Category Archives: rants
Tearing My Hair Out
So I don’t mean, literally. I’m too homely to make myself bald.
Unfortunately I don’t have the eight-foot, stick-thin model personae to pull that off. Plus, I get cold easily. No way could I walk around all bare-headed. But I digress.
So why, you may ask, am I stressed? Because it’s that time of year where all of my electronic devices only want to work in fits and starts. I swear they know I’ve spent all my money on Christmas and are doing it on purpose.
Last year, my Macbook and my Kindle died within days of each other– both right after Christmas. This year, my desktop is being retarded. I got a virus that didn’t look like a virus. I got rid of it, but in the process all my “pathways” to programs now have no destination. So basically I can’t open any programs. Except for Google Chrome– still not sure how that escaped the bug. I can open file folders and such, but running my word program or Photoshop (which I need, dammit!) isn’t happening.
I have an ipad, but I can’t format books or work images/ art on it. So no book business and no photography business. Basically, I’ve been at a stand-still. Trying to fix the issue… researching laptops to bridge the workflow gap. All the while ticked that I can’t finish edits on BLOOD CHORD. Super-frustrating to say the least.
Now that I finally have a working laptop, I’m busy importing files, organizing folders, installing programs, setting up Chrome bookmarks and trying to catch up on some of the housekeeping issues around here.
I’m mostly done, thank goodness. So I’m off to transfer Blood Chord over and recommence the edits! (Cracks whip at myself. “Get to it!” I say.)
Read More, Write Better
I’ve shaken my head many times after hearing a writer proclaim that they don’t read much. That’s akin to a Doctor who never went to Medical school. Great writers are also great readers!
Reading is important for a fiction writer on so many levels, from genre structures to how to craft a novel. The information is there, so why wouldn’t you study it?
First, if the fiction that you write falls into any sort of genre, then you better have read books within that genre. These books tend to have formulas, and following them can be the difference between publication and rejection. You wouldn’t submit a category romance without the girl actually getting the guy at the end.
Reading is also a way to absorb great writing, to train your brain as to how a well-crafted sentence feels as it trickles over your tongue. There is no better way to elevate your prose than by reading, and reading a lot.
Some writers, while working on a particular story, refuse to read anything that resembles their story, for fear of accidentally plagiarizing. This is a legitimate fear, and one you would be well heeded to pay attention to. However, this doesn’t mean that you should never read in the genre you write; just avoid those books while actively working on something. But you should still read. If you are writing a mystery, read something literary. If you are writing something literary, read a romance.
Another reason to read abundantly is so that you can see what plots have been used or over used. Your original idea may not be original after all, but you wouldn’t know that unless you read voraciously.
By reading, you can see how differing point-of-views can help or hinder a story. You can see how effective pacing can turn a yawn-of-a-plot into a page-turner. You can see how other writers work back-story into carefully chosen segments of the story, instead of starting off with ten pages of exposition. Reading will allow you to consider your options when writing dialog, when weaving a plot, when writing the last paragraph of your story.
I once had a writer say that he didn’t read very often, because he wanted his stories to be 100% unique and out-standing. My answer to that was, well, you may end up with something all-together new, but there is a good chance that it will be so unique that no one will want to read it. Or, you will inadvertently write a plot that has been done to death, or use the entirely wrong POV for a story. If you don’t know how high the bar is set, how can you possibly hope to jump over it?
Reading novels is like studying for the Fiction Writing Graduate Exams, you have to study, study, study, before you can hope to pass into the elite group of graduates, or published writers.
Still Unconvinced? Try one of these:
How To Read Novels Like A Professor
Weirdness Warning: Photoshop, True Blood and Arabian Horses
Life, as usual, has been getting in my creative way lately. I’ve been busy working on more post for you guys, crafting a story collection, finishing up a novel that I’m very excited about (as well as about five other literary projects) and then there’s the non-writing time-sucks:
1. Photoshop: In addition to gearing up for a Maternity photoshoot this weekend (love me some pregger’s bellies!) and a Senior portrait session with Firetrucks after that, I also have gotten some design work done.
While I do spend a fair amount of time on these things, it’s not all wasted minutes. Crafting cover art (like the mock-up below) allows me to focus a story more tightly, and often gives me the kick-in-the-pants that I need to complete it.
{I’d love to hear any thoughts or comments you have on this cover!}
2. Television: I don’t have Showtime, despite some of my favorite shows airing on that channel. Californication, Weeds, Dexter, The Real L Word… and of course, True Blood, but that goes without saying. And it’s literally killing me to not be able to watch them. Seriously. I spend hours lamenting my sad state of cable subscriptions and cooking up elaborate schemes so that I can bask in the glow that radiates from Eric Northman. I wish I was joking.
3. Parenting Lethargy: I spend so much time trying to accomplish things that sometimes it is overwhelming. Then all at once, I’m bombarded by the things I should be teaching/ doing/ sharing with my children and I want to poke June Cleaver in the eye with rusty scissors for making me feel like a crappy mom. Case-in-point: My daughter has mentioned numerous times that she wants to take horseback riding lessons.
Now, I totally understand. I felt the same at her age and thanks to my own Mother-on-a-pedestal, I rode and showed horses competitively right up until I got married and moved away. I think about getting back into it, but who has the time?
(My horse-days were before the digital era, but my Egyptian Arabian “Clyde” looked like the above.)
But back to my daughter and her equine interest. I’m scared (she’s extremely accident prone- she broke and lacerated her finger WHILE getting a school physical at the Dr’s office!), I’m not rich (lessons and attire and tack, oh my!) and I’m busy enough as it is. So I put it off, and then I feel like crud for not doing it for her. I really need to get on that, and the million other things on my lost To-Do list.
But I can’t start now. It’s late and I’m going to bed.
Until next time!
~K.
Mental Shrillness by Todd Russell – And Why Short Stories Rock!
MENTAL SHRILLNESS by TODD RUSSELL
Website: http://toddrwrite.com/
This collection of short stories, MENTAL SHRILLNESS is a very good example of abbreviated fiction at it’s finest. I’ll get to the book itself in a minute, but first I want to discuss Shorts in general.
Not everyone is a fan of short stories, but I tend to think that has more to do with what readers are used to (printable novel-length fiction) because that’s all Traditional publishers have printed for years. But I can see the tides a’turning, and if more authors of Mr. Russell’s caliber put these collections out there, I think readers will see that shorts are not “lesser” stories, they are just condensed. And much easier to read while your standing in line at the Post-Office.
In fact, writing a top-notch story is arguably harder to accomplish. There is much less real estate involved, and each and every word must pack the proverbial gut-punch. Think of it this way, if you asked to explain something in under 50 words or with a 1,000 word limit, which do you think would be easier?
Now, with that said, not all Shorts are created equal. It’s very hard to tell a compelling, complete story, and sometimes the overall story may suffer. That is not true with this horror collection from Todd Russell. His prose is as cutting and sharp as a scalpel, and he minces no time in drawing readers into his warped world.
Most certainly not for the faint of heart, MENTAL SHRILLNESS explores, in bite-sized portions, universal themes of betrayal, lust, mental illness, undying love and desire, with disturbing finesse.
I was disturbed by these stories, especially Pains in the Glass, Falling In Bobbitt and Death Warmed Over, though not as much as I probably should have been. Instead of personally being grossed out, I was sucked into as a silent observer, very much involved in the stories. I could see them, smell them, hear them- essentially this book played out like short episodes in my mind. I felt more than I read, if that makes any sense.
The last story The Illusion whispered faintly of a specific Nathaniel Hawthorne story to me, but I can’t tell you why without telling you how. So instead, I invite you to read the story and post in the comments what story you think I’m referring to (explain yourself please as well) and there might be a goodie for whoever gets it right first. I must warn you though, the connection is tenuous at best, and I may be inventing it completely, but I do feel even my imagined binding-thread speaks volumes for the high level of writing in this collection.
The included Author’s notes are damn-near as interesting as the stories themselves, and it’s not everyday that you get to hear the method behind the madness. So, if you feel brave enough, drop a trail of breadcrumbs behind you, grab a flashlight, and enter into MENTAL SHRILLNESS.
Mental Shrillness is Available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords.
Living Vicariously vs. Living
Okay, so I’m guilty of the above. Living vicariously, that is. I found this blog a few days ago and I can’t get the whole notion out of my head. You see, this woman, this mother of a young child, this brave, crazy, loving wife, is sorting through all of her possessions for the sole purpose of keeping only what she can carry. That thought alone just sends me in to a consumeristic shock.
But hold on to your shorts, there is a method to her madness. You see, she is removing herself from all that ails her and is relocating her family to the jungle, where meals will be months in the planning, and living in and of itself will become a an act of purposeful determination.
I have to say, my curious nature will keep me checking the blog for updates and in between, I’m sure, will see me daydreaming my way to Belize as well.
I was doomed from the beginning, with the blog’s opening quote, “Man, I see in Fight Club the strongest and smartest men who’ve ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see it squandered. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. Our Great Depression is our lives. We’ve been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.”
Yes, this mad woman has found a kindred soul in me. And I wish her well!
Gun Toting Mama
I know I’m not alone in watching CSI: Las Vegas, CSI:Miami, NCIS, or Numbers failthfully. They wouldn’t be hit television shows if I was the only one watching them. But I have to wonder how many other women out there like me, want to star in their own real life investigative drama. I don’t mean on TV. I’m not bad looking, but it take more than blonde hair and blue eyes to make it to the boob-tube. I mean in real life, as a career.
I’m a thirty-one year old mother of two grade-school age kids, with a husband who spends half of his time in the woods hunting one beast or another. I work full-time in a cubicle profession. I take classes when my life can handle it. I can shoot a gun and rather enjoy the sound of a two-liter bottle exploding as I empty my clip. I even took the course that is required for getting a concealed weapon permit in the state of Virginia. I am very intuitive– I notice quickly when a person or situation just doesn’t seem right. Logic is my friend and I abhor things that just don’t make sense to me. I love to learn about other cultures and I believe in the sanctity of law enforcement. So does that make me a realistic candidate for some type of law enforcement career, or am I just daydreaming like every other mother out there who wants a career that Hollywood has deemed interesting and psuedo-glamourous?
The Curse of Genetics
The desire to procreate, in some, is so strong that it creates a sort of tunnel vision in the afflicted. One can’t see beyond trying to make a baby, and they never stop to think about what it will really be like once said baby has in fact, arrived.
I don’t mean to demean the whole carrying-on-the-family thing. Hey, I’m as guilty as the rest of people that once had a dream, and in getting that dream, got a whole lot more.
All I ever wanted to be was a mother. In high school I had things I preferred to study, side-passions that I took interest in, but as for what I wanted to “do” with my life, well, I only had one goal: Motherhood.
When I hit college, my career-track never wavered. I’ve dropped out of college three times, and I still have almost a year left of college if I am to ever get that danged illusive degree. But, I digress.
I just had to become pregnant, incubate a little being for nine months, and be the best darned mommy that ever existed in the course of the entire world. I would be nurturing and patient, gentle and soft-spoken. I not only got my wish, I got twice—I found out I was pregnant again just a few sleep deprived months after my first son was born.
Motherhood has turned out to be nothing like I imagined or hoped and everything that I didn’t realize I had asked for. I’m ashamed to admit, that I really didn’t think this whole motherhood thing through. I like my quiet time. I need my privacy. I want hours on end to be creative and introspective. And now that I have two children under the age of 6, I have none of the things that I want or need to maintain my true self or my sanity.
Now, my idea of quiet time is reading a book so engrossing that I somehow manage to tune out the circus of creatures running amok in the living room. Now, I receive privacy almost never, and especially if the quest for privacy involves anything to do with nudity or bathroom tasks. It seems that I went to sleep in a typical suburban house and woke up one morning in a hippie commune.
And now, this long-term reality has collided with what I once expected of motherhood, and I’m wondering why in the hell I didn’t think this whole motherhood thing through at least a little bit.
I blame it all on the hormones and their apparent conspirator, genetics. You see, it is in the very nature of our species to procreate. It is in our best interest to pass our genes along, because if we don’t, the human race could die out.
Maybe that’s what happened to the dinosaurs. One gigantic green mother turned to the other females munching on broad tropical leaves and said “I can’t believe I thought I wanted this” nodding to her five-hundred-pound darling dangling by sharp teeth from her ample backside. And another turned to her and said, “You are so right! So what if Junior fell in the tar pit last week! When Herman comes to me with sweet-talk and Sangria, I’m just gonna tell him that I’m done having tail-biters. He’ll have to go find another womb to curse!”
So it has to be, because no other explanation would suffice, that my genes and my hormones blinded me, lulled me into the motherhood fog, and completely shut down all sense of rationality and reason that I had. No normal person, if they really knew what the next decades of their lives were to be like, would willingly walk into that dank, dark abyss.
And do you want to know the crazy part? I’m feeling the lull of the fog again, rolling deep and opaque around me, shielding me from the shrieks of babes and the hiding the mountain of dirty laundry. My genetics and hormones are teaming up against me again. Dear God, I want another one!
How can I fight it? Even if I could find the words to plead my case, they wouldn’t hold any weight against the survival of the species. My biology has spoken loud and clear, and it always has the last word. Better to just make nice and ride on through it, with the hopes that nature will be kind to me…
Thank God for genes and hormones. Without them, I wouldn’t exist to curse the condemned play-room, or scrub spaghetti off of my brand new suede couch. And I wouldn’t have a son who runs to me with another one of his oddly insightful observations, or have a daughter who buries her tear-stained face in my chest when the mop-headed little boy at school calls her a whiney-butt, again.
Common Sense as a Weapon
In the past, I used to be one of those people that aschewed “Tree-huggers”. I blame it on the era in which I was raised. I would hear the grown ups talking about this group, or that one, and how they were taking away our rights and lively-hoods by their loud campaigning and alarmist reports.
In many, this sense of disdain for organized environmental groups lingers. For example, yesterday I send out an email throughout my company to announce I now had a bin for aluminum cans to be recycled, and if anyone would like to contribute I’d be happy to take ALL the cans they could throw at me to the collection center at the local SPCA (who gets a meager stipend from the recycling company, thus benefiting the environment AND the local stray animals).
Not too long after that, I get at least three similar comments within a twenty-minute period. “What, are you becoming a tree-hugger now?” and “Don’t tell me your an eco-nut” were the gist of things. My response? A genuine smile and a reply akin to “I drink the soda and just don’t feel right throwing them away. It takes no more effort for me to haul them to the recycling center than to the landfill. It just makes sense.”
Sneaky right? Combatting age old prejuidices with logic is very hard to argue against. No emotion, just plain old common sense.
So, realizing the tides are turning, I decided to do a little research about some of the tried and true environmental organizations, starting with the Sierra Club which has been around since 1892. Founded by John Muir, noted naturalist and author, the Sierra Club has been working for decades with the following goals in mind:
1. Explore, enjoy and protect the wild places of the earth.
2. Practice and promote the responsible use of the earth’s ecosystems and resources.
3. Educate and enlist humanity to protect and restore the quality of the natural and human environment.
4. Use all lawful means to carry out these objectives.
With over 1.3 million members and supporters, I’d say that the Sierra Club has the power of the people standing firmly behind their ideologies. Even now, the Sierra Club is hard at work to re-power America using smart energy initiatives, protecting endangered species and the land they depend upon, funding campaigns and research into global warming, clean water initiatives and soooooo much more.
You really should hop on over to their website and take a gander at all of the information, interactive maps and resources they have to offer. Remember, no emotionality needed, just pure and simple common sense.
Interested? Just click the banner to the right of the screen.
Yes, the Sierra Club has earned a spot on this little site 
I’m Not a Morning Person
I’ve been up for almost 3 hours now, and it’s not even 8am yet. Why? you ask.
Well, last night I had the pleasure of spending the night in the local hospital for a sleep-study. You know, the kind of visit where they hook you up to all sorts of wires and cords, then watch you sleep all night and monitoring everything you do. And since you’re asleep, there is no way to tel what sort of devastatingly embarrassing things you said or did while unconscious. Fun. Fun.
It took almost an hour to hook to all sorts of senors on my body, even in my hair (which was accomplished by huge gobs of vasoline– currently still in my hair despite using an entire bottle of shampoo on my head…) Sensors that were likely to move were taped down with 3 inch wide tape. Pleasant right across my throat and jaw. And then there was the wire traversing my nose and dangling over my lip to monitor breathing. Oh, and to me as a stomach-sleeper, laying on my back all night was horrible.
I made it through though. And here I sit. At work extremely early, because I know I’m going to crash at some point today, and I hope that I have enough hours behind me at that point to not lose vacation time. Already I feel the crack-like zen approaching
