NaNoWriMo

Um, not to self promote or anything but you should totally check out my profile on the nanowrimo website. And then, you know, check out the rest of the site. It is pretty sweet.

insert clever title here: The last thing you do...

...is line editing.

You know, line editing. That thing you do where you write a paragraph or two, go back over it, tweak a word or a phrase, maybe write a little more, tweak that, then get stuck, go back through everything you've written so far and tweak that. It's the thing your Inner Editor wants you to do, and it's what NaNoWriMo trains you out of doing. (Am I going to mention NaNoWriMo in every post from now until December? I just might!) You know what I'm talking about.

Well, I'm here to tell you that not only should you NEVER do what I just described, you shouldn't line edit AT ALL until EVERYTHING else is finished. And I don't just mean finishing your first draft (although that's a start). I mean, this type of editing should not happen until you've written at least two or three (or six) drafts. It shouldn't happen until the pacing of your story has been smoothed out, the scenes are all there and in order, and you're so sick of this darn thing that if you have to look at it one more time, you'll puke.

Now can you line edit? Well, no. Puke is bad. When you get to that point, stop, take a break, and come back to it when the sight of it doesn't make you queasy. If the structure is still good, NOW you can line edit. Now you can go through and tweak like you've always wanted. And then you're done. You've done the last thing. You have a novel.

Now it's time to mail it to people and get rejected a lot!

Thinking About Books: Author Edition: Patricia A. McKillip

Patricia A. McKillip is so awesome I had to make up a new category in my book reviews, just for her. "Author Edition." Sounds fancy, huh? Although, you could just as easily say the reason I made up a new category is because it was too hard to pick just one of her books to review. Because that's certainly true.

But seriously, folks, this lady is super awesome. Do you remember that post I did about Rose Daughter, in which I went on and on about the sumptuous quality of it? Well, McKillip is like that, only the word I use with her is "dream-like." That is to say, her books are full of the unexplained and fantastic, existing peacefully alongside the mundane details of real life.

McKillip strikes just the right note between vague and precise, unfocused and sharp, fantasy and reality. Her books are like an impressionist or pointillist painting. It can seem chaotic and random, yet still beautiful, but when you step back, you realize that the whole thing is a unified whole that makes perfect sense. This is not to say her books are tidy. (I can't stand tidy books.) There are plenty of loose ends once you turn the last page that you can think about the book and its world for a long time after it. And her worlds are so richly painted that, even if you couldn't point to them on a map, or even say what century they're in, you feel like you've visited a real place, and now you're back home, wondering when you can go again.

Bibliography (that I've read)

Winter Rose
Ombria in Shadow
Alphabet of Thorn
Od Magic
The Bell at Sealey Head
Fool's Run (This one is sci-fi, and different from the others. Less dream-like. But one of my favorites. In fact, if I'd gone ahead and picked just one book to review, this one might have been it. I may do so yet.)

Technology hates me

No really, it does.

I won't go into detail, because frankly it mostly involves me foaming at the mouth a lot. But suffice it to say, three separate pieces of technology have gone wrong today, and I hate to think what life would be like if I had an artificial heart.

insert clever title here: Outlines

I have always hated the idea of outlines.

They stifle creativity, I thought. They're annoying/boring/too hard to write. They don't serve any purpose.

Wrong.

I've recently learned that not only are outlines not stiflers of creativity, they are kind of necessary. Maybe you don't start off with one, but you're going to need one eventually because novels are LONG, and it's hard to keep track of stuff (especially for me). And they provide structure and guidance, which, on a big, long project such as a whole novel, is really helpful. The best part is, you don't have to follow it if you don't want to. In fact, you might not make one until you're quite a ways in.

Case in point: during my most recent project, when I finally broke down and actually wrote an outline, I was already part of the way through draft 2.5. But it made everything after it so easy I'm starting the next Nanowrimo with one. What it did was give me a roadmap. I'd always started novels with only a hazy idea of where I was going... okay, let's be real here, I'd pretty much do the noveling equivalent of closing my eyes, spinning in a circle, stopping when I got dizzy, and setting off in the direction I was facing. I almost never had an ending, and odds were against me having anything more than a sketch of a character or two, a basic setting, and maybe a conflict. I would discover the territory as I went along, and while that can be terribly exciting, it's more often boring because you can't move half the time, having no idea where you're going. I'd get stuck a lot. With an outline, on the other hand, things were much smoother, and when I did get stuck, I could just look at the outline, and be able to tell what the story needed in this spot here and now, and not have to go blindly forward and then backtrack several times. Instead of stifling my creativity, it helped inspire it.

P.S. I've heard of an extreme version of this, and I've included it mainly for your curiosity. I've never tried it, and while it sounds like it would work in theory, I think I am much too inexperienced to try it myself yet. (Also, it sounds really hard.)

NaNoWriMo!

nano nano nano nano
nano nano nano nano
WRIMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

(See, the Batman theme is appropriate, because I'm writing about superheroes this year... anyway, I'm just excited about NaNo!)

Oh, yes I did.

Titles are hard

I just finished revising the novel I wrote last year for NaNoWriMo. I am so excited, because this is the first time I've actually finished writing a rough draft for a novel and then gone back and revised it. It was tough, and I had to almost completely rewrite it, but in the end I had 19,000 words that fit together well and that I could actually show people. Not publishers, mind you, but other human beings.

This process has taught me a lot about editing and revising, and it's been a hard road, and I know I'm not even close to the end. I know I have a lot more to learn before I'm even ready to start sending stuff to publishers, but I also know it's going to be a blast. Revising this novel has been so hard, but so worth it.

And I'd like to pass that knowledge on. So for the next few blog posts, and interspersed with the other stuff, I'm going to lay out what my own experience and the advice and experiences of others is teaching me about the whole writing process. I think I'll call this series "insert clever title here."

I mean, really, just look at the title of this blog post.

Foxy Lady

Foxes were always called Reynard.

She knew this was true. Her grandfather had told her so, and her grandfather always told the truth, regardless of whether her mother thought she should hear it, such as the fact that her older brother had been born somewhat less than nine months after her parents were married. This had resulted in her being banned from seeing him several times throughout her childhood, though the ban was always quietly lifted a few weeks after it had been set in place, and she could start visiting him by the lane again, instead of through the hedge in the backyard.

And he had been the one who told her that all foxes were called Reynard, which was why she was having a particularly hard time accepting this one’s invitation to call him Kit.

Kit wasn’t a bad name for a fox, she had to concede, drinking in his bright red hair and sharp eyes. And really, he didn’t look like a Reynard. He did look like a Kit. He also looked like a fox, and foxes were always called Reynard. She sipped her purple drink and looked at him through her eyelashes.

It was a long time since her grandfather had died (“Don’t let them fool you and think I’m just sleeping,” he’d told her shortly before he’d passed. “I’m dying and you may as well know it.”) and she was a young woman who knew the truth about many things, and one of them was that young men were easily manipulated by pretty young women, which she was. This was partly why she knew he was a fox; he wasn’t responding to any of her usual tricks and devices. The whiskers helped. Most people wouldn’t have been able to see them, she knew, but there they were, like a shadow or a see-through image, bizarrely decorating his handsome human face. She could see the foxy shape of him in his shadow, in his sudden movements, and in the tail that also was and wasn’t there.

He’d bought her a fancy drink and they’d chatted about this and that, but the whole time since he’d entered the room she had been watching him, and she thought she about had it figured out now.

“You know I know,” she said, and was gratified by the way his face did not melt into surprise. Instead he grinned a foxy grin, and said,

“But did you know I know you know I know you know?” And she watched him be gratified at her puzzlement, which didn’t last long.

“Why are you here, dressed like a human?” she asked. His expression faded into seriousness.

“Because I want to have fun,” he said in a funeral voice. She watched him carefully, as she had all night, and could tell he was lying.

“Are you under a curse?” she wondered aloud. “Or a geas? Or banished?”

“None of those,” he said, his eyes like glass and his mouth perfect. “I’m in love.”

She was familiar with that, at least, but she knew enough to be careful with fey creatures. A man could only break your heart. A fox could do much worse.

“Are you in love with me?” she asked coyly, and in answer he leaned over and kissed her. His whiskers tickled softly, in the way of things that are not quite of this world. His mouth was warm and tasted of sweet alcohol. She drew away, and he looked at her like he was the one under a spell.

“How did you do it?” he asked softly. “How did you ensnare me so quickly and completely?”

“Is your name really Kit?” she asked in return. He grinned a saucy grin that she liked better than the empty-eyed look he’d had a moment before.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said. She shrugged.

“Not really.” But his grin did not fade.

“Liar,” he said, and she frowned. What he said was truth. She tried for nonchalant.

“Well, I’m not going to pursue it,” she said.

“I will pursue you to the ends of the earth,” he answered sincerely. She mused that it was an uncomfortable thing, to have a trickster’s love.

“That’s so cliché,” she said, and if he’d been human she would have walked out of the bar. Now, she merely turned away. He touched her arm, and she felt his fur. It was soft, and it tickled ever so slightly, the same as his whiskers had. She glanced at him.

“Come with me,” he whispered. “Run with me, exult with me. Mine is a purer existence, with no lies, no falsehoods, and no need for them.”

And she ached with longing then, for a way of being that did not permit untruths. But she did not lose her head, and she replied steadily,

“How can a trickster live without falsehoods? You call yourself Kit, but I see you for Reynard. You are not even in love with me, are you?”

He drew back, frowning, and she knew she had spoken truth. It was the first time this had made her sad. But now she could walk out of the bar without feeling like she was leaving behind a part of herself. He did not move to stop her, and by this she knew she would encounter him again. He was not in love with her, but doubtless he was fascinated by someone who saw through him so easily. They always were.

Musings

I’ve always found the tendency to categorize people to be somewhat silly. Useful, perhaps, and not always inaccurate, but still silly. An example may be in order.

When I was a junior we did a little activity in my English class that the teacher had done ever year with juniors for about ten years, maybe more. She had us list all the different “groups” of people in the school, and then place ourselves in a group. We came up with the Jocks and the Potheads and the Drama People and the Band Geeks and the Artistics and the Nerds, and so on and so forth. But we also came up with a category I don’t think had made it on the list before, and that certainly doesn’t make it on most lists you’re likely to find. We eventually settled on calling them the Normals. They were the people who didn’t really fit in to any one group, but who also weren’t social rejects because of it. They were just… people, who couldn’t be pigeonholed, not because they were super unique and shouted out their unique identities to the whole world in upper case letters (these people had their own group), but because they didn’t have one defining trait and could easily move between groups without taking on the characteristics of any group. They were the masses, the average joes who just went about their existence without worrying about defining themselves too rigorously.

We were all satisfied with this category, and proud of ourselves with having come up with it, instead of just regurgitating accepted social labels. We also came up with a category called Other, which consisted of the people who truly defied description in one word, people who were larger than life and who we all secretly admired even if we thought they were a little weird.

Then came time to place ourselves in a group, and then talk about whether we thought people’s choice was correct. Most people placed themselves without difficulty or argument from the others, and indeed, most of the people in my class placed themselves in this Normal category. When it came to my turn, that was what I did too. But there was a cry of protest, mostly from a group of girls I barely knew, or, let’s be realistic, I used to know very well when we were in Girl Scouts together, and had drifted so far apart from that it was unreal. I thought of them as Popular (even though they placed themselves as Normals and I didn’t object) and kind of above me. They told me I was not a boring Normal, that I was in fact an amazing Other, that I had a unique fashion sense (which they admitted to liking quite a bit) that didn’t take its cues from anything and that I was one hundred percent ME and I didn’t bend under pressure to become what other people thought I should be.

I was very flattered, but I was also very confused. Normal was pretty much how I defined myself. I mean, there was that level of myself that thought of me as a unique and special and mysterious and wonderful. Everyone does. But I also knew it wasn’t true. I don’t know where I was on the continuum of self-esteem at the time, but I did know that I wasn’t really that unique. I thought of myself as a jeans-and-a-t-shirt girl, and not just in the fashion sense. But as I was about to deny it, I looked down at myself and realized that I was wearing an outfit entirely cobbled together from my finds at Goodwill the night before. Big brown boots with steel toes, a blue button up shirt, and green plastic pants. It didn’t really work, and I sort of even knew that. But it definitely destroyed my argument of normalcy, especially considering that I did this Goodwill outfit thing on a fairly regular basis. I stopped arguing and just smiled, and we put my name in the Other category, to my pride and embarrassment.

But it left me thinking. And I’ve been thinking about it ever since. About labels, and other people’s perceptions of me, and their perceptions of my perceptions of them. And I’m still thinking. But one conclusion I’ve come to is that we all think we’re special, but deep down we know we’re not. And, really, they’re both right. As for high school labels, the fact is that we put those labels on ourselves, and then forget we’ve done so and try to live up to our own reputations and what we think other people’s expectations are. And while you’re going through high school, trying to figure out who you are, that’s probably okay. You need to try on different identities in order to make your own. But buying too much into those labels, as though people really are just different flavors of Skittles, is far too simple. Am I Normal? Am I Other? Am I a Band Geek? A wife, a writer, a blogger, a girl, a twenty-something, a Firefly fan?

Yes. And no. I am all of those things, but most of all I am me. A label of one.

Blast from the Past

This post was originally written on June 4, 2009. It never got published, for reasons I can't remember at the moment, but I stumbled across it recently and thought you might enjoy it.


Since I work at an academic library, I get exposed to a particular slice of the human pie that is often absent from that of public libraries: professors.

I may have mentioned them before, but ever since I moved to my current job working as a secretary, my interactions with faculty have moved from hilarious phone calls and books to renew a thousand times, to (often hilarious) angry emails. Certain professors have something of a reputation around here, as I soon learned. Privacy rules being what they are I can't reproduce full texts here, but I can offer the jist of a recent email from a guy on our Most Wanted List:


Dear Secretaries,

Since I am god and you have Made A Mistake, I will simply tell you to fix it without even asking if maybe the mistake is on my end. I will attempt to demonstrate that I know how to do your job better than you do, while actually displaying a shocking ignorance of basic library usage. I will even be helpful and provide a link to my online account, which, since you need my user name and password to access it, will do you no good.

I expect to be notified the minute all my fines are removed forever and I will be watching for your apology cake in the mail.

Sincerely,
Professor Pompous, PhD., OmG., WtF., BbQ.


Luckily, I was able to pass the buck. I talked to the lady I forwarded this to, just to make sure I was supposed to send it to her and not someone else. When I mentioned his name, this look of long-suffering and distaste came over her face and she said, "Oh. Him."

That, I think, says it all.

Sorry about that.

I just realized that the last layout was actually kind of painful to read. Sorry about that. I think this is a little easier on the eyeballs. White text on black background works only in small chunks, and I should have known better.

On a related note, I love all these new templates Blogger offers. They're so pretty! And customizable, which is my favorite thing to do. Sitting there fiddling with font colors and such is one of life's delights.

This one's about cats.

Not dark at all this time. Whew. That was getting scary.


There was no telling with cats.

Sometimes they sat there and watched what was going on around them with moon eyes and tails twitching, and other times they slept through everything. On occasion it seemed they could sense emotions and respond accordingly, but there had been instances when, distraught and in tears, she’d had to pause in her self-pity to let a cat out to do its business. It was possible, she mused now, that this had been exactly the thing for the cat to do, because often when that happened she stood at the open door and looked out, at the trees, the yard, the cat, remembering that there was a world beyond her and her problems, and had gone inside with the cat at the conclusion of its business and been able to dry her tears.

But she had never seen a cat turn into a man, as her newest arrival had just done.

She knew she was a bit young to be a cat-lady, but she just couldn’t help herself. She’d take in any cat who wanted a place to find food and shelter, and they must have some sort of feline grapevine because more kept coming. She was not the kind of cat-lady to name all her cats and keep track of them obsessively, though she did have some idea of their numbers, and had named many of them. But some of them were so obviously passing through that she felt it rude to form attachments like names, and some she was sure had names of their own, and it would have been equally rude to give them a name. There were five that were definitely hers, and they had names she had given them and their own places to sleep or hide and she had spayed or neutered each of them. They even had collars. Then there were a further fifteen or so that came and went on a fairly regular basis, and who had a few collective food bowls set out for them. Then there were the uncountables, the masses that came on occasion or only once or twice, some of whom she had never seen, and could only identify by that much less food and a scratched tree or two.

The man sleeping on her floor was one of the uncountables, who she could just recognize by sight but who had never made himself known to her personally. As a cat he was a slender, black thing, always nervous and wary of her, so she left him a bowl out of the way of the other cats and herself. He had never looked unhealthy, not skinny and ragged and dull-coated like some strays. He looked like he belonged to someone, and that was what she had assumed until now. Today, though, he’d come limping up, streaked with blood and shyly insinuated that he’d like to be let in, which she had done, at which point he had fairly collapsed on the floor, fallen asleep, and turned into a man.

The man was stark naked, of course. If a cat turning into a man surprised her, this fact, at least, did not. He was also covered in the same kinds of scratches that the cat had had, only on a human they were much shallower, and only looked painful, not deadly. She had laid a few old towels over him, but otherwise had simply let him sleep, trying to keep herself calm as she pretended that this was normal, not cause for alarm, and she could definitely wash the dishes without looking at him more than a few times (a minute) out of the corner of her eye. Occasionally he would twitch in his sleep, and she would carefully not jump, and only hold her breath until it became apparent that he was not waking up. Until he did.

He came to instantly, like a cat, of course, and stood gracefully with no extra movement, letting the towels fall off him. She tried to stare only at his eyes, which did not look like a cat’s eyes except in the wild and wary way they were taking in the surroundings. He quickly took stock of the small apartment, and then locked eyes with her. She stared back, not moving, though she could not be certain it was only him she was trying not to startle. He stood like a cat stands, quietly, but always with the imminent threat of movement. He took a step forward, and then stumbled, caught himself, and looked back up at her with human eyes and a human stance. She relaxed marginally.

“Hello,” he said, in a deep, almost purring voice. “I think I know you. I hope I haven’t given you too much trouble.”

She shook her head, automatically, out of politeness. “Of course not.”

There was an awkward silence. She caught herself more than once having to twitch her eyes back up to his face, and he must have noticed this because suddenly, with more than a hint of a cat’s grace, he leaned down and picked up one of the towels and wrapped it swiftly around himself.

“I’m very sorry to trouble you,” he said, and though she was grateful for the towel, she still had to work to keep her eyes on his face (she was sure this tan, muscular man in front of her could not logically have an analogue in the slender thing that had entered her apartment), “but could I borrow use of your shower? And, perhaps, some clothes. I am terribly sorry to put you to all this trouble, but this was the only place I could think of to go. I was sure I wouldn’t change back, you see.” This last was said ruefully, with a little smile that made his face unbearably attractive. She swallowed.

“No problem,” she squeaked, and cleared her throat. “The bathroom’s there” she pointed “and there’s a first aid kit in there too.”

“Thank you,” he said, bowing slightly. She was more taken aback at that than perhaps anything else so far, and she almost forgot to mention the clothes.

“Oh, and I think I have some sweats that might fit you,” she added, as he was about to leave the room. He turned with that feline grace, nodded thanks, and went down the hall. She staggered back and leaned against the kitchen counter, hand to her mouth.


He reentered fifteen minutes later, clean, bandaged and wearing her sweats, which were miles too big for her but which always seemed to avoid the consignment pile. They fit him very nicely.

“Thank you very much,” he said. “I have another favor to ask you.”

She looked up from the very clean dishes she was drying and putting away, and found herself captivated by him again. She nodded blankly.

“My sister… is like me,” he began tentatively. “She frequents your porch more often than I do, I think. She… comes as a tabby with a white star on her forehead and a pink nose.”

She riffled through her memory and came up with a match.

“I’ve seen her,” she said faintly. “She’s as wary as you.”

He nodded, conceding the point.

“I’m looking for her. Have you seen her lately?”

She shook her head.

“Not in the last few days.”

He grimaced.

“I see.” He looked back up at her. “It was she who gave me these scratches.”

Her eyebrows raised. He continued,

“She… retains less of her humanity as a cat than I do, and more of her feline nature as a woman. She barely comes home these days. She spends most of her time as a cat. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with her, and I think I may have found a solution, but I can’t seem to find her. I finally ran into her earlier, but she wouldn’t have it, and she gave me these.” He gestured ruefully to the numerous band aids covering his limbs and bare chest. She nodded, grateful for permission to stare, if only for a moment. “If you see her, will you keep her? I’ll keep looking, but I think she’ll turn up here eventually.”

She nodded again, then found her voice.

“Of course. Certainly. She often goes this long between visits. When I see her, I’ll take care of her.”

He smiled, and bowed again. She felt her own waist bend in return. Then he left, as suddenly as he’d come. It was a long time before she went back to the dishes.


She saw the tabby the next day, late in the day, and she quietly laid out a plate of liver where the others wouldn’t get it. The liver was laced with Benadryl, which she’d used before on recalcitrant cats who hated the vet. Soon the tabby was asleep, and she carried her inside and laid her down in a nest of towels. She would have put her in a cat carrier, but she was afraid this one would transform too, and her fears were well founded because a few minutes later she went to check on her and found a woman in her place. She placed a blanket over her, wishing she’d gotten some kind of contact information from the man before he’d gone. It took the woman longer to wake up than the man, but when she did she immediately leaped up and looked wildly around the room, focusing at last on her.

Again, she stood very still, waiting for the cat-woman to calm down. Soon, however, the woman was a tabby again, and growling deep in her throat. She set down another plate of cat food and retreated, keeping a corner of her eye on the tabby. The cat cautiously approached the food, sniffed it thoroughly, and then nibbled on it. Soon the plate was empty, and the tabby was yowling for more. She fed her again, and when the cat was full it curled up in the nest of towels and went to sleep.

An hour or so later there was a knock at the front door, and when she opened it she found the cat-man standing on her porch, with considerably more clothes than he’d been wearing previously. He was wearing jeans, a sweater and a scarf, and holding a bouquet of flowers. She blinked stupidly at him.

“I came to bring you these,” he said, shifting awkwardly and waving the bouquet randomly. “As thanks. For your help.”

She nodded, faintly.

“Thank you,” she said. There was a pause, and then she remembered herself. “Oh, and your sister’s here.”

He was instantly more alert. She turned aside out of his way, allowing him in. He handed her the flowers as he strode past her, into her living room. She followed him slowly. When she reached the room he was already kneeling down beside the sleeping cat. She treaded silently to the kitchen and set down the flowers, watching them. He moved slowly, getting his arms in place, and then swiftly but gently put his hands around the cat. She woke instantly and began hissing and scratching, but he only grimaced and stood, the cat firmly in his grip. He looked up at her, and she pointed to the cat carrier she kept by the door. He nodded his thanks, and slipped the cat inside it, withdrawing his hands and shutting the door in one swift motion. She could see a paw batting out through the bars. He stood.

“Thank you so much. I know flowers aren’t enough…”

She waved a dismissive hand, though she wished she had the courage to ask for his phone number. “Don’t mention it,” she said. He nodded again, picked up the carrier, and was gone again.


A few days later she saw a woman on the other side of the street, wearing a dress and battered old sneakers, who caught her eye and nodded to her. She squinted at the woman, lifting a hand to ward off the glare, and barely had time to recognize her before she slipped away with cat-like grace behind some garbage cans and she lost sight of her.

She saw the slight black cat the day after that, slinking around at the back of the group of feeding cats. She smiled at him, and he came up to her and shyly put his head under her fingers, and when she scratched his ears he purred.

What is wrong with me?

Well, I didn't say I was done with my dark-themed kick.


They were twins.

That was immediately apparent. The twin on her left had bright orange hair, and the twin on her right had on a blue jacket. The twin on her left was speaking loudly, and the twin on her right was using wide hand motions. The problem, she concluded, was that everything that was true about the twin on the left was true about the twin on the right, and everything that was true about the twin on the right was true about the twin on the left.

She looked from one to the other, studying now their hair, now their clothes, now their gestures, and she could not find the differences between them. There were always six differences between two seemingly identical things, and she could always find them within three minutes. The last one was always the hardest, of course, but in this case she could not even find the first one. They even moved the same way. It was infuriating.

Calmly, she picked up her fork, turned to the twin on the left, and brought the sharp tines down decisively into his arm. All loud talk and wide hand gestures stopped, and the twin on the right (the twin without the gash in his arm) grabbed his brother by the shoulders and stared at the bloody wound. Now she could see the differences.

1. The one with the gash in his arm had tears welling up in his eyes, and the one without the gash in his arm did not.

2. The one with the gash was holding his arm and staring at the welling blood in horror, but the one without the gash was staring at her, with a different sort of horror in his eyes.

3. The one with the gash looked very pale, and his freckles stood out on his cheeks clearly. His brother’s cheeks, on the other hand, were growing redder, obscuring his freckles to dim outlines.

4. The twin with the gash in his arm was stumblingly trying to get up from the bench seat, but his brother had already stood and was helping him up.

5. The twin with the gash in his arm could barely walk, so distraught and wounded was he. His brother, in contrast, was supporting him as he helped him walk away.

6. The twin with the gash was focused solely on his wound, but the twin without the gash looked back at her once, twice, three times before she was out of sight.

She smiled each time he looked back, and once they were gone she turned with relief to the two lunches she had bought. Each tray had a slice of pizza, tater tots, a yogurt cup, and a water glass. At first glance they seemed identical, but she was confident she could find the differences between them in under three minutes.

This one's a bit... dark.

Whew. This is quite a bit darker than the last one. I might have to rate it PG-13, but only for "dark themes and some suggestion of violence." Don't worry, this is me we're talking about. I can't stand anything worse than vaguely creepy and off-screen gore. I'm a wimp, and proud of it.


Sometimes it’s hard to sleep:

When I remember the screams and the squish of blood. When I think of my father missing half his face. When the dreams are so vivid I have to cut myself with my knife to make sure I am really in the waking world.

Sometimes I’m not so sure about that even then.


It’s early when I make my way, after another sleepless night, to the place of my punishment at the headmaster’s hands. He and I both know I have done nothing wrong, but he is obligated to mete out punishment anyway, because I am the foundling and the children with parents (parents who pay, parents who care, parents who ask questions) are never whipped.

This morning, in front of the whole school, I am whipped.

I bear no ill will to the headmaster, though I suppose I could. When I daydream of burning this place down, it is always when he is away, or otherwise conveniently not in harm’s way. He is the only one I treat so kindly in my daydreams.

I know someday I will not be able to bleed out all the ill will and then it will bubble over into my soul and take over my body, and I will do things even more terrible than in my dreams. I know that one way or another, that is the day I will leave this place.


I stopped crying out in my sleep very early. When I did, the older boys would take me out of my bed and beat me, and leave me shivering in my nightgown in the hallway, locked out of the dorm, for the headmaster to find in the morning. Though he was kind, he never rebuked the boys who tormented me, and so I quickly learned that if I wanted to avoid the beatings I had to do it myself. First I learned to stifle my cries in the night. This did not stop them from beating me, though it did deprive them of even that flimsy excuse. Next I tried defending myself, but they were always older and bigger than me, and they hit harder that way. After that I got really clever and told them all I liked the beatings, hoping for a little reverse psychology. But the joke was on me, because they started calling me fagg-o and pulling nasty pranks, and that turned out to be worse than the beating, though the lack of bruises was nice.

Eventually I got quiet and I watched them all for a long time, and I learned what each boy who teased me loved most in the world. For one it was a toy truck. He’d never admit it, for we had grown out of that stuff years ago, but he still took it out sometimes and played with it, when no one (but me) was looking. For another boy it was his blanket. He boxed the ears of anyone who made fun of it, but he’d had that ratty old thing since he was a baby, and couldn’t sleep without it. I know, because on nights when it was being washed I’d watch him lay awake all night, making the particular breathing sounds of someone who is fighting down panic. The next night, when it was back from the laundry, he’d curl up tight in it and rub it against his face before falling asleep. For others it was less tangible things, like reputations, such as being the fastest runner or the best at marbles. Once I had learned the secret love of each boy’s heart I set my plan in motion.

I waited for the right moment to carry it out, and after two days I got my chance. I was reading a schoolbook in the library when a group of them came up to me, picked me up, and hauled me outside, threw me facedown in the mud, and then proceeded to tear out the pages of the book and smear them with mud until the only thing left was a collection of bits of soggy paper. Then, laughing boastfully to each other, they went back inside, stopping to carefully wipe their feet on the mat before entering.

I knew it was time.

That night, after everyone was sound asleep (it was the middle of the week, far from washing day) I made my rounds, being careful only to target those who had participated in the mud slinging. I wanted my message clear. No one woke to the muffled sounds of me making my mischief.

The next morning each of the five boys who had attacked me woke to find their most precious thing covered in mud and torn apart. The blanket had been easy, but the truck proved more difficult. I had finally had to simply smash it with a large rock, and now it was barely recognizable as a toy. The running boy’s lucky shoes were totally unusable; the boy who was best at marbles found his precious collection replaced with muddy stones. And the boy who fancied himself the best-looking chap of all woke that morning to hair tonic bottles filled with mud, his best clothes torn and dirty, and his hair cut in ragged clumps. (Cutting his hair had been the most fun, and the most tricky.) It took a while for each boy to realize what had happened, and then to notice that it had happened to others, and then an eternity to figure out what it meant and, last of all, who had done it.

I had stayed to watch, but that had probably been unadvisable. Once the boys had figured out who was responsible for murdering their best loves, they congregated on me and, forgetting themselves, gave me the worst beating they’d ever given me. When they were done I could barely move, but I limped out and headed toward the headmaster’s office, hoping against hope that this time he might protect me, this time he might do something. Instead he gave me a sad look and sent me to the infirmary. That day at lunch it was announced that I would receive a whipping at breakfast the next day. The looks on the faces of the five boys (one with much shorter hair) made my blood boil, and I left the hall without eating, putting my knife to a patch of skin not already cut or bruised and letting the hate spill down my arm and out of me. It took a long time.


I am standing before the headmaster now, at breakfast, which I will not eat today, watching him remove his coat and pick up the whip. It’s a real whip, not a switch, and I know I will not be expected in classes today. I turn my back to him and bend over, taking off my shirt as I do.

The whip bites much harder than I expected, but I do not cry out. I have had much practice at this. Five times it whistles down and brands me with lightning, and then I am allowed to put my shirt back on. I make to go back to my seat, but the headmaster stops me. Without glancing at me he announces to the assembled boys,

“It has been decided that a whipping is not punishment enough for this boy. He is to be made an example of. I hereby expel him from this school, effective immediately.”

There is a loud ringing in my ears. I don’t look at the head master. I couldn’t see him through the gray haze in front of my eyes anyway. My poor headmaster, as much at the mercy of these boys’ parents as I am at theirs, both of us caught, both of us unable to do as we like. I do not blame him.

I was wrong. Bleeding the anger out doesn’t work. All it does is make me insensitive to blood.

I pick up the headmaster’s whip, and step into my dream.

Short story

I've decided to give short fiction another try. Working on novels is kind of exhausting, and I'm getting a little tired of my characters. I remember having a lot of fun writing short stories in high school. So I'm going to set a goal (yay for setting goals) to write a short story every [recurring time period]. Every week? Every day? Every other day? Some regular time. To be figured out later. And I'm not going to worry about making these polished works of art. I'm just going to have fun. Here's the first one, clocking in at 928 words. Tell me if you like it.


Being the new kid at school sucks balls, but it isn’t all bad. You can reinvent yourself, but you have to be careful of the way the people at school want to interpret you. Halfway through my first day, things were looking pretty good. No one had decided to beat me up, and there was a certain someone I already had my eye one. Shelby Barnes. Blond hair, bright blue eyes, great body. I was already in love. We had two classes together. In the second one, English, two minutes before ending bell, I finally got up the nerve to make my move.

“Hey, your name’s Shelby, right?”

“Yeah. Hey, you’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I just moved from two towns away with my mom and sister.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I hope you like it here.”

The bell rang, then, and we all gathered our things to go.

“See you later, bro!” Shelby said.

Oh my gosh. He thinks I’m a dude.

GIANT PAUSE IN THE STORY

Okay, I should admit, this shouldn’t have surprised me that much. I’m just writing down what was going through my head at the time, but I’ll admit that, if I had stopped to think about it, I wouldn’t have been all that surprised that he mistook me for a guy.

But it hurt. And that made it shocking.

BACK TO THE MAIN STORY

He thinks I’m a dude. He thinks I’m a dude. Crap. Now what?

Now we go and slink off to the nearest bathroom. The girl’s bathroom. And find some sympathetic female to commiserate with.

Only there was no one in there. And, now that I was a little calmer, I doubt many girls would have anything useful or sympathetic to say about my situation. I am probably the only girl in the history of the universe that has been mistaken for a guy by the guy she likes. So. What to do.

I could see a few options:

1.Tell him I’m a girl.

2.Don’t tell him I’m a girl, and hope he figures it out on his own.

3.Pretend to be a guy to get closer to him.

a.Then tell him I’m a girl

b.Never tell him I’m a girl and love him from afar (across that great gender divide).

c.Hope he’s gay.

None of these appealed to me. Number one would make everything awkward and he would probably hate me. Number two will probably never happen, and just turn into number three, which has no happy endings.

I flushed the toilet for appearances and went to gym, brooding over my fate.
Once there, several other people mistook me for a dude, despite that fact that I very clearly came out of the girl’s locker room. It came to a head when I was sitting next to the fat, asthmatic kid after twisting my ankle during dodgeball.

“Hey, bro, what’s up?” he said politely.

“I am NOT a bro!” I shouted, halting the game for a few seconds. I lowered my head, turtle-like, into my shirt, and play resumed. Crap. I was never going to live that down. The fat kid blinked at me.

“Oh. Huh. I guess not. Now that I’m really looking, I can see—”

“Aw, look, just shut up, okay. It’s not like I didn’t sort of invite this reaction with my behavior.” Somehow I was now pouring my heart out to the fat kid. How did that happen? “I mean, I guess it’s to be expected that people will treat you differently if you refuse to conform to the accepted social norms. But I’m not trying to be a rebel. I just want to be comfortable. Is there anything wrong with not wanting to have to worry about doing my hair or choosing an outfit in the morning? It’s not my fault I also have no curves. At all. Ever.”

Great, now I’d worked myself up into a depression. Smart move, Jennings.

“Well, hey, have you ever thought about changing your appearance to be a little more… girly, without being more uncomfortable?”

The suggestion made sense, but something in me just rebelled against the idea.

“I dunno. How would I do that?”

“Well, you could try wearing more girly colors?”

“Then I’d just look gay.”

“You could try wearing tighter clothes, to show off your feminine curves.”

“I just said I don’t have any!”

“What about skirts?”

“What? No, those are way too girly.”

“No, there are ways to wear skirts that aren’t too girly. For one thing, you wear them over pants. Not like tights, but like jeans and stuff.”

“Hm.” I considered it. I didn’t have any immediate objections. “But will that make me look more like a girl? Or just stupid.”

“We could go shopping and see?”

I turned to look at him. “You and me?” Incredulousness painted my voice. “Are you serious?”

“Sure. I don’t conform to accepted social norms either.” He grinned at me. I grinned back, slowly. I think I liked this kid.

PAUSE

Not like that.

UNPAUSE

The skirt idea was okay, but we decided that afternoon after consulting our older sisters that simply combing my hair a certain way and wearing different, still comfy, clothes would be the best course of action. The fat kid’s older sister, whose name was Melanie, also advised me to simply be patient. She said I would always have a streamlined figure, but that I would fill out enough to look feminine if I gave it enough time. That was the hardest advice to follow.

Thinking About Books: Rose Daughter

The last few book posts have been about books I just read and had a lot to say about because they were making my mind churn in that delicious way that signals to me "This is a good book." This one is a little different in that it's also one of my all-time favorite, mind-altering, life-changing books and has been since I was 12 or 13.

Rose Daughter is an English garden of a book: cultivated and orderly profusions of flowery chaos. Every time I read it it's like being in a beautiful, lucid fever-dream. Everything is described with gorgeous language. This book sort of defines the word gorgeous for me; not merely "very beautiful," but, "adorned with rich or brilliant colours; sumptuously gay or splendid; magnificent." (Many thanks to the OED.) The gorgeousness of Rose Daughter reminds me that the word shares a root with gorge and engorge, words that mean a delicious amount of too much of something. You could distill the actual things that happen in this book to about four chapters, but instead you get over 200 pages of pure linguistic delight.

I don't remember what I thought when I first read it. I was in Middle School, and Middle School was Hell. I probably was only grateful that it provided an unusually wonderful escape from my life, which is what books were to me then (and still are). Little vacations from life. Rose Daughter is less like going to the beach and more like going into a coma (in a good way). There are some books that almost literally immerse me, to the point that I have to fight my way to the surface and gasp for air when I must come out of them for food or sleep. This is one of them. I read it when I'm sick, in body or in mind, and I come out of it refreshed and strengthened. I believe this was the book that first showed me that words could be put to beautiful purpose. I won't say I wasn't writing before I read it, but I believe most things I've written after have been affected by it. There is a vague standard of quality off in the hazy distance that I try to pursue in my writing, and when I think about it more closely, Rose Daughter is really what I'm striving for. That sumptuous profusion is what I'd like, at least in small measure, to put in my writing. To not merely tell a story, but to tell it gorgeously. I hope I can come half so close.

Because this is ridiculous, not because I care

Dear "Aaron's" Furniture Store:

I am assuming you are a furniture store, based on the content of the ad I found hanging on my door handle a few days ago. I don't know why you thought putting those up around here was a good idea; yes we're married college students, but we're married college students. What makes you think we have the money to be spending on entire, brand-new living rooms sets, no matter how much they're on sale? But fine, whatever, I understand that in order to make money you need people to know about you, and I admit I'd never heard of you until now, so good job, it worked, and I threw that ad in the recycling first chance I got.

This is not the body of my complaint.

My real beef is with whoever was delivering the dang things, because they apparently found it funny/easier/whatever to leave 10 or 15 extra ads under my door mat. WHAT. THE. HECK. I don't even know what to think about that. I'm pretty sure the blame rests entirely on whatever available teenager you roped into delivering these things; it's not like you would have instructed them to do this. (You didn't, did you?) And I know I live on the third floor, and I know that when it's a hot summer day you get lazy, but COME ON. Is it really that hard to just carry the extras back to the trash can or the Aaron's office or whatever? I'm not even mad. It's no skin off my back to dump them in the recycling with the original one. I'm just puzzled and saddened to find that there are people lazy/irresponsible/whatever enough to leave their problem under some stranger's doormat. Also, I actually am annoyed at having to throw them out. Not that it's that much extra work, but it's the principle of the thing!

Anyway, Aaron's, I'm glad you put your contact information directly on the ad, because I think you should be made aware that whoever you're paying $.50 an hour to deliver these things is not earning their paycheck.

Sincerely,

Me

P.S. Dear Readers, do you think I should really contact them about it? I'm really not that angry about it. I think it's kind of funny, actually. And I don't want to waste my time and energy complaining about something that not only doesn't matter in the long run, but that really doesn't matter to me right here and now.

P.P.S. Kristina, don't worry, this hasn't put me off all Aarons. Just the ones with furniture stores named after them.

Unemployment continued....

My job interview was today. I am optimistic. Well, about the interview part, anyway. I'm starting to have doubts about whether I really want the job at all, despite how pleasant a work atmosphere it seemed to have. For one thing, it might not even be full-time, which would kind of be a deal-breaker because, for the second thing, it's an hour's drive away. This is problem not just for the gas money and wear-and-tear on the car (which is a BIG problem) but also because, as I found out on the way home, I get terribly carsick. We had to stop at Wal-Mart for some Pepto Bismol because I wasn't sure I could make it the rest of the way home without throwing up. I just can't see coming into work every morning and making a mad dash for the bathroom being a good thing. This is mostly jest; if I did get the job, I know for a fact that my body, with its amazing powers of adaptability, would soon acclimate itself and I wouldn't get so sick. Also, I wouldn't be turning around and going home again as fast as I did today. But still. Those first few days would be murder. I'd be chewing on Pepto Bismol like candy. Which it almost tasted like. Did you know it comes in peppermint-flavored chewable tablets now? I do. Boy, do I.

Wry Like Me?

So I've been watching this TV show called Dead Like Me. It's quite funny, in the dark, sarcastic humor kind of way. Kind of like the MTV cartoon Daria, in that respect, only a little further over into the darkness.

Anyway, this isn't a TV show review. I was just thinking about how much I like the main character, an 18-year-old girl who now has to reap the souls of the dead because she was hit by a flaming toilet seat which had fallen from the Soviet Space Station. She is now known as Toilet Seat Girl. And while I'm glad I don't have such an unfortunate nickname, I do like her apathetic, sarcastic, wry attitude. I wish I could be like that, sometimes.

And at least she has a job, even if it is soul-killing. Ha.

(I have an interview next week; wish me luck!)

Unemployment

I has it.

Any ideas on how to get rid of it?

Also, this blog is kind of outdated. Like, I don't even work in a library anymore. So either I have to rename this blog or get a new one. And I don't want to get a new one.

So, what should my new blog name be?

The Good Ship Hell's Bees Lay Loose?

The Good Ship Have Buns, Lettuce and Lentils?

The Good Ship what the heck am I even doing with my life?

Aiyiyi.

Thinking About Books: The Hunger Games

It has been a long time since a book had such a hold on me as this one did. It has been far too long since I couldn't wait to get back to my book, and couldn't think about anything else while I was away, wondering what would happen next. Finishing it was like eating your favorite meal until you were completely satiated, only I'm glad you don't get stomach aches from books because there's a sequel!

I don't like to do plot summaries here because I figure you can find plenty of those on Amazon or other sites, and besides the important thing to me is how a book affected me, not what it's about. I'll be honest and admit I usually prefer to read fluffy books, ones where, even if there is gut-wrenching drama, it's more about the fate of a relationship, not the fate of the world, and all the important things get wrapped up tidily at the end. (This is not to say I don't like messy endings. But something has to be resolved by the last page or it leaves me feeling unbalanced.) I went through a spate of dystopian novels a while back and it soured me on them for a while. But it must have been long enough for me to recover, because even though The Hunger Games is set in a 1984-esque world where kids battle each other to the death, it wasn't a particularly depressing novel, which, now that I think about it, is the thing I hate most in a book, dystopian or not. There was plenty of fear and rage and sorrow and uncertainty, but never depression. The hero and narrator, Katniss, is not a revolutionary, angry at the government. She just wants to get back home to her little sister. And she never, ever gives in to despair, no matter what. She has no illusions about the corruption of her government, but her only goal throughout the book is simply to survive and make it back home (and maybe figure out who she's in love with). The change from a narrator trying to rebel against the evil government was refreshing. Obviously, not everyone living in a totalitarian regime can be ready to pit themselves against it just because it's the right thing to do. Some, most, just want to live their lives as best they can, and though it's clear that pretty soon Katniss is going to have to choose whether she wants to retain the status quo, or openly rebel (okay, okay, I've read the first three chapters of the sequel, but you could have seen it in the first), she is always going to be a reluctant hero, whether it's in the arena of the Hunger Games, or the political arena of her country.

Oh, and it's also been a long, long time since I read a book in first person that was executed this flawlessly. Usually you get a narrator that talks one way to the reader and another way in any actual dialogue, usually sounding more literary or polished in the narration. But Katniss never sounded like anybody but herself. There was also a seamless blend between explaining things, showing what she was thinking and feeling, flashbacks, etc. Often these are all slightly disjointed. A character might start to get bored-sounding or rote as they explain this obscure rule or piece of fictional history you'll need to know later. When they talk about their feelings instead of the action, they sound like a different person. Not our girl Katniss. Seamless. Flawless. But by no means a Mary Sue. Her skills were all believably obtained; no random abilities coming out of nowhere here. It's no wonder this book has been on our shelves nonstop. I have the next one on hold, but I'm 25th in line! I can't wait!

Avox: a = without, vox = voice (I figured it out! I'm so clever!)

Welcome to my brain

It is a confusing place.

Here's what I think happened: I was just about to take a shower when I thought of something I just had to write down, and even though a normal person might have just tried to remember it through the shower and write it down when they got out, I knew this would do me no good, since my brain is like unto a sieve. So, since I already had a Word document started to deal with that particular topic, I knew I couldn't just write it down on a handy piece of paper. I have too many tiny pieces of paper lying around already. So I had to go to the computer, type it all down (and by the time I was done typing I had about twice as much material as I had started with, because that's what happens when stuff comes out of my brain), then go and dig out my flash drive where the document was because my brain couldn't even wait that long to write it down (type it down?). And then, since I was on the computer anyway, I just had to check the all the comics and blogs I read, and then, of course, since one of the blogs on my blog list hasn't been broken in yet (is, in fact, not being updated anymore), there were plenty of juicy backposts to read, and then there were all those nice links on the sidebar, and then eventually I looked up and realized that I had been about to take a shower two hours ago.

This can't just be me, though, right? I hear about internet addiction all the time. I'm just pretty sure most people get onto their computers on purpose.

I just don't know if this is normal...

Is it odd that I have my cell phone ring tone stuck in my head?

Your link of the day

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOHJUrcVdJk

Enjoy!

Chibi Vampire

In my last post, I mentioned that I couldn't think of a manga that didn't have a Japanese main character. But then I read the next volume of Chibi Vampire, and realized that the main character, Karin, is a full-blooded European! Of course, she's also a full-blooded vampire. So non-human appears to be all right.

This is one of those instance where I fully recommend the manga but not the anime. For one thing, the opening sequence of the anime is, shall we say... a bit racy. Then, after 6 or 7 episodes of following the manga pretty faithfully, they introduce a totally new character (who has a really annoying voice in the English dub) and go off in a totally new direction, which I'm still not sure I like, though it is pretty funny. (The new character is a vampire hunter who can't stand the sight of blood, and who has proclaimed his undying love and protection against the undead to Karin, who is embarrassed by this in oh so many ways.) All in all, not a bad anime, but the manga is better.

Fruits Basket

I stayed away from this one for a long time, at least partly because of the name. It just doesn't flow well in English, even though, after learning what it referred to in the manga, "fruit basket" doesn't really work either. I finally started reading the manga a few months ago, and finished the whole 123 chapter thing waaay sooner than I should have considering how much homework I had. I have a weakness for sequential art, what can I say? This happens to me every time I get into a new comic or manga. I try so hard to pace myself, because I know that all too soon I'll be caught up and I'll have to wait two days or a week for the next update just like everybody else (and because I know I have a lot of homework). But I just can't help it. I'll inhale huge chunks of the archives, or just read it all at once, and then I'll be behind in my homework AND wailing because the next update doesn't come until next Wednesday, dang it!

Fruits Basket (which I keep trying to spell Fruists Basket) is about Toru Honda, a Japanese high-schooler (I don't think I've ever read a manga where the main character wasn't Japanese) who is an orphan living in a tent because she has nowhere else to go. She tries to remain cheerful and happy, but then a landslide buries her tent! Luckily for her the land she was staying on belongs to the family of one of her classmates, Yuki Sohma, and they take her in. Yuki is super popular at her school, and a little mysterious. She soon finds out why- after she accidentally hugs him, Yuki turns into a rat! It turns out that all the members of his family turn into animals corresponding to the ones in the Chinese Zodiac. BUT they only turn into animals when they're under a great deal of stress, OR they get hugged by a member of the opposite sex.

This is the other half of why I avoided it for so long. It just sounds like an ecchi (perverted) manga. But it isn't. It's actually a funny, deep, well done story about opening up your heart and letting go of past hurts.

And now the anime is on Hulu.

Goodbye, life.

Okay, I lied.

Yesterday was my two and a half year anniversary.

And I guess the whole hiatus thing is being put on hold. (Can you put a hiatus on hold?)

New Year, New Post

Wow...

I should really post more often. Or close up shop altogether.

But I won't do that, because I have so many things I want to write about. Time to write about them, on the other hand, I do not have. So I may just go on an official hiatus until May, after I graduate in late April. Because graduating from school means you have lots of time, right? Right?

(I may have been lying about the hiatus thing. But in case I don't post anything until May, just pretend I really did officially take a break. Because, man, blogging is hard work.)