Like Somebody dumped Canterbury Tales all over a Modern Map, Part 1, Or, One Mother of an Opening Line

"I lost an arm on my last trip home."

Now that is how to start a story. I can't think of any other sentence that has such impact and meaning, and not be completely understood until The End.

So many questions.

It took a while to read Octavia Butler's Kindred, but I'm glad I did. Many parts of the story were hard to read. I found myself putting down the book, doing something, anything, else, before picking up the book again.

The story has so many layers of conflict, I don't know where to begin. I love the element of surprise, so I tend to be a stickler about spoilers. I'm trying to figure out how to talk about the novel's impact without giving anything away.

You know what's going to happen, but you don't really know.

It's taken me a while to attempt to "verbalize" how important this story is, and how it, in many ways, still resonates now as vibrantly as it did when it was first published.

Okay, I think what really stuck out for me were the relationships among the characters. It was like looking at a panoramic snap shot of ignorance-driven envy and it not being inauthentic. And not inauthentic from a historical point of view, as in, I wasn't there, how would I know, but not being inauthentic from the point of view of people treating each other like crap. It’s a matter of have and have-not. You-have-something-I-want-You-have-something-better-You-are-treated-better.

'Know anyone like this?

I think great stories are universal. The Universality is either very deep at the core or hovers just at the surface. I'm sure someone's already mentioned this. Great stories are the discussions that last long into the night, where there are agreements and agreements to disagree. Great stories are the maps that change from the medieval print of mythical beasts and personified clouds blowing winds toward exotic lands, to the time of Amerigo Vespucci, to any and all versions of Yugoslavia over that last 100 years. The same world. Different views.

I'm sure I'll touch on or around this topic again. But for now, this will have to do.

A Call to Action, Or, The Phone Book Fairies

An interesting thing has occurred for me. Well, a couple of interesting things.

I've heard back from 2 of my beta readers about Tempest Makers. Some of the observations they've made have me thinking, "Huh. I hadn't thought of that." Which, one, is part of the point of having beta readers, and, two, helps me understand the hundreds of plays and stories discussed in classrooms where the author had a certain set of ideas in mind and the reader "found" a few more, new ideas.

I hadn't really thought of Tempest Makers as being "subtle." I just write what comes to my head and sort it all out until it makes sense. Maybe I'm not adding enough emotional meaning to get worked up over it, or maybe I'm tired of freaking out over writing and so I'm effortlessly channeling any anxiety into writing. <shrugs> I dunno.

As I got over the hump of putting Tempest Makers out into the light, more ideas keep knocking at my consciousness, as if they are the people who come to your house to deliver your phone book. You open your door and there sits a phone book [esoteric trivia about ancient customs deleted].

This morning, I woke up to an idea that wasn't words but imagines, and for the most part continues to be images. I run them back through my memory to make sure I remember enough to jot them down in my notebook or draw a picture. When my brain is happy the images and pictures are enough, the mute button is switched off and I can hear some dialog; some of it "coherent," some of it not, yet.

It reminds me of an essay Neil Gaiman wrote about being asked where he gets his ideas. The essay is in Writers Workshop of Science Fiction & Fantasy.

He says, "'I make them up,' I tell [people who ask]. 'Out of my head.'" He explains, "I don't know myself where the ideas come from, what makes them come, or whether one day they'll stop."

And you know, I think that makes absolute sense. I think if you have a spark of an idea, for me, it is the idea of Justice, and with a little bit of "glue and construction paper," and not stress over creating "something", your brain will have the space and power to come up with some pretty creative stuff.

I think the moral of this story is don't rush it. Have patience. A phone book will show up on your doorstep soon enough.

The History of a Story: Octavia

Disclaimer: In writing this blog, I realize the cost of embracing fear on many, many levels.

I remember the day I first heard about Octavia Butler. Unfortunately it was the day NPR announced she had crossed. I can't recall the interview. It's been 8 years. She crossed 4months after my grandmother crossed, and 3 months after I was laid off from my job, a day after starting graduate school. I lived in my bathrobe for much of that winter. My brain hurt.

It took a while for my brain to process Octavia was a black, female, science-fiction writer. I'm trying to remember which emotion I felt first. Surprised that black people wrote science fiction. Happy that black people wrote science fiction. Really, really, really damn sad I wouldn't be able to meet her in this existence.

My husband and I listened to an audiobook of Kindred and it was an indescribable feeling of what awe and liberation feels like (I know that sounds weird given what Kindred is about), what opening a door that just appeared and finding every joy that ever existed feels like. I felt the twinge of possibility and it has taken 7 years to build enough momentum to bring my stories to light. But do you want to know something very odd? I didn't get a chance to finish listening to Kindred. The audiobook was a book on cassette I checked out from the library. The cassette was very old and I had to turn up the volume to be able to hear the narrator. My husband and I gave up on the tape and made a promise we would find her books and read them. I have 6 of her books sitting on my shelf, waiting to be read.

At first I felt like an ass because I haven't opened a single book, but I don’t think I was ready to read her stories until now. Over the last year or so, in my search for writers of color, I found NK Jemisin, rediscovered Nalo Hopkinson (I had Brown Girl in the Ring for a stupid long time before reading it), Saladin Ahmed, and so many more.

I was never alone. *squishy feeling on the inside.*

In knowing Octavia existed, the block of "you can't write science fiction because you're black" no longer has a right to exist. To continue to allow the block to exist, meant, 1, I continued to be unconscious, and for reasons other than writing, I try to do my best to be "militant" about due diligence. 2, everything Octavia stood for in regard to being a human being, whose legacy is worth carrying on, and not because she was black and not because she was a woman, made it hard to ignore and insulting to her memory if I didn't at the very least try to bring my stories into the light.

There is much momentum in trying. I've seen people give 2 craps about something and it comes into being with little effort.

What can I do when I put Love around an idea? That's some pretty powerful stuff. I met an artist and yoga instructor who wrote paper on an Octavia Butler series for her class. I met a professor who taught Parable of the Sower to her students. Many of them loved it so much they read Parable of the Talents on their own.

So that's where I am at the moment. I sent the beta readers Tempest Makers late last night, and instead of twiddling my thumbs, I'll read Kindred and work on text for a website.

Take care.

Talk to you later.

The History of a Story

I hope you are well.

I've been busy figuring out social media and wrapping up editing projects. The only things left on the burner are editing a tabletop game, writing text for a friend's web site and my own WIPs.

I suppose I should show a little leg and tell you what my stories are about, or maybe their origins [Who wants to show too much leg? Kurt Vonnegut (some will get that. Others will not.)].

The first story in a yet to be named series, came to life a year ago. It WAS supposed to be a submission for an anthology, but a series of things happened. 1, I was terrified of putting myself "out there," so, 2, I waited until the last minute to finish the story and submit it in time, and, 3, after the panic subsided I discovered, 4, I wanted more breath for this story than ten thousand words would allow (that, and I hadn't gotten the grasp of pulp fiction yet).

When I decided to stop pushing around my story on my plate and hide it behind the mash potatoes I found a really great writing coach. Her name is Rebecca T Dickson, and she has the attitude of Boudicca, and at this time in my writing life I need a writing coach warrior like her. I appreciate her honest, "I've been where you are, so you have no excuse, tough-love attitude. She is fierce. She is good people.

So. Here we are. A year later and about 6 pages of fleshing out the climax away from finishing my short story before I send it to beta readers.

Tempest Makers is an alternate, near future, Sci-Fi, Fantasy. Raze at Dogtree is the story I began first but (see reason 1) finished Tempest Makers first. The universe of these stories is humans, nonhumans, and basically the theme of justice, in all its debatably beautiful and sometimes brutal forms, and how that has an effect that lasts for a time longer than most people realize, or are willing to admit.

There will be some pulp fiction in regard to 2 characters from RaD, but right now those ideas are puffs of air in my brain and in index-card stage of their creation, waiting to be born. I'm juggling with the idea of publishing those first to help you understand the characters' justifications for what happens in RaD and also I think adding those side stories in RaD would probably slow it down. The pulp, for pulp, would be "in medias res," where as where I would put them in RaD would not. Plus I have so many other things planned for these characters, pulp seems most appropriate. Thank you, Andrea Judy.

I'll post this for now, and I promise not to be a stranger. Strange, Duh, but stranger… it's all about context.

Physiology, or, This is more than 3-times-the-charm, or, I'm over this crap

I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but my main day job is retail, so picture a basic retail shopping center.

I was at work, walking to the rental car (long story short, southerners don't know how to drive in snow) to sit in quiet during my break, when I heard tires screech and a thud, I turned in the direction of the sound and saw a car bounce back from hitting the curve as it turned into the lane I was walking.

I thought to myself, "I've clipped curves like that before." I felt embarrassed for the driver. As I began to turn back I noticed the car speed up as it headed for some cars.

"That's weird. They're not slowing down-- oh god, they're not slowing down."

If you've never seen or been a part of a car accident, please believe me, everything slows down the way you've always been told it does.

The crash had a plastic popping sound and not really metal crunching. Parts flew everywhere. (In the  moment I don't know why I cared and tried to mentally process why it didn't sound like it was supposed to sound. Whatever that means.)

I'm running to the crashed car. I feel like my legs are in thick weighted boots. I'm walking through the thickest air ever created. The phone is in my hand is a brick (I can't even process it as MY phone). It takes an eternity to push 4 buttons.

I approach the car. Half of the front of the car has merged with the car it hit. For a minute the only things that exist are me and this smoking car. I come closer and in the window from the smoke a hand appears. My primal brain says, "Car explode." A firm voice in another part of my head says, "Open the door." As I reach out to the handle, primal brain says, "door hot," another part of my brain asks, "door locked?" The door handle is cool plastic and the door swings open smoothly. The lady is sitting in the driver's seat. She looks like she's about to fall asleep. She mumbles something about the car skidding.

I'm on the phone with the emergency dispatcher. I tell the driver not to move. I tell a man who's approached the car, "Be careful. It looks like coolant on the ground." (God, there's a lot of coolant. Coolant's pink, right?)

The driver is saying her leg hurts. I'm talking like I have lead on my tongue, the dispatcher is telling me to calm down. I'm answering her questions. I give what I think is the correct address (I'm better with landmarks. I give landmarks. The local police know where we are.), No, I don't know a pole number, we're in a parking lot (what the hell?).

I'm telling the driver not to move again, and at some point reach into her car and put the car in park (Wow, what an unusual gear box). Primal brain stopped talking. The "smoke" was apparently the chemical reaction from the air bag and quickly dissipated when someone opened the passenger door. Another lady brings a blanket or something for the driver. I'm pacing, completing the call with the dispatcher and waiting for the police. (I feel like I want to cry, but not a good time to cry. The driver needs help. No time to cry. Important stuff first. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deeeep breaths. This lady needs help. Help this lady. Help. Her. First.)

As time sped up to normal, the total damage was the driver's car, plus 3 other automobiles, including a minivan that was parallel to the store but ended up facing the store by the time the owner emerged to discover the damage. It was at the tail-end of the lunch rush and the weather forecast was calling for a good chance of bad weather. By the smallest probability I was the only one walking on the far end of the lane. I consider myself an armchair anecdotal statistician. The Vegas odds of a pedestrian not getting hit would have been obscene.

Later, a few employees came up to me and commended me on stepping up the way I did. I wanted to tell them, "That is the slowest I've ever moved in my life," but felt uuber weepy, and just smiled. I received a very grounding hug (Still didn't have time to be super weepy. I was at work. Had to work. Work.)

It occurred to me, or at least has occurred to me now, the people who run into fires and jump into raging rivers often comment about not feeling like they did anything extraordinary, probably because they too felt like they're moving slow as a snail and it’s a miracle they were able to do what they did.

I get it.  I don't think I did anything anyone else wouldn't do, but I get it.

So my point for telling the story is that, one, I needed to tell it. It's cathartic. Two, later, when I was processing what happened and what I was feeling (I'm an analytical empath.), it occurred to me the feeling of fear that the car might blow up and being in survivor-helper mode did not feel as the terror of writing, or, more specifically, as submitting a story for publication.

Because health scares, an emergency water ascent, and surviving my twenties weren't enough.

Aren't I a funny little human.

So now, after I've processed as much as I could to FINALLY cry, the demon sitting in the corner, the one who slipped all those subtle notes of "You can't be, do, or have_________ because of __________." just sits there, arms crossed, looking sullen because it knows I know the only way to break the cycle is to keep walking through hell. To get use to the heat. To realize it is bearable. It's not that hot. To think of it as warm (I'm a SOUTHERNER, for Pete's sake. Heat is our THING. We OWN it. It's our JAM!) People who support me will hand me glasses of water (Ice cold water with pellet ice in a pint glass is the awesomest, bestest, greatest thing and is worthy of horrible grammar.) You just have to say, "Hey, man. It's hot and I'm thirsty. Can you hook me with up with some water."

Easy peasy.

The Written Word, Or, Punctuation, Or, Unconscious Marketing

This post is quick.

I don't wish to point out a particular company (because that's not my point), but one commercial makes my husband laugh every time he sees it. Sure what's going on visually adds to the humor, but what really seals the deal on the guaranteed laugh is the speaker's inflection on a particular word. The emphasis of one word can turn a grown man into Pavlov's hyena.

My point is, to me, there is a certain level of immersion in commercials so subtle and unconscious, you don't realize you're drawn in until you're already in the middle (or at least somewhere off to the side). The same goes, I think, with great fiction, especially great dialog. The function of a word or phrase in italics, or a comma versus a period, or (Oh, dear, sweet baby Jesus) em dashes can convey who a character is and isn't and what a character says and doesn't say, are bigger deals than you may think. They border on the magical.

Great punctuation in dialog is like the Ninja Illuminati of Show/Don't Tell.

Don't get me wrong. I appreciate and acknowledge Place and Time. I know Frodo can't travel a shopping mall in 1066 Europe to kiss Rapunzel and kill the dragon.* I think Dialog is the corset** that keeps the story from sagging to its knees while the strings of Setting keep the corset on.

See people. I can do descriptions.

*With the exception of fan fiction or a gaming mod.

**French for, "Great posture, but not allowed to breathe."

Reaching for Traction, Or, Red Staplers? I Didn't Get Any Memo about Red Staplers! Or, Catharsis

So this morning I happen to stumble upon an online discussion about the best way to blog (e.g., Blogger, WordPress, etc.). Many authors gave their 2 cents. I think the part that still continues to poke at my brain is the fact that there are SO MANY options with caveats. And while I am grateful for the choices (I consider myself progressive), I really just want to say, "You know what, people? I just want to freakin' write, okay? I just want to write my stories, publish them, so I can get them out of my head. I already feel like I'm in high heels* dancing backward and NOW you want me to wear a blindfold while wrestling a Komodo dragon?"** PFFT!

Freaking awesome.

My inner nonconformist is cheering me on and encouraging me to drink more coffee.

But I didn't go all ranty during the discussion. I shared my 2 cents and was grateful for all the new information.

More options. Noigitot.***

I don't consider myself a luddite, and even if I did, my husband's love of all things electronic would balance it out (He has a tablet I call "Second Wife." He's got a Kindle Paperwhite he occasionally sees on the side. I'm cool with it.)

Now that my "ranty" seems to have exhausted itself, I really have to acknowledge that adding social media to the mix pulls me out of my writing closet and exposes me to the sun. I see the logic in having a human presence as oppose to being "faceless" and hoping my disembodied awesomeness will draw worldwide readership. No. No, Ma'am. That dog don't hunt.

Noigitot, the hamster wheel that is my brain.

In the end this is really me struggling with feeling comfortable using social media to display my wares. I understand it on a lazy level (just enough to get by). I need to up my A-game so I don't feel like a freak when I post something. Weird form of self-therapy? Yep, I think so.

So this is your warning that you will "see" more of me in the future. It's fun working out my anxiety for all to see.

Maybe I am into exhibitionism after all.

*I do not own high heel shoes. My chiropractor would probably quit me.

**I wouldn't bet Vegas odds on me winning at Komodo dragon wrestling.

***Pronounced "Noy-gee-tot." I think it's a curse word I remember from watching "The Pirates of Dark Water." If "twerking" exists, I think "noigitot" should too. Just puttin' it out there, people. Don’t shoot the messenger. Also, as a child I slipped on black ice and hit my head so take that information for what you will.