like.” Starr pulled over to the side of the road.

As Moira climbed astride Joel’s lap, he thought he’d suddenly died and gone to heaven. He wasn’t too far off; he had it half right. Elvia smacked her lips loudly as she finished him off.

Bella and Donna took Jake from in front and behind, sinking their teeth into carotid and jugular simultaneously. The thrill alone nearly caused his heart to burst before they drained it dry.

Little Lily sweetly laid her head on Ronnie’s shoulder. He couldn’t believe his luck. Just as he was about to try to cop a feel on the sleeping girl, she sank her fangs deep and began to suck the blood from his veins, giving him one last lesson in “be careful what you wish for.” Each girl took a turn, and felt pleasantly full for the first time in days.

By the time they were done, Linda had eaten five Raspberry Puff Pastry Crème cookies, six ChocoMints, three Shamrock Shorties, and ten Zoodles.

Starr slurped up leftovers as she hauled the boys out of the van and left them in an old cemetery under a pile of plastic flowers.

“Mrs. Darkside?”

“Yes, Elspeth?” Starr looked over her shoulder as she climbed back into the driver’s seat.

“We tried so hard to do the right thing.”

“I know, dear. Buying food at the Blood Bank is proving a bit harder than we’d thought, but—well, we need to eat. We’ll just have to think of a different strategy. Something those obnoxiously cheerful girls from Troop #317 can’t spoil for us. Now, wipe the blood off your chin and stop chewing on your lip.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Darkside.” Elspeth stopped for a moment, then resumed chewing. Her own blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth.

* * *

“Omigod,” exclaimed Caroline, with an exaggerated rolling of the eyes. “Those girls from Troop #66613 sleep all day!”

“What is up with that?” asked Jeni.

“Mrs. Sprinks says they’re working on some science project involving nocturnal animals,” said Lorelei.

“Eeeww, like what? Bats? Possums?” Tiffany made a face. Bunnies, kittens, ducks, and unicorns were about all the wildlife she could handle. Tiffany was a fluffy creature, herself, so she could relate to them more easily.

Lorelei shrugged and skipped around the camp, eager to be off on the nature hike they had planned for their first morning at Camp Starry Night.

While they waited for their leader, Buffy Sprinks, Jeni brewed a plot. She snapped her fingers and grinned. “I’ve got an idea!” she cried. She ran inside her cabin and came back holding a large can of cotton-candy scented, sparkly, pink shaving cream. She motioned to the others, who followed her on tiptoe into Troop #66613’s cabin, quiet as field mice.

“Where are they, and what’s with all the boxes?” asked Tiffany.

“Weird.”

“Creepy.” Lorelei tried to pry open one of the boxes, but the lid wouldn’t budge.

“Must be part of their experiment,” said Jeni. “Think they’ve got animals trapped in there?” she asked, knocking on the polished pine but getting no response, not even a muffled scuffling sound of a possum or a bat. Jeni shrugged. She shook up her can of shaving cream and started to spray one of the oblong boxes. She sprayed the other girls’ clothes, which lay in open suitcases beside each box. She sprayed the windows with sparkly, pink happy faces, their sparkly, pink tongues lolling out.

"Psssst! She's coming!" Caroline hissed, and the little girls ran out the back door. They strolled around the side of the building as if they had come from the latrines, and surrounded Mrs. Sprinks with eager faces.

"Ready for our nature walk, girls?"

"Ready, Mrs. Sprinks!" Lorelei led the way, skipping ahead on the shadowy, wooded path behind the cabins. The girls listened attentively as Mrs. Sprinks identified for them the various wildflowers, herbs, and bushes that grew in the forest. As Buffy Sprinks bent over to point out a fine, upstanding Jack-in-the-Pulpit, a snake writhed in a frantic S-curve across the footpath, right in front of Tiffany, who let out a bloodcurdling, ear-splitting scream.

The girls nearly jumped out of their skin. Caroline sneered and said, "What are you so worried about, Tiff? It's just one of the girls from Troop #66613. Must've gotten lost on her way to the latrine."

Jeni laughed, and the other girls joined in, some nervously, as they cast over-the-shoulder glances in the direction the snake had gone – straight towards the cabins.

A cloud passed between them and the bright yellow disc of the sun, and the temperature dropped a few degrees. There was a collective moan, echoed by the wind itself, as a few large water droplets plopped onto the girls' sweetly painted, upturned faces. Caroline's mascara began to run, and Lorelei laughed as it occurred to her that she was seeing a raccoon-girl of record-breaking proportions. Her laughter was cut short by a taunting, wicked little voice that seemed to move about from one side of the huddled group of scouts to the other:

The Adventure Scouts trooped through the woods,

As it rained, they all wished they had hoods.

It rained harder and harder!

If they'd only been smarter!

Be prepared, next time – bring the goods!

"What was that?" groaned Lorelei. "Tell me it wasn't supposed to be poetry."

"That'd be too horrible to contemplate," said Buffy, calmly peering through the raindrops, into the tangled thicket of bushes and trees and vines that surrounded them. It began to rain more heavily, and the girls jumped as lightning struck not far from where they stood. They turned to run back towards camp, but a large tree had fallen across the path and blocked their way.

"It was a man's voice," said Jeni. "What would a man be doing out here?"

"And what would a giggling gaggle of goose-girls be doing out here in the rain?" taunted the voice. "What, indeed?"

And out from behind a gnarled oak tree popped the ugliest little man any of the girls had ever seen. His filthy, shamrock-green coat was rain-soaked and hung from his body in tatters. His reddish-brown hair was matted and grew in irregular patches all over his head and his chin. The girls stared, breathless with fear.

“What are you staring at? Ain’t you never seen a leprechaun before, lassies?” The little man spat at their feet with disgust. The rain abated slightly, but angry, purple clouds still loomed overhead.

“A leprechaun? You?” Caroline looked down her nose at the dwarflike creature and snorted. “I don’t believe you!”

“Fine by me. I’m tired of being chased about the woods by grimy little children trying to get their grimy little paws on me. And you!” he said, looking at Buffy Sprinks. “You greedy grownups are every bit as despicable.” The noxious creature sprayed the horrified girls with spittle as he spoke.

“I think he really is a leprechaun,” whispered wide-eyed Tiffany.

“No way,” hissed Jeni. “Where’s his pot of gold? There’s no rainbow for miles. This storm’s not likely to end any time soon.” But just as the words left her lips, the roiling dark clouds parted and a ray of sunshine burst down upon them. The leprechaun dashed down the path giggling like an escapee from a lunatic asylum. Caroline was fairly sure that’s what he must’ve been, but Tiffany insisted on taking off after him.

“Oh, Tiffany, for heaven’s sake!” Buffy Sprinks began to run after Tiffany, motioning to the girls to follow her quickly, so they wouldn’t be separated in the woods.

* * *

The girls from Troop #66613 awoke to a full moon. They climbed from their comfy, satin-lined beds and dropped to the floor, quiet as mice. “Eeeeewwww!” cried Elvia. “Gross!”

“PINK?” shrieked Moira, revolted.

“Revenge,” whispered Linda darkly. Her lovely eyes narrowed at the sight of the girls’ black t-shirts and jeans coated with pink, sparkly foam, now dried to a flaky crust. Together, they brushed off the worst of the mess and got dressed.

The girls from Troop #317 were huddled around a the bright, dancing flames of a bonfire, toasting marshmallows and singing cheerful Adventure Scout camping songs. It made Bella and Donna want to retch. The remnants of sparkle dust clung to their clothes and twinkled merrily in the reflected firelight. The girls shuddered.

Mrs. Darkside put an arm around Elspeth and Rowan, who looked miserable and dejected. “It’s okay, girls. A little fairy dust never hurt anyone but the fairies who flung it.” Her eyes, like dying coals, met Buffy Sprinks’s bright blue ones over the campfire. The women nodded gravely at one another.

“Where have you girls been?” called Buffy. “You missed the most interesting nature walk.”

Caroline and Tiffany giggled. Their hands sparkled in the light of the flames. Lorelei and Jeni had their heads bent over a large cauldron. With their hands plunged deeply into the pot, they shuffled something metallic that sounded like coins. Their eyes were bright, even a little feverish. Starr Darkside raised an eyebrow.

“We’re going on a night walk, ourselves. So many interesting creatures only come out at night. It will be very educational, I’m sure. Would you like to come with us?”

Rowan started to protest, wringing her doll with anxious little hands. Before she could snap its slender, wax neck, Mrs. Darkside laid a hand on her shoulder and said softly, “Shhhh.”

“No, dears, you go on ahead,” said Buffy. “My girls have been up since the crack of Dawn, and really ought to head to bed soon.”

The girls of Troop #66613 headed off into the dark woods, glad to be away from the fluffy lightness of being in the company of Troop #317. Night sounds welcomed them into the gloom. An owl hooted plaintively, and was answered by a distant, hollow, “To who? To who?”

Most of the girls had excellent night vision, but in deference to Linda, they carried a single flashlight. Its dim beam lit an eerie path. They had gone but half a mile, when one of the girls nearly tripped over a squishy lump in the road.

“Ooof!” grunted the lump.

“Yikes!” squealed Elvia. “What the hell?”

“Watch yer mouth,” grumbled the lump. The thing shifted and grew bigger, until it stood nearly shoulder-high to Moira, the tallest. “Ooooh, me achin’ head,” the odd little man clutched his head in his hands and shook it side to side. “If it isn’t another gaggle of girls. Not so gigglin’ this time, though. More like...ghoulish.” He gave the girls a toothy grin.

“Sir, can we be of any help to you?” asked Elspeth timidly. “Are you hurt?”

The little man gave Elspeth a queer look. “Hurt? Help me?” He sat down on the path again and tried to puzzle it out. “You want to help...me?”

“Yes, sir,” chimed eight little girls who had solemnly vowed to be friendly and helpful, considerate and caring.

“All right, then! I see that ye mean what ye say, and are not like those other brats... But...”

“Other brats?”

“Oh, yes, earlier today I was caught out in a thunderstorm, a nasty, angry, muddy mess of a thunderstorm. I canna run so fast as I used to, ye know, and so they gave me a merry chase and tackled me at the foot of me rainbow just as if I was the running back for the Detroit Lions. They stole me pot o’ gold and left me for dead, they did...”

“That is just awful! An Adventure Scout is supposed to be respectful, honest, and fair! Are you telling us those girls stole from you?”

“Aye, they did!” the leprechaun nodded and pouted and looked righteously indignant. “I’m gettin’ too old fer this nonsense, y’know. That pot o’ gold was t’ be my retirement, it was. I had one last chance to do me duty and guard the fairies’ gold, and those brats stole it! An’ poof! There goes me retirement.”

“May I—may I ask your name, sir?”

“Larry,” said the dejected little man in the green suit. “Larry the freakin’ leprechaun.” He sighed.

Lily, who had been picking night-blooming creepers, handed a deadly bouquet to the leprechaun. “Nice to meet you, Larry. I’m Lily.”

Larry was touched by the little girl’s gesture. As each girl politely introduced herself, Larry began to feel a bit better, and a bit more vindictive. It was clear to him that these girls bore no great love for the girls of Troop #317, and he schemed to enlist their aid.

They, in turn, schemed to enlist his. And soon a bargain was struck.

Larry crept into the camp where the angelic little girls of Troop #317 slept peacefully, dreaming of their ill-gotten gold. After all, what was the fate of one pathetic leprechaun, obviously well past his prime, to them? He snarled in the moonlight, revealing viciously crooked and wickedly sharp little teeth that were almost as green as his ragged suit.

Larry found Troop #317’s mascot, Eunice the Unicorn, tethered to a post at the side of the cabin. Eunice had been combed until she shone. Her mane and tail had been liberally dusted with iridescent white fairy dust, then plaited neatly and tied up with emerald silk ribbons in bows. Her hooves had been lacquered Kelly green and adorned with little gold shamrock decals. Poor Eunice! She was a proud unicorn, and it was humiliating to be treated as a pet, like an ordinary cat or dog, and paraded about dressed in such a way. She secretly longed to gore someone with her wickedly-sharp and twisted horn. She stomped and snorted as the funny little man untied her. She pounded and pawed at the ground, until she realized that he meant her no harm, and intended only to hose her off and grant her freedom, in exchange for a very small favor...

* * *

“Did you hear that?” whispered Caroline loudly.

“Sounded like Eunice!” cried Jeni and Lorelei.

Buffy and the girls shot out of bed and dashed out into the night wearing only their flowered nightdresses and bunny slippers. “She’s gone!” they gasped in unison. “Eunice!” The little girls were in a panic. They heard a distant whinny. Heartened by the sound, but knowing that it could be an ordinary horse, the girls headed in that direction. Finally, they came to a dilapidated old barn. There in the doorway, they could the brilliant white unicorn. She snorted, tossed her head, and reared up on her hind hooves. “Eunice,” sighed the little girls. They were relieved and overjoyed to have found her.

But as they approached, Eunice shied away, moving deeper and deeper into the old barn.

“Eunice,” coaxed Lorelei, the only one of the Troop bright enough or hungry enough to have tucked an apple into her pocket before bed. “I have a treat for you...”

There was something strange about the unicorn. Buffy noticed it immediately – her mane and tail were waving wildly and freely with each toss of her magnificent head. Eunice no longer sparkled in the moonlight; she glowed. A strange sense of terror tingled up Buffy’s spine as she tried to call the girls back, but they had already followed the horny horse into the vast dark mouth of the old barn.

* * *

Linda sat outside the barn with Larry, who pulled a meerschaum pipe from his pocket, stuffed it with fragrant tobacco, and drew deeply the sweet, woody smoke. The fairies would never grant him his retirement, but Troop #66613 had offered to make him an honorary member. Immortality was within his grasp, should he choose it. He looked up at the thousands of stars above, and thought of the one Starr within. The sucking sounds, the crack of bone, the wet ripping sound of gristle being pulled back as shoulders were dislocated and necks cracked in two – these were music to the little green man’s ears, and he considered it. He wondered what would become of Linda, the little girl who would never truly be one of them. Though Elvia, Moira, Lily, Bella and Donna, Rowan, Elspeth, and Starr held nothing but affection for Linda, the token human child in their midst, they were a little jealous from time to time – just a little green with envy, like Larry - because they all knew that to be somewhere in between the light and the dark was the most desirable place of all to be.

It's All a Matter of Perspective

2005-10-09T10:32:00.000-05:00

I'm a published writer! Ooooh, ahhhhh, whoopie...

I'm also a bit of an underachiever when it comes to writing and submitting my fiction for publication. I don't like playing games of one-upsmanship or "can you top this?" I see a lot of that in online writers' groups, and the lack of it is one of the reasons I love Writing.com and National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). If you're a successful, published author, don't put on airs - and don't lose the fun of writing. If you're a novice, don't let the snobs get you down.

The best writing advice I ever got came from Tom Clancy (who was trouncing me in an online game of Trivia on GEnie at the time): "Just write the damned book."

It's All a Matter of Perspective!
or, Can I autograph that manual for you?

Years ago, in an online Writers' chat, a published novelist asked me, "Have you published anything lately?"

Despite the fact that I write technical documentation for a living, when it comes to fiction, I am notoriously bad about selling my own writing. Most of the time, I don't even submit it. Just can't seem to get that stamp to stick to the envelope, y'know? My gut reaction was an urge to slink out of the chat room with my tail between my legs, utterly humiliated. So, while I was considering my options and seriously tempted to try the old "Damn! Line noise!" while simultaneously yanking the modem cable from the wall, it occurred to me that, hey, I had published something lately!

"As a matter of fact," I typed, "my last book was published in 26 languages, sold about 5 million copies, can be found in homes and offices around the globe, and people were happy to pay $2000 a copy for it!"

Oh, yeah, that got 'em. I had those writers rethinking their careers, their agents, their contracts, their book royalties, their publicity tours and book signings... and then I moved in for the kill.

"Best part of the deal is this--everyone who bought a copy of my book got a free computer with it! Cool, huh? And I get paid every two weeks whether it sells one copy or fifty million copies. Every two weeks, same amount, right as rain. Money in the bank. No agents, no contracts, no publicity tours. Works for me."

Hey, it's just a matter of perspective. Want me to autograph that manual for you?

The Muse and The Critic

2005-10-06T22:35:00.000-05:00

An excerpt from the as-yet-untitled, unfinished 2004 NaNoNovel...

Bob grabbed his laptop from the back room, and plugged it in. He settled into a comfy armchair and began to cogitate. The harder he thought, the fewer ideas occurred to him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Bob looked up from the laptop. “Hey! Your hair’s on fire!” He started to jump up from his chair, but she pushed him back into it. “Lady, your hair is on fire!”

“It’s always like this, Bob.” She laughed.

Bob looked around frantically. Some crazy woman had set her hair on fire. With a little bad luck, she’d take Rayne’s shop with her - probably burning Rayne and Bob in the process. And yet, she was alarmingly calm about her flaming hair. Where the hell was Rayne?

“Relax, Bob. She can’t see or hear me. Only you can.”

The woman was insane. Either that, or Bob was insane. Had to be one or the other, he mused. Had to be. And that’s when he noticed that the hot-headed, almond-eyed stranger was a cross between Angelina Jolie and Pele, Goddess of Fire, dressed in a sleek black, skin-tight, flame-retardant bodysuit. Bob couldn’t help but lick his lips. She was the woman of his adolescent fantasies. She laughed. Bob concluded that he was the one losing his marbles. The woman didn’t exist. “Damn,” he muttered. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am!” said the woman, laughing. “I’m your so-called Muse. I’ve been looking over your shoulder since you were fourteen.”

“You’ve been what?” Bob looked up in horror. When he was fourteen, he’d figured out an easy way to forestall the urges that threatened to overcome him each time he laid eyes on a girl. It was a solitary pleasure, one he knew better than to do where others could watch. The thought of this creature looking over his shoulder…” He shuddered.

“Oh, Christ, Bob… I’m talking about your writing, idiot.” She ruffled his hair.

Bob groaned. She may not have watched over his shoulder constantly, but she could read his mind. That was just as bad.

“You created me, remember?” Her voice sounded smooth as silk and burned like whiskey. Bob felt dizzy.

Bob vaguely remembered doodling sketches of this woman - his supposed Muse - on his History spiral back in high school. Implausibly large boobs, curvaceous hips, a dancer’s legs, stiletto heels…but he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember flames for hair. Took some getting used to, but the warmth her tresses gave off was helping to dispel the tremors in his hands.

“Bob, you’re shaking like you’ve got the DTs.”

“I’m, um, wow. Yeah. Yeah,” Bob looked stupidly at his hands. The tremors spread up his shoulders and down his spine. He was ice-cold, and yet his skin burned.

“Bob, get a grip.”

Bob did just that. He gripped the armrests of the chair in which he was sitting. He gripped the faux hide of nauga until his knuckles turned a ghastly shade of white. “Could you - not - do that?” he asked, prying one hand loose long enough to point at the Muse’s hair.

“Whatever floats your boat, Bob.” Suddenly, an auburn-haired Angelina Jolie sat in the chair opposite Bob, and looked far less threatening than the incandescent goddess who’d stood before him a moment earlier. “Is this better?”

Bob nodded. “What’s your name?” It felt bizarre, having a conversation with what had to be a hallucination, albeit a gorgeous one.

“Fred.”

“Fred?”

“You named me Fred, Bob. It’s not my job to explain why you named me Fred.”

Given the thoughts Bob was having about the illusory Fred, this was disconcerting news, to say the least. He scratched his head, trying to remember why in the name of God he would have named this woman “Fred.”

“Frederica?” he asked, voice full of hope.

“No, Bob. Fred. Just plain Fred.”

“Sorry. You don’t look like a Fred.”

“Never did, Bob.”

Bob cringed. “And I was fourteen, you say?”

“That’s right, Bob. Fourteen.” Fred shook her head and looked down at her well-endowed chest. “Gads, I wish you’d learned to write when you were ten, or waited until you were twenty-something.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Fred hefted her breasts with both hands. “Only a fourteen-year-old boy would endow his Muse with such…gifts.”

Fred’s hair burst into flame, sending Bob burrowing deeper into his armchair. “I’m sorry?”

“No, I can see that you’re not,” said Fred, her hair still smoldering. “So let’s cut the crap, Bob. You have a novel to write.”

“I do?”

“You see the problem with being a Muse created by a fourteen-year-old boy? It’s distracting, Bob. It’s keeping me from being all I’m meant to be.” Fred looked mildly annoyed, but at least her hair didn’t burst into flames. Bob was relieved.

“I see.”

“No, you don’t see. You’re just all fascinated because you can actually see me, and I look like some prepubescent fantasy doll…”

“No, no - I understand how that could be a hindrance. I’m sorry. I - I think I’ve matured since then.”

“No you haven’t.”

“Have to!” Bob was not about to sit here and be insulted by his own Muse. “Why, I--“

“Bob, get real. That deal you made with the cops, earlier? That was real mature.” Fred rolled her eyes.

“Oh, Rayne’s a good sport, she’ll--“

“Bob, do you have any idea how many guys are on the force? Rayne won’t be able to walk for a week if she makes good on her end of the deal.”

Bob snickered. Fred’s hair began to crackle and spark. He quickly tried to look contrite.

“Sir? Sir!”

Bob woke with a start. A little old lady was leaning over him, smelling of lavender and potato chips. “Wha--?”

“Your laptop’s about to slip off your lap. I think you dozed off. Didn’t want it to fall on the floor, you know.”

Bob grabbed his laptop computer just in time to save it sliding off his thighs and onto the ceramic tile floor, where it would surely have broken into tiny bits. Although that might have saved Bob considerable trouble, it was an expensive toy he could hardly afford to replace, given his and Rayne’s recently precarious financial position. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Very kind of you.” He blinked a few times and rubbed the sleep sand from his eyes with his knuckles.

“No problem, son. No problem at all. Say, I couldn’t help but wonder what you were working on that put you so soundly to sleep. I suffer insomnia, you see. I’d love to learn your secret.” The old biddy chuckled.

Bob yawned. With his hands firmly grasping his prized possession, Bob was unable to stifle himself. His mouth opened wide. The only difference between Bob and a yawning cat was the cat’s needle-sharp fangs. And claws. And tail. But the yawn was similar, and from the look on the old lady’s face, she was a cat fancier. “Sorry. I was working on my, er, book. I’m a writer. Sort of a writer. I’m working on a novel. In my spare time, you know.”

“Ahhh. Yes, a writer. How nice for you, dear. And what do you do with the rest of your time?”

“I, uh, my wife and I, we run this shop.”

“Looks to me like she’s doing all the running. I’m Edna, by the way. And you would be…?”

“Bob. Very nice to meet you, Edna.”

“Really? That’s a first. Most people aren’t pleased. Not pleased at all.” Edna sat down in the chair across from Bob, a chair warmed, just moments before, by the enigmatic Fred.

“I can’t imagine that, Edna. You seem like such a kind soul.”

“Not at all, Bob,” said Edna. Her expression hardened as she pulled out her knitting. Her fingers moved deftly as the needles clicked and clacked. Knit and perl, perl and knit…Edna seemed hell-bent to burn her name into the Guinness Book of World Records by knitting what appeared to be a dingy gray and red woolen scarf in under three point two seconds.

“Why’s that, Edna?”

“Don’t you recognize me?”

“Should I?” Bob squinted to get a better look at Edna. Five foot two, maybe one hundred thirty pounds, Edna looked like somebody’s grandmother. A third grade teacher, perhaps, with her tightly-curled indigo hair. Bob had never understood why elderly schoolmarms insisted on dying perfectly good white or gray hair a hideous shade of blue that never would have occurred to Mother Nature to create from scratch. That’s it! Third grade teacher… Of course! Edna must have been one of Bob’s teachers.

“Oh, worse than that, Bob,” said Edna, as if reading his mind. “Your third grade teacher was a dear, sweet old woman. She didn’t have the heart to give you the D you deserved on that science report, so she gave you a C and package of crayons to soften the blow.”

Bob swallowed hard. “Who are you?”

“Edna Jacobi Pringleheimer-Smith. I’m your worst nightmare,” hissed Edna. Her eyes were dark and beady, but they smoldered with hate. “I’m your inner critic, Bob. I am a part of you.”

Bob suddenly had an urge to hum, but he felt his blood run cold. “Can Rayne see you?”

“Only if I want her to, Bob. You wouldn’t like that, would you? You’d like for her to think that you were a capable, talented man…”

“I suppose,” said Bob, trying to stifle another yawn. “What the hell is that?” Bob reached for the woolen scarf that was growing, in faster, tighter rows.

“It’s an afghan, Bob.”

“It looks like--oh, Good Christ, woman! That’s my third-grade report card.”

“Tsk, tsk. Says here you got a big fat F in English. Bob, English is your native language. You’d have to be dumb as a rock to flunk English.”

“Mrs. Denhameyer didn’t like me.”

“Didn’t like you? Didn’t like you? What sort of asinine excuse is that, Bob? Ranks right up there with ‘my mother beat me and my father drank,’ in my opinion. Cut the crap.”

“It’s true! She hated me.”

“No one hates a third grader, Bob. You’re delusional, to boot. But never mind that. Why aren’t you working on that stupid novel of yours? I mean, it’s not like you’re helping your wife out, there.”

Get Your Caffeine Fix Here!

2005-10-06T22:27:00.000-05:00

I don't know about you, but I can't think, let alone write, without a cup of coffee near at hand.

Well, of course I can, but it's just not the same. I know writers who swear their creativity is enhanced by mood-altering drugs and alcohol, but those things don't work for me at all. Strong, black coffee, on the other hand...

I should redecorate my office to look like a little French café.

"Yeah. Get yourself an inkwell and a quill pen, while you're at it. Move into the attic and mumble to yourself."

I really need to shut the inner critic up before November. She's a sarcastic bitch, isn't she?

ThinkGeek.com has an impressive and unusual selection of essentials for the caffeine addict. (And no, I don't get paid to endorse them - but yes, I am a very satisfied customer! Fun and offbeat products, good quality, reasonable prices, quick delivery, and great customer service.)

Previously Published?!

2005-10-05T15:47:00.000-05:00

Does posting my work on a Web site or blog affect my ability to sell the work later?

Yes. Anything posted online and publicly accessible may be considered “published.” By publishing on a Web site or blog, you are generally required by the terms of service to grant the host – at minimum - free, unrestricted, and non-exclusive electronic (storage and display) rights to the uploaded content. This is necessary to protect the site operator(s), and it is a perfectly reasonable requirement.

Now, clearly, you cannot turn around and sell exclusive electronic rights to another publisher, because exclusive rights would infringe upon the rights you’ve already granted to the first site. These rights cannot be taken back by deleting the item or limiting the access to it. But what about other rights?

You retain most of those, and can sell them – if you can find a buyer.You cannot sell “all rights” or even “first rights” because – remember – you have given away “non-exclusive electronic rights,” and that is a subset of “all rights.” The first to publish the work has taken “first rights” (think of it as the work’s virginity). You can, of course, sell non-exclusive electronic rights and derivative rights – again, if you can find a buyer.

The problem, of course, is “if you can find a buyer.” Many publishers insist on buying “all rights.” Most want “previously unpublished” work, or “first rights.” But what you consider “published” and what they consider “published” may be two different things. And it’s always best to be honest, because you can destroy any chances of selling your work to them or to their colleagues in the publishing field if word gets out that you’re trying to pass off “published” work as “unpublished.” Worse yet, you could land yourself in legal hot water by trying to sell rights you no longer own.

Glimmertrain Press, Inc. defines what they consider to be “previously published” at http://www.glimmertrain.com/faqs.html. It’s probably safe to assume that anything you’ve posted on a Web site or a blog, to which you’ve granted anything beyond group-level access, would be considered “published” by them. Even then, it’s possible that the banner advertising on certain sites and blogs would throw the work into what they consider to be the “published” category. Before you panic, different publishers have different guidelines, and some may be less strict.

Moreover, before you panic and start hiding all of the items you’ve already published online, consider carefully whether you think that your work is polished enough to submit for publication, and whether you ever intend to edit it carefully enough to work on getting it published. If the answer is a resounding “yes!” then you’re in a bit of a pickle.

Editorial revisions do not constitute a new work; even if you edit fairly heavily, that work has technically been published electronically. So, you might as well not start scrambling to hide or delete anything you’ve already got out there, regardless of how much potential you think it has.

You could limit an existing item’s exposure by making it private and perhaps argue that no more than 50 of your closest friends have actually ever read it. On some sites, such as Writing.com, you could show the publisher statistics that prove the actual number of readers who’ve looked at the work, and they might deem it an insignificant number. You could claim that it was something of a “writers’ workshop” and that you’d only shared the work briefly for constructive feedback. In the end, it’s up to the publisher whether to accept this or not; the only fair thing to do about it is be honest and give them the option to decide.

My suggestion for the future would be as follows: For anything you really pour your heart and soul into with the strong intention to get it published, write, proofread, revise, repeat – and submit for publication. If the work doesn’t sell after several attempts, post it online for feedback, learn from it, and apply those lessons to your next piece of writing.

For anything you write that you’d like to share informally, but don’t care one way or another about getting published, post it online and get that same feedback. Learn from it, and apply those lessons to your next piece of writing. That feedback can be more valuable, in the long run, than the prestige of being published in a small literary magazine and being paid in contributor’s copies.

It’s not life or death. Even if you’re reading this now and thinking you’ve just given away the rights to your life’s work, remember: Real writers don’t run out of words. You will live to write again.

Now, the good news. I make absolutely no attempt to market my writing. I enjoy the “instant gratification” of sharing my writing online and getting readers’ reactions in a more personal and direct way than I would if I published through more traditional means. I’ve been published, so it’s not one of those distant dreams that leaves me feeling unsatisfied in the night, as it may be for some of you reading this. But the idea that an editor will stumble into your online portfolio and “discover” your talents is not entirely a fantasy.

It’s a little farfetched – let’s be straight about that. Editors are not routinely prowling the Internet in search of new blood. They have far too much of that spilling over the transom. Most of it is bad enough to leave them somewhat jaded and in a “prove it” sort of mood. But I have published articles on writing Web sites and I have been approached by editors asking to buy – yes, pay money for – reprint rights. Occasionally, that leads to future assignments. It can happen. And you can sell those reprint rights all day long without feeling so much as a twinge of guilt.

Disclaimer

I am not an attorney. Nothing in this article should be construed as legal advice. If you have specific questions about intellectual property and copyright laws, please consult an attorney.

Additional Reference:

If you are serious about your writing and have any desire to be published or to protect your work from copyright violations, I strongly recommend that you read up on the subject and become familiar with the basics of copyright law. The links below are just a few of the valuable resources available to you online:

“Copyright Law of the United States of America,” U.S. Copyright Office (July 2001), http://www.loc.gov/copyright/title17/

“A Novice Writer's Guide to Rights,” Claire E. White (1997?), http://www.writerswrite.com/journal/dec97/cew3.htm

“Previously Published Materials,” Copyright Q&A (The Association of Educational Publishers (2002), http://www.edpress.org/infoarchives/info/
publishing/copyrightqa2.htm

Rights, Contracts and Copyright, a collection of articles by multiple authors, http://www.writing-world.com/rights/

“Piracy and Infringement,” Copyright Resources, C.E. Petit, Esq. (2001), http://www.authorslawyer.com/c-pir0.shtml

“Public Domain Dates,” Copyright Resources, C.E. Petit, Esq. (2001), http://www.authorslawyer.com/c-term.shtml

Copyright Essentials for Writers

2005-10-05T13:25:00.000-05:00

Twice in as many weeks, I have run across items that were clearly not written by the “writers” who claimed them as their own. I’ve had my writing stolen, “misappropriated,” used without my consent, and I’ve seen so many examples of blatant disregard by one writer for the rights of another that I tend to get just a little hot under the collar when I see it happen.

Stealing another’s work and calling it your own is plagiarism. That’s an ugly word, but so are words like cheating, stealing, and lying. It’s like taking someone else’s car and passing it off as your own. It may be a fairly common make and model, but sooner or later, someone’s going to notice the unique VIN number and turn you in to the authorities. (This is what happens when you rip off an ordinary bit of writing, or paraphrase something – putting essentially the same sentences in your own words, even though it wasn’t your own idea.) If you steal the one-of-a-kind Lamborghini that was parked in your next door neighbor’s driveway and have the nerve to tell everyone on the block what a cool, sexy new driving machine you just bought on a Yugo budget, well, you’re just stupid. (This is what happens when you have a high school education but you rip off something like Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park.)

Misappropriating someone’s work and giving them credit is called copyright violation. It’s still stealing, but now it’s like saying “I’m going to take your car now, park it in my driveway, and let my friends drive it without asking your permission, but I’ll be sure to tell everyone it’s really yours.” To those who think the harm is offset by the “additional exposure” given to the work or the “free publicity” given to the author, that’s like saying “Never mind that it was important to you when you bought the car that you be the first to drive it and decide to whom you wanted to loan it; we thought you’d appreciate us showing it off all around town until the new models came out.”

In recognition of the fact that this astonishing disregard of the law is largely due to ignorance, not malice, and with faith in the old adage that ignorance is curable, I’m going to explain the basics of copyright law, what it means to writers, how to avoid trampling on someone else’s rights, and how to protect yourself from the callous elephants who would trample on yours.

This article deals primarily with U.S. copyright law; however, in a broader sense it deals with ethical issues every writer should carefully consider. Trademark, patent, and other forms of intellectual property law are beyond the scope of this article. NOTHING HEREIN SHOULD BE CONSTRUED AS LEGAL ADVICE. If you have specific questions or issues regarding intellectual property law, please consult a qualified attorney in your area.

What is “intellectual property”?
Intellectual property is the product of your imagination, your creativity, your innovative thinking, your research discoveries and conclusions, or your invention.
Examples of intellectual property include:

The design for a car’s engine;
A new process for making disposable Latex gloves;
A novel, a movie, a cartoon character;
The lyrics to a song;
The distinctive look of a basketball shoe;
A photograph;
A corporate logo.

Special legal protections under copyright, patent, and trademark laws are granted to the authors, designers, and inventors of such things.

What is “copyright”?
Copyright is a form of protection provided by the laws of the United States (title 17, U.S. Code) to the authors of “original works of authorship,” including literary, dramatic, musical, artistic, and certain other intellectual works. This protection is available to both published and unpublished works. Section 106 of the 1976 Copyright Act generally gives the owner of copyright the exclusive right to do and to authorize others to do the following:

To reproduce the work in copies or phonorecords;
To prepare derivative works based upon the work;
To distribute copies or phonorecords of the work to the public by sale or other transfer of ownership, or by rental, lease, or lending;
To perform the work publicly, in the case of literary, musical, dramatic, and choreographic works, pantomimes, and motion pictures and other audiovisual works;
To display the copyrighted work publicly, in the case of literary, musical, dramatic, and choreographic works, pantomimes, and pictorial, graphic, or sculptural works, including the individual images of a motion picture or other audiovisual work; and
In the case of sound recordings, to perform the work publicly by means of a digital audio transmission.

(from http://www.copyright.gov/circs/circ1.html#wci)

How long does copyright last?
Your work (assuming it was created in 1978 or later) is protected for your lifetime, plus 70 years. Like any other property, you can leave it to your children, grandchildren, agent, publisher, or others in your will. In the case of a collaborative work, copyright protection extends 70 years after the last author dies. For more information, refer to http://www.copyright.gov/circs/circ1.html#hlc.

What is “fair use”?
In some cases, you may quote portions of copyrighted work without permission for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching (including multiple copies for classroom use), scholarship, or research. Bear in mind that “fair use” is a defense in a suit against you for infringement, and it is best to avoid being sued in the first place. The court will look at several factors to determine whether your use of another’s copyrighted material comes under the “fair use” provisions of the law.

Why did you use the material? Was it for criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching (including multiple copies for classroom use), scholarship, or research? Or was it more of a commercial use – in other words, were you primarily out to make money?

What is the nature of the copyrighted work? Is it appropriate and relevant to the purposes you are claiming? Is the copyrighted work going to be lessened in its own value by your use of it? While value is generally interpreted to mean monetary worth, it is fair to note here that copyright protects an author’s right to control how, when, where, and by whom the work is used. That control, in itself, has value.
Did you use a huge chunk of someone else’s work, when maybe a sentence or two would have made your point? Did you reproduce it in its entirety? Perhaps you are writing a book review. It would be bad form to give away the ending, wouldn’t it? Because then your readers might have no reason to run out and buy a copy of the book for themselves. Is a substantial portion of your work actually just their work?

All of these are things that will be considered by a court, should you be sued for copyright infringement. Unfortunately, there are no black and white rules about what you may use, how you may use it, and how much of it you may use before it constitutes infringement. Originality is the safest course.

For these factors as set forth in the law, see “Copyright Law of the United States of America,” Title 17, United States Code, Section 107; http://www.copyright.gov/title17/92chap1.html

What is “public domain”?
Basically, any writing that is no longer protected by copyright is in the public domain. You can, for example, retell a classic fairy tale like Cinderella. But beware – Disney’s “Cinderella” is not in the public domain. You cannot use the characters, illustrations, or original plot points added by Disney to the story, because those are still under copyright. You must go back to the public domain version and create your own derivative work.

Just because something is in the public domain doesn’t automatically give you the right to use it, as noted in “What is Public Domain?” by Jerry Robinson (http://www.geocities.com/rsw-news/pubdomain.html).

What is a “derivative work”?
It is an original work derived from (based on) another work by you or someone else. Disney’s “Cinderella” is a derivative work. Since the original Cinderella story is in the public domain, you may create your own derivative version of it; however, you may not have a cute, rotund little mouse named Gus-Gus helping Cinderella to sew pearls on the dress she is making for the Prince’s ball, nor may your story feature an ill-tempered black cat named Lucifer.

A "derivative work" is a work based upon one or more preexisting works, such as a translation, musical arrangement, dramatization, fictionalization, motion picture version, sound recording, art reproduction, abridgment, condensation, or any other form in which a work may be recast, transformed, or adapted. A work consisting of editorial revisions, annotations, elaborations, or other modifications which, as a whole, represent an original work of authorship, is a "derivative work."
(Title 17 United States Code, Chapter 1, Section 101, "Definitions.")

Examples of "derivative works" would include: a book made into a movie; a movie turned into a stage play; a second edition of a book, edited and annotated and containing extra scenes; a sculpture based on a painting, a painting based on a photograph. The Supreme Court has held that, in looking into whether a work falls under the "fair use" provisions of the law, "enquiry focuses on whether the new work merely supersedes the objects of the original creation, or whether and to what extent it is "transformative," altering the original with new expression, meaning, or message. The more transformative the new work, the less will be the significance of other factors, like commercialism, that may weigh against a finding of fair use." (CAMPBELL, aka SKYYWALKER, et al. v. ACUFF ROSE MUSIC, INC.; text copied from http://supct.law.cornell.edu/supct/html/92-1292.ZS.html)

It is clear, then, that some weight is given to creativity and originality – and therein lies the fine distinction between "inspired by" and "based on." Imagine a photograph of a woman reading a book. Now, take a look at Picasso's "Tete D'une Femme Lisant," at http://www.allposters.com/gallery.asp?aid=576251&item=153351. Do you think that a photographer could argue that the painting violated his copyright in the original photo? If you transform the original so that it is a substantially new expression, with different meaning or message, then you at least have a defense against a claim of infringement. But again, it is best to stick with your own original ideas wherever possible.

Another interesting notion – since Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet" is in the public domain, could you run out and copyright it? No. Could you create your own work, inspired by "Romeo and Juliet," and copyright that? Of course, provided that your work adds some creative element not present in the original; in other words, so long as your work is not merely a slightly-altered copy of "Romeo and Juliet."

Chilling Effects Clearinghouse, "Derivative Works," Berkman Center for Internet & Society. http://www.chillingeffects.org/derivative/
Chilling Effects Clearinghouse, "Frequently Asked Questions (and Answers) about Derivative Works," Berkman Center for Internet & Society. http://www.chillingeffects.org/derivative/faq.cgi#QID382
Cook, Amy, "'Unauthorized' Writings," Writer's Digest. http://www.writersdigest.com/articles/cook_unauthorized.asp
Ovenall, Sarah, "Derivative Works." http://www.funnystrange.com/copyright/derivative.htm

What is not copyrightable?
There are many things that are not protected by copyright law. The hardest thing for many writers to accept is that ideas are not protected. You cannot copyright your brilliant idea for a story. You must first write the story, because it is your own, original expression of that idea that is protected under law. If you have a brilliant idea for a story, you’d best keep it to yourself until you do.

You cannot copyright a name, an individual word, a letter, or a symbol. Can you imagine the trouble that would cause, if you could? Be careful, though – some names, such as Coca-Cola™ and McDonald’s™, are reserved and protected under trademark law. If you use them in a story, you must use them correctly (e.g., Kleenex, not kleenex), and you may need to obtain the owner’s permission before using them at all.

Facts, such as individual listings in a phone book, the height of a pyramid, or the temperature at which water boils cannot be copyrighted.

Inventions, processes, systems of operation, and proprietary information cannot be copyrighted, although there are other protections for these things under patent and trademark law.

What can I do if someone violates my copyright?
You can sue them, of course. You can sue for actual damages (lost sales, lost royalties) and, if you’ve registered your work in the Copyright Office, you can also be entitled to receive statutory damages in addition to money for any losses you’ve actually incurred.

Unless the work has significant monetary value or you are utterly determined to pursue a lawsuit on “the principle of the thing,” it may be more satisfying and cost-effective simply to write a note explaining how wrong and immoral it is to plagiarize or violate another person’s copyright, and demand that the person immediately stop using your material. On the Internet, it can be very effective to copy the person’s ISP (because doing so puts them on notice of the violation, and if they fail to act, they become a willful violator, as well, and can be sued right along with the infringer).

Whatever you do, don’t just quietly stew about it, because unless we work to eradicate the problem through education and censure, it will only get worse. As more and more people get by with trampling on the rights of writers, artists, and other creative individuals, they develop a sense of entitlement – a sort of backwards logic that convinces them that your work is, or really ought to be, free for them to use as they see fit.

For more information, see “Copyright Law of the United States of America,” Title 17, United States Code, Chapter 5. http://www.copyright.gov/title17/92chap5.html

Additional Copyright Information and Articles
“Copyright Law of the United States of America,” Title 17, United States Code. http://www.copyright.gov/title17/
Friends of Active Copyright Education (FA©E), Copyright Society of the USA. http://www.law.duke.edu/copyright/face/home.htm
Harper, Georgia K., “The Copyright Crash Course,” http://www.utsystem.edu/OGC/IntellectualProperty/cprtindx.htm
Legal Information Institute, “Law About...Copyright,” Cornell University. http://www.law.cornell.edu/topics/copyright.html
Library of Congress, United States Copyright Office, http://www.copyright.gov/
Masciola, Amy, “Copyright Timeline,” Association of Research Libraries, http://arl.cni.org/info/frn/copy/timeline.html
O'Mahoney, Benedict, Copyright Website, http://www.benedict.com/
Robinson, Jerry, “What is Public Domain?” Haven Publications, http://www.geocities.com/rsw-news/pubdomain.html.
Stanford University Libraries, Copyright and Fair Use, http://fairuse.stanford.edu/
Templeton, Brad, “10 Big Myths about copyright explained,” http://www.templetons.com/brad/copymyths.html
Templeton, Brad, “Linking Rights,” http://www.templetons.com/brad/linkright.html
United States Patent and Trademark Office, “What is Intellectual Property?” http://www.uspto.gov/web/offices/ac/ahrpa/
opa/museum/1intell.htm
White, Claire E., “Basic Copyright Concepts For Writers,” Writers Write: The Internet Writing Journal, http://www.writerswrite.com/journal/sept97/cew2.htm
Wikepedia: The Free Encyclopedia, “Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works,” http://www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berne_Convention
Wikepedia: The Free Encyclopedia, “Copyright,” http://www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Copyright
Wikepedia: The Free Encyclopedia, “Digital Millennium Copyright Act,” http://www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Digital_Millennium_Copyright_Act
Wikepedia: The Free Encyclopedia, “Fair Use,” http://www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fair_use
Wired News, “A Mickey Mouse Copyright Law,” Lycos, Inc., http://www.wired.com/news/politics/0,1283,17327,00.html

Putting the Cart Before the Horse

2005-10-04T08:33:00.000-05:00

Shortly before joining in the insanity known as NaNoWriMo, in 2001, an agent, Rose, asked me to write an essay on why I was afraid to write a novel.

Afraid? "I'm not afraid to write a novel," I said. "I just haven't gotten around to it."

"Write the essay," she urged, promising me that if I wrote a novel in the next twelve months, she would edit it at no charge and help me get it published. I wrote the essay. I dawdled on the novel. I discovered NaNoWriMo and wrote the novel, but promptly stuffed it into a drawer and avoided all contact with Rose until after the twelve months were up. What's wrong with this picture??

Putting the Cart Before the Horse

I Can Do This, If I Can Just... Pick... Up... This... Pen...

As I sit here picking fuzz balls from the carpet, it hits me. I want to write a novel. And I know I can do it with a little discipline and perseverence; as my mother would say, "Just put one foot in front of the other, and keep moving." Or writing, in this case. So what is it that's holding me back, driving me to pick the fuzz balls out of the carpet?

Fear.

Fear that I'll write it, and it will be awful. Embarassingly awful. So awful that I will have wasted my time, my energy, and my hopes on something that's not even fit to burn. I'll have killed hundreds of poor defenseless trees and suffered public humiliation in the process, and for what? To bore my readers to tears?

Fear that I'll write it, and it will be an overnight bestseller. It'll be such a raging success that I'll have to spend half my time on the road, promoting and signing the damned thing. The "business" of writing will take over, leaving me no time or energy to write. My ever-supportive family will hate it, but they'll put up with it (the better to write their own multimillion-dollar tell-all Mommy Dearest-type expose in years to come). No doubt success will go to my head, and I'll forget that no matter how smart, skilled, or talented you are, you're only better at some things than some people.

Fear that I'll write it, and it will be the kind of novel I want it to be--one that will make my family and friends proud of me. A novel that will earn critical acclaim and entertain millions. A novel that will spark conversations at the water cooler, all beginning with "Hey, have you read that great new book..." And then they'll figure if I did it once, I can easily do it again. At that point, I'll be struck with the most horrendous case of writer's block imaginable, and that'll be the end of a brilliant start. The one-trick pony, unable to repeat the trick. And then my family and friends won't be proud of me anymore, they'll just be disappointed and try to encourage me by telling me what a good writer I am, but we'll all know better, won't we?

Isn't that putting the cart before the horse?

Who said phobias were rational?

Short Stories to Pass the Time

2005-10-03T22:46:00.000-05:00

In Real Life

Theresa’s fingers clattered in rapid-fire staccato across the keys. Spontaneous – impulsive – her heart pounded in her throat. In the same instant she hit the Send button, she had a wild, panic-tinged urge to recall the message or rip the modem cord from the wall trying. The cheery, damning words appeared on her screen: Message sent! “Shit.” She took a sip of coffee, hours old.

Martin wouldn’t get the message until dawn. Theresa imagined him sitting in front of the PC, wearing nothing but his boxers and a bad case of bed head. She’d never actually seen Martin in boxers, but she had a red-blooded, athletic imagination. She could see him clearly in her mind’s eye – the tight cleft between his broad shoulders widening as he leaned forward on his elbows to read from the screen, the way his sensuous lips curled upward in satisfaction as the words started to settle into his sleep-soaked brain, the teasing twinkle in his eyes as he mentally composed a reply.

Theresa groaned and closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the heels of her hands. She might as well have the word “fool” tattooed across her forehead. The man deserved better. His letters were so straightforward, so honest. She swirled the dregs of her coffee and downed the last of it in a single gulp, flicked off the desk lamp, and dragged her sorry self to bed.

* * *

Six hours till dawn, and sleep refused to come. Martin pulled on his boxer shorts, ran a hand through his tousled hair, and grabbed a beer from the fridge. Moonlight crept through the slats in the Venetian blinds, making ladders of pale silver across dingy gray carpet and up Martin’s legs. With a weary sigh, he headed for the den and turned on the computer. In the green-eyed glow of the power button, listening to the familiar hum as its twin hard drives spun to life, Martin felt less alone. He felt connected.

* * *

Restless dreams, like waves born of a hurricane, tossed Theresa from side to side. She awoke in darkness, drenched in sweat. Untangling her long legs from the twisted sheets, she stood up and peeled off her nightgown, letting it drop to the floor. She felt her way to the bathroom and, without turning on a light, ran a stream of cold water with which to splash her face. Had she really sent the letter? she wondered. What would Martin think of her in the stark reality of a face-to-face world? Theresa wrapped her arms around her body, shaken by a sudden chill. Nubile was hardly the word for it. Curvaceous? Shapely? Womanly. Mature. Stumbling back to bed, Theresa quickly drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Martin opened his email and smiled. She’d answered his letter! There it was, nestled between thick layers of spam and offers too good to be true. He double-clicked, unaware that he was holding his breath in anticipation of her answer. “Yes,” he read. “I agree it’s time we met in person, and I’m looking forward to it. La Concha sounds wonderful - I’ll meet you there at 7.” Martin found her self-confidence refreshing. Theresa’s letters were always honest, and direct. So unlike most of the young women he’d met, she never played head games with him. What had begun as a casual correspondence quickly deepened into a comfortable friendship.

Why, then, he wondered, had he let the little white lies get so out of hand? Not lies, he told himself. Just a slight stretching of the truth to match what he wanted to believe when there was no mirror around to call him a fraud. No huge, unforgivable deceptions, surely – and yet, wouldn’t Theresa have every reason to expect a much younger man with the sculpted muscles of a bodybuilder? He ran a hand over his stomach. Somewhere, under the soft layers of a middle-aged belly, lay a hint of the six-pack abs he worked so hard to develop in his twenties. Hard to find, admittedly, but still there if he sucked it in and held his breath till he turned blue. A little gray at the temples. Distinguished. Martin slumped in his chair. “Aww, hell,” he muttered, wondering what drove him to blow a good thing with the suggestion that they get together offline.

* * *

Theresa stared into the mirror, coldly appraising her reflected self. She had chosen and discarded half a dozen outfits: too young, too matronly, too sexy, too frumpy, too…too. Finally, she selected a pale blue silk sheathe that clung in all the right places, revealed just enough to be called sexy-but-elegant, and didn’t make her look ten years older or ten pounds heavier than she was. She was pleased with her skin; despite the fact that she would be forty in a week, her face required nothing more than a light foundation, a touch of apricot blush, a shimmering hint of sapphire and dusty rose on her eyelids, and a quick upstroke of mascara to highlight thick blonde lashes. She stood back and took one last look. “You don’t look a day over 39, m’dear,” she muttered. She blotted her lips and smiled, half mirth, half grimace, all crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes.

“Laugh lines,” she reminded herself.

Theresa looked at her watch and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. “What am I thinking?” She wondered how she’d ever found anything in common with Martin, who was nearly 20 years younger than she. “Okay, 15, but who’s counting?” she sighed. What she needed was a man with Martin’s wit, charm, and intelligence – and an extra 20 years’ experience.

* * *

Martin dusted off his dark blue suit, checking the pants for creases. He wondered if Theresa would prefer him in something more daring, less conservative. Martin sighed. If he had any hope of being himself with her tonight, he’d have to be comfortable with who he was. No more truth-stretching. He selected a tie that was a bit brighter than his usual choice, and hoped Theresa would approve of his choice. As he splashed on a bit of warm, spicy-scented cologne, he shook his head. The scent would probably remind Theresa of her dad. “God, that’s just what I need,” he groaned.

* * *

They arrived at La Concha a few minutes early. Martin nervously searched the lounge for a sexy, blonde co-ed while Theresa debated whether to steel her nerves with a drink. She was trying not to draw attention to herself as she looked around, nervous that she wouldn’t recognize Martin, fearful that he might not show up at all. She noticed the man, who appeared to be waiting for someone, also. He smiled nervously at her.

She chuckled. “Waiting for someone?”

Martin nodded. “You too?” He felt the tension leave his neck and shoulders. Now here was an attractive woman, near his own age. He wouldn’t have to suck it in and hold his breath all night. They might even find they had a few things in common. Like being stood up. He grinned.

“Uh huh. I think I’m going to get a drink while I wait. Care to join me?” Theresa smiled at the man. As the words left her lips, she realized that she sincerely hoped he’d take her up on her offer. Maybe Martin wouldn’t show. Maybe the evening wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

NaNoWriMo 2004: The Prologue

2005-10-01T14:51:00.000-05:00

I seriously thought about quitting.

Then I recaptured the true spirit of NaNoWriMo. I remembered what it was all about: to write a truly hideous novel of 50,000 words in 30 days.

"Nobody said nothin' about 'publishable.' Nobody ever suggested that a 30-day novel should be 'great lit-rah-chure' (Gesundheit!)" my Muse snickered.

"What was I thinking, to put such expectations on myself at a time like this, when all the world's gone mad around me?" I cried, throwing a forearm dramatically over my forehead and letting out a piteous wail.

"That's the spirit."

My Inner Editor foamed at the mouth. Only, the foam came out the bitch's nose, since my Muse had had the foresight to bind up her mouth with duct tape.

"Look, you're an overachiever, but you're a burnt-out overachiever seriously in danger of looking like she's got a bug up her ass. So write this one just for fun. And if you must compete, consider it your entry into the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest next year." The Muse shrugged.

"That's just supposed to be one sentence," I said. I was pouting. I had my heart set on writing great lit-rah-chure.

"So write a novel that gives you nothing but hard choices as to which sentence you should enter."

"There are multiple categories," I said, warming to the idea. "I could have 'em all covered, by the time I'm done."

"There you go. Enter in every category. Just be sure to win a 'Dishonorable Mention' for me."

"I'll do it!" I sprang to my feet, energized. It took less than a NaNoSecond for reality to sink in. "Oh, God, I'm so far behind. All I have so far is three death scenes and an aborted suicide."

You can imagine the withering look my Muse gave me.

"I know that, Dear. It's pretty fucking pathetic, if you ask me." She picked up my daughter's TI-83 calculator and pushed some buttons at random. "Don't think of it as 'behind.' Think of it as an adjustment, from 1667 words a day to 2800 words a day. You can do that, can't you? I mean...if you're enjoying yourself."

"Can I use this conversation?" I asked. I was reluctant to admit it; it seemed so...puerile. But I was beginning to enjoy myself. Guilty pleasures are always the best kind.

"No."

"Will you take that thing away?" I asked, pointing at the Inner Editor. The IE growled and struggled against the ropes that bound her to her ergonomically-correct office chair. Gleefully, I smacked her over the head with an ergonomic keyboard, breaking the device in two. I dumped it into her lap.

"Absolutely." My Muse poured two glasses of cheap cream sherry and we raised them in a toast. "To fingering Bulwer-Lytton's proboscis in April!"

"Here, here."

"Isn't that 'hear, hear'?" squeaked the Inner Editor, who had managed to bite through the duct tape with her jagged fangs.

"Good God. Does 'anal-retentive' have a hyphen?" sneered my Muse. Grabbing She-Who-Inspires-Writers-to-Write-Heinous-Scenes-of-Gruesome-Torture by the neck, my Muse saluted me and disappeared. The Evil One vanished, too, and I could breathe again.

NaNoWriMo: Sign-ups Begin October 1

2005-09-29T16:45:00.000-05:00

NaNoWriMo

Sign-ups begin October 1.

How to "gear up" for NaNoWriMo

1. Make sure the PC and monitor are in good repair.

2. Re-familiarize yourself with your backup options; learn to use them. Set a reminder, if necessary. Practice daily, starting now, so
that you are not caught unprepared, with 12,567 words left unprotected for the night.

3. Stock up on (and buy stock in) Starbucks, Jolt Cola, and Godiva chocolates. (Or Jack Daniels, or Mountain Dew and Skittles - pick your poison!)

4. Buy several spiral notebooks and a box of your favorite pens to jot down character sketches and list those pesky details that are likely to trip you up 3 weeks later (Oh, didn't you say your leading lady's eyes were brown? When did she start wearing amethyst-colored contact lenses? Wait, Junior can't have been born BEFORE his older sibling, Ryan--unless this is one of those weird time-warp stories...)

5. Make big, colorful posters for the door: "Keep Out, Dear Family, I Am Writing Now!" and "All Work, No Play, Makes Jack a Psycho - Enter at Your Own Peril!" (get creative).

6. Cut slot at bottom of door so loving spouse or significant other can slide a food tray through to you at regular intervals. When your loving spouse or significant other STOPS sliding food trays under door at regular intervals, remember that sex can be, er, mentally stimulating (and that gratuitous sex scenes are great for adding to the word count!)

7. Sharpen and keep handy a box of No. 2 pencils. You won't be writing with them, but you may need them as weapons of self-defense against pesky loved ones, coworkers, and friends as they lean over your shoulder to read what you've written.

8. Sleep long and often during the summer and early fall months, because you won't be sleeping in November. Store up for a long winter. If you're a real masochist, you have to take NaNoEdMo into account, as well. (And if you think NaNoEdMo only lasts a MONTH... hahahahahaa!!!)

9. If you must sleep during November, remember to keep a notebook by the bed. Long, rambling dream sequences are also great for adding to the word count.

10. If you work, don't blow your vacation time during November. Taking time off to devote yourself to NaNoWriMo is the Wimp's Way. Work that full-time job, devote yourself to your loving family and friends, then write during the wee hours of the morning. Reward yourself with a long week in Tahiti - ALONE - when NaNoWriMo is over.