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.