Dat Muse

Hello, Internet!

The last few weeks have featured spotty internet and spotty casual inspiration, which has led to the radio silence that the scores (2?) of you may or may not have noticed.

But fear not: I have been hard at work. This round of novel revisions has presented to me a series of challenges that have me chomping at the bit. Character mash-ups, earlier deaths, plot twists for future tales! Woo! I can't put it down! Compliments and encouragement are awesome, but I crave a challenge. So I've been editing, printing off what I've got, editing in paper form, adjusting, and moving forward. I aim to have this round sent back to Pestritto on Rye before I get my bigger tattoo. Which will be awesome.

But all of this (among with a few side-stories I won't get into) has led to me musing on muses.

I've previously discussed First Wife, who was very much my first muse. Fiery woman with a badass history, beautiful babies, and also one of the coolest names I've ever encountered? Hells yes.

But the last year or two has led to me finding inspiration in other places, and through other people, as I've stretched my writing wings and found other interests. Art, poetry, rants combining the two. I've come to realize that I really do thrive in challenge-mode. I like having my buttons pushed. More than that, I like people who can handle what comes out of the box when those buttons are pushed.

I spent a solid portion of my life in relative silence--I come from a clan of bickerers, but I was often told to 'calm down' when I engaged in the battle. I have a natural inclination to fight, but I also have developed a genuine, silly fear of offending people. So I listened. I 'calmed down.' Because Goddess* forbid I hurt anyone's feelings by standing my ground. I'm an overly passionate person by nature, but I retreated into a dormant shell, which really only resulted in volcanic blips when I was pushed too far (usually in discussions regarding the history of fairy tales).

So I need to be pushed, but I also need to be allowed to push back. I need to release my claws from time to time. That is when I create my best work--by which I mean, the work only I can create. The stuff that sets me apart from any old bum with a pen. Because I can schlock with the best of them--I just don't see the point. If you can't pick my words out of the barrel, why did I ever write them down?

But, surely, not everyone does their thang berserker style? What shape do your muses take? What lights your fire? Does your muse have a face, at present? Do you have different muses for different crafts?



*The wives and I have dubbed Amanda Fucking Palmer** our lead Goddess. We have a hand salute and everything.

**This is Her stage name. Deal with it.

Gaiminspiration

Very brief blogalog, just to inform my two active readers as to my latest goings-ons and plans.

Two of my Wives and I returned from a wee road trip yesterday. We drove to Billings to see a little-known author give a few speeches and read some stories to celebrate the opening of Billings' new library. No big deal. Just Neil Gaiman.

Shrill screamiiiiiiiiiing!!

I'm still trying to put my thoughts into some semblance of order. I--just--Neil Gaiman. He read stories. He talked about literacy. He had a beard, because his wife (who happens to be the head Goddess worshiped on The Good Ship Looney) likes the scruffy handsome hobo beard he developed whilst working on his most recent writing.

Shrill screaming (Part 2)!!!

He did a question/answer section after he was finished reading. One of the note cards he chose to read aloud and answer was written by Wifey. It was a question about me, about a lovely rejection I'd received comparing my writing to his. 








I'll post the audio of his response when I've finished having heart palpitations :)

Suffice to say, this was an inspirational trip. I took a lot of pictures, which you will be aware of if you follow me on any of the other media sites. If you don't yet, here I am on Tumblr, which I believe is connected to everything else in the world.

But I am throwing myself, body, brain, and boobs, hard into revisions. There are some mighty changes I'm making this round (I'm merging a handful of characters to lower the head count), but mostly I'm focusing on looking at the book from a more critical, commercial standpoint. Which is weird for me, but important. After a mighty day of reading, rereading, chopping, polishing, rerereading, and scrapping about ten entire pages of material, and then elbowing a bit more to the side, and then reading it outloud for the tenth time, I've got some decent progress made and a healthy, loving desire to set a portion of the world on fire.

But it's a good thing. Writing is like rollerblading uphill. If you're not sweating, not actively moving forward, you're probably zipping back down the slope.

And that awkward metaphor suggests to me that it is time for me to go to sleep. Now that I'm back in town, I will continue to blogalog, and toss in an update on revision status if it doesn't strike me as too boring to report :)

Thanks for reading!

Amber June

I believe I have mentioned once or twice a truly resplendent woman I have the great fortune to be friends with. Her name is Amber June, she has three beautiful children, and is easily the most gracious person I have ever known. She is also an absolute artist with words (and with art) and if I ever have to grow up I hope to be at least a little bit like her.

I made this as a gift for her, for Christmas:

Because Amber June is an elegant badass who has a thing for butterflies.

Valentine for a Bearded Man

I composed this for my bearded man friend, for Valentine's Day. Then I took him (and Wifey) to a cemetery to lay out flowers. If you've ever wondered what it's like to be courted by an author...well, here you go.

Note: Formatting is weird. And hard. The version I printed out and crumpled in my bag before actually offering it had text and images working in tandem. I'm afraid you'll all have to settle for the text/image mashup below:

Valentine, I will build for you a Cabin in the Woods,

Where The Strangers cannot follow.

It will be The Shining respite that we need

Our own little Sleepy Hollow.

Don't be Afraid of the Dark, for I will be with you

Lying beneath the Silent Hill

Awaiting The Return of the lark.

Useful

Beginning around the time I was old enough to be critiqued on my appearance, I have been told that I have ugly hands. My fingers are short and stubby (making my strong desire to pick up the guitar or the piano or most instruments, really, a moot point). Most of my digits have experienced breaks and are therefore crooked. I often have cuts and bruises with less interesting stories than are usually worth telling, because I like using my hands for everything and usually don't stop long enough to think about protecting them.

One of the art classes I took in high school (I took damn near all of them) required that we keep a sketch diary. We didn't have to be skilled or creative, we just had to show that we were constantly drawing. Sort of similar to an author needing to keep an active blog, I guess *shame*

For one of my pages in this sketch diary, I drew my own hands. I wrote on the page, in passing, "These are my hands. They're ugly, but they're useful, so I like them."

My teacher, Master Tim, responded: "Useful = Beautiful"

This is my beautiful hand. It has some nicks, some cuts, some signs of past adventures, and a tattoo of a feather pen, because that is how I communicate best with the world. I've frequently said that every -one and -thing has a story worth telling; it is simply a matter of telling it correctly.

Last year was a year of change and progress. This year has, for its young life, been a year of progress and learning. I hope to have some proper adventures, and I hope you enjoy hearing about them :)

Moonrise

Hullo, Internet!

I am popping in briefly, post-revisions, to report on my activities and ramble a bit about thematic wonderings.

After struggling to stay motivated through the insanity of Christmas at the Dayjob (worst holiday special EVAR) and exorcizing myself of the flu, I've decided to just go, as Broseph says, balls to the walls to get my revisions done. One day I did the math and realized that, should I get at least 50 pages done every night, I could have the entire book gleaming and fresh-faced for New Years. Since I promised Pestritto on Rye that I would have it done last Tuesday, that seems like a decent goal.

Yesterday, I powered through about 75 pages. Tonight I got through about 65 pages. Dayjob's schedule is all jacked up (two people recovering from thumb surgeries, two people resigned, one person abandoned the job because screw the rest of us) so I don't have my normal 'weekend' of Sunday/Monday. But I'm going to keep going like a war horse seeking the last bale of carrots, all the same.

Do carrots come in bales? Sure. I ran a Google Image search on 'spider teeth' the other day, knowing full well that spiders don't have teeth, but also knowing that the talking spider in the story has to be enunciating with SOMEthing. So I'll be a bit liberal with my metaphors. Cripes, I'm tired.

Anyway, the thought that has been bopping around in my head:

In my book, a group of lost humans are traveling around in a fairy forest. It's not the sugarplum kind of forest. Things bite. Shadows creep. People die. But as the humans travel, the sun rises and falls and makes way for the moon the way it might anywhere else (except for in a cave, or in Alaska, I suppose).

During the day, the humans are exactly who they believe themselves to be. They speak properly. They maintain their facades. They can be snide and naive and timid like normal.

But at night time, all of their secrets come tumbling out. Many of them find themselves confessing terrible--or great--truths to their ghost girl of a guide (the narrator). Those who pretend to be cruel or powerful show their soft spots. Those who feign friendships reveal their true colors.

Neither way of being is decidedly better. Sure, it's easier dealing with a pack of frightened people when everyone's showing their cards, but what if their cards are just really, really bad? But then, in life or death situations, putting on airs only helps so much.

This is not a phenomenon that is outright stated. It's just one of those things that I know, that I did on purpose, and that you may pick up on if you're kinda looking for it. It's also somewhat true to life. Science people have stated, with beakers in hand, that odd behavior picks up around the full moon, or just at any mooney time at all.

Theories abound as to why this study that totally exists but which I don't feel like linking to yielded such results. Maybe it's because of evolution. Or lions attacking us in the night. Yogurt that was left in the fridge too long.

Anyway, what I had wondered was this:

Throughout all of our special history, how does the lunar scale look against the morality scale? Have there been more romantic gondola rides, or more literal games of 'Got Your Nose?' More starlit epiphanies, or more home burglaries?

And no matter which way the scale tips, does that say more about the power of the moon, or about us?

Avast!

Well, I have the day off from work, First Wife is making me breakfast, I'm wearing the pirate pajamas Wifey gave me, and I'm watching The Muppet's Treasure Island.

It must be my birthday.

I'm 26 years old, now! My 25th year was insane. I finished a book, signed with an agent, survived a round of publisher rejection, and moved out of my hobbit hole and into The Good Ship Looney with my best mates. This has been a year of new beginnings, bold adventure, and also some big, scary changes that are all for the best.

But the thing is, no matter how wonderful or 'for the best' changes are, they DO bring fear. There's comfort in the things we're accustomed to. So I'm hoping, with that in mind, that my 26th year is terrifying, in the best way possible. Though I suppose hope has little to do with it--the changes I've got my eye on are all about choice and action.

So, wish me luck, internet! I'm off on another adventure.