IT'S ALRIGHT, I'M A WRITER

I took Memorial Day weekend off.

This was momentous because I work every night and every weekend - on top of my full-time job - and have for so many months now that I can't remember the last time I took three days off. Or two. Or one.

I had a great time. Walked in the sun. Ate some fabulous food as well as a suspect serving of potted duck (not recommended, even if you love potted meat and especially if you love duck). Caught up with old friends. Drank quite a lot of absinthe (just the legal kind, don't get too excited).

It was an exhausting weekend, partially because I flew twice and slept little, but mostly because of how often I interacted. With real, live humans. I forget sometimes, when I'm buried up to my neck in my laptop, that writing is about conveying realistic experiences. Even if you're writing fantasy, sci fi or any other kind of speculative fiction.

If the interactions don't ring true, the reader won't follow. And if the interactions aren't unique, just recycled scenes from the myriad books you've read, they likely won't sell.

So, with three full days of people-watching sloshing through my brain, I'm back at it with new material.

How do you recharge? Where do you find your inspiration?

SO WAT'CHA, WAT'CHA, WAT'CHA WANT?

Twenty-twelve is right around the corner and, as ever when we reach the cusp of a new year, that means it's time to talk about successes and failures, resolutions and goals. I say we don't dwell so much on the failures, or the resolutions - what are those, after all, but snippets of dreams committed to paper?

My five goals, in no particular order, for twenty-twelve:*

• Master the art of eating hot foods without losing control of my mucous membranes
• Finally watch all of Jacob's Ladder without covering my eyes during the seizure-gimp scenes
• Write that 120,000-word buddy comedy novel mash-up of Twilight and Throw Momma from the Train
• Grow another inch

• Finish two novels

What are your goals, dear readers? What one or three or five things do you hope to accomplish in twenty-twelve? (Yes, I do like seeing it written out, why do you ask?)

*Subject to change without notice, available only in states and territories where permitted, in Spanish where available, may cause narcolepsy, robotism or bleeding of the eyes.

TRICK OR TREAT (RECESSION-STYLE)

We usually have snow on Halloween. Except when it's too cold, but usually there's at least a crusty dusting on the ground when the kids march stubbornly up the drive, trying to show off as much of their costumes as they can around the puffy coats and boots. The older kids - some of them with five o'clock shadow - try to tough it out. Maybe a long-sleeved shirt under their costume, sometimes bare arms against the twenty-five degree wind. They'll burn through more calories than the collected candy contains if they're out long enough. Mother Nature's holding back this year, saving it for when she really needs it.

We seem to have a mustache shortage up here this year, as well. Not the real ones. We have plenty, too many maybe, of the real ones. But my friendly local costume shop, which supplies me year-round with fine faux mustaches, is nearly out. Just a few joke-sized black handlebars and some raggedy old muttonchops hang now on the pegs.

Not my style.

I guess it's cutbacks, the pretend facial hair industry scaling back on low-selling items like everybody else. Some day, sitting around the campfire, we'll sing songs about the days of yore, when we had snow on Halloween, and mustaches were sold on every corner.

IN WHICH I SAY "NAY"

Every now and again I am hit with, nay, I am well-nigh overcome with the burning desire to play a bass guitar really freaking well. And I can't do it. I don't know the first thing. My fingers, they are not nimble. I'm tone-deaf. I can read sheet music as well as I can program DOS basic (really slowly, with much teeth-grinding and a very rudimentary product).

But I want to. Oh, how I want to.

You got any overwhelming and completely unexplored desires, kids?

P.S. This post was brought to you by a crippling, sudden-onset desire to play bass.

NERDSCAPE: Terminator 2 on MST3K

Author Kevin Hearne is doing a giveaway of his debut urban fantasy novel HOUNDED on his blog. The book looks great, and the entry requirements (submit either a Nerdscape or a Beerscape-see blog for rules) are hilarious.

The other entrants have created some amazing Nerd- and/or Beerscapes, and I couldn't resist adding my own. I give you: Terminator 2 on Mystery Science Theater 3000 (alternate cast), with Neil Gaiman's NEVERWHERE (see caption to understand how this ties in), and seasonally-appropriate miniature Cadbury Cream Eggs.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY?

CUISINE AT THE END OF THE WORLD

When I was growing up, in a small town in Alaska during the early 1980's, my parents didn't buy milk in a carton. Nor did they grow milk plants and harvest/drain the pods (ten points to whoever names the origin on that reference - I'm certain I can't remember). They bought powder, added it to water, and mixed it...often with poor results. Want to know what a dry lump of partially-reconstituted milk feels like in your mouth? Like a spore of Hell has landed on your tongue, that's what.

Why would parents subject their children to such a thing? Because it was less expensive than liquid milk, and had a long shelf-life. Those were the sorts of things we had to pay attention to in a place where almost all food stuffs were imported, and the import schedule was erratic. At the time, I thought the manufacturers of the stuff (Nestle, I think) were sadists. Now, in light of the (probably) impending zombie apocalypse, I think they might be geniuses.

For all the changes in the world and Alaska during my lifetime, we still can't grow much food here. Sure, there are animals and delicious fish, but the growing season is short and cool. We can grow 100 pound cabbages, but grains are tricky, and don't get me started on fruit. Also, some of those animals kill people on occasion. 

So, in the event of the end of the world, what would we have? I'm presuming here that the final curtain call will be preceded by a period of energy scarcity on such a scale that manufacturing ceases, etc. etc. We'd have massive Brassicacaeae, moose steaks (here's a how-to if you want to make your own), salmon, and tart berries. I sense scurvy in my future, unless a couple of Jamba Juices survive and start delivering. Which would be awesome btw, a perky little badass Jamba juicer hellbent on delivery in a Mad Max world. Quick - somebody go write that.

So, for all you authors of apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic prose, where's the food coming from? Are all your characters hoarding Twinkies and raiding the 7-11 at the end of the world, or are they growing and harvesting? And what are you planning to live on, should the end times come a-callin'?

CATAWAMPTIOUSLY CHAWED UP

It's been more than a week since I first encountered it, and I'm still stuck on this phrase. It's rare that I'm surprised by a word or phrase. Sure, I encounter words I've never heard or seen in print, a smattering of letters I'm required to look up. Some of them I remember. Some drift away, the meaning returning to whatever place it inhabited before I glimpsed it.

Catawampous has always surprised me, but catawamptiously chawed up is a real treat. You can practically taste, all but feel the meaning as you say it.

Meaning: utterly defeated, badly beaten. Catawamptiously chawed up. Brilliant.

What are your favorites?

THE WORD IS THE THING

"Watchu goin do wit em?" Garv asked.

Tal rubbed at the scab on his chin, poked at the squirmy pile on the ground with a short stick.

"Dunno."

"Maybe they'll burn."

Tal dragged one of the little objects away from the others. The men stared at it, its serpentine shape at once familiar and unknown. Unknowable, perhaps.

"Don't look like it'd give up much heat," Tal said. He dragged another one, more angular that the first, out of the pile. He flicked a third, which fetched up against the others. And then the three little forms shook like wet dogs and settled down beside one another. Expectant.

"Eat," Garv said. Then he looked away, pink blooming on his pockmarked cheeks. "I seen them afor. They says 'eat'."

"What is they?"

"Letars. When theys together, then theys a ward."

Tal looked down. e. A. T. He picked the letars up, rubbing the thin, slightly greasy forms between his forefinger and thumb. He lifted his chin and dropped them into his mouth. They crunched between his teeth, burst on his tongue. But there was nothing to swallow.

"What they tastin of?" Garv asked, his nose scrunched up in distaste.

"Pleasant. At first, they were sweet and sour, like a recalcitrant berry plucked from Mrs. Rangarajan's thorny plants. Then they changed, became viscous and savory as they climbed my teeth. And then..." He shrugged. "They seemed to disappear."

"Huh." Garv scratched at a sore on the side of his neck.

"You really should try one," Tal said, plucking three more letters and lining them up. Garv squinted at them.

"Maybes later," Garv said. "Lessus go down at the pond."

STATUS QUO

It's brilliantly sunny and appallingly cold here today (yes, this is one of those times when adverbs are acceptable). I'm overcaffeinated, reading Shakespeare and a cowboy slang dictionary, and fairly certain something amazing is about to erupt in my WIP.

How's your weekend going?

URBAN FANTASY WISH LIST - MARCH 2011

I'm seeing all sorts of lists of clichés and tropes that readers say they are tired of seeing in Urban Fantasy (though sales seem to indicate that readers are, in fact, not entirely tired of these genre staples). What I'm not seeing are wish lists.

I'm a big fan of the wish list. Mostly I park unachievable (the $75,000 a month rental house in Napa) or ridiculous (uranium) items on them and occasionally review them to make myself laugh. But, in addition, I also use them for their intended purpose: to declare my wantiest wants for all the world to see.

I give you: 

My Urban Fantasy Wish List

(Effective March 2011, subject to change at will or whim. Wish List not valid outside of United States, its territories or possessions. Void where prohibited.)

• Male Leads
• Main Characters whose days jobs are not investigative in nature
• Animals that neither talk nor transform into 1) people 2) demons or 3) whatever the MC needs at that very moment to escape that very peril
• Less Sex Addiction - Seriously, this is the only plausible explanation for characters to throw down and make the beast with two backs while beaten up and in an urgently dangerous situation
• Pirates (The High Seas kind, not the Somali kind. Okay, maybe the Somali kind)
• People falling through false doors into elaborate cave systems and having to find their ways out, possibly encountering Chester Copperpot as they do so (No, I have not watched The Goonies recently, why do you ask?)
• EDIT: Adding automats, because they are teh awesome!
• Nature vs. Man - Specifically the natural world revolting against human-cultivated magic or technology
• Main Characters who do not compulsively bully their friends or treat their significant others with disdain
• Ancient scourges so scourgerific that I'm compelled to keep all the lights on at night
• Fallen Angels/Mythic Creatures whose primary purpose is not to get in the MC's leather pants

I think that's it for now. What's on your wish list?

STRANGE THINGS DONE

There are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold.
The arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold.

This quote is the opening of one of my favorite poems growing up: "The Cremation of Sam McGee" by Robert Service. It was about my home state of Alaska, contained eerie imagery, and, because it told an engaging story, was easy for me to memorize. I didn't, as a child, know that four hours of twilight did not constitute a day. I understood nothing about circadian rhythms or seasonal affective disorder. I didn't know that long Alaskan winters can drive a person mad.

I believe, now, that they can. I even have documentation. This, dear friends, is 
what happens when you give an Alaskan a short reprieve in a temperate locale 
in the middle of winter:

She buys a cowboy hat (which makes her deliriously happy). *

And she runs all over town posing for country music album covers.


*Giant, metal horse optional

THIS WORD YOU KEEP USING

Ring, ring, ring.

Customer Service: Thank you for calling blahblah. How can I help you?

Me: I was wondering what your hours are.

Customer Service: Monday through Friday, 8 to 4, specific time.

Me: 8 to 4. That is specific. Good to know. Thanks.

Customer Service: No. Specific time.

Me: Why are you so emphatic about this?

Customer Service: Because you are calling from out of state. I'm supposed to tell everyone from out of state that we're in specific time.

Me: (puzzles) Wait, do you mean Pacific Time? As in, your company is headquartered on the West Coast, in the Pacific Time Zone?

Customer Service: (pause) Yes.


Click.

Tuesday Random

An excerpt from the note I found in my pocket while prepping laundry:

Celery

Pickled Asparagus

Fed up and desperate and vibrating in the dark

You

I cannot tell whether I captured a quote from Elizabeth Hand on a bloody mary-centric shopping list and then trailed off in mid-thought, or if I've started unconsciously devising poetic bullying notes for vegetables.

Do you people ever find things like this, something clearly in your handwriting, but utterly outside of your memory?