This blog was supposed be me blabbering along, but instead, I've been ignoring it since August? Why?
That's what I've been saying. Why?
Somehow, starting bowling and starting choir in August means, in my mind, that I've been too busy to do any writing. Which is not true; I golf in the summer one evening a week -- which means I can't do anything but golf, but I take my netbook to the bowling alley and I can write there, between my turns up. It's a bit hard to do anything else in bell choir and singing choir.
Of course, this migraine I've been having for the past couple of weeks hasn't helped.
So I'm rededicating myself to this blog. And I'm rededicating to finishing my novel for upload onto Amazon.com, etc.
Until the next time I fall off the wagon...
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Huh?
I've written stories for years. Most of them have been fan stories -- stories based on Television shows -- which are, of course, legally verboten because of copyright law. I've written fan stories because I enjoy them and I get feedback.
But my goal, although you wouldn't think it to look at my "resume," was to write original fiction. My first story was written when I was eight, illustrated by me, and was something about diamonds. I wrote poems in middle school, articles in high school, and my first full-fledged story was for a class in high school -- quite frankly, I don't remember what it was about, but somewhere around this house is a copy on onion skin typing paper.
I've always been a bit lackadaisical about my writing, though, and, sadly, it's only been since my parents have been gone that I've gotten more serious about it.
I like feedback. Sending stories out to magazines -- or agents -- gets a developing writer a standard rejection letter, which tells me nothing. Was the story all right, but truly not for that venue? Did it suck big time? Should I stay with my day job? (Well, yes, but that's another matter.) Did the editor have an overwhelming urge to chew it into a spitball and throw it at the ceiling? (Hmmmm, guess that would only work with paper manuscripts.)
So I've been uploading my old, rejected stories on-line, first on Smashwords.com, then on Amazon.com. For free. I have five on Smashwords -- the most hits I've gotten there is 280 something with one negative review, and the others go down from there.
I have three on Amazon.com, and here's the incredible part. I don't have any perspective on downloads and hits, but my little free story, one that I wrote over fourteen years ago and basically only modified for grammar and structure, -- one that got accepted by a webzine which has long since disappeared into the ether (I received $3.00 for it) -- has, as of two seconds ago, had 10,520 downloads with four returns.
What?
It's had four favorable reviews, one which mentioned "Shrek" (which it predates, of course), and one negative review.
Wow.
This has been since last Thursday, when it inexplicably changed from $.99 to free. Which I really don't mind, since it's been free for years
I can hardly wait to see if the others do as well which they get discounted. Of course, I wish I had gotten paid, but -- feedback. I want feedback, darn it!
Wow.
But my goal, although you wouldn't think it to look at my "resume," was to write original fiction. My first story was written when I was eight, illustrated by me, and was something about diamonds. I wrote poems in middle school, articles in high school, and my first full-fledged story was for a class in high school -- quite frankly, I don't remember what it was about, but somewhere around this house is a copy on onion skin typing paper.
I've always been a bit lackadaisical about my writing, though, and, sadly, it's only been since my parents have been gone that I've gotten more serious about it.
I like feedback. Sending stories out to magazines -- or agents -- gets a developing writer a standard rejection letter, which tells me nothing. Was the story all right, but truly not for that venue? Did it suck big time? Should I stay with my day job? (Well, yes, but that's another matter.) Did the editor have an overwhelming urge to chew it into a spitball and throw it at the ceiling? (Hmmmm, guess that would only work with paper manuscripts.)
So I've been uploading my old, rejected stories on-line, first on Smashwords.com, then on Amazon.com. For free. I have five on Smashwords -- the most hits I've gotten there is 280 something with one negative review, and the others go down from there.
I have three on Amazon.com, and here's the incredible part. I don't have any perspective on downloads and hits, but my little free story, one that I wrote over fourteen years ago and basically only modified for grammar and structure, -- one that got accepted by a webzine which has long since disappeared into the ether (I received $3.00 for it) -- has, as of two seconds ago, had 10,520 downloads with four returns.
What?
It's had four favorable reviews, one which mentioned "Shrek" (which it predates, of course), and one negative review.
Wow.
This has been since last Thursday, when it inexplicably changed from $.99 to free. Which I really don't mind, since it's been free for years
I can hardly wait to see if the others do as well which they get discounted. Of course, I wish I had gotten paid, but -- feedback. I want feedback, darn it!
Wow.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Opinions, Privacy issues, and Writing
I've written ever since I was eight, but didn't take it seriously until Ninth Grade and Mrs. VanAtta's English class -- I wrote poetry and people liked it! After all, I spent most of Middle School relatively friendless -- didn't have any close buddies that I hung around with -- I spent a lot of time reading. I was determined to be on the school newspaper in High School.
But when I got into High School, the school newspaper was dying. I don't remember all of the particulars anymore, but somehow I connected with an old friend from Elementary school who drifted away -- we were determined that I we needed a school paper. Somehow, one or the other of us persuaded Mrs. Longanecker to be our advisor, and Sue found a few other people, and the local paper was persuaded to print the articles citywide. The Wildcat Weekly was reborn. We wrote articles, Mrs. Longanecker corrected them, and I learned, more or less, how to write for the newspaper.
After a year, I wanted to do more. Erma Bombeck, the humorist, was popular at the time, so I started a humor column under a pseudonym. Not one person realized who wrote the column until the May before I graduated, and I heard, from my Dad, that even some of his coffee buddies got a laugh out of it.
And then, in my Senior year, I wrote an opinion column. After all this time, it doesn't make a difference what my opinion was; the principal hated it. I got called to the Principal's office for the first time in my life, and the advisor, Barb Erickson (now Stutesman) got in trouble. (I'm giving the principal a pass; it was his first year as Principal, and I suspect now he felt he had to show his authority.)
My first encounter with the power of opinions.
Fast forward twenty to thirty years: I've worked at Huddlestun Lumber Company for twenty-five years, and at McLellan and Strohm Accounting for a little over ten years. I'm grateful to both for hiring me and giving me a living.
But.
As a writer, it drives me nuts. You see, we have customers at Huddlestun Lumber Company, and we have clients at McLellan and Strohm. They are all very important. In addition, there's an implied privacy at Huddlestun Lumber and a very strict privacy issue at McLellan and Strohm's, very similar to the medical world's HIPAA policy. I like my jobs, and I refuse to embarrass either place.
I also have an opinion of various things that happen around town and the townships. Can I express that opinion freely? Not really. I know that opinions will offend people -- clients and customers -- even when no offense is meant, and I don't want to do that. And these are some very nice people.
If you look at my website, you'll see a series of columns about a fictional town named River Creek. I wrote those over ten years ago, and this was my way of commenting about the city at that point. I keep thinking about resurrecting it -- in fact, I'm planning to insert stories around these "articles." But, here's my dilemma -- do I write about current things? Do I dare?
Is my life defined by being a bookkeeper or being a writer?
What do I choose?
But when I got into High School, the school newspaper was dying. I don't remember all of the particulars anymore, but somehow I connected with an old friend from Elementary school who drifted away -- we were determined that I we needed a school paper. Somehow, one or the other of us persuaded Mrs. Longanecker to be our advisor, and Sue found a few other people, and the local paper was persuaded to print the articles citywide. The Wildcat Weekly was reborn. We wrote articles, Mrs. Longanecker corrected them, and I learned, more or less, how to write for the newspaper.
After a year, I wanted to do more. Erma Bombeck, the humorist, was popular at the time, so I started a humor column under a pseudonym. Not one person realized who wrote the column until the May before I graduated, and I heard, from my Dad, that even some of his coffee buddies got a laugh out of it.
And then, in my Senior year, I wrote an opinion column. After all this time, it doesn't make a difference what my opinion was; the principal hated it. I got called to the Principal's office for the first time in my life, and the advisor, Barb Erickson (now Stutesman) got in trouble. (I'm giving the principal a pass; it was his first year as Principal, and I suspect now he felt he had to show his authority.)
My first encounter with the power of opinions.
Fast forward twenty to thirty years: I've worked at Huddlestun Lumber Company for twenty-five years, and at McLellan and Strohm Accounting for a little over ten years. I'm grateful to both for hiring me and giving me a living.
But.
As a writer, it drives me nuts. You see, we have customers at Huddlestun Lumber Company, and we have clients at McLellan and Strohm. They are all very important. In addition, there's an implied privacy at Huddlestun Lumber and a very strict privacy issue at McLellan and Strohm's, very similar to the medical world's HIPAA policy. I like my jobs, and I refuse to embarrass either place.
I also have an opinion of various things that happen around town and the townships. Can I express that opinion freely? Not really. I know that opinions will offend people -- clients and customers -- even when no offense is meant, and I don't want to do that. And these are some very nice people.
If you look at my website, you'll see a series of columns about a fictional town named River Creek. I wrote those over ten years ago, and this was my way of commenting about the city at that point. I keep thinking about resurrecting it -- in fact, I'm planning to insert stories around these "articles." But, here's my dilemma -- do I write about current things? Do I dare?
Is my life defined by being a bookkeeper or being a writer?
What do I choose?
Friday, July 29, 2011
Thinking about Geneology
While I'm delaying working on my latest story, I'm watching a show called "Who Do You Think You Are?" about celebrities tracing back their family trees with a lot of expenseive help. Like a lot of U.S. citizens, I only have a general idea where the family came from. Except for my great-great grandmother Mary Ann Bowersox Eisenhauer's ancestors (Germany), the rest is family speculation.
Like the celebrity on TV, my great-grandfather James Anderson passed away when my grandfather was three. One of my Dad's cousins had a bible which seemed to indicate that the family came from Pennsylvania. Where before there? We like to think that they ultimately came from Scotland, but with an Anderson name -- could be Scottish, could be Anglicized from any number of European countries.
The same applies with my Mother's family. Cole? My grandmother's maiden name was Stephenson, and the main thing I know about her father was that he was born in the 1830s, fought in the civil war, and didn't marry until 1880 to a 30-year-old wife, and they then had five girls.
Yeah, I know, I could sign up for Ancestry.com -- or I could go to Pennsylvania to find out where the Andersons came from, but, darn it, I don't have the money or the time. And I'm not necessarily that anxious to find out. Like my Mother always said, she always suspected her ancestors fought in the Revolutionary war -- with the Hessians hired by the British.
Maybe it's better I don't find out about my family tree....
On the other hand, I do know I'm a very distant relation to President Dwight Eisenhower and singer Crystal Bowersox. *sigh* That plus a dollar will get me a cup of coffee.
Never mind.
Like the celebrity on TV, my great-grandfather James Anderson passed away when my grandfather was three. One of my Dad's cousins had a bible which seemed to indicate that the family came from Pennsylvania. Where before there? We like to think that they ultimately came from Scotland, but with an Anderson name -- could be Scottish, could be Anglicized from any number of European countries.
The same applies with my Mother's family. Cole? My grandmother's maiden name was Stephenson, and the main thing I know about her father was that he was born in the 1830s, fought in the civil war, and didn't marry until 1880 to a 30-year-old wife, and they then had five girls.
Yeah, I know, I could sign up for Ancestry.com -- or I could go to Pennsylvania to find out where the Andersons came from, but, darn it, I don't have the money or the time. And I'm not necessarily that anxious to find out. Like my Mother always said, she always suspected her ancestors fought in the Revolutionary war -- with the Hessians hired by the British.
Maybe it's better I don't find out about my family tree....
On the other hand, I do know I'm a very distant relation to President Dwight Eisenhower and singer Crystal Bowersox. *sigh* That plus a dollar will get me a cup of coffee.
Never mind.
Monday, July 25, 2011
When did I get old? Or did I reach that at 10?
I had a discussion with somebody on Facebook today. The person is very passionate in her beliefs -- I respect that -- but seemed to lack a sense of humor. I began to think that she felt she was right and that her facts she knew was the complete truth of the world and no other view was possible. (And I truly hope I'm not doing her a disservice.) I looked her profile up, and, sure enough, she was in her early to mid-twenties.
Passion is great. I think passionate, dedicated people are going to change the world.
My problem is that I don't remember ever feeling passionate or dedicated about anything, unless I was trying to protect the underdog. I was and am a "whatever will be, will be" sort of person. For example -- I am a Christian. Christians are supposed to witness. I certainly hope that I am witnessing by my actions, because I hated be witnessed at when I was in college and I refuse to do it to anyone else, unless asked specifically by that person. (Wait, somebody says, didn't you become a Christian in college? Well, yes, but it certainly wasn't because of that person who witnessed to me. I read Pearl Buck's "The Story Bible", and all of a sudden, Christianity and a belief in God started making sense to me. I can't tell you why. I wasn't "Born Again" with all of the negative connotations, but I do think that there's something greater out there that we name "God" and that Jesus was and is, somehow, his "Son." I've read the Bible; I hope to see things clearly after my physical body passes.)
How'd I get on religion? Sorry. Told you I rambled.
Back on passion. I'm not passionate. I've never married, I barely had a boyfriend (more like a few crushes that never went anyplace), I don't even write compulsively like some people do. I was born old and stayed there. I could talk easily with people my parents and grandparents age, but not to my own classmates. I can remember being completely surprised only a very few times, and I'm not really sure I know what true happiness is. (Contentment, yes.) I do get angry, especially when I a) feel powerless, b) feel accused, or c) am trying to protect someone else.
Does this make me old? Or just emotionally stunted? Or would I rather be amused by people than argue with them?
Oh, well. Que sera, sera : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xZbKHDPPrrc
Passion is great. I think passionate, dedicated people are going to change the world.
My problem is that I don't remember ever feeling passionate or dedicated about anything, unless I was trying to protect the underdog. I was and am a "whatever will be, will be" sort of person. For example -- I am a Christian. Christians are supposed to witness. I certainly hope that I am witnessing by my actions, because I hated be witnessed at when I was in college and I refuse to do it to anyone else, unless asked specifically by that person. (Wait, somebody says, didn't you become a Christian in college? Well, yes, but it certainly wasn't because of that person who witnessed to me. I read Pearl Buck's "The Story Bible", and all of a sudden, Christianity and a belief in God started making sense to me. I can't tell you why. I wasn't "Born Again" with all of the negative connotations, but I do think that there's something greater out there that we name "God" and that Jesus was and is, somehow, his "Son." I've read the Bible; I hope to see things clearly after my physical body passes.)
How'd I get on religion? Sorry. Told you I rambled.
Back on passion. I'm not passionate. I've never married, I barely had a boyfriend (more like a few crushes that never went anyplace), I don't even write compulsively like some people do. I was born old and stayed there. I could talk easily with people my parents and grandparents age, but not to my own classmates. I can remember being completely surprised only a very few times, and I'm not really sure I know what true happiness is. (Contentment, yes.) I do get angry, especially when I a) feel powerless, b) feel accused, or c) am trying to protect someone else.
Does this make me old? Or just emotionally stunted? Or would I rather be amused by people than argue with them?
Oh, well. Que sera, sera : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xZbKHDPPrrc
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Post Shore Leave, Fan Fic Reviews, and Writing
Another one of those disconnected sort of Blogs:
Got back from the Shore Leave convention (Baltimore) late Monday night. I had a wonderful time, as usual! I talked to a few people I knew from MediaWest*Con (Lansing, MI), got autographs from a few of the celebrities, went to panels -- some about Trek, some about writing in general, and drank until 2:30 with the authors. Well, they drank, but I nursed a club soda on one night and a Screwdriver on the second night....
Never made it to the art show, which I usually make a point to attend. Entirely missed the panels by John DeLancie, which I did want to see. Unlike the previous years, I was on three panels, but because I felt a bit outclassed, I barely said a word on two of them. The third was on the "Pirates of the Caribbean" movies -- I actually had an opinion on those, and I heartily recommended Ann Crispin's new novel, which is a prequel to the movies.
On the Thursday before the con, my roommate, Bonz, and I went to Gettysburg; on Friday, we went to Washington, D.C., and walked around. We saw the Capital rotunda after going through what was almost airport security. The good thing was that it was free -- my tax dollars at work. I had never realized that all of these historic place were so close to each other. I guess I have a Midwesterner outlook where things are a little farther away from each other.
(Back in my teens, my Mom and I visited a cousin of hers in Washington state. They took us to their cabin, "just around the corner." Two hours later, we arrived.)
I took a ton of pictures. Never let me loose with a good camera! This Canon is a good one. And I didn't miss changing film!
I'm also getting revved up again to write, which leads me to the next topic:
Fan Fic -- I got a review on my Quantum Leap/Star Trek: Voyager story that seemed to indicate that it was the best thing since toast. Immediately, my radar went up. Okay, it's a nice story, I like everything I write, I don't necessarily think it's great. She (I presume) wanted me to review hers, so I went to the site to look at it.
My eyes glazed over.
I usually have a good tolerance level for fan fiction, but I don't read much on fanfiction.net -- I prefer edited zines. While the ideas in her stories were interesting, the execution could have been a lot better. Maybe I'm just tired, but when I see a lot of exposition in the first paragraph, explaining who, what, and where, then I see multiple viewpoints in the same paragraph, then the scene changes without a # or some other indicator -- um. The spelling and the grammar are great. The person is not a young person, either; she's a couple of years younger than I am.
But who am I to say anything to her? I'm sure she's probably hoping for a great review, like some of the other ones I saw on her stories. (Which always makes me suspect the reviews on my stories.)
I know, I know. I'm the pot calling the kettle black. I got called out for the same thing in my opening paragraphs of my novel.
Not sure what to do here, but unless she wants the unglazed proof, I guess I'll either ignore her request or tell her that it's an interesting concept.
Writing: Haven't done much of it in the past week. Tried to do a little on the airplane, but between my big stomach and the guy in front of me leaning his seat back, I couldn't see the screen on the netbook. Did some writing, anyway, but the results were interesting. I did accomplish a bit, though.
But getting back to work has been a b**tch. Much as I like vacations, catching up with the day jobs is stressful, and always leaves me wanting to go back on vacation.
When is Shore Leave next year?
Got back from the Shore Leave convention (Baltimore) late Monday night. I had a wonderful time, as usual! I talked to a few people I knew from MediaWest*Con (Lansing, MI), got autographs from a few of the celebrities, went to panels -- some about Trek, some about writing in general, and drank until 2:30 with the authors. Well, they drank, but I nursed a club soda on one night and a Screwdriver on the second night....
Never made it to the art show, which I usually make a point to attend. Entirely missed the panels by John DeLancie, which I did want to see. Unlike the previous years, I was on three panels, but because I felt a bit outclassed, I barely said a word on two of them. The third was on the "Pirates of the Caribbean" movies -- I actually had an opinion on those, and I heartily recommended Ann Crispin's new novel, which is a prequel to the movies.
On the Thursday before the con, my roommate, Bonz, and I went to Gettysburg; on Friday, we went to Washington, D.C., and walked around. We saw the Capital rotunda after going through what was almost airport security. The good thing was that it was free -- my tax dollars at work. I had never realized that all of these historic place were so close to each other. I guess I have a Midwesterner outlook where things are a little farther away from each other.
(Back in my teens, my Mom and I visited a cousin of hers in Washington state. They took us to their cabin, "just around the corner." Two hours later, we arrived.)
I took a ton of pictures. Never let me loose with a good camera! This Canon is a good one. And I didn't miss changing film!
I'm also getting revved up again to write, which leads me to the next topic:
Fan Fic -- I got a review on my Quantum Leap/Star Trek: Voyager story that seemed to indicate that it was the best thing since toast. Immediately, my radar went up. Okay, it's a nice story, I like everything I write, I don't necessarily think it's great. She (I presume) wanted me to review hers, so I went to the site to look at it.
My eyes glazed over.
I usually have a good tolerance level for fan fiction, but I don't read much on fanfiction.net -- I prefer edited zines. While the ideas in her stories were interesting, the execution could have been a lot better. Maybe I'm just tired, but when I see a lot of exposition in the first paragraph, explaining who, what, and where, then I see multiple viewpoints in the same paragraph, then the scene changes without a # or some other indicator -- um. The spelling and the grammar are great. The person is not a young person, either; she's a couple of years younger than I am.
But who am I to say anything to her? I'm sure she's probably hoping for a great review, like some of the other ones I saw on her stories. (Which always makes me suspect the reviews on my stories.)
I know, I know. I'm the pot calling the kettle black. I got called out for the same thing in my opening paragraphs of my novel.
Not sure what to do here, but unless she wants the unglazed proof, I guess I'll either ignore her request or tell her that it's an interesting concept.
Writing: Haven't done much of it in the past week. Tried to do a little on the airplane, but between my big stomach and the guy in front of me leaning his seat back, I couldn't see the screen on the netbook. Did some writing, anyway, but the results were interesting. I did accomplish a bit, though.
But getting back to work has been a b**tch. Much as I like vacations, catching up with the day jobs is stressful, and always leaves me wanting to go back on vacation.
When is Shore Leave next year?
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Shore Leave, First Pages, Contests, and Writing
First, before I start rambling, I'm going to the Shore Leave convention in Hunt Valley, Maryland, this weekend. I'm one of many, many author guests. Why? A) I had a short story published in one of the Star Trek: Strange New Worlds books, and B) I begged. I'll be on three panels, but I'm planning on attending many more. It's my only chance to be a minor celebrity and then sit and watch all of the popular Trek authors get mobbed with fans and books. I love it. Then I go back to bookkeeping...
More ramblings:
Well, there's one thing I'm learned in the past week or so -- first pages of novels are harder than I thought. When I wrote my novel, I had a feeling that something wasn't quite right with the first few pages. I knew I had an awful lot of "telling" rather than "showing" in the first page, which is a big no-no .
*Sigh*
What brought this on was that I "won" 1250 word critique by an agent. (I gave money to a charity, and the prize was a critique by an agent.) It was fairly complimentary, yet rather humbling. I don't like to think of myself as a bad writer, but I do know I have room for improvement.
I'm not sure if that's why I've been so hesitant to start anything this week or not.
Because I'm trying to improve, I'm trying to get critiques without bugging people. Five stories of mine are up on Smashwords.com for free. I have to admit that I didn't edit them, and the first one I uploaded was published before in a defunct webzine. One of them got an honorable mention in the "Writers of the Future" contest. The other others I tried, admitedly not very hard, to submit them to magazines. Two have nice reviews, a third puzzled me slightly. I'm looking forward to valuable critiques. Probably won't get them from Smashwords, though.
Beats getting a form rejection.
Somebody described Smashwords as the world's biggest slushpile (unsolicited manuscripts to publishers are called "slush") and I have to agree. (On the other hand, I just randomly picked out a story, without even looking, of a published writer I've met and respect, and I'm planning to buy his book -- but he was an editor. Hi, Keith R.A. DeCandido!)
Okay, time to tie this up. What have I learned? Writing the first few pages of a novel is hard. Reviews and critiques are hard to get. You can find real gold in the slushpile at Smashwords. Contests are sometimes winnable. And I can, too, write!
More ramblings:
Well, there's one thing I'm learned in the past week or so -- first pages of novels are harder than I thought. When I wrote my novel, I had a feeling that something wasn't quite right with the first few pages. I knew I had an awful lot of "telling" rather than "showing" in the first page, which is a big no-no .
*Sigh*
What brought this on was that I "won" 1250 word critique by an agent. (I gave money to a charity, and the prize was a critique by an agent.) It was fairly complimentary, yet rather humbling. I don't like to think of myself as a bad writer, but I do know I have room for improvement.
I'm not sure if that's why I've been so hesitant to start anything this week or not.
Because I'm trying to improve, I'm trying to get critiques without bugging people. Five stories of mine are up on Smashwords.com for free. I have to admit that I didn't edit them, and the first one I uploaded was published before in a defunct webzine. One of them got an honorable mention in the "Writers of the Future" contest. The other others I tried, admitedly not very hard, to submit them to magazines. Two have nice reviews, a third puzzled me slightly. I'm looking forward to valuable critiques. Probably won't get them from Smashwords, though.
Beats getting a form rejection.
Somebody described Smashwords as the world's biggest slushpile (unsolicited manuscripts to publishers are called "slush") and I have to agree. (On the other hand, I just randomly picked out a story, without even looking, of a published writer I've met and respect, and I'm planning to buy his book -- but he was an editor. Hi, Keith R.A. DeCandido!)
Okay, time to tie this up. What have I learned? Writing the first few pages of a novel is hard. Reviews and critiques are hard to get. You can find real gold in the slushpile at Smashwords. Contests are sometimes winnable. And I can, too, write!
Friday, June 24, 2011
"How I Learned to Hate Shadows - or - The Demons of my Sophomore Year"
Just for the fun of it, I'm entering a contest put on by Shelly Waters (her Blog here) just to get some more criticism and input on that Novel I wrote last year. (And to get it read by the agent, Victoria Marini of the Gelfman Schneider Literary Agency.) If you've seen my other Blog posts, you'll know I created a new beginning. The info is below:
*Note: edited due to comments.
Title: How I Learned to Hate Shadows Or The Demons of my Sophomore Year
Genre: YA Paranormal
Length: 34053 words -- yes, I know that's short, I'm debating whether to combine it with the second part, making it over 86,000 words.
First 250 words:
Dad and I stood in our kitchen. He was cooking hamburgers. Mom had to work late. He wanted some father and daughter time. We had just begun to talk. I didn’t want to tell him, but I was having a hard time in school.
*Note: edited due to comments.
Title: How I Learned to Hate Shadows Or The Demons of my Sophomore Year
Genre: YA Paranormal
Length: 34053 words -- yes, I know that's short, I'm debating whether to combine it with the second part, making it over 86,000 words.
First 250 words:
Dad died in my dreams again that morning – the morning before they came.
He prodded until he finally got it out of me.
I told him I knew no one liked me.
He laughed, said, except for your buddy, Bennie, and asked how I knew no one liked me.
I said, I just do.
I didn’t want to tell him why I knew.
He got serious and asked, are people bullying you?
I never could lie to Daddy. I lifted my head up. I was going to tell him. I know they hate me, Daddy, because I can read people’s minds, I said.
He looked surprised.
I thought I saw something dark enter his chest.
Then he collapsed.
I screamed.
I fell to my knees.
He was staring at me.
No, he wasn’t. He was just staring.
He wasn’t breathing.
I jerked up, grabbed the telephone, and dialed 911.
Then I woke up in my bed crying. The sun was shining; the prism I hung in the window reflected rainbows around the room. But I stared at the ceiling. Why did he have to die? The dreams had just begun to go away.
And what was that dark thing? That hadn't happened.
Had it?
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Bittersweet Festival and Disney Memories
This week in June has always been bittersweet for me. In 1998, my father passed away on Flag Day. In 2006, my Mother followed him in the very same week.
And, in this week, my town has a celebration, a town fair, so to speak -- this year, we're celebrating the 175th anniversary of the Town of Three Rivers. We celebrate with a car show and a art and vendor fair and a small carnival in the city parking lot.
So there's a bit of a disconnect here for me. On one hand, I do enjoy the Water Festival. On the other hand, I miss my parents. Even though I know they lived long, good lives and died of natural causes, I suppose I have a little bit of survivor's guilt.
I know I'm going to feel it a bit more when I go down to DisneyWorld later this year. I do enjoy the place, but, on the other hand, it's almost more of a sentimental journey for me. The folks, especially my Mom, loved the place. I enjoy it, too, but it's changed with the times. It's almost not the same park I remember. It needed to change, to survive. The rides I remember are not the ones it started with, and I miss some of those. And I will miss my parents' presence there.
On the other hand, I have done more with my life since they have passed away. I've started to follow some of my dreams that I think I denied myself when they were here. I knew my time with them was precious. And, since I lived with them -- I was one of those bounce-back kids -- I spent a lot of time with them. And when Mom went into the nursing home and the three of us girls took turns going to help her eat, most of our energies were used to keep her comfortable, along with living our lives.
But life goes on, and I must change with it. And I am. I go on. And I'm enjoying my life. I look forward to seeing them in the next, but I have no wish to hurry there.
Life is good.
And, in this week, my town has a celebration, a town fair, so to speak -- this year, we're celebrating the 175th anniversary of the Town of Three Rivers. We celebrate with a car show and a art and vendor fair and a small carnival in the city parking lot.
So there's a bit of a disconnect here for me. On one hand, I do enjoy the Water Festival. On the other hand, I miss my parents. Even though I know they lived long, good lives and died of natural causes, I suppose I have a little bit of survivor's guilt.
I know I'm going to feel it a bit more when I go down to DisneyWorld later this year. I do enjoy the place, but, on the other hand, it's almost more of a sentimental journey for me. The folks, especially my Mom, loved the place. I enjoy it, too, but it's changed with the times. It's almost not the same park I remember. It needed to change, to survive. The rides I remember are not the ones it started with, and I miss some of those. And I will miss my parents' presence there.
On the other hand, I have done more with my life since they have passed away. I've started to follow some of my dreams that I think I denied myself when they were here. I knew my time with them was precious. And, since I lived with them -- I was one of those bounce-back kids -- I spent a lot of time with them. And when Mom went into the nursing home and the three of us girls took turns going to help her eat, most of our energies were used to keep her comfortable, along with living our lives.
But life goes on, and I must change with it. And I am. I go on. And I'm enjoying my life. I look forward to seeing them in the next, but I have no wish to hurry there.
Life is good.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Being Lazy or What?
I've been tremendously lax lately. I know I should be sending my novel out to agents and/or publishers, but it's so darned easy to sit back and do nothing, watch TV, go to work. I don't have to have the pressure of sending my baby out there to be criticized, do I?
No. And yes.
If I don't try, I run the risk of copying the biblical parable of hiding my talents. Even if you're not a believer of God, it's almost a crime to not be all that you can be.
I get "accused" by some people of working too hard. I almost always have a feeling I'm not working hard enough, that I'm giving up on my dream, that I'm working just to survive rather than to contribute. Yes, I'm often satisfied by my day jobs -- I don't hate my days jobs -- but I don't love what I do, either. They are not my passion. I'm so much happier when I'm creative.
But it's often so much easier to drift along and say "I'll write tomorrow, I'll submit tomorrow."
No.
I'll stop here and try to do something every day. I refuse to hide my talents. I'm not going to hide my light under a basket. I may never be famous, but at least I'm going to try to follow my passion!
Today, I entered another contest here. The writer of the Blog is Shelley Watters, the agent is Victoria Marini of Gelfman Schneider Literary Agency. I know I could just submit to Ms. Marini directly, but this contest has the advantage of the first page being read by everybody in the contest -- and getting critiques. In the meantime, I'll work on the fan fic I started.
Hey. It's a start.
No. And yes.
If I don't try, I run the risk of copying the biblical parable of hiding my talents. Even if you're not a believer of God, it's almost a crime to not be all that you can be.
I get "accused" by some people of working too hard. I almost always have a feeling I'm not working hard enough, that I'm giving up on my dream, that I'm working just to survive rather than to contribute. Yes, I'm often satisfied by my day jobs -- I don't hate my days jobs -- but I don't love what I do, either. They are not my passion. I'm so much happier when I'm creative.
But it's often so much easier to drift along and say "I'll write tomorrow, I'll submit tomorrow."
No.
I'll stop here and try to do something every day. I refuse to hide my talents. I'm not going to hide my light under a basket. I may never be famous, but at least I'm going to try to follow my passion!
Today, I entered another contest here. The writer of the Blog is Shelley Watters, the agent is Victoria Marini of Gelfman Schneider Literary Agency. I know I could just submit to Ms. Marini directly, but this contest has the advantage of the first page being read by everybody in the contest -- and getting critiques. In the meantime, I'll work on the fan fic I started.
Hey. It's a start.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Hey, just saw the comments on my last Blog -- can somebody help me -- why can't I comment on my own Blog? Grrr....
Anyway, here's my comment:
Just saw these today -- someday I'll learn some of these programs, like Blogspot!
Thanks. I know I need to get serious about my writing. I'll look at both of these. I also need to set up a decent schedule that'll work for me. (Sleep? Who needs sleep?)
Anyway, here's my comment:
Just saw these today -- someday I'll learn some of these programs, like Blogspot!
Thanks. I know I need to get serious about my writing. I'll look at both of these. I also need to set up a decent schedule that'll work for me. (Sleep? Who needs sleep?)
Monday, June 6, 2011
Fan Fiction, Original Fiction... Oh, my!
I uploaded seven new stories to www.fanfiction.net yesterday: four Star Trek, one Stargate SG-1, one Stargate SG-1/Quantum Leap crossover, and one Quantum Leap/Buffy, the Vampire Slayer crossover. (For a great definition of a crossover, please go here: www.agentwithstyle.com/glossary.htm -- you'll learn more about fan fiction then you'll ever want to know.)
I enjoy fan fiction. I enjoy reading well-done fan fiction and I enjoy writing fan fiction. On the other hand, I'm starting to feel a bit odd about the whole thing. I'm getting some great, thoughtful reviews on my fan fiction. My stats for hits on the stories went from fourteen on Saturday to 245 on Sunday to 210 so far today. My record on Smashwords (www.smashwords.com) is 210 for one story. (All of my stories are free.) Now, I admit that many readers on FanFiction.net have lower expectations than those searching for an original story. Still, I'm thrilled that I'm getting a nice audience for my work
However...
I've been trying to convince myself that I have the ability to go professional. I've written one book that I'm trying to market to agents, and a second book that goes along with the first. I've had a second reader that really liked it. But I don't get any feedback. I realize that agents or editors don't dare give feedback to anybody they don't know because of all the crazies out there. It's very frustrating.
And I refuse to continue with something I'm not decent at. (I don't play tennis for that reason.) It's so very, very tempting to give up the pro dream and continue with the fan fiction.
But then again, is my "success" in fan fiction an indicator that I can go pro?
I don't know. But I refuse to give up without a fight. And I just have that feeling that this was what I was meant to do. So for now, I'll grab whatever ego-boost I can get from Fan Fiction and use that to fuel my energy for my original fiction.
Wish me luck.
I enjoy fan fiction. I enjoy reading well-done fan fiction and I enjoy writing fan fiction. On the other hand, I'm starting to feel a bit odd about the whole thing. I'm getting some great, thoughtful reviews on my fan fiction. My stats for hits on the stories went from fourteen on Saturday to 245 on Sunday to 210 so far today. My record on Smashwords (www.smashwords.com) is 210 for one story. (All of my stories are free.) Now, I admit that many readers on FanFiction.net have lower expectations than those searching for an original story. Still, I'm thrilled that I'm getting a nice audience for my work
However...
I've been trying to convince myself that I have the ability to go professional. I've written one book that I'm trying to market to agents, and a second book that goes along with the first. I've had a second reader that really liked it. But I don't get any feedback. I realize that agents or editors don't dare give feedback to anybody they don't know because of all the crazies out there. It's very frustrating.
And I refuse to continue with something I'm not decent at. (I don't play tennis for that reason.) It's so very, very tempting to give up the pro dream and continue with the fan fiction.
But then again, is my "success" in fan fiction an indicator that I can go pro?
I don't know. But I refuse to give up without a fight. And I just have that feeling that this was what I was meant to do. So for now, I'll grab whatever ego-boost I can get from Fan Fiction and use that to fuel my energy for my original fiction.
Wish me luck.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Where's my internet! Aggg!
Ok, here's what happened. Last weekend, I called the phone company to complain about a problem that's been going on for the last few years -- when it rains, I can barely use the phone because of the noise. It doesn't bother me all of the time, so I let it go.
Wednesday, the young man came to fix the telephone. I was on the internet when he was up on the pole, and I noticed I wasn't connected to the internet anymore. I thought, ok, no problem, he probably had to disconnect something. I finished my transaction at my workplace before I started work.
Wednesday night, the clarity on my phone was great. But I had no internet. I spent at least an hour on the phone while they tested various things. The phone company's position is that I needed a new modem, which will come within 3 -5 business days. Oh, great. So you see no connection with the guy on the pole and my lack of internet? Guess not.
I grant that I'm not all that technical with computers and my modem is a few years old. Maybe it is the modem, maybe not.
But, in the meantime, I never realized before how much I'm entertained and informed by the internet until it was taken away from me. Argh. I check it at work. (I do adjust my time for the internet checking.) I even connected my phone line to my old computer and used Juno's dial-up. (Slow, and the IE on that computer is very, very old.)
I'm going through withdrawal. I'm begging time from my local coffee shop (Thanks, LA Coffee!) and my sister (Thanks, Kathleen and Bob!) I'm wishing I had a phone that had its own wi-fi. What would be worse? If I didn't have a computer!
And that's just plain sad. I'm old enough to have lived before widespread computer usage, before the internet, before cable, before pocket calculators. Howcum I miss my internet so much?
I don't know. *sigh*
Well, back to the real world for me. Just don't expect me to reply very fast.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Synchronicity and frustration
I was turned down by another agent this morning, which I suppose is not terribly surprising. I'm not arrogant; I don't believe I've written the great American Novel. I do believe that it's at publishable level and is relatively entertaining and enlightening in its way, and I keep trying to think of ways to improve it or places to send it. Still, it is discouraging. I know the stats. I know how many places J.K. Rowling submitted before “Harry Potter” clicked with a publisher. I’m trying to keep an attitude of “Ok, it’s just a hobby.” Mostly I do. Today – I suppose because it’s Monday and I was a work – I was grumpy.
Then I got a good review from one of my stories on FanFiction.net. Synchronicity! Or, perhaps, a message. I am a Christian; I don’t advertise it, I’m not one to sit you down and try to convert you. (I had enough of that long before I became a Christian.) But perhaps this was God’s way of telling me to not be discouraged?
This has happened a couple of times! I get discouraged, then I get good news about something I wrote. Gives me hope.
Synchronicity. I’m now looking for fortuosity. (And if you don’t know what that is, take a look at this link to a: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k-mDrxLVuVU (copyright Disney)
Then I got a good review from one of my stories on FanFiction.net. Synchronicity! Or, perhaps, a message. I am a Christian; I don’t advertise it, I’m not one to sit you down and try to convert you. (I had enough of that long before I became a Christian.) But perhaps this was God’s way of telling me to not be discouraged?
This has happened a couple of times! I get discouraged, then I get good news about something I wrote. Gives me hope.
Synchronicity. I’m now looking for fortuosity. (And if you don’t know what that is, take a look at this link to a: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k-mDrxLVuVU (copyright Disney)
Sunday, May 8, 2011
To Mom, with Love
My mother left us five years ago. She could be irritable, demanding, and insistent. She wasn't always patient, and did not suffer fools gladly. She could be mad at you one minute, and concerned in the next. She hated housework, dishes, and sewing, yet she was a housewife all of her life. She was often in pain from a neck injury, and had headaches every day. In the last six years of her life, she lived in a nursing home, and because extremely patient.
She was also loving, supportive, fun, and funny. She didn't need to discipline me, she could quell me with a look. She went to my choir concerts, even though she was extremely tune-deaf and couldn't tell one note from the next. She always knew when I had done my best, but then she knew when I could do better and encouraged me to do so. She lived long enough to see me published and was happy for me, even though she wasn't able to read my story.
She was a fan of all Disney Parks, cozy mysteries, and the original version of Star Trek. She loved to travel, and she loved taking slides and pictures. She loved her husband of 50 years, her daughters, sons-in-law, and her grandchildren.
She was my friend, and I miss her.
To you, Mom!
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Thoughts on reviews -- should I care?
I received my second review the other day on one of the Smashwords stories I put up -- "Second-Hand Princess." The reviewer, "Caite" said:
"A very muddled story, with a Princess who never acquires a name, a Prince with an unpronounceable one, and entirely too many typographical and grammatical errors to be readable. Lovely premise, poor execution. (review of free book)."
I've spent the last few days trying to decide what I thought of this review. It's not bad. My initial thought was to ignore it, but then I wondered: was she right? I think what worried me more was not the muddled story or the poor execution part -- that's opinion -- but the part about typographical and grammatical errors.
So tonight I ran the story through Microsoft Word's grammar and spelling corrector. Yes, she was right. I wouldn't call it unreadable, but I found at least two spelling errors, one of which wouldn't have been caught by spell check. I also replaced a number of periods with commas. *sigh*.
The rest is her opinion, although I'm still trying to figure out how the name "Aarach" is entirely unpronounceable. The name doesn't seem as hard as some I've seen, such as Lois McMaster Bujold's "Miles Naismith Vorkosigan." (I discovered I was pronouncing it wrong when I listened to the audio books.)
That's fine. While I would like other people to enjoy my stories -- that's why I put them out there -- I mostly enjoy writing them. And that's all that counts. In my opinion!
"A very muddled story, with a Princess who never acquires a name, a Prince with an unpronounceable one, and entirely too many typographical and grammatical errors to be readable. Lovely premise, poor execution. (review of free book)."
I've spent the last few days trying to decide what I thought of this review. It's not bad. My initial thought was to ignore it, but then I wondered: was she right? I think what worried me more was not the muddled story or the poor execution part -- that's opinion -- but the part about typographical and grammatical errors.
So tonight I ran the story through Microsoft Word's grammar and spelling corrector. Yes, she was right. I wouldn't call it unreadable, but I found at least two spelling errors, one of which wouldn't have been caught by spell check. I also replaced a number of periods with commas. *sigh*.
The rest is her opinion, although I'm still trying to figure out how the name "Aarach" is entirely unpronounceable. The name doesn't seem as hard as some I've seen, such as Lois McMaster Bujold's "Miles Naismith Vorkosigan." (I discovered I was pronouncing it wrong when I listened to the audio books.)
That's fine. While I would like other people to enjoy my stories -- that's why I put them out there -- I mostly enjoy writing them. And that's all that counts. In my opinion!
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
If it's free, they will come? A rambling blog.
I've always taken my writing seriously, ever since 9th grade, and Mrs. Van Atta said I wrote good poetry. When I got to high school and 10th grade, I wanted to join the school newspaper, which, unfortunately, was on the way out. I don't remember the details now -- maybe Sue S. does -- but somehow Mrs. Longanecker was convinced to be our advisor, and the Wildcat Weekly was back. I started writing articles and discovered something.
I like being edited.
I like being edited, because it was the only way I could learn what I did wrong.
To my eyes, my writing is perfect. The newer it is, the more perfect it is. I enoy reading my own stories. But, practically, I know my writing is not perfect, and I need improvement.
I am not a perfectionist; far from it. I don't search for exactly the right word to fit into a story. I don't take forever to write. I do subscribe to Dean Wesley Smith's theory that a story should be written once, but not necessarily re-written. I clean my stories up, I try to catch all of the dangling plot points, but I'm not obsessive about it.
Which, 'round about, brings me back to Smashwords.com and fanfiction.net. I want feedback. I want the ego-boo, of course, but I want feedback. Don't get me wrong, I don't expect reviews, but the feedback I get here is how many people look at my stories. I guess it gives me verification that I actually might be doing something right. One of my stories on fanfiction.net has over 1200 hits. A story I just put up last week at Smashwords.com for free already has 145 downloads. Makes me feel good.
But does it mean my storytelling is good? I don't know.
You tell me.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Grumpy, Sleepy, and more dwarves
There are those days when I feel like all of Disney's seven dwarves. I'm constantly Sleepy. And, when I'm sleepy, I'm Grumpy. Dopey is a given. Bashful, well, usually. With the allergies I have, I'm also Sneezy. Sometimes I'm Happy. Doc is a hard one -- well, I do stammer like Doc, especially when I'm Sleepy.
I guess I should be grateful I don't have a long white beard.
Yesterday I received an edit from one of my fanzine editors. That's always humbling. I look at the corrections and think, geez, I should have known that, I should have seen that, what was I thinking? Today, I received notice that one of my stories is a finalist in a fan story contest (Fan-Q awards at MediaWest*con), which is totally cool. Six years ago, I won had a story published in a professional anthology, and the editor changed one word. ONE word! Haven't sold anything since.
So my writing life is Grumpy, Happy, Grumpy, Happy. I love to write, but am I fooling myself with my talent or lack of talent?
I guess I keep writing and keep hoping that I hit gold again, and suffer through all the dwarves!
I guess I should be grateful I don't have a long white beard.
Yesterday I received an edit from one of my fanzine editors. That's always humbling. I look at the corrections and think, geez, I should have known that, I should have seen that, what was I thinking? Today, I received notice that one of my stories is a finalist in a fan story contest (Fan-Q awards at MediaWest*con), which is totally cool. Six years ago, I won had a story published in a professional anthology, and the editor changed one word. ONE word! Haven't sold anything since.
So my writing life is Grumpy, Happy, Grumpy, Happy. I love to write, but am I fooling myself with my talent or lack of talent?
I guess I keep writing and keep hoping that I hit gold again, and suffer through all the dwarves!
Saturday, April 23, 2011
My Novel
A year ago, I posted the first scene of my first novel. I've edited it since then, so here's the new version:
How I Learned to Hate Shadows
Or
The Demons of my Sophomore Year
By L.J. Anderson
I had that dream again that morning. My Dad and I were in our kitchen. He was cooking hamburgers – Mom had to work late – and besides he wanted some father and daughter time. We had just begun to talk. I didn’t want to tell him, but I was having a hard time in school. He prodded until he finally got it out of me. I told him I knew no-one liked me. He laughed, said, except for your buddy, Bennie, and asked how I knew no-one liked me. I said, I just do. I didn’t wanted to tell him that I found could feel what everybody else thought, except for him and Mom. He got serious and asked, are people bullying you? I put my head down. I never could lie to Daddy. I lifted my head up. I was going to tell him. I know they hate me, Daddy, because I can read people’s minds, I said.
He looked surprised.
I thought I saw something dark enter his chest.
Then he collapsed.
I screamed.
I fell to the ground toward him.
He was staring at me.
No, he wasn’t. He was just staring.
He wasn’t breathing.
I grabbed the telephone and dialed 911.
Just as they answered, I woke up, sat up, and trembled. Why? I started crying. Why did he have to die? Why couldn’t they save him? I was still so angry. And why was I having this dream now? The dreams had just begun to go away. And what was the deal with that dark thing that entered Dad's chest? Did that mean something?
It took me a long time to get back to sleep that night. Then, of course, the next day, they came.
#
I was just leaning into my locker, looking for my mythology book and wondering what the heck was dark at the bottom – my old gym clothes? -- when I heard a voice behind me.
"I need to ask you something, Jaimie."
I sighed, shut my locker, shifted my backpack, cast a quick spell to keep us from being overheard, then turned around. I like Bennie, I really do, but Bennie's requests were always a bit odd, and, quite frankly, the entire school thinks we're odd enough. I mean, they really don't know about my -- our odd abilities, but we're not athletes, we're not cheerleaders, and we're not brainy geeks.
Ok, I'm kinda a weirdo, and I know Bennie's a geek, but we don't advertise it, ok? He even kind of looks like a geek; short, skinny, red hair, and glasses.
Whereas I look like the class weirdo. Instead of frilly things and skirts and those sorts of things, I wore black jeans, black t-shirts, big earrings, and a fake stud on my nose. My Mom didn’t object to the decorations, but she did object to my poking holes in myself “unnecessarily”, she said. So I used the magnetic kind.
“Hi, Bennie.” I looked him up and down. He didn’t look too bad today. He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. Unfortunately, nothing could hide the fact that he was a little skinny kid. Except his talent.
He shifted from foot to foot and side to side, trying to avoid people who kept bumping into him. You see, Bennie's unique ability -- which only I recognized -- is the ability to be unknown and invisible. No teachers remembered his name. Other kids bumped into him constantly. I'm the class freak. Everybody knew it. It wasn't like I shouted it out on the hallways. But they knew and got out of my way. I guess I projected danger.
“Hey, Jaimie,” he finally said.
"So," I asked Bennie. "What do you need?" I automatically put a spell up so that we wouldn’t be overheard or even noticed. I’m not sure why; I guess it was because our conversations tended to be a little… odd.
“I keep thinking I see shadows on the ceiling. Do you see them?”
I blinked. “Huh?” I stirred my gym clothes. No, nothing dark there. “What do you mean by shadows?” I was still concentrating on finding my Mythology book – that was my next class. Then I looked at him. Shadows? Something dark? Naw, he didn't know anything about my dream. I dismissed the thought.
He grimaced. “I’m not sure, exactly. I just kept seeing things out of the corner of my eyes.”
Bennie can sometimes be a little too weird for me. There was this one time he thought he was a vampire because there was a bat in his house until I pointed out he walked to school in the sunshine. Then there was the time he thought the local Catholic priest was a wizard because he heard that he turned bread and wine into the flesh and blood of Christ. I had to look up Catholicism which led to Consubstantiation -- which I’m not even going to try to explain -- all trying to prove the priest wasn’t a wizard. I’m still not sure he believed me.
The vapid brunette that has the locker next to mine bumped into Bennie. He shifted over. "Don't you think that's weird?"
“That you see things out of the corner of your eyes?” I started walking down the hall, noticing that the lights did seemed dim today. Probably just a little brown-out. We just added a computer room, and it seemed to draw a lot of electricity. This school is so old… we were in a district that believed that you put the teacher on one side of the log, the student on the other, and maybe a ten year old book between them. I especially liked the puddle that went from the roof, down through the wall to the first floor.
I bypassed the puddle and went down the hall. Our next class was down this hall, to the right. Mrs. Short was our Mythology teacher, a sweet lady. I heard another teacher say that she was just this side of retirement, although she seemed ancient to me. In fact, they only kept Mythology on as part of the English curriculum as a favor for her, as long as she taught it as literature.
Bennie sat next to me, like he always did. Mrs. Short kept looking over us. I suddenly realized that my spell was still going. Not that I think Bennie knew the difference.
Mrs. Short blinked at me. "Jaimie! Where did you come from?"
I shrugged. "I've been here."
She blinked. "So you have." She then started lecturing on Zeus. Which was okay. He sounded like a powerful Dude, with a capital D.
But I found myself thinking about Bennie and the shadows he saw out of the corner of his eye.
"Jaimie." Mrs. Short was looking at me. Suddenly, the lights dimmed again. I looked around, but nobody else noticed. I shrugged and shook my head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Short. I guess I was up too late last night." Jen, the head cheerleader, laughed. I know what she was thinking, and suddenly I thought I knew what she had been doing last night. I stared at her steadily, and said "Ian. Right?" She stopped laughing, blushed, and turned away after a sideways glare.
A shadow fell over my paper. I looked up. Ok, that was freaky. The lights still looked dim, but nothing was there. Then I felt something. Beside me, Bennie grabbed my arm and shivered. I looked at him. He looked at me. The kids behind us snickered. Bennie released my arm with a jerk.
Mrs. Short looked at us again. "Is there something wrong?"
I looked down. Mrs. Short was sweet, and I really hated to lie to her. "I thought I saw a mouse. Bennie said I didn't." I saw the shadow again – it looked like black ink now -- and then it dove for me. I ducked. "I'm sorry."
I saw Bennie look at his hand. The shadow had touched him, and where it had touched him, the spot was pure white. I touched it -- ice cold. I stared at it. What the --
I looked at him. Bennie looked like he was in pain, and that worried me. He may be paranoid and weird, but his pain tolerance was very high. I’ve seen him beat up and shrug off his bruises. So if he was showing he was in pain, well, he was. "Mrs. Short, may we go to the nurse?" I said.
"I'm all right," Bennie muttered.
"No, you're not," I murmured.
I extended my control so that everybody froze but Bennie and me. I don’t like to do that too often, it’s too tiring. He looked around. "You scare me sometimes."
I looked up at the ceiling. It was like watching a Koi pool, but in reverse. “And those things don’t?" I yelled. "Do you want to sit in this class and freeze to death?"
He looked down. "No."
I started time again. Mrs. Short was looking at us compassionately. "Of course. You need to go to the nurse." I practically snatched the slip out of her hands, grabbed Bennie's hand, and rushed out of the room.
How I Learned to Hate Shadows
Or
The Demons of my Sophomore Year
By L.J. Anderson
I had that dream again that morning. My Dad and I were in our kitchen. He was cooking hamburgers – Mom had to work late – and besides he wanted some father and daughter time. We had just begun to talk. I didn’t want to tell him, but I was having a hard time in school. He prodded until he finally got it out of me. I told him I knew no-one liked me. He laughed, said, except for your buddy, Bennie, and asked how I knew no-one liked me. I said, I just do. I didn’t wanted to tell him that I found could feel what everybody else thought, except for him and Mom. He got serious and asked, are people bullying you? I put my head down. I never could lie to Daddy. I lifted my head up. I was going to tell him. I know they hate me, Daddy, because I can read people’s minds, I said.
He looked surprised.
I thought I saw something dark enter his chest.
Then he collapsed.
I screamed.
I fell to the ground toward him.
He was staring at me.
No, he wasn’t. He was just staring.
He wasn’t breathing.
I grabbed the telephone and dialed 911.
Just as they answered, I woke up, sat up, and trembled. Why? I started crying. Why did he have to die? Why couldn’t they save him? I was still so angry. And why was I having this dream now? The dreams had just begun to go away. And what was the deal with that dark thing that entered Dad's chest? Did that mean something?
It took me a long time to get back to sleep that night. Then, of course, the next day, they came.
#
I was just leaning into my locker, looking for my mythology book and wondering what the heck was dark at the bottom – my old gym clothes? -- when I heard a voice behind me.
"I need to ask you something, Jaimie."
I sighed, shut my locker, shifted my backpack, cast a quick spell to keep us from being overheard, then turned around. I like Bennie, I really do, but Bennie's requests were always a bit odd, and, quite frankly, the entire school thinks we're odd enough. I mean, they really don't know about my -- our odd abilities, but we're not athletes, we're not cheerleaders, and we're not brainy geeks.
Ok, I'm kinda a weirdo, and I know Bennie's a geek, but we don't advertise it, ok? He even kind of looks like a geek; short, skinny, red hair, and glasses.
Whereas I look like the class weirdo. Instead of frilly things and skirts and those sorts of things, I wore black jeans, black t-shirts, big earrings, and a fake stud on my nose. My Mom didn’t object to the decorations, but she did object to my poking holes in myself “unnecessarily”, she said. So I used the magnetic kind.
“Hi, Bennie.” I looked him up and down. He didn’t look too bad today. He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. Unfortunately, nothing could hide the fact that he was a little skinny kid. Except his talent.
He shifted from foot to foot and side to side, trying to avoid people who kept bumping into him. You see, Bennie's unique ability -- which only I recognized -- is the ability to be unknown and invisible. No teachers remembered his name. Other kids bumped into him constantly. I'm the class freak. Everybody knew it. It wasn't like I shouted it out on the hallways. But they knew and got out of my way. I guess I projected danger.
“Hey, Jaimie,” he finally said.
"So," I asked Bennie. "What do you need?" I automatically put a spell up so that we wouldn’t be overheard or even noticed. I’m not sure why; I guess it was because our conversations tended to be a little… odd.
“I keep thinking I see shadows on the ceiling. Do you see them?”
I blinked. “Huh?” I stirred my gym clothes. No, nothing dark there. “What do you mean by shadows?” I was still concentrating on finding my Mythology book – that was my next class. Then I looked at him. Shadows? Something dark? Naw, he didn't know anything about my dream. I dismissed the thought.
He grimaced. “I’m not sure, exactly. I just kept seeing things out of the corner of my eyes.”
Bennie can sometimes be a little too weird for me. There was this one time he thought he was a vampire because there was a bat in his house until I pointed out he walked to school in the sunshine. Then there was the time he thought the local Catholic priest was a wizard because he heard that he turned bread and wine into the flesh and blood of Christ. I had to look up Catholicism which led to Consubstantiation -- which I’m not even going to try to explain -- all trying to prove the priest wasn’t a wizard. I’m still not sure he believed me.
The vapid brunette that has the locker next to mine bumped into Bennie. He shifted over. "Don't you think that's weird?"
“That you see things out of the corner of your eyes?” I started walking down the hall, noticing that the lights did seemed dim today. Probably just a little brown-out. We just added a computer room, and it seemed to draw a lot of electricity. This school is so old… we were in a district that believed that you put the teacher on one side of the log, the student on the other, and maybe a ten year old book between them. I especially liked the puddle that went from the roof, down through the wall to the first floor.
I bypassed the puddle and went down the hall. Our next class was down this hall, to the right. Mrs. Short was our Mythology teacher, a sweet lady. I heard another teacher say that she was just this side of retirement, although she seemed ancient to me. In fact, they only kept Mythology on as part of the English curriculum as a favor for her, as long as she taught it as literature.
Bennie sat next to me, like he always did. Mrs. Short kept looking over us. I suddenly realized that my spell was still going. Not that I think Bennie knew the difference.
Mrs. Short blinked at me. "Jaimie! Where did you come from?"
I shrugged. "I've been here."
She blinked. "So you have." She then started lecturing on Zeus. Which was okay. He sounded like a powerful Dude, with a capital D.
But I found myself thinking about Bennie and the shadows he saw out of the corner of his eye.
"Jaimie." Mrs. Short was looking at me. Suddenly, the lights dimmed again. I looked around, but nobody else noticed. I shrugged and shook my head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Short. I guess I was up too late last night." Jen, the head cheerleader, laughed. I know what she was thinking, and suddenly I thought I knew what she had been doing last night. I stared at her steadily, and said "Ian. Right?" She stopped laughing, blushed, and turned away after a sideways glare.
A shadow fell over my paper. I looked up. Ok, that was freaky. The lights still looked dim, but nothing was there. Then I felt something. Beside me, Bennie grabbed my arm and shivered. I looked at him. He looked at me. The kids behind us snickered. Bennie released my arm with a jerk.
Mrs. Short looked at us again. "Is there something wrong?"
I looked down. Mrs. Short was sweet, and I really hated to lie to her. "I thought I saw a mouse. Bennie said I didn't." I saw the shadow again – it looked like black ink now -- and then it dove for me. I ducked. "I'm sorry."
I saw Bennie look at his hand. The shadow had touched him, and where it had touched him, the spot was pure white. I touched it -- ice cold. I stared at it. What the --
I looked at him. Bennie looked like he was in pain, and that worried me. He may be paranoid and weird, but his pain tolerance was very high. I’ve seen him beat up and shrug off his bruises. So if he was showing he was in pain, well, he was. "Mrs. Short, may we go to the nurse?" I said.
"I'm all right," Bennie muttered.
"No, you're not," I murmured.
I extended my control so that everybody froze but Bennie and me. I don’t like to do that too often, it’s too tiring. He looked around. "You scare me sometimes."
I looked up at the ceiling. It was like watching a Koi pool, but in reverse. “And those things don’t?" I yelled. "Do you want to sit in this class and freeze to death?"
He looked down. "No."
I started time again. Mrs. Short was looking at us compassionately. "Of course. You need to go to the nurse." I practically snatched the slip out of her hands, grabbed Bennie's hand, and rushed out of the room.
Friday, April 22, 2011
To Blog or not to Blog
I've been thinking a lot about Blogs lately. For those authors who actually have books to sell, I can see that they could be an invaluable marketing tool. For people like me, who has, so far, two whole stories up at smashwords.com (under L.J. Anderson), and one professionally published short story -- well, the whole blogging experience seems a bit like writing in a diary.
However, unlike a diary, a blog is in the public eye, even if nobody else actually looks at it. Some stranger across the country could be looking at what I happen to think, or, even worse, somebody living in my home town. Or my bosses. Which makes writing in a blog a bit -- dangerous. One of my jobs is in a local accounting firm, where, of course, privacy is a huge concern, the other is as a bookkeper in a local lumberyard. This means that writing anything about clients or customers is out, in a big way. I'm no fool.
It took me a while -- perhaps through tax season? -- that, golly, I can write about other things besides my jobs. I can try to talk about my third job -- still a hobby -- writing. I can write about things around town. I can write about travel. I can write about fandom. Ok, I know, this isn't an original idea.
But at least I'm writing. And that's the point, right? Even if nobody else reads this but me.
However, unlike a diary, a blog is in the public eye, even if nobody else actually looks at it. Some stranger across the country could be looking at what I happen to think, or, even worse, somebody living in my home town. Or my bosses. Which makes writing in a blog a bit -- dangerous. One of my jobs is in a local accounting firm, where, of course, privacy is a huge concern, the other is as a bookkeper in a local lumberyard. This means that writing anything about clients or customers is out, in a big way. I'm no fool.
It took me a while -- perhaps through tax season? -- that, golly, I can write about other things besides my jobs. I can try to talk about my third job -- still a hobby -- writing. I can write about things around town. I can write about travel. I can write about fandom. Ok, I know, this isn't an original idea.
But at least I'm writing. And that's the point, right? Even if nobody else reads this but me.
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