Congratulations! It's a Book!

Seriously, why is it already the middle of November? How the hell did that happen without me noticing? And how the hell have I managed to go so long without posting a new entry? For shame, me. For shame.

Last weekend, I managed to take time out of procrastinating to go shopping. Normally, I avoid the mall from mid-October to mid-January (I have a fear of jingle bells and figgy pudding), but I was on a mission. A few of my friends will soon be popping out tiny reproductions of themselves, and these screaming, miniature humans must be appeased with plentiful offerings of blankies, binkies and other assorted trinkets with cutesy names. As I've no desire to spawn a mini-me, I found the whole process a little bewildering. Especially the tiny little socks. I don't know what it is about them, but those socks freaked me right out.

Anyway, I found what I think I was looking for, and quickly headed for the nearest exit whilst pushing my way through hordes of bargain-hunting matrons and like-omg-whatever teenagers. Just then, I spotted a lone man sitting in front of a bookstore. I didn't catch his name, but judging by the display around him, he was an author promoting his newest book.

I was a titch envious. How cool for him that he managed to get a book published. But I don't think you could have paid me to be in that man's shoes. He sat there, small smile on his lips, hands neatly folded on top of his novel, obviously quite proud of himself and his accomplishment. But his accomplishment could not compete with Christmas consumerism. If the stack of books around him were any indication, I doubt I had caught him in a lull between autograph seeking fans. I wonder if the poor guy had a visitor all day long.

I should have stopped and talked with him. I should have bought a book, even if I had no interest in the topic (some sort of war bio, I think). Here I was, braving the wilds of a holiday infected mall, buying presents for little creatures that I secretly sort of fear, and yet I couldn't find the courage to go give praise and encouragement to one of my own kind.

In Sarah's world, a literary baby should always be more cause for celebration that a real life baby. Literary babies are rarer, for one thing. And the pregnacy is longer, for another. Plus, literary babies don't wear those tiny, teeny, freaky little socks.

If I am ever fortunate enough to have a book signing of my own, all I can hope for is that these friends whose progeny I am gifting with nappies will remember my altruism and reciprocate by keeping me company so that I don't look quite so forsaken as that unknown author did.

Kita!!!

If you are in the 99.99999% of people who aren't lame enough to get the reference in the title of this entry, then I hate you. How dare you be less of a geeky fan-girl than me?

I kid, I kid. I kid because I love. No, that's a lie. I kid because I'm a sarcasmoholic. Acknowledging that I have a problem is the first step to recovery.

Let me back up a few steps here because I'm braindead and have already indulged myself way too much. The proper, un-geekified title of this entry should be "YAY!" Which means that I am pleased to announce that another story of mine has been accepted for publication.

"Madness and the Moon" has been accepted by Sonar 4 ezine, and will be included in their Sept 2009 issue. Woo hoo!

Okay, so I know I said I don't believe in writer's block. I still don't. I'm just using it as an excuse for my laziness. Less guilt that way. So until I get over myself and my fascination with Japanese doramas, I'm declaring that I officially and unequivocally am suffering from a severe case of writer's block. You gotta problem with that? Huh? Do ya? Then let me lift a cheek so you can kiss my ass.

Oh my. I get belligerent when I'm feeling guilty and lazy, don't I?

Once Upon a Dream

Sorry for co-opting your song, Prince Charming. Don't get your hopes up. I ain't Sleeping Beauty and we are not going to fall in love at first dance. There's no cutesy woodland creatures here to set the mood for you--only bizarre, misshapen freaks that may or may not sup upon human tenderloin, and one mad little writer who is cackling with glee over the thought of it.

I had a dream last night. One of the good kinds. Here's the secret to my not-so-successful success: most everything I've written is based on my dreams. Yup. More than 90% of my tales had gotten their start as Sarah-Jane's special brand of nocturnal brain firing. The other 10% were consciously crafted during my waking hours in order to fulfill specific criteria and, as a result, are not even half as endearing to me as my dream babies.

Is this the same for other writers? Are their stories inspired by their dreams? I don't know. You tell me.

This new spark of an idea is a bit daunting for me. If I am to write it as my dream suggested, then it is going to be a book written for (shudder) children! Gross! Am I even capable of this? I can't say for certain. I tend to lean towards the profane. I wouldn't think twice before putting in a disembowelment scene replete with all the splashing, juicy details, but the thought of writing something sweet and cutesy makes me cringe.

Does it have to be sweet and cutesy just because it's for (shudder) children? Growing up, I used to devour anything written by Christopher Pike and R.L. Stine (pre-Goosebumps era). I used to scour my library's young adult section for collections of spooky short stories. I worked my way through Poe and Hitchcock, because I guess when a story has been around long enough, the librarians start to think that it's suitable for kids. By thirteen, I graduated to King and other adult horror fare. But my point is, I know from those early explorations that it is possible to write something violent and disturbing, and still be able to package it for (shudder) children. After all, who doesn't like a good scare?

But maybe, in the end, it'll evolve into something I'll have to target towards adults. Just because the protagonists are children doesn't mean I'm confined to a (shudder) children's story. But I have a sneaking suspicion that I can already detect a moral of the story, and it is certainly a moral that lends itself well to half-grown humans. We shall see how this progresses.

I also have another sneaking suspicion that this new story is just my mind's way of tricking me into procrastinating. I have three unfinished projects right now and just as I was settling down to finally finish one of them, this little monster pops itself into my dreams and starts waving its tentacles at me. I think it's a diversionary tactic. I think my brain is conspiring against me. Maybe it's time to threaten it with a q-tip or a shopping spree at the L.C.B.O.

Now away I go to work on this (shudder) kid's story. I'll let you know how far I make it before Sleeping Beauty awakens and starts cannibalizing her prince.

Luck Be a Lady

Luck is such a tricky little devil, isn't it?

I've been having great luck with work recently. I was given a promotion and a raise, which means I can quit my second job and have set hours instead of shift work. Best of all, no more evenings or weekends!! Pretty sa-weet if you ask me. Hopefully, this means that I'll be able to give this baby blog a bit more TLC.

Too bad I can't boast about the same success in my writing. I've received a batch of rejections, including one that I was really optimistic about. Poopy! I wish my job luck would rub off on my writing luck. Although, maybe not. After all, my job pays the bills and I doubt my writing ever will. Even if I were to get everything I've ever written published at a professional rate, it still wouldn't be enough to live on.

Remind me again why I want to be a writer? Oh yeah. I'm a glutton for punishment.

But it's not about the money, right? It's about the pleasure I derive from sharing my thoughts with the world. Right. Keep telling yourself that, me. Meanwhile, try not to spasm with jealousy while you take a peek at the new list from Forbes: The World's Best Paid Authors.

Heading up the list is J.K. Rowling at.....wait for it......$300 million. And that's just for this year alone. Think about it. $300 million. I can't even wrap my mind around that. Might as well be a trillion kagillion dollars. That's one lucky lady, folks.

Le sigh. All right, enough daydreaming about someone else's good fortune. Time to try to improve my own. I've got three short stories here that aren't going to submit themselves, and there are plenty of markets out there just itching to reject me.

You know what really gets me though? It's that most of the markets I've been aiming for have been non-paying. I figured I'd have a better shot at those than at ones that pay out professional rates. But just my luck, even the non-paying markets are turning me down. I can't even GIVE my work away! Isn't that just a hoot? Hah! Hahaha!

Laughter is the best medicine. But I wonder how long I can keep laughing like this before the men with the white jackets come and take me away? With my luck, probably not very long.

Still Waters Run Deep. Cat Minions Don't Come Cheap.

Back in the day, when I was but a wee sprite with small breasts and big dreams, I was obsessed with nail polish, costume jewelry and a new fangled machine called a CD player. To support my addictions, I took a job in one of the only clothing stores in my town's only mall. It was not a high fashion store. It was not even a low fashion store. It was the sort of store that your ninety-year-old grandmother thinks is the shit. I spent my days selling mom jeans (High-waist with pleats! Sexy!) and trying not to jam staples in my eyeballs to relieve my boredom. Needless to say, I wasn't particularly happy there and I wasn't a particularly good employee. I had no flair. I had no want of flair. Management took notice of this and eventually handed me my walking papers.

I don't know why my boss (who was a good thirty years my senior) felt it necessary to insult me as well as fire me. Maybe she was just frustrated with my lackluster performance. Maybe she was bitter that I had the chance to escape that drab world of denim while she remained trapped amongst the hangers and price tags. Whatever the case, I left in tears, wondering if I was really as "spaced-out," "not all there" and "out of it" as she claimed I was.

I now know that I am not. But, unfortunately, I often give the impression that I am. I've mentioned before that I'm not very socially adept. Truth is I'm shy. Introverted. Ever take those Myers-Briggs tests? I scored an INFP. Basically, a lot of psych babble that translates to being shy. I prefer to watch rather than participate, listen rather than talk, dream rather than plan. My unease around fellow members of the human race manifests itself in silence and a dreamy expression. I'm sure a great many people I meet walk away with the same impression of me as my bitchy boss of yore.

I don't really care if people dismiss me as an idiot. At least I'll always have the element of surprise on my side. One day, once I finish equipping my army of cat minions with chain saws and lasers, people will be too shocked to put up much resistance. "Her?" they'll cry as they throw themselves prostrate before me. "She's our new overlord? But I always thought she was so out of it!" Mwhahahahahaha!

Please do pardon my Pinky and the Brain moment, and forget anything you just read about cat minions. There's no such thing. No. Of course there's not.

Anyapocalypse, having an INFP personality apparently lends itself quite nicely with being a writer. (Et voila! The segue from childhood rant to writing rant. Well done, Pinky! Or am I Brain?) I've often been told that I'm perceptive. I can pick up on someone's mood with just a quick survey of body language and tone of voice. And while I'm amongst a crowd of people, innocently silent and seemingly spaced out, I'm actually watching every move made and listening to every word said. Then I sift through all that information, store it and recycle it for use in my writing. Your annoying but harmless quirks, your figures of speech, the flashes of true emotion that occasionally slip through your facade of polite conversation -- all of this is just fodder for my imagination. Every one of the characters I've ever written are just weird mutant babies born from the DNA of a hundred different people I've known in real life.

In writing, you often hear talk of showing rather than telling. In other words, it's better to show that a character is hurt, angry, happy or scared rather than just saying it. Without tooting my own horn, I've gotta say that I'm pretty good at showing, being the little INFP super spy that I am. I know that raising an eyebrow or licking lips or massaging of one's temples is often more than enough to demonstrate a character's mental state. I'm good at dropping subtle hints because I'm spent years watching how people act and react.

But sometimes I'm a little too subtle. I forget that there are other personality types out there. ISTJs, ESTPs, INTJs, etc. And I forget that when plopped into a room of people, not everyone is content to sit back and observe. Some people are too busy, you know, interacting! The little clues I sprinkle throughout my text that are so obvious to me don't come across so obvious to everyone, and sometimes my test readers will hand me back an excerpt with a "buh?" expression on their face.

"Why did she do this?" they'll ask me. "I thought she was happy."

"Well, no, you idiot," I'd love to reply. "If you had been paying attention, you'd notice that she was actually pissed off the entire time. Note how she straightened her shoulders, how her mouth quirked as though she was biting the inside of her cheek. It couldn't be more clear. Seriously, how have you managed to survive for as long as you have without getting the crap kicked out of you for not being able to understand basic body language?!"

But of course, I can't say things like that. I have to be a professional and use any bit of criticism I can to help perfect my tales.

So what to do, what to do? No, really. What do I do? How do I change this? How can I show without telling, but still be clear enough that it might as well be telling except for the fact that I don't tell but show? Did I just make your brain explode? Good. Now you know how I feel.

Trial and error, I suppose. Practice makes perfect. Insert additional motivational cliche here.

Perhaps I should just concentrate on my army of cat minions. Right now that seems easier than writing a book that will be understandable yet not over-simplified. Besides, cats are really good with body language and are masters of staring into space. I'll fit right in with them. All that extra sleep would be a bonus too.

New plan! Forget writing! When I grow up, Imma be a cat!

It's a Small World

Poor little blog. Did you miss me? It's been far too long since I've paid you any attention. But don't worry, my pet. One day, when I make the best seller's list or win the lottery or rob a bank, I'll be able to quit my day jobs and have oodles of time to spend on you.

I love this blog. I really do. It took me awhile to decide to start it. I kept thinking that I had nothing relevant to say, that no one would read it, that it would wither and die like the potted plant on the top of my fridge (note: do not buy me plants as presents. I will invariably kill them. I'm all thumbs, but not a single one of them is green). I honestly didn't see the point of someone like me starting a blog, but I thought "what the hell," and went for it. And I'm glad I did.

Having something to write each week keeps me focused and hones my skill. I'm all about the honing, man. Anything to help improve my writing. And, trust me, my writing is in constant need of improvement! I look back on things I wrote a year ago (hell, even a month ago!) and I wince. It's amazing how much you can learn just by doing. That is a sentiment worthy of an after school special. Makes my fingertips feel like gagging just typing that out.

I think the single best thing about this blog is knowing that somewhere out there, people are reading something I've written. This blog has had visitors from across North America, South America, Asia and Europe. That is mind boggling. Just that knowledge alone is enough to keep me going after receiving the inevitable plethora of rejections nobody writers like me deal with.

So allow me to express my deepest thanks to everyone who's visited so far, and especially those who've been kind enough to return. Much love. If you could see me right now, I'd be doing something really lame and embarrassing for a woman my age, like thumping my fist over my heart or giving a double peace sign or something.

Once again, I have to say how grateful I am that I don't have any children. No doubt they would disown me after I entertained their friends with my off-key rendition of "I Kissed a Girl," or dropped them off at school wearing apple bottom jeans and over-sized sunglasses.

I love the internet. It hides my shame.