-
I can hear the voice inside my head–saying you should be with me instead.
Me: Will you guys shut up, please? I’m trying to wake up here. Peter: But you just had a huge revelation about me, and you’re honestly thinking of working on that short story about grubby worm spider things in a Victorian garden? Spindly Grubbings: *intelligible chittering* Me: Yes, Peter. I am thinking about that. Doesn’t mean I have committed to…
-
My path to girl geekdom.
Yellow, not pink. Shel Silverstein, not Mother Goose. Dad on guitar, not songs on tape. Unicorns, not horses. Galaga, not Ga-Ga dolls. Muppets, not puppets. TMBG, not DMB. Fraggles, not ruffles. Wrinkles in Time, not Babysitter Clubs. Crusher, not crushes (but: crushes on Crusher) Ant farms, not petting zoos. Home-made, not Little Debbie. Poe, not a poser. Science, not social,…
-
Dreams and revelations.
I have written lots of stuff over the years, but my problem is always finalization, finishing. The first finished novel I ever wrote is a prequel, of sorts, to The Aldersgate, occurring in the same world but some 400 years before. It’s called Peter of Windbourne, and it has been sitting in stasis for… oh, three years or so. First…
-
All the world’s your stage: the performativity of online presence
My freshman year of college, I discovered MUSHing, specifically Elendor, the Tolkien-based MUSH. Besides being a hole for creativity (well, who needs to write anything original when you’re in a world as detailed as that one…) it was my first real exposure to an online community. And it’s there that I discovered the vast difference between real and perceived personalities…
-
Embracing my inner dragon… early fantasy writing.
Most of my college years were spent trying to be a “real” fiction writer. That is, writing crappy short stories and outlining (okay, thinking about) crappy novels in the real world, with real problems, and real issues. While I would say it was wasted time, I don’t think that’s the case entirely. I mean, all writers have to grow, right?…
-
The mask and the mirror: Otherness and fantasy literature
Take some elves, dragons, dwarves, hobgoblins, orcs, fairies, gnomes… (ad nauseum; lather, rinse, repeat) and add a protagonist, a wizard, and a magic weapon then voila: you have a fantasy novel. Other races, other peoples–especially those living in other worlds–typify, for many readers anyway, the very heart of fantasy literature. We want maps, cultures, civilizations, religions, and the oh-so-obvious dichotomies…
-
I write because…
it makes me happy. the voices tell me to. other voices tell me not to. it’s what I know. it’s everything unknown. it’s who I am. it’s everything I’m not. it’s escape. I want to leave something behind. there are too many stories to tell. there are too many secrets to share. there are too many zombies at the window.…
-
WIP excerpt from Blue Heron
First draft caveats, but I liked this bit. Aboard the Vagrant, approaching a dead Earth. — Sacha sputtered as she came to, gagging again on the tube down her throat. She had not got the hang of it, even eight trips in. Her first thought was: Shit, not even remotely helpful. “Calm down, just a second,” came Dr. Sten’s voice,…
-
Old school #queryfail
Your manuscript is both good and original, but the part that is good is not original and the part that is original is not good. – Samuel Johnson I mean, he only wrote the Dictionary. What did he know?
-
The day Clary Darcy destroyed the world.
I entertained the notion of writing a YA novel a few months ago. Didn’t get too far, but I stumbled upon the 522 words that I did write down and found it to be rather amusing. Made me smile, at least. Thought I’d share. — We begin with the end. The end of a world: a plunge into darkness, destruction…
-
Perspective tension
I am still having a problem. When I wrote Queen of None a few months ago, it happened very quickly. To this date it’s the fastest I’ve ever written a book. At the time, writing it was the easiest thing in the world. Everything flowed magically, or so it appeared to me, and when it was done it was with…
-
The blood between the lines: writing who we are
When I was three, my world was changed irrevocably. I had been a very happy child, by all accounts, albeit a little precocious and sometimes serious for my age. I loved art, music. I used to stand next to my dad while he played guitar, and leaned my head on his knee to hear the vibrations of the music. I…