Year: 2014 (page 49 of 61)

Was about to unleash a crackling tweetstorm on the Twitters — but as I started to prep the tweets it started to look like a Category 5. Too many tweets for your feeds to suffer. They’d buckle under the weight! SHE JUST CANNA HANDLE IT CAP’N.

Anyway.

Something-something Jonathan Ross, aka “Rossy,” aka, I don’t know who that is.

I woke up and people were all mad about him hosting the Hugos? HE’S SEXIST, they said.

And then I went to brunch and got out of brunch and he was no longer hosting the Hugos and now people were mad he wasn’t hosting the Hugos — HE’S NOT SEXIST, they cried, HE’S UTTERLY MILQUETOAST, and then people on both sides of the argument stopped being mad at Jonathan Ross and started being mad at each other, and I saw some particularly nasty chatter (and, mostly, backchannel chatter) on them there social medias that I just felt like backing away.

Outrage moves fast on the Internets. It’s like an electrical fire in a wig factory.

Here’s the thing: just be nice to each other. Even when you don’t agree. Because outrage against outrage only creates more of it, like Mogwai chucked in a hot tub. And then it gets ugly, as ugly feeds on ugly (and now our multiplying Mogwai are eating chicken wings and delivery pizza as they frolic and go mad in the frothing jacuzzi). And people being mean just doesn’t get anything done.

Assume that people who are outraged are sincere and earnest. You don’t have to think they’re right, mind you — nor do you need to appease and placate just because it’s outrage. But assume it’s real. Assume it comes from a place of hurt and not that it’s manufactured just for drama’s sake. Sure, sometimes it is. But you don’t know that and it’s very hard to tell unless you really know the heart of a person — how do you know that they’re just stirring shit because they like the smell and not because they’re actually upset? You don’t. Everyone should approach each other like they’re coming at common ground from different ends, not that they’re trying to burn the crops and salt the earth.

Really, be nice. Even when you don’t agree. Outrage is undercut and tempered by kindness — and kindness is also how compromise is found, how middles are met, how people come to understand each other’s POV. Ask questions even if they won’t ask the same of you. To be clear, I know I could learn this lesson sometimes.

Now, let’s all hug.

I mean, not inappropriately or anything. I’ll hug my monitor and you hug your — OH GOD THE COMPUTER IS FALLING OVER I MADE A TERRIBLE MISTA

W*&(%^TYfghghj /.,./

NO CARRIER

Last week’s challenge: Random Song Challenge

First up: an administrative detail. For those who took part in the Voicemails From The Future challenge — Reggie Lutz, you won a chronofact from the proceedings! Bounce me a message to terribleminds at gmail dot com. Yay!

(Er, edit: I don’t need everyone to write me an email. Just Reggie, thanks!)

Now: onto the challenge.

This week — not a flash fiction challenge so much so much as an experimental writing exercise. I want to do these from time to time just to keep things fresh around here.

So, here’s the drill —

I want you to take one thing and describe it ten different ways.

That thing can be… anything. An object. A person. A sensation. A place. An experience.

But I want you to focus on it and describe it multiple ways. Ten, as noted.

Each no more than a sentence of description.

(Feel free to choose a real world thing. Say, a lamp in your corner, or the flu you had last week.)

Differ your approaches in how you describe this thing.

Try pinballing from abstraction to factual — from metaphorical to forthright.

The goal here is just to flex our descriptive muscles a bit.

An example? After jogging the other day, I had a peculiar feeling in my face and I — as I am wont to do — went through the various ways I might describe this feeling. It was a hot pulsing. Like my heart was in my head. Like I was a goldfish inside an aquarium and some kid was tapping on the glass. Like both the basketball dribbling and the court on which it bounced. This is just a thing I do: I see a person or experience a sensation and I ask: how would I describe that?

Try it out. Pick a thing. Ten different descriptions.

Feel free to do this directly in the comments or at your blog (post a link).

Got till March 7th, noon EST to jump on in.

Go.

I am the “devil” in this scenario, one supposes.

Anywho!

Updates on upcoming appearances in 3… 2… 1…

Penn State Behrend, Erie

Did you know they’re teaching Blackbirds there?

They totally are. And I’m scheduled to go speak there on diversity in writing and publishing as well as sit in on some writing classes and gender study classes. That was scheduled to be next week, but — it’s in Erie, which means I gotta drive 6 hours, and the weather’s looking mighty sketchy.

So, mark your calendars:

Now moved to April 14th-15th.

YA Lit at 92Y, April 1st

Melissa de la Cruz!

Susan Ee!

Alexandra Bracken!

And… erm, me?!

Yep, that’s right. April 1st, I’ll be in NYC to talk YA Lit with these wonderful authors.

Details here.

I am told the tickets are going swiftly? So: procure now.

Other Upcoming Appearances

3/15-3/16 –> Tucson Book Fest, Tucson, AZ

4/25-4/27 –> Pike’s Peak Writing Conference, Colorado Springs, CO

5/10 –> “Craft of Writing with Chuck Wendig,” Toronto RWA, Grand Canadia

6/5-6/8 –> Phoenix Comic-Con, Phoenix, AZ

Other probably potential events include: Surrey Conference outside Vancouver, Crossroads Writers (Macon, GA), NYCC (NYC!), and wherever else my name is summoned with dread magics.

Update your records.

Tell your friends.

Something something whiskey and cupcakes.

Night Owls bookstore is the one spot on campus open late enough to help out even the most practiced slacker. The employees’ penchant for fighting the evil creatures of the night is just a perk…

Valerie McTeague’s business model is simple: provide the students of Edgewood College with a late-night study haven and stay as far away as possible from the underworld conflicts of her vampire brethren. She’s experienced that life, and the price she paid was far too high for her to ever want to return.

Elly Garrett hasn’t known any life except that of fighting the supernatural beings known as Creeps or Jackals. But she always had her mentor and foster father by her side—until he gave his life protecting a book that the Creeps desperately want to get their hands on.

When the book gets stashed at Night Owls for safekeeping, those Val holds nearest and dearest are put in mortal peril. Now Val and Elly will have to team up, along with a mismatched crew of humans, vampires, and lesbian succubi, to stop the Jackals from getting their claws on the book and unleashing unnamed horrors…

[Personal note from Chuck: I met Lauren a couple years ago at WorldCon, and I remember her telling me a little about the book and her journey as a writer and it’s incredibly exciting now to actually see this book exist in the world. Lauren rocks. Check out the book! Monster hunters working in a bookstore? I mean, you know you want that.]

* * *

LOSERS CAN WIN.

I lose NaNoWriMo. A lot.

I first participated in 2003 or 2004, and while I’ve become a more disciplined writer over the years, never have I “won” NaNo. I made it about halfway once, but 50,000 words in a month, with a full-time day job and other non-writing commitments is, for me, not feasible. The year Night Owls was my NaNo project, I got partway through, fell behind, tried catching up, realized I was spiralling into useless, infodumpy backstory, and put it back down.

For several years.

Finally, my friend and writing partner Hillary suggested I ought to go back and revisit “that one with the vampire in the bookstore,” and I figured, y’know, maybe it’s time.

The bones of the story were there. The characters had stayed with me. I knew how the first confrontation with the monsters (who would later become the Jackals) would go, what they wanted, and why that was a problem for the heroes. I got to work.

Six months later I had a completed first draft.

Which means: don’t abandon those stories, cats ‘n’ kittens. NaNo has no clause stating you’ll chuck any unfinished projects into the recycle bin come December 1st. “Losing” NaNo — or failing to place in any other writing-related event — does not mean you should give up. Keep writing.

GO WITH YOUR EPHIPHANIES.

My pantser-plotter nature means lots of smaller-scale revelations make themselves clear as I go, but two major ones shook up Night Owls’ plot and structure something fierce.

Around the same time I was wondering so what the hell is this book about, anyway? I was poking at a short story about a girl fleeing from a monster. My short stories have this terrible habit of turning into longer projects, so on one hand I was trying desperately to rein this one in.

On the other, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, the two plots existed in the same world, and the monster ended up at Night Owls because it chased the girl from the short story into town. It didn’t take too much thinky-time for me to say Yes! I am brilliant! and interweave Elly’s story with Val’s. Instead of one POV character I had two. New subplots! New character arcs! Writing is awesome!

The second realization caused much anguish and gnashing of teeth: things needed to happen during the day that Val couldn’t be around for, and Elly wouldn’t be around for. That meant introducing another POV character to bridge those gaps, but I was already a third or more of the way through the book. I spent a couple of days playing should-I-or-shouldn’t-I, because let’s face it, revising is daunting enough without having to rip the stitches out of whole chapters and rewrite them from someone else’s perspective.

Eventually I told myself, as our newest Disney princess advises, to let it go. (To those of you I’ve just earwormed, I’m only sort of sorry.) Drafts are where you try things out, and if they don’t work, you fix them in edits. I jotted notes of what to seed in for Chaz in earlier chapters, marked scenes I could switch from Val’s or Elly’s POV to his, but I refused to lose momentum by going back and rewriting mid-draft.

I won’t lie, it was a ton of work when it came to revising, but finding Chazí voice was easy, and I liked writing for him. In the end, I think it made for a stronger book.

SOMETIMES YOU NEED TO WALK AWAY.

I don’t mean giving in to table-flipping writer-rage, or a flounce and a dramatic sigh accompanied by a wail of Writing is so haaaaard. (I mean, it is, you guys. Writing is haaaaard sometimes and you should shower writers you know in sympathy chocolate or coffee or pictures of adorable kittens to help get us through.)

I’m talking about the times when my brain stops braining: I’ve been staring at a sentence too long, or picking over a plot point, or pondering how to get the characters from point A to point B in a way that makes sense. Then that obnoxious, nasty voice inside starts suggesting you can’t figure this out because the whole thing is terrible. Delete it all. Print it out and burn it. Stop writing forever because you are a complete and utter hack.

Yeah, those times when Imposter Syndrome gets shouty and kicks productivity in the shins.

That’s my signal to get away from the keyboard. I go for a walk. I fold laundry. Anything is fair game, as long as it keeps me occupied but lets my mind cruise along in neutral. This is important: clicking around on Twitter/Tumblr etc, listening to podcasts, catching up on TV shows, sticking my nose in a book, those all require active concentration, and that’s not what I want.

I don’t know why it works, but more often than not it causes those story knots to untangle themselves. Then I put my butt back in the chair and, y’know, write that shit down while the ideas are still fresh.

CHARACTER BIBLES ARE YOUR FRIEND.

I’m still figuring this one out, really. Not the statement itself, but how to organize one in a way that works best for me. Spreadsheet? Document? Three-ring binder? Ctrl-F, a bottle of whiskey, and copious tears?

I don’t know the answer quite yet, but especially when working on a series, it’s useful to have a place to go where you can find out the answers to burning questions like What color are Elly’s eyes? Is Val taller than Chaz or is it the other way around? Who the hell is this guy?

So far I’ve got a spreadsheet for basic physical descriptions and a document for deeper details, but I still do keep the manuscript open and searchable. My copyeditor listed character descriptions as part of the style sheet. (Copyeditors, you guys. I knew they rocked, but that gave me a whole new appreciation right there.)

I’d love to hear about other writers’ systems, if they’re your thing. Hint, hint. /waggles eyebrows at comments.

Point is, the one huge blinking beacon of a lesson I’ve learned for sure about character bibles so far is to have one. Because I like this cast. I want to write a whole lot of books about them, and that means keeping their details straight.

TALKING ABOUT MYSELF IS HAAAARD.

Growing up, I was taught talking about yourself is rude. If the spotlight shines on me, instinct kicks in and I start looking for the fastest way to make the conversation about, well, not-me. So now that author interviews and guest posts and occasional promotional tweets are part of my jobÖ erm. Thatís thirty-something years of habit I have to break.

An odd kind of stage fright comes along with it, too: what if Iím not witty enough? What if my interview answers bore the reader? Did I nail ìcharming and fun,î or did I go straight past it into ìflighty mess?î If the subject is ME ME ME, I will spend far too much time composing that single tweet. Finding my charactersí voices, easy. Finding my own? Eep.

Presumably, itís one of those skills Iíll develop with time. Thatíll start coming more naturally. Maybe by book three Iíll stop taking note of the furniture placement in the room, just in case I need to dive behind the couch and hide. Until then, come find me on twitter and weíll chat about space geekery and games and cat pictures and what books weíre loving, and maybe, every now and then, Iíll mention this neat stuff I wrote.

***

Lauren Roy spends her days selling books to booksellers, and her nights scratching out stories of her own. The Night Owls crew will continue their adventures in early 2015.

Lauren Roy: Website | Twitter

Night Owls: Indiebound | B&N | Amazon | Goodreads

Facebook can be pretty awesome but as I’ve noted in the past it can also be a hive of scum and villainy and, moreso than Twitter, you can really find out which ones of your fake-and-or-real friends are racist or sexist or shitclumps of some other shape. And recently I saw one person kind of go on and on about the “friend zone,” that most toxic and passive-aggressive of male memes that begins in high school and often enough doesn’t get disproven — and this person was trying to prove that it was real, as if this were some kind of scientific study into the idea, as if he were on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, hiding in the weeds while watching the “friend zone” phenomenon manifest itself, provably. It was, of course, an argument positively choking on its own horseshit. I didn’t engage, I just clicked “unfriend.” Because, really, ew.

I thought, well, I’ll write a post about the friend zone, but I realized that my favorite most-wonderfully-horrible anti-hero, Miriam Black, already said it (albeit in a way more venomous than I would normally convey, as that’s how she rolls). Further, I am not averse to a tiny bit of self-promotion when the time comes (my shame sensors were destroyed in the war), and so I thought I’d quote a little bit from Miriam’s most recent adventure, The Cormorant, where she deals with this, erm, “friend zone issue” in that Very Miriam Way.

So, here’s a snippet from the book.

* * *

“I got you a job!” Jace blurts.

Miriam turns. Makes a poopy face. “Me and jobs don’t play well together. My last real job kind of ended with a shooting. And a stabbing, come to think of it.”

“I don’t mean that kind of job–” He fishes in the pockets of his flannel surrender-pants, pulls out a folded up piece of paper: the world’s most boring origami. He begins to unfold it. “I ran a Craigslist ad–”

“I definitely do not want whatever this job is. Particularly if it has the word ‘hand’ or ‘rim’ preceding it–”

“No, wait, shut up for a second. A couple months back I put up an ad for your… particular talents, the psychic death thing, and for a while I mostly just got a bunch of trolls who thought I was a pimp–”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“But last week I got this email.”

He thrusts the unfolded paper at her. Like a beaming toddler proud of his dirty diaper.

She grabs it. Scowls. Reads.

Her gaze suctions onto a very big number in the middle of the email.

$5000.

“Five grand,” she says, looking up. “This guy wants to pay me five fucking grand to tell him how he’s going to die?”

Jace nods, grinning ear to ear.

“Are you sure he doesn’t think this is code for sex?”

“I… I called him.”

“You called him.”

“I thought he might think it was about sex, so.”

“And it’s not about sex.”

“No, he’s some rich guy in Florida. A little obsessed with his own…” Jace flutters his fingers in the air, a gesture he makes when he’s trying to think of a word. “Demise.”

“Five grand.”

“Yep.”

“Rich nutball.”

“Yes.”

“In Florida.”

“Apparently.”

“That means I need to get to Florida.”

He shrugs. “Well. Yeah.”

“Call him.” She snaps her fingers. “Set it up.”

“OK,” he says. But he just stands there. Staring at her.

“What?”

“What-what?”

“You’re looking at me,” she says.

“I think it’s OK to look at you. You can look at me, too.”

“I am looking at you looking at me, and at this point I’m starting to wonder what’s going on.”

He shifts nervously from foot to foot. “I just thought you could say, you know… thank you?”

“Oh. Well.” Miriam clears her throat, loosens some of that tobacco mucus that nests in her vocal cords. “Thank you, Jace. By the way, I hate that name. Jace. Jason – Jason is a good name. Or Jay. I like Jay. It’s like a bird. I like birds. Mostly.”

“Do you like me?”

“Huh?”

“I like you.”

“Oh, sweet Christ on a crumbcake, really?”

“Really what? We’ve known each other for a year now and we’ve kind of skirted around each other and flirted–”

“I did not flirt.”

“We were flirting,” he says, nodding, smirking. “Sometimes people flirt and they don’t even know it.”

She narrows her eyes. “Nnnyeah, I think I’d know.”

“You’re leaving soon.”

“Pretty much now-ish.”

He reaches out. Takes her hand. “That bed looks pretty comfortable.”

She shoves him backward. Not hard enough to crack his skull against the doorframe, but enough to get the message across.

“Hey,” he says, genuinely stung. “Ow.”

“Thank your stars and garters I didn’t perform dentistry using your asshole as the entry point.”

He sighs. “Friend-zoned again. Nice guys finish last.”

The temperature in her mental thermometer pops the glass. “What did you just say? Are you seriously pulling that nice-guy friend-zone crap? You little turd, how’s that supposed to make somebody feel? That my friendship is just a way station to my pussy? Is that what my companionship is worth to you, Jace?”

“It’s not like that. I just thought–”

“You thought what? That because you’re a nice guy, my panties will just drop because you deserve to have my thighs around your ears? Fuck you, dude. Being a nice person is a thing you just do, not a price you pay for poonani. I’m not a tollbooth. A kind word and a favor don’t mean I owe you naked fun time.”

Now he’s mad. Brow stitched. Lip curled. “Oh, like you’re a nice person? Please.”

“I’m not! I’m not nice. And this is not news, dude. I’d rather be a cranky bitch who lets you know what she’s thinking than some passive-aggressive dick-weasel who thinks friendship with a girl is secondary to her putting out. You wanted to fuck me? You shoulda just said so. I would’ve at least respected that, and we wouldn’t have to do this boo-hoo woe-is-me pissy-pants guilt-fest.”

She throws on her jacket and snatches the email out of his hand and slings the bag over her shoulder. A hard elbow to the gut leaves him bent over and oof-ing.

Miriam heads to the door.

He trails after like a bad smell.

Taevon and Cherie watch, goggle-eyed.

“I’m sorry,” Jace says, rubbing his stomach.

“You are sorry,” she says, throwing open the door to the hallway.

“I’m a dick.”

“A tiny dick. An insignificant dick. Positively microbial.”

“Can I call you?”

“Can you… No, you can’t call me.”

“But you have the same phone if I wanted to?”

“I’m going to throw it in a bag and burn it.”

* * *

Indiebound / Amazon / B&N / Robot Trading Company / Add on Goodreads

Miriam Black knows how you’re going to die.

All it takes is a touch — a little skin-to-skin action.

Now someone — some rich asshole from Florida — wants to pay her so he can find out how he’s going to die. But when she touches him, she receives a message sent back through time and written in blood: HELLO, MIRIAM. It’s a taunt, a warning, and the start of a dangerous and deadly game for everybody’s favorite carcinogenic psychic, Miriam Black.

TIME TO SELL SOME CLINIQUE —

*receives note*

Clinic? Not Clinique? Oh. Oh. Like, a, a… writer’s clinic. A story clinic, whatever.

Cool. I’m more of an Avon guy, anyway.

Here’s the drill, word-nerds and story-architects.

You’re writing something? Novel? Short story? Script? Etc? Let’s hear a status update. How’s it going? What problems are you having? Maybe we can all crowdsource some solutions or, at the very least, it’ll give me fodder for a future blog post. (Hey, nobody said I wasn’t at least a tiny bit lazy.) So, talk to me. What are you writing, how’s it going, and what problems are you having? Drop your answers in the comment section below. KAY THANKS BYE.

*takes off in a jetpack to battle psionic moon-bears*