tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79908630630319040822024-03-13T15:29:26.138-07:00Worlds of JasmineToo much imagination for just one planetAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.comBlogger102125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-66470597577020223962014-10-21T09:07:00.001-07:002014-10-21T09:07:21.226-07:00Cover Reveal: Prodigal Steelwielder, Third Seal of the Duelists<h2 style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"><u>Cover Reveal</u></span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #7f6000; font-size: x-large;">Prodigal Steelwielder</span><span style="color: #7f6000; font-size: x-large;">Third Seal of the Duelists</span></span></h3>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SGsXl0WQ07o/VEZ94YILgXI/AAAAAAAAAjw/yf_w2SWPoOM/s1600/Prodigal-Steelwielder-800%2BCover%2Breveal%2Band%2BPromotional.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SGsXl0WQ07o/VEZ94YILgXI/AAAAAAAAAjw/yf_w2SWPoOM/s1600/Prodigal-Steelwielder-800%2BCover%2Breveal%2Band%2BPromotional.jpg" /></a></div>
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Available for purchase later this month!</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-29338003543397781742014-04-02T10:16:00.002-07:002014-04-02T10:16:24.474-07:00I Blame the Cabbage<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter received a small cabbage plant from school the other
day. She was supposed to water it, but
at her age, daily chores are still quite a chore. As a result, after I waved goodbye to the
kids from the window this morning, I looked down to find that the little
cabbage plant had gone crispy. I watered
it thoroughly, just in case its root was still alive in there somewhere, and
while I was at it, I watered our two philodendrons as well. All this going back and forth with water from
the kitchen sink initially drew my sleepy focus to a dark cluster of leaves
poking up from the garbage disposal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a second, I was very confused. The leaves were whole, lush, and dark
green. I certainly hadn’t put them there,
and I hadn’t seen anyone eating spinach for breakfast. Then I remembered that my husband had eaten a
plateful of spinach last night, drizzled with ranch dressing: one of his
favorite simple vegetable dishes. So,
that solve the mystery of why it looked like something was growing up out of my
disposal. But my brain couldn’t leave
that sudden moment of “which planet am I on” alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>What if there really
were disposal plants?</i> my mind wondered. <i>How
cool would that be?</i> Something alive
in the bottom of our sinks, like a cross between a compost heap and a Venus
flytrap! It would eat all our kitchen
detritus, and through its digestive juices, keep that funky decomposing stink
at bay, no citrus rinds required.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>But it would make more
sense,</i> my brain continued, <i>if the
sink wasn’t really a porcelain sink.</i>
Some sort of garden circle, either in a giant pot, or just outside the
kitchen door toward the garden, perhaps.
And here I’ve already segued from reality, imagining a fantasy home with
servants in the kitchen, who have a rather large plant because they produce so many
kitchen scraps on a daily basis. I
envision kitchen maids scraping potato peelings and eggshells and the outer,
wilted leaves of lettuce from battered wooden platters into a deep, wide tub
rather like half a wine barrel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within the tub, I imagine a sort of Sarlaac pit, with
sloping dirt leading down to a cluster of leafy stems with bitey tips that
sense and target food with rather more independent movement than your average Venus
flytrap. Such a handy plant, it also
consumes its own stems when they begin to wither.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But plants need maintenance, right? And what if no one wants to touch the bitey
plant in case it nips them? So now I’m
envisioning ants. A small, symbiotic colony
that lives in the soil surrounding the plant and tends to the health of its
roots. They’ll also fight
opportunistically for the odd scrap that rises too high up the Sarlaac pit
slope for the plant stems to reach. And
how to keep this aggressive colony from escaping the pit pot? If the kitchen maids ever find one wandering
from its home, they are instructed to step on it and put its tiny, mangled
corpse at the edge of the pot. My ants
have evolved to understand that when they discover their own dead, it marks the
edge of their territory, unless food supplies run out. Which, within the pit pot, they never will.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there’s my cool idea.
I don’t know about you, but I think I would actually use such a plant, ants
and all, if it were a thing. Would you?<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-72968035294582978222014-01-11T08:59:00.001-08:002014-01-11T08:59:31.409-08:00So this was in my head when I woke up today. I don't even have a title, but it's pretty awesome.<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I live at the hanging tree—well, I say <i>live</i>. A great, ancient cypress tree grows
in the swamp west of New Orleans. If you’ve given up, you’ll find it. And then, you’ll find me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I am less than a man, less even than a spirit. I don’t quite know what I am, save to say
that I am some tiny, indomitable sliver of consciousness that somehow refused
to go quietly into that good night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I must have been someone once. I must have had a life, a family. A purpose.
Now, and for a very long time, I have had none of that. For decades, I wandered. In the end, though, it seemed best for me to
retire from society—again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And so I remain at the hanging tree. It seems my best—and their last—chance.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Every few weeks, someone comes. I never know how they will perceive me, but
humanity is generally predictable: the first word they utter is often a name. Their eyes widen, and they stumble back a
step. I always take pleasure in the fact
that they are suddenly and entirely diverted from their suicidal purpose, for
at least that one moment, by the face of someone they esteem.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Every person has a radius of awareness surrounding them. Depending on their level of intelligence and
current distraction, their radius may be very large, or rather close. Whenever I draw close enough to them, or they
to me, their mind perceives whatever ectoplasm I may be as the man upon whom they
place the highest emotional value.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sometimes, that man is dead. Those always make for interesting encounters,
but you’d be surprised how often a message from the beyond can convince a
desperate soul to remain among the living. I’m convinced that, had Hamlet’s
father borne such a message for his son instead of one of revenge, the play would
have had a happier ending.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Even if their trusted confidante or long-lost lover is
still alive, my would-be suicides are naturally predisposed to listen to his
words. I am ashamed to say that, in my
long and sordid past, I have often abused this curious feature of my existence –
decades of enterprising housebreaking in the dead of night brought my temporary
body rather a good time on dozens if not hundreds of occasions. But now that I have come to certain
realizations about my existence, I have found some small measure of redemption
in using it to save others from a fate such as mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It doesn’t always go over well, the suicides suddenly
spotting me under the hanging tree.
Occasionally, I have been entirely unable to convince them to refrain,
and on the rarest of occasions my presence has actually spurred them to
action. Their brightly colored neon ropes
loop over the most popular of the low branches, easily spotted by their worn bark,
and though I am able to touch them as long as I am within their sphere of
awareness, the absolute panic with which their terrified orbs lock onto me is
something I would never wish to prolong.
And so, I am forced to back away until I vanish from their sight,
remaining only an invisible witness to their chosen fate. For I would never
abandon such a desperate soul, not again. No.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Thus do I save most, but not all, of my visitors from the
fate they think they deserve. And thus
it has been for the last thirty-three years of my interminable existence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But one day, a different sort of person sought me out. She came to the tree alone, dressed in dark
red leather, old jeans, and sturdy boots.
Instead of a rope, she brought a gun. A heavy, shiny thing, it adorned her right hip
like a dangerous jewel. I had seen one
other suicide bring a gun, over twenty years ago. It has sunk two feet into the swamp since.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
As she approached the tree, I stepped forward until I
felt the edge of her awareness pass through me – at a considerable distance
that revealed remarkable perspicacity for one so young. She froze except for her right hand, which
latched onto her gun, but did not draw.
Her jaw went tight beneath her pale skin, and her dark eyes stilled. She didn’t even breathe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“You’re not him.
But I swear…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A shock borne of a sudden shift in my reality rippled
through me, bringing existential discomfort in an intensity I’d never known. “How do you know about me?” I blurted,
hearing my voice as a rich baritone with a Midwestern accent that matched hers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Her chin lowered, but her eyes remained fixed on mine. “I
came to find you. You’re the ghost of
the hanging tree. There are legends
about you stretching back thirty years.” She finally relaxed her posture and
removed her hand from her weapon. “I
suppose shooting you wouldn’t do any good, would it? You don’t really have a body.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I held my hands out, palms up, and eased toward her, then
placed two fingers against her upper arm.
She flinched at the gentle pressure, and her glorious brown eyes went
wide once more. “As long as I’m close
enough,” I told her, “I’m as real as he is.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
She swore under her breath, took a step back, and dragged
her stocking cap from her head, revealing a short bob with pointy tips, which
matched the shade of her leather jacket.
“And you’re not tethered to this tree?
You can travel?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A sudden wrinkle of suspicion crossed me. From the moment
she’d appeared, I’d felt a sudden absence of certainty, as if the vast map of
my world had suddenly sprouted a dark and unexplored region. I nodded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So did she, far more decisively than I. “Good.
Because I need your help.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-30979298488944682062013-12-21T12:09:00.000-08:002013-12-21T12:09:47.614-08:00End of the Year Update<div class="MsoNormal">
When <i>Rebel
Elements</i>, the first fantasy book in my latest series, titled Seals of the Duelists,
suddenly started selling after one week on the market, I was surprised. When it sold 1000 copies in the first month,
I was stunned. As it continued to rise
in popularity, I had a bold, crazy idea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See, I sit all day, writing, or thinking about writing, and as
a result, my body isn’t in the healthiest condition, and my back complains more
than I’d like it to. I didn’t need a drastic
change, just, you know, acknowledgment that I’d like to be a little healthier at
the size I am. So I thought, “What a
fine idea to pit my series book sales against my health! After all, its win/win.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that’s what I did.
I decided to see whether I could sell more thousands of books by the end
of the year, or lose more pounds/inches combined. And now, at the end of all things 2013, I
have my answer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The winner is: me!
But, you knew that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Specifically, my health wins, with more pounds shed than inches
lost, but the two stats ended up being pretty close.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, I’m more than excited by the results from my sales,
as well. I released book two, <i>Traitor Savant</i>, in September, and since
then I’ve sold over 1000 copies of it.
Since releasing <i>Rebel Elements</i>
in February, I’ve sold more than 5000 copies, for a grand total of over 6000
books sold since I released the first book in the series.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Overall, an excellent year for my books, my writing career,
and me. And you, my faithful readers! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and may you
never run out of adventures to read.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-62952905357128276152013-12-15T11:43:00.000-08:002013-12-15T11:43:09.477-08:00Narnia Was Just The Beginning<div class="photoset" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
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<sub><strong>“<big><big><big>T</big>here</big></big></strong> comes a point where <em>Susan</em>, who was the older girl, is lost to Narnia because she becomes interested in lipstick. She’s become irreligious basically because she found sex.<strong> I have a big problem with that.</strong>” - <em>JK Rowling</em></sub></blockquote>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
Can we talk about Susan’s fabulous adventures after Narnia? The ones where she wears nylons and elegant blouses when she wants to, and short skirts and bright lipstick when she wants to, and hiking boots and tough jeans and big men’s plaid shirts when she feels like backpacking out into the mountains and remembering what it was to be lost in a world full of terrific beauty— I know her siblings say she stops talking about it, that Susan walks away from the memories of Narnia, but I don’t think she ever really forgot.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
I want to read about Susan finishing out boarding school as a grown queen reigning from a teenaged girl’s body. School bullies and peer pressure from children and teachers who treat you like you’re less than sentient wouldn’t have the same impact. C’mon, Susan of the Horn, Susan who bested the DLF at archery, and rode a lion, and won wars, sitting in a school uniform with her eyebrows rising higher and higher as some old goon at the front of the room slams his fist on the lectern. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
Susan living through WW2, huddling with her siblings, a young adult (again), a fighting queen and champion marksman kept from the action, until she finally storms out against screaming parents’ wishes and volunteers as a nurse on the front. She keeps a knife or two hidden under her clothes because when it comes down to it, they called her Gentle, but sometimes loving means fighting for what you care for. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
She’ll apply to a women’s college on the East Coast, because she fell in love with America when her parents took her there before the war. She goes in majoring in Literature (her ability to decipher High Diction in historical texts is uncanny), but checks out every book she can on history, philosophy, political science. She sneaks into the boys’ school across town and borrows their books too. She was once responsible for a kingdom, roads and taxes and widows and crops and war. She grew from child to woman with that mantle of duty wrapped around her shoulders. Now, tossed here on this mundane land, forever forbidden from her true kingdom, Susan finds that she can give up Narnia but she cannot give up that responsibility. She looks around and thinks <em>I could do this better.</em></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
I want Susan sneaking out to drink at pubs with the girls, her friends giggling at the boys checking them out from across the way, until Susan walks over (with her nylons, with her lipstick, with her sovereignty written out in whatever language she damn well pleases) and beats them all at pool. Susan studying for tests and bemoaning Aristotle and trading a boy with freckles all over his nose shooting lessons so that he will teach her calculus. Susan kissing boys and writing home to Lucy and kissing girls and helping smuggle birth control to the ladies in her dorm because Susan Pevensie is a <em>queen</em> and she understands the right of a woman to rule over her own body. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
Susan losing them all to a train crash, Edmund and Peter and Lucy, Jill and Eustace, and Lucy and Lucy and Lucy, who Susan’s always felt the most responsible for. Because this is a girl who breathes responsibility, the little mother to her three siblings until a wardrobe whisked them away and she became High Queen to a whole land, ruled it for more than a decade, then came back centuries later as a legend. What it must do to you, to be a legend in the body of a young girl, to have that weight on your shoulders and have a lion tell you that you have to let it go. What is must do to you, to be left alone to decide whether to bury your family in separate ceremonies, or all at once, the same way they died, all at once and without you. What it must do to you, to stand there in black, with your nylons, and your lipstick, and feel responsible for these people who you will never be able to explain yourself to and who you can never save. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
Maybe she dreams sometimes they made it back to Narnia after all. Peter is a king again. Lucy walks with Aslan and all the dryads dance. Maybe Susan dreams that she went with them— the train jerks, a bright light, a roar calling you home. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
Maybe she doesn’t. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
Susan grows older and grows up. Sometimes she hears Lucy’s horrified voice in her head, “Nylons? <em>Lipstick</em>, Susan? Who wants to grow up?” and Susan thinks, “Well you never did, Luce.” Susan finishes her degree, stays in America (England looks too much like Narnia, too much like her siblings, and too little, all at once). She starts writing for the local paper under the pseudonym Frank Tumnus, because she wants to write about politics and social policy and be listened to, because the name would have made Edmund laugh. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
She writes as Susan Pevensie, too, about nylons and lipstick, how to give a winning smiles and throw parties, because she knows there is a kind of power there and she respects it. She won wars with war sometimes, in Narnia, but sometimes she stopped them before they began.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
Peter had always looked disapprovingly on the care with which Susan applied her makeup back home in England, called it vanity. And even then, Susan would smile at him, say “I use what weapons I have at hand,” and not explain any more than that. The boy ruled at her side for more than a decade. He should know better. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
Vain is not the proper word. This is about power. But maybe Peter wouldn’t have liked the word “ambition” any more than “vanity.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
Susan is a young woman in the 50s and 60s. Frank Tumnus has quite the following now. He’s written a few books, controversial, incendiary. Susan gets wrapped up in the civil rights movement, because of course she would. It’s not her first war. All the same, she almost misses the White Witch. Greed is a cleaner villain than senseless hate. She gets on the Freedom Rider bus, mails Mr. Tumnus articles back home whenever there’s a chance, those rare occasions they’re not locked up or immediately threatened. She is older now than she ever was in Narnia. Susan dreams about Telemarines killing fauns. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
Time rolls on. Maybe she falls in love with a young activist or an old cynic. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe Frank Tumnus, controversial in the moment, brilliant in retrospect, gets offered an honorary title from a prestigious university. She declines and publishes an editorial revealing her identity. Her paper fires her. Three others mail her job offers. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
When Vietnam rolls around, she protests in the streets. Susan understands the costs of war. She has lived through not just the brutal wars of one life, but two. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
Maybe she has children now. Maybe she tells them stories about a magical place and a magical lion, the stories Lucy and Edmund brought home about how if you sail long enough you reach the place where the seas fall off the edge of the world. But maybe she tells them about Cinderella instead, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, except Rapunzel cuts off her own hair and uses it to climb down the tower and escape. The damsel uses what tools she has at hand. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
A lion told her to walk away, and she did. He forbade her magic, he forbade her her own kingdom, so she made her own. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
Susan Pevensie did not lose faith. She found it. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">
(Source: <a href="http://ifallelseperished.tumblr.com/post/62393237715/there-comes-a-point-where-susan-who-was-the" style="color: #1d5c22; text-decoration: none;" title="ifallelseperished">ifallelseperished</a>)</div>
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<span class="reblogged" style="background-color: white; color: #777777; display: block; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 0.833333em; font-style: italic; margin: 1.5em 0px; text-align: right;">(Reblogged from <a href="http://sparrowwingsandfragilethings.tumblr.com/post/69308697539/there-comes-a-point-where-susan-who-was-the" style="color: #1d5c22; text-decoration: none;">sparrowwingsandfragilethings</a>)</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-178110161736079232013-12-06T09:27:00.001-08:002013-12-06T09:27:41.860-08:00What's-a Motto With You? Washington's MottoI live in WA state, for those of you who don't know. As a lover of stats and historical stuff and languages, I just found myself caught up in Washington State's motto -- or rather, its lack of one.<br />
<br />
What??<br />
<br />
Yes, Washington State doesn't have a state motto. That was news to me. We do have a territorial motto, though: Alki, or Al-ki, from the Chinook language. It means "by and by," as in, "I'll see you later." The concept translates to hope for the future. Pretty cool, yesno?<br />
<br />
But wait, there's more statehood motto geekiness ahead! See, this is what happens when you enjoy the craziness that is hyperfocus. I apologize in advance if you're getting American History classroom flashbacks.<br />
<br />
Washington State's motto is only four letters long, tied with Rhode Island's "Hope" for the shortest state motto on record.<br />
<br />
Our motto is the only one taken from the Chinook language (not really a surprise), and the only one taken from any Native American language. Only three other mottos are rendered in different languages. The vast majority of state mottos are given in English, and many of those also have Latin translations, because nothing says awesome on a state seal like a dead language. Montana's motto is translated into in Spanish, Minnesota's into French, and Hawaii's is rendered in Hawaiian, with English translation, because <i>haoles </i>can suck it. Hang loose, brah!<br />
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I found it interesting that Washington State's motto is also one of only three mottos that, like Hawaii's, is put in a language other than English first, with the translation (if any) second. These are:<br />
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Alki (WA) -- because we don't need to use any more letters, thanks anyway.<br />
Ua Mau ke Ea o ka Aina i ka Pono (HI) -- from memory! The first Hawaiian words I ever learned.<br />
Excelsior (NY) -- that's Latin, btw, and no, they don't bother translating it, because New York.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-21541339112011360092013-11-18T10:53:00.003-08:002013-11-18T10:53:48.685-08:00Do Not Buy The Homicidal Broom!So my husband's out of town for the next couple of days, and it falls to me to drive the kids to school in the mornings. I clap on a dark-brimmed cap, just in case yesterday's migraine isn't quite done making me fear and loathe Las Vegas--er, sunlight. Being all efficient--my so rarely achieved life goal--I swing directly from the school parking lot over to Walmart and nab that much-needed dog food for Eddie. Seriously, we used up the very last of his last bag for breakfast. Poochy would've gone hungry tonight, and we can't have that!<br />
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Among the few items on my list--and the "how did that get into my cart" additions (mostly gift wrap and other Christmas decor stuff)--I need an outdoor broom for keeping the tiny leaves from the neighbor's tree at bay on my raised deck. The current broom is older than my marriage, missing 1/3 of its bristles, and twists randomly within its plastic housing. Derptastic to say the least.<br />
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So, new broom it is. I want a nice wide one, so I stand in front of the broom selections and see three possibilities. One is narrower than I want, so I don't even pull it down. I reach for the one with the green handle, definitely the widest of the three. It's heavy as I swing it down from its two-pronged metal support, on which it was barely hanging.<br />
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A few experimental sweeps with the plastic-sheathed bristles, and I realize the broom is actually pretty darn heavy. Did they make the handle out of steel, for crap's sake? No. Putting it back now. I swing its heavy, wide head upward, set it evenly over those metal prongs, and reach for the medium bowl of porridge.<br />
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Before I can lay a finger on its handle, something violently swats at my hat's brim, then clatters to the floor directly between my shoes. Attack of the killer broom! My lip curls, and I swing the green deathmonster back up, making sure to shove it all the way to the back of its rack.<br />
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But no. Either that broom was wildly affected by a gravity well, or it had become sentient in its rage at never being purchased. It tried to kill me again! I wrenched it up from the floor once more and shoved it, bristles down, among the dusters and pans. "No wonder no one buys you, you freak of nature. You're a homicidal maniac!"<br />
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That middle-sized broom suddenly looks very attractive. It's lightweight, sure, but it never once tried to splatter my brains on the concrete floor. Into the cart it goes, and now it's gracing the corner of my deck. I feel such an inexplicable bond with that broom for its complete lack of homicidal tendencies. I feel safe, cared for. Loved. And with the added benefit of a leaf-free deck, too!<br />
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But seriously. No one buy that green broom at Walmart. It WILL try to murder you.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-37141023243646716132013-10-06T17:20:00.000-07:002013-10-06T17:20:14.530-07:00Cover Reveal - Way Walkers: Tangled Paths<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #93c47d; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Way Walkers: Tangled Paths</span></h2>
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<span style="color: #ffe599; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">The Tazu Saga: Book One</span></h2>
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<span style="color: #93c47d; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">J. Leigh</span></h2>
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<a href="http://i1.wp.com/redadeptpublishing.com/wp-content/uploads/Tangled-Paths-800-Cover-reveal-and-Promotional.jpg?resize=289%2C463" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://i1.wp.com/redadeptpublishing.com/wp-content/uploads/Tangled-Paths-800-Cover-reveal-and-Promotional.jpg?resize=289%2C463" width="398" /></a></div>
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<i>Twelve Ways create a thousand tangled paths.</i></h2>
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Hatched from an egg but unable to shift into dragon form, Jathen is a Moot among the Tazu. His rightful throne is forbidden him because of his transformative handicap, and neither his culture nor his religion offer acceptance of his perceived flaws.</div>
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Driven by wounded anger, Jathen strikes out across the vast world beyond Tazu borders, desperate to find a place where he feels accepted and whole. Though he travels with the most trusted of companions, sabotage and conspiracy soon strike his quest. Jathen and his allies must struggle against man and magic alike, at the mercy of forces beyond their ken.</div>
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As Jathen presses on, his questions of belonging are surrounded by more of identity, loyalty, and betrayal. Where will the path of his destiny lead, and will he follow or fall?</div>
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<span style="color: #93c47d; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Coming March 2014</span></h2>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-77331661377814583142013-09-20T14:19:00.003-07:002013-09-20T14:19:40.122-07:00Release Day for Traitor Savant! (and attack of the stats junkie)So, I've been busy the last week with spreading the word for my <i>Traitor Savant</i> release day joy and for the freebie run for <i>Rebel Elements</i>. Now I'm sitting back and hitting refresh a lot--my hard-earned reward!<br />
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Equally as cool as watching the sales and free downloads add up is watching my books find their way onto various Amazon lists. Here are some highlights from the day thus far:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kefHVgXUbfs/UPnnDLtBoPI/AAAAAAAAAQM/T-ddW7yoaCI/s1600/Rebel+Elements+800+Cover+reveal+and+Promotional.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kefHVgXUbfs/UPnnDLtBoPI/AAAAAAAAAQM/T-ddW7yoaCI/s320/Rebel+Elements+800+Cover+reveal+and+Promotional.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Title: <i>Rebel Elements</i><br />
Status: Free<br />
<b>Amazon Top 100 Lists:</b> 4<br />
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#24 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Children's eBooks > Science Fiction, Fantasy & Scary Stories > <b><span style="color: #45818e;">Fantasy & Magic</span></b><br />
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#3 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Children's eBooks > Science Fiction, Fantasy & Scary Stories > <b><span style="color: #45818e;">Fantasy & Magic</span></b> > <b><span style="color: #b45f06;">Coming of Age</span></b><br />
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#10 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Children's eBooks > Science Fiction, Fantasy & Scary Stories > <b><span style="color: #45818e;">Fantasy & Magic</span></b> > <b><span style="color: #990000;">Sword & Sorcery</span></b><br />
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#32 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Literature and Fiction > Science Fiction and Fantasy > <b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Fantasy </span></b>> <b><span style="color: #4c1130;">Epic</span></b><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TQknGSIK8w0/UjJFBxU6AII/AAAAAAAAAiY/MvVYwrzKcU4/s1600/Traitor+Savant+2500+For+Amazon+Kobo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TQknGSIK8w0/UjJFBxU6AII/AAAAAAAAAiY/MvVYwrzKcU4/s320/Traitor+Savant+2500+For+Amazon+Kobo.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>
Title: <i>Traitor Savant</i><br />
Status: New Release<br />
<b>Amazon Top 100 Lists:</b> 1<br />
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#50 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Teen & Young Adult > <span style="color: #674ea7;"><b>Science Fiction & Fantasy</b></span> > <span style="color: #a64d79;"><b>Fantasy </b></span>> Sword & Sorcery<br />
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<b>Amazon Hot New Releases Lists</b>: 3<br />
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#9 on Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Teen and Young Adult > <b><span style="color: #674ea7;">Science Fiction & Fantasy</span></b> > <b><span style="color: #a64d79;">Fantasy </span></b>> <span style="color: #cc0000;">Sword and Sorcery</span><br />
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#55 on Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Teen and Young Adult > <b><span style="color: #674ea7;">Science Fiction & Fantasy</span></b> > <b><span style="color: #a64d79;">Fantasy</span></b><br />
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#65 on Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Teen and Young Adult > <b><span style="color: #674ea7;">Science Fiction & Fantasy</span></b><br />
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#25 on Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Literature & Fiction > <b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Fantasy </span></b>> <b><span style="color: #45818e;">Epic</span></b><br />
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Though most of the lists my books get on are in the Teen and Children's categories, I just love seeing them on the Epic Fantasy lists, too. How tautological!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-74294127862230968982013-09-12T15:51:00.004-07:002013-09-12T15:57:31.274-07:00Cover Reveal: Traitor Savant, Second Seal of the Duelists<h2>
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Sequel to <i>Rebel Elements</i></div>
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Second book in the Seals of the Duelists series</div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Available September 20th </span>for purchase</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rebel-Elements-Seals-Duelists-ebook/dp/B00BM74TIE"><span style="font-size: large;">Buy the first novel here</span></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-8479966976948381772013-09-09T08:59:00.002-07:002013-09-09T08:59:23.579-07:00An unexpected torture Funny thing about going about your business. We get so caught up in doing the ordinary that the obvious escapes our notice.<br />
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Late last night, I loaded the dishwasher, wearing my handy dandy, long, pretty pink rubber gloves. The children had already gone to sleep, and I wanted to make sure everybody had clean breakfast bowls in the morning.Finished with my loading I did what I do every time. I ran the water and flipped the switch for the garbage disposal.<br />
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But something was wrong. The disposal made a loud crumbling noise at me. I instantly worried that my daughter had dropped a peach pit inside it, not knowing they weren't supposed to go down disposals. I turned the angry monster back off. With a double check glance at the switch to make sure the disposal was a really, really, really off, I reached my gloved hand inside to feel around for that peach pit.<br />
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Can you guess what's going to happen next? I sure didn't.<br />
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I had left the water on. The scalding, burning water. As I wrangled my arm down the disposal, the mouth of my glove shifted beneath the flow of the hot water. It poured down my glove and surrounded my fingers. I yanked my hand up out of the disposal to try and rip the glove of finger by finger. That doesn't work very well when the inside of the glove has suction due to water replacing the air around my hand. It does, however, empty all the hot water out of my glove, by pouring it down my arm. Oh goodie.<br />
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Eventually, I got the glove off and held my scalded arm beneath a nice cool stream of water. Three applications of aloe vera later, the burning calmed down enough to let me sleep.<br />
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There is an upside, though. For some reason, I reached down that disposal with my right hand. And I'm left handed. So I'm not completely stymied today. Typing isn't fun, though. Every time my fingers bend, they sting. So I'm using voice recognition.<br />
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I've been under rather a lot of stress lately. I guess this just shows how distracted I'm getting. But, onward and upward. I have so much to do, it would be a real shame to flip out now.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-54434668724095388052013-08-13T07:38:00.001-07:002013-08-13T07:38:34.501-07:00A Quiet Breakfast on the Deck...Then, Minstrelbirds!<div class="MsoNormal">
I heard a chorus of birds in the distance as I ate my cereal in the early morning light on my deck. They were all singing the same trill of notes, and trying to do it at the same time. I didn't recognize the birdsong, so the only thing that came to mind was the mockingjays from Suzanne Collins' Hunger Games trilogy. Well, with myself on the outside of some delicious breakfast, my brain had the go juice to ponder what kind of bird I'd create, based solely on a unison tune. </div>
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Here's what I came up with: </div>
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The Minstrelbird.</div>
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Part parrot for intelligence and mimicry, though only of
song. Part beetle (I can't remember which kind, alas) for the group competition to be the
first/fastest (I saw a video of several male beetles surrounding a female, waving an arm up and down in almost perfect unison. The female picked the one who moved first.). Part bird of paradise for the showy hopping rituals.Whistling language borrowed from the Canary Islands, and parts of Greece, Turkey, France, Mexico, and Africa.</div>
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Okay, cool, but what do I do with him? Where do I put him?</div>
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Ah, yes. I have a whole new world I've been building for several years now. I'll put him there, in the mountainous forests inhabited by my version of the wagon-traveling gypsies (more on them in another post).</div>
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The upland gypsies capture minstrelbirds using a small, deft child and a plate of grubs rolled in berry honey. Jesses keep the bird from flying away, but let him feel he can still flap his wings. Minstrelbirds who were confined in cages invariably died of depression before they could learn the gypsies' songs. A particular whistle song is constructed and taught to the minstrelbird over the course of a few weeks, until the bird begins to mimic it.</div>
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Usual song subjects include dangerous passage, like a bridge or road washing out, or directions to a welcoming home for the night. Other songs direct travelers away from certain hunting grounds, curmudgeons, or love interests. Pranks are occasionally employed using minstrelbirds, but due to the time involved, they nearly always border on grudges. Still, they are often epic in nature, and make the gossip rounds for years to come.</div>
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Once his song has been transformed, the bird is released into a part of the forest where his song will serve as informatory to passersby.Minstrelbirds are not picky about their dwellings, so they'll move right in on a nice sheltered branch. As a result of his new territory, the new bird will eventually end up challenging a local male for
dominance in a rowdy sing-off. If he wins, all the nearby birds will use his
song when they do their speed competing for mates and daily challenges for rights to feed or bathe first. If the bird loses his dominance challenge, the gypsies train another bird.</div>
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I already wanted to involve some kind of nearly secret society in my Aurora Meridiani series--secret by dint of location, not of scheming--and these minstrelbirds just add to the natural environment in which my people live. Well, one of my peoples: I have a dozen or so realms on the Peninsula. And I need a different name than "gypsies," obviously. Work, work, always work...</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-21162688853777262932013-08-10T13:54:00.003-07:002013-08-10T13:54:50.507-07:00This Latest Publishing Disaster<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://blog.triciadrammeh.com/2013/08/09/this-latest-disaster/"> Reblogged from Tricia Drammeh:</a></div>
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I recently advised authors not to blog when they're angry, but as usual, I'm going to ignore my own advice and do what I want. Today, I'm blogging when I'm spitting mad. Furious.</div>
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By now, I'm sure you're all familiar with many of the sordid details of my publishing experiences with a small press. Well, guess what? The story gets worse...</div>
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<a href="http://blog.triciadrammeh.com/2013/08/09/this-latest-disaster/">Read more… 737 more words</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?t=232072&page=4">Absolute Write also has a thread</a> addressing this particularly foul situation.</div>
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Authors who seek publication acceptance from small presses, PLEASE do your research before submitting your hard work.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-32334289708721075832013-07-23T13:37:00.001-07:002013-07-23T14:53:09.142-07:00Pot of Plot<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 15.59375px;">Just saw an epic plot play out in the pot in which I was boiling water for spaghetti. Yeah, I'm that geeky. I added a bit of olive oil first to keep the pasta from sticking--at this point, the water wasn't even bubbling. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 15.59375px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 15.59375px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 15.59375px;">But as it warmed, the blobs of oil began to swirl and bump, like influential houses testing each others' mettle. Some smaller ones were quickly absorbed, or sent to the edge of </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline !important; line-height: 15.59375px;">the pot, seemingly out of the action.<br /><br />I picked one blob to be my protagonist. It was doing well for awhile, absorbing a couple of small blobs, avoiding being absorbed by larger blobs, and avoiding some odd, long string of oil that invaded from the edge, then broke off into rampaging bands of brigands. But then, tragedy! My blob was joined to the edge, and spread itself evenly around the pot, seemingly consigned to watch forever more.<br /><br />But no. That's not how my pasta water and I roll. The rival blob that had been my blob's biggest threat lengthened and got pinched between two other, smaller blobs who I swear were teaming up. It got bent and its edge lost its cohesion, and while it was joining with one blob, the other changed its mind and joined forces with my original blob, now guardian of the edge of the known world.<br /><br />Suddenly, the edge had power! And just then, the water began to boil. Bubbles rose up beneath the last remaining oil blob. They ran together and joined forces, creating rifts, holes, within the group. Eventually, to my surprise, they joined and so destabilized the oil that it split into two rival halves who batted at each other in the hot, tense environment of my pot. Meanwhile, my protagonist remained calm and poised, riding out the storm.</span></span><br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline !important; line-height: 15.59375px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A minute later, the rival factions of the last remaining oil blob joined forces again, but it was too late. They'd become riddled with microbubbles. Their power was spent, and their destruction was assured. Never again would the cooking pot see such power struggles, such epic contendings for prime spots atop the water, such alliances smooth and inevitable. Such a twist in the holding of power--the seeming downfall of the hero turned into the one true bastion of strength--would never come again.<br /><br />Until suppertime.</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-1267772727444667562013-07-02T08:07:00.002-07:002013-07-02T08:07:34.612-07:00I Do Not Think It Means What You Think It MeansOver the past few years, I've read several novels that had a gay/lesbian side character who, at some point in the book, made a comment about a member of the opposite gender thusly: "Ooh, that character's so attractive, he/she could definitely turn me straight!"<br />
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Seriously, there are so many of these lines out there that I don't even have to think about their existence. They're out there, a mini phenomenon. But recently, I stopped to consider what that line actually means to me. And I'm not happy with the results of that thinking binge, not at all. Which is always a risk you take when you start thinking, so don't worry. I know the risks of binge thinking, but they won't scare me off. I'll be at it again soon.<br />
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Anyway. My binge thinking began by reminding me of this fun video on YouTube, called <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJtjqLUHYoY">When Did You Choose to be Straight?</a> From there, I started feeling this as-yet-unnamed horror creeping up my psyche, in regards to the quote at the top of this post.<br />
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Why is it that only the gay and lesbian characters say that line? I've never seen a straight character say it. I don't hope they're out there, for reasons I'll get to in a minute, but if there were books with straight characters saying some version of that line, I'd at least feel that I were living among slightly less discrimination than usual.<br />
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See, when only the homosexual characters say that line, it implies that authors, as one body of writers, are living with the apparently obvious "truth" that gay characters can change their sexual orientation at will, while straight characters wouldn't even consider it. Reading that line runs me right past "Oh, it's just a flirty line saying someone's hot" and straight into "Maybe you should stick to writing what you know."<br />
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It gets worse, at least in my head. I tried to apply that line to myself. How would I have to be feeling if I were to say that line out loud and mean it? I couldn't come up with any possible situation. Then I worked on creating an equivalent statement for myself, and I got horrified enough to get out of bed and post this before breakfast.<br />
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For me, personally and individually, "Ooh, that character's so attractive, he/she could definitely turn me straight!" is the perfect equivalent of: "Ooh, that character's so attractive, he could definitely make me like getting raped by him!"<br />
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Just. No. The line is only humorous until you stop and think about what it actually says: that GLBTQ characters have no original orientation and don't want one. I'm as straight as they come and I'm offended. (I hope that's okay, because that isn't changing, either.)<br />
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This is just one of the many examples of homosexual stereotyping in fiction that have been jumping out at me as poor choices for creating a balanced reaction in readers' minds. Homosexuality is just one facet of real people's lives. Why does it have to be expanded into glib stereotyping in fiction? It doesn't.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-13276862553217949312013-06-30T20:12:00.001-07:002013-06-30T20:12:15.603-07:00Return Of The Pain Monster I wanted to be productive today. Apparently, my body had other plans. Luckily for me, I have this handy dandy voice recognition headset. So, now I can complain about how badly my body hurts without actually using my hands to type these words.<br />
<br />
Every couple of months, this happens to me. An insidious ache begins deep in my bones. It worms its way outward along my nerves. Burning like a fire, like a slow, itching fire. I can't sit still. I wriggle, and I squirm. Nothing helps. It sucks. What is this monster, and why did it pick me to pester, oh so endlessly?<br />
<br />
Hopefully, tomorrow will be better. For now, distraction is all I have. Catch you on the flip side.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-10925391383635798522013-06-16T14:55:00.004-07:002013-06-16T14:55:54.611-07:00Cover Update Reveal: Oathen, Book Two in the Immortality ArchiveHere's the awesome new cover for the sequel to <i>Wicked Heroine</i>, complete with epic waterfall and an axe of light. I'm really loving the colors on these new covers. The oranges are slightly malevolent, and the greens are just a hair too creepy to be trustworthy. Enjoy!<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-82129100055254432412013-06-14T18:22:00.004-07:002013-06-14T18:22:53.668-07:00Cover Update Reveal: Wicked Heroine, Book One in the Immortality ArchiveThis fabulous new cover art by Streetlight Graphics is in the process of updating to all the book's purchase sites, so here's a sneak peek for those of you who are quick and in the mix. It'll be everywhere in a few days.<div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-68036165236041164982013-06-14T11:37:00.001-07:002014-10-14T12:05:40.539-07:00A Very Tasty FirstI've never made a smoothie in my life, but with all the fresh fruit I have in my house, I just couldn't resist. The thought popped into my head, unbidden, and took root over a couple of hours, until I was too hungry to resist.<br />
<br />
Three scoops of vanilla, a splash of milk, a handful of raspberries, seven strawberries, and two bananas later, tasty heaven had arrived. Dude, that was delicious. I'm gonna have to do that more often!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-48195101341722705692013-06-12T19:59:00.000-07:002013-06-12T19:59:13.290-07:00The Unexpected Syndrome: Amnesia of the SoulI must have sprouted stealth armor, because I totally fell off the radar for a couple of weeks there. I mean, I was low on the scanner already, because I was keeping my head down and working my butt off. But two weeks ago, I had to stop. My. Life.<br />
<br />
I got brain poisoning. Such a short sentence--four little words--yet so terrifying. I'm still kind of stunned that I'm not dead. Or maybe that stunned feeling is just the meds.<br />
<br />
Meds meds meds. Dude, the meds. Okay, technically it's just one med. The ER doc gave me Lorazepam, and it gave me back my sanity by balancing my brain chemistry. But that's only the end of the story.<br />
<br />
I had a nasty migraine going on the week before that. Three days straight. I was at my wits' end, so I went to my PCP. She gave me an Imitrex shot for the migraine, but it backfired, big time. I dropped straight into Serotonin Syndrome (later confirmed by the ER doc and by my new PCP--we'll get to him in a minute). And as I lay muttering and flailing on my doctor's exam room table, she...played with my son.<br />
<br />
I couldn't make this up. Because I don't write horror.<br />
<br />
I lay there and blurted out my strange symptoms in a desperate attempt to get her to interact with my immediate situation. All the while, I wondered why I had a long-fingered troll with a wraith feeding hand gripping the back of my neck, sucking all my energy out. My limbs were cast in rubbery concrete. After twenty or so minutes of not having my vitals checked and not being otherwise examined in any way from across the room, I heard my doctor say she needed to take me home.<br />
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I couldn't even stand up, yo. How's that gonna work? Well, there was a nice young nurse and a wheelchair, and some hopefully coherent small talk on the way across town--the wrong direction from the ER, by the way, which was literally a stone's throw from the doc's office. And it was literally the only place she should have been taking me for such a serious reaction.<br />
<br />
I work with motives and character background for a living, and I do not understand why she did what she did. Unless... She did prescribe me a migraine medication that said in its warning section, "Do not take this drug if you are allergic to opioids (eg. Morphine)." Well, guess who's allergic to morphine? Trying to get rid of the witness, perhaps? Probably not, but what else am I to think when she tries to kill me twice in one day? I'm supposed to think it's time for a new PCP, that's what.<br />
<br />
I lay in bed all day, drained. The next day, my head was screaming. The day after that, it was still screaming. On Friday, I felt my equilibrium tip and spill me down into endless darkness, and waves of depressed weeping swept over me like storms. I died inside sometime that day, and I remember not mourning, because nothing mattered.<br />
<br />
I got better, then worse again, and worried it would kill me that time, so I sought help at the ER, where the doctor, despite my crazy fears that nothing would change, actually diagnosed me properly and gave me some medication. I popped half a pill there in the ER, and by the time I got home, I'd been raised from the dead.<br />
<br />
I got a new PCP the next day, and even an appointment, because I needed someone to oversee my new treatment plan. His last words to me as I left the exam room--on my own two feet, might I add: "<i>I</i> will not abandon you." I think he's a keeper.<br />
<br />
It's been a crazy week since then, knowing that I remember who I am as long as I'm on the pills, waiting for the Serotonin Symptoms to fade away on their own--because nothing can cure it; it's a waiting game. I sometimes get periods of several hours when I'm off the meds and I'm still me. But that first warning symptom that I'm not out of the woods yet is always that troll's crushing grip on the back of my neck, and the acid headache that spills upward into the back of my skull.<br />
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I now know what it's like to have a serious chemical imbalance in the brain. I know the crazy, and that fighting it alone is futile. I know that help is essential. I know my prognosis is good, since the syndrome is only temporary. I've been to crazy. It was indeed a short trip--about two minutes flat for the syndrome to kick in--but I don't ever want to go there again.<br />
<br />
I've been working, cautiously and at a slow pace, this past week. I've done a bit of editing on two books, and a bit of writing on a third. It feels good, like warm summer light after the tornado has passed. I remember who I was, and I am willing myself to be that person again.<br />
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And yes, I'm totally noting every detail of my sudden, dangerous experience for potential inclusion in one of my books someday. Because that's who I am, too.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-70362473960320349442013-06-09T10:59:00.001-07:002013-06-09T10:59:03.289-07:00I Heard a Bee Buzz When She DiedI just found a honey bee in the trough of my sliding glass door, buzzing for all it was worth. I completely forget why I went into the kitchen now, but the sound of her wings drew my attention. The screen door was shut, and I worried that it had a hole somewhere. I love honey bees, so my first thought was to rescue her and return her to the outdoors, where she could work on pollinating my tomato plant for me (I say that because two years ago I bought two tomato plants that put out glorious yellow blossoms all summer long--and no one came to pollinate them. How terrifying!)<br />
<br />
Alas, the bee seemed in distress. I offered her the flat edge of the flyswatter, but she wouldn't cling to it. I offered her the thin metal handle next, but her flailings seemed so desperate that I wonder if she knew it was there. Maybe, I thought, she was just dying at the end of her life cycle.<br />
<br />
But, disturbingly, she looked like she was in absolute, overwhelming agony. It reminded me of the poor spider that got the Cruciatus curse in the fourth book of the Harry Potter series--it looked like it was screaming. That might have been helped by the fact that its tongue was constantly flailing as well.<br />
<br />
I've never seen a bee's tongue before. Dark pink and thread-thin, it's the color of mine, turned into a straw. A long needle for drinking. But to see the bee sticking it out repeatedly, as if, what, seeking an antidote she accidentally dropped nearby? It just made the overall image of her distress more unnerving.<br />
<br />
I don't make a habit of examining stinging insects up close, but the bee looked to be a funny color, covered with more pale gray fuzz than seemed normal. Maybe she had a fungus that was driving her out of her mind. Her legs were certainly uncoordinated. Some cross between grooming and walking, with the occasional spastic straightening, as if suffering a seizure, kept the creature in constant wobbling motion.<br />
<br />
And all the while, her wings buzzed, until, finally, she grew too exhausted. She lay silent, writhing, tonguing the air. My daughter crouched by me, and I tried to make sense of the bee's possible diagnoses for her. She had picked a couple of flowers outside--just weeds this time, a morning glory and a dandelion. She offered me the morning glory, and I held it over the bee for a while, hoping the smell of pollen would help somehow.<br />
<br />
Then we spotted a jumping spider outside on the deck, through the glass. I gave my daughter a child's version of the euthanasia speech, but by the time I'd scooped the bee up, the spider had vanished.<br />
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She was just a bee. But she seemed to be in pain, dying, and I've always liked bugs. I stayed with her. I can't remember what I was about to do before I saw her, or if I'd already completed it. But it doesn't matter. I don't even know how she got into my house, but that doesn't matter, either.<br />
<br />
I remember you, creature of the air. And I am the better for it.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-90261108714035577712013-06-02T08:35:00.003-07:002013-06-02T08:35:38.345-07:00Unexpected ParadiseThe power went out at our house yesterday. I'd already left the house with the kids, but my hubby was just climbing out of the shower when everything went dark. Kind of a vulnerable position to find oneself in! I'm glad that wasn't me.<br />
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He had to walk to meet us because the garage door wouldn't open. Luckily, our church is less than a mile from our house, and it was a nice spring day--which, around here, means no wind storms, no rain, no heat wave and no sudden chill. Exercise is good, but exercise on a lovely morning is better. Right, honey? Heh.<br />
<br />
I wasn't feeling so hot after the kids finished their morning class, so I took the car and the daughter home, and hubby stayed behind with Mr. Boy. On the final turn before our block, I had to wait for a Pacific Power truck to clear the intersection. A bit worrisome, see, since my husband had already told me there was one on site to fix the problem--the site being the power pole just next to our front yard. Yet this truck was just arriving, and it was the only one there. There went my hopes of having the power on so I could park in the garage. Nope. Driveway it is!<br />
<br />
Everything was off, naturally. My daughter had forgotten since the last power outage we had, years ago, what runs on electricity and what doesn't. I assured her we had water. But let me tell you, peeing in the dark of a bathroom with no windows is always a little creepy to me.<br />
<br />
I was in the middle of telling her about how we shouldn't open the fridge or freezer unless absolutely necessary since we didn't know how long the power would really be out when I realized I wanted to eat up some of that slowly-melting ice cream. It's only practical, right? So we grabbed a blanket, a bunch of sofa cushions, and two bowls of ice cream (okay, it was actually rainbow sherbet and had no dairy products in danger of going bad, but an opportunistic craving is an opportunistic craving), and headed to the back deck.<br />
<br />
It was the perfect ice cream picnic. We sat in the shade of the roof, the sky had a light haze so the shadows were soft (good for my post-migraine head), the ice cream was cold, the cushions were comfy, the dog was a stolid companion, and the other guest was adorable, witty, and fun, as only an eight-year-old can be. It's a rare day when I find myself in the perfect spot, temperature-wise, but that day, I totally nailed it: in the shade with the occasional breeze that might have been one degree cooler. Also, did I mention the ice cream? Excellent internal coolant when one isn't actually hot.<br />
<br />
We sat out there for almost an hour. My daughter could see the power pole around the corner of the house, and narrated to me as two men in two buckets from two separate trucks rose into the air to fiddle with the pole's upper end. We dawdled and joked and lazed, and eventually one of us had to go inside for something. She flicked on a light switch, and lo, verily, it worked! Huzzah and gadzooks!<br />
<br />
So we returned to the modern civilization of our air-conditioned, filtered, lit, and heated house. But not without reluctance. Some days, when the perfect storm of perfect weather grabs you, you can't help wanting to revel in it forever. Build me a garden with wi-fi, and we'll talk.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-5847420908738499702013-05-03T06:51:00.002-07:002013-05-03T11:30:59.241-07:00Rebel Elements Spring Sale Weekend<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rebel-Elements-Seals-Duelists-ebook/dp/B00BM74TIE">Rebel Elements</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Rebel Elements is having a Spring Sale!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Grab your copy of the First Seal of the Duelists today.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">See <a href="http://www.fkbooksandtips.com/2013/05/03/5-discounted-free-kindle-book-offers-7/">Kindle Books and Tips</a>' Featured Book promotion today.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-26892107226625645402013-04-28T20:26:00.000-07:002013-04-30T18:25:28.064-07:00This is the Part Where I Don't Know What the Cover of Traitor Savant Looks LikeTomorrow is my scheduled date to begin working with <a href="http://streetlightgraphics.com/">Streetlight Graphics</a> on cover art for the second novel in my latest fantasy series: <i>Traitor Savan</i>t. I am so excited! I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve! I have all these ideas in my head of how it will look. Will I be right? Will I be even close?<br />
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Will it do that cool mystery glow thing so everyone knows it's awesome?</div>
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I love anticipation. It's something that slipped right past me for most of my life--when I wasn't actively hating it. Now, in order to keep a more balanced perspective, I'll often tell myself "This is the part where I don't know what's in the box." It anchors me to the Anticipation Phase, and once I know what's in that box, I can look back and see how I got from A to B, emotionally, physically, etc. I find it actually helps me with my characterization, so I try to do this whenever I try something new.</div>
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So right here, right now, this is the part where I don't know what the cover of <i>Traitor Savant</i> looks like.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990863063031904082.post-57245759218913163432013-04-18T16:51:00.000-07:002013-04-18T16:51:40.412-07:00Kindle Fire HD 7" Giveaway<div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-firs8RMftPE/UTASG_mGbFI/AAAAAAAAgYU/m1pnYdOQ3fU/s1600/Kindle+April.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="aligncenter" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-firs8RMftPE/UTASG_mGbFI/AAAAAAAAgYU/m1pnYdOQ3fU/s320/Kindle+April.JPG" style="border: 0px;" width="255" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Kindle Fire HD 7" Giveaway</span></b><br />
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<b>The winner will have the option of receiving a 7" Kindle Fire HD (US Only)</b>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D3-M10YGrZk/UOyPASpWDOI/AAAAAAAAbVY/MyzhFBW20kY/s1600/kindle+fire+hd.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="207" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D3-M10YGrZk/UOyPASpWDOI/AAAAAAAAbVY/MyzhFBW20kY/s320/kindle+fire+hd.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>Or $199 Amazon.com Gift Card (International)</b>
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<b>Or $199 in Paypal Cash (International)</b>
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<li><a href="http://booksbooksthemagicalfruit.blogspot.com/">Books, Books, the Magical Fruit</a></li>
<li><a href="http://lisavoisin.com/">Author Lisa Voison</a></li>
<li><a href="http://tastybooktours.blogspot.com/p/book-tours.html">Tasty Book Tours</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.faebooks.co.uk/" target="_blank">Fae Books</a></li>
<li><a href="http://cindybennett.blogspot.com/">Author Cindy C. Bennett</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.emmamichaels.com/">Author Emma Michaels</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.liafairchild.com/">Author Lia Fairchild</a></li>
<li><a href="http://fadeintofantasy.com/">Fade Into Fantasy</a></li>
<li><a href="http://piecesofwhimsy.blogspot.com.au/">Pieces of Whimsy</a></li>
<li><a href="http://rachaelreneeanderson.blogspot.com/">Author Rachael Renee Anderson</a></li>
<li><a href="http://feedyourreader.com/" target="_blank">Feed Your Reader</a></li>
<li><a href="http://serenityslovelyreads.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Lovely Reads</a></li>
</ol>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Giveaway Details</b></span><br />
1 winner will receive their choice of a Kindle Fire 7" HD (US Only), $199 Amazon Gift Card or $199 in Paypal Cash (International). Ends 4/30/13 <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Open only to those who can legally enter, receive and use an Amazon.com Gift Code or Paypal Cash. Winning Entry will be verified prior to prize being awarded. No purchase necessary. You must be 18 or older to enter or have your parent enter for you. The winner will be chosen by rafflecopter and announced here as well as emailed and will have 48 hours to respond or a new winner will be chosen. This giveaway is in no way associated with Facebook, Twitter, Rafflecopter or any other entity unless otherwise specified. The number of eligible entries received determines the odds of winning. Giveaway was organized by Kathy from I Am A Reader, Not A Writer <a href="http://iamareader.com/">http://iamareader.com</a> and sponsored by the participating authors & bloggers. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW. Prize value $199 US.</span></div>
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<a class="rafl" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/0a0096856/" id="rc-0a0096856" rel="nofollow">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a>
<script src="//d12vno17mo87cx.cloudfront.net/embed/rafl/cptr.js" type="text/javascript"></script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12497867062059517834noreply@blogger.com0