A Transition - No Pithy Phrase Is Moving

So a couple of years ago I started a blog on Wordpress for writing, because Wordpress has more up to date functionality and is in many ways easier to use.

I intended to use that one for "professional" writing things and this one for personal, but in the last two years I've discovered a couple of things.

1) I don't do well at "professional" website writing...it ends up way too generic and I feel like it's boring, therefore it's probably pretty boring to read. Gross. No.

2) I'm too old and busy to hide the freak flag. Fuck that.

I exported all of THIS blog this afternoon and uploaded it to my other one, which will be quickly renamed No Pithy Phrase as well, but the address is way easier: http://jessicasettergren.com.

This is my last post on Blogger, so if you follow me here and want to keep up with my weirdo blog stuff, please come on over to the insanity at the new address. If you've had enough, hey, I totally get it and thanks for playing.

I'll likely leave this site as is for a while and I haven't deleted any of the content, just migrated it over.

Review: The Sin Eater's Last Confessions: Lost Traditions of Celtic Shamanism

The Sin Eater's Last Confessions: Lost Traditions of Celtic Shamanism by Ross Heaven
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

When I picked this up, I anticipated a book of Welsh, Scottish, and Briton mythology surrounding the history of Sin Eaters with a bit of personal background. Instead, Ross Heaven wrote an engaging and lovely memoir about his time learning from one of the last Sin Eaters in Wales. Heaven's tone is similar to Dan Millman: any wisdom or lesson is presented more like a cozy conversation in someone's living room than a class. Pagan books can sometimes be dryly informative: this was utterly charming in tone and delivery. I ended up reading it twice: once for the story itself, and again to take practical notes.

I read it over New Year's weekend this winter, and it has set the tone for my approach to reading for work, pleasure, and spirituality this year. I loved it, and I'd have tea and conversation with Mr. Heaven any time.

View all my reviews

I Hoard Words

When I’m unwell, when the darkness descends and I can’t reach my characters anymore, I lock my voice in a musty mental trunk, piling distractions on the lid. I talk only about the most mundane and shallow topics. I write only grocery lists and technical documentation for my day job. I'm a makeshift Pandora, barricaded in the dark with magazines and Netflix binges, because chancing the loss of the light is unfathomable.

He notices. Of course he notices. Sometimes his comments are gentle nudges; sometimes he braves bloody retribution with bald reminders that I’m crabby when I’m not writing, and please go kill something on paper so I feel better.

My writing group listens and commiserates, setting word counts and editing goals for the next meeting.

But my words are hoarded. I am Gollum guarding my Precious, and woe to anyone who forces the lid open before I’m ready.

Woe to the characters locked away; it gets crowded in there.

A polite knock from inside the trunk prompts a gentle conversational poke from my conscience about books requiring attention. It’s irritating. I ignore them both and watch cat videos on YouTube.

A more insistent pounding jiggles the trunk’s lid. My writing group gives me a deadline for pieces they can critique. It’s grating. I finally read a non-fiction book I’d promised to review six months a year ago.

The trunk’s inhabitants lose patience; a small army of angry dwarves with pickaxes strikes constant blows from beneath the lid. My head is full and I’m cranky.

He gives me the LOOK with a heavy knowing sigh, and reminds me that I NEED to write to be well, because stewing is somewhere less than awesome for ALL of us. It’s infuriating, and I watch terrible horror movies instead. Piece spoken, he knows the inevitable pattern and lets me be.

Eventually, no matter how far I withdraw from the world and myself, I return. I find a smidgen of energy. I shut off the TV. I set the junk food books aside. My stubborn streak subsides enough to let sense take over, and I hear my tribe’s commentary, inside and out. 
I open the box, careful not to damage the lock. I’ll need it later.

The fetid pool of emotional sludge must be drained in order to let characters out. I write for my own escape, for that painful release that only comes with a pressure valve’s opening. In a tirade of furious handwriting in a half-full journal, words gallop out of their prison on illegible ink. Pages fill with garbage that’s been swirling inside for weeks, and I sigh when my hand is cramping around the pen: the constant buzzing finally goes quiet in my head.

Writing is the way I become well, and remain myself, under the onslaught of random plots announcing themselves at inopportune moments. Notebooks fill with the new inspirations and I have enough to stay busy until the next bout of darkness.

Some people worry their secret lives will come to light after their death. Pacts are made; promises to delete, burn, or otherwise eradicate anything a loved one might find distressful. My fear is anyone reading my journals without knowing my writing cycle would assume I’m constantly miserable. 
The truth is, notebooks and journals carry the regular catharsis that unlocks the trunk of the clamor of tales pushing impatiently for THEIR turn. Universes wait inside me, but I have to clear the path before I can wallow in the lives of imaginary people doing imaginary deeds in imaginary worlds.

Dear 80's Just Say No Commercials - It's My Dog's Fault

Chewy is now a relatively perky old man on super pain-medication. That's right, my dog is now a drug addict. Awesome. I mean, he already drank out of the toilet and ate things better left unmentioned while outside and barked at invisible things - why not get him high too? (He learned it from the vet, by the way, not from me.)

Crap. You guys, I forgot to ask if starting these means he has to stay on them indefinitely or get DTs when he misses a dose. Oh my god...Great Pyrenees detoxing. NO. Just...no. 

Chewy loves his six pills twice a day for pain and antibiotics. (Not kidding: he does love them. He eats a giant dollop of peanut butter a couple times a day and feels better for a while after, so, to him peanut butter is FULL OF MAGIC. And really, is he wrong? I think not.) 

This doesn't stop his falling, but it does take enough of the aches and pains away that he perks up some when he's awake and has returned to his "I want you to think I'm ready to rip your face off, but really I'd just lick your face obsessively for a while, if I could be bothered to get off the ground which is WAY too much effort" bark-and-wheeze routine. The cottonwood in the back yard snowed all over the damn lawn, and for a couple of days he made sure all the fluffy seed fairies knew full well that he sees their nefarious floaty plans, dammit.  

It's been suggested to me that he needs an attachment on his collar. You know, like the whole St. Bernard whiskey-barrel thing? Do they make oxygen tanks that small, with a little snout-tube to help him take less wheeze-coughy breaths between barks? 

So, an improvement in day-to-day, but overall no major changes.That's both a blessing and not. Waiting for death is a patience game, and much like every other large life event it feels like everything else is on hold while I hang out and spend as much time as possible with my lumbering fluffball, until I can't anymore. 

In the meantime, it's supposed to be the surface of the goddamned SUN here on Saturday with fetid swampass humidity (fuck all of that) and I totally blame my ex, who's coming back from Dallas to visit and CLEARLY decided to torture me with Texas sweltering. 

But he's coming to visit his drug-addicted elderly dog, so, you know, mostly forgiven. 

You Houston girls, I miss you TONS. I do not miss 100+ temps. Feel free to visit this week too, because it's gonna feel just like home for you. 

Between Chewy and other icky life stresses, mostly I've been tired and not blogged. 

But we're still here, not writing. (Well, I'm not writing because I'm tired. Chewy's not writing because, and I'm being painfully honest here, he's a lazy ass who never bothered to learn to type and gives me pathetic excuses like "I don't have thumbs" or "all I'd write about is imaginary saber-toothed-bunnies anyway" or "hey is that cheese you're eating? I like cheese.")

The Red: An Erotic Fantasy by Tiffany Reisz (Spoiler-Free Review)

"Art should be dangerous, you know. It should say something to society that society doesn't want to hear. Do you know what the opposite of art is? Propaganda." -  The Red

This review is safe for work. The book isn't.

Mona Lisa St. James made a deathbed promise to her mother, vowing to keep their struggling little art gallery open "at all costs." Months later, she's about to fail the promise and just desperate enough to take up the mysterious Malcolm's (no last name) shockingly straightforward offer: become his, on demand, for the next twelve months and make enough money to save her business. Over the next year, Mona finds out the exact cost of keeping that promise, in explicit detail, and discovers some fascinating secrets about her odd lover and his artwork-themed demands.

I often recommend Ms. Reisz's novels because she doesn't write simple smut (that's right: she writes complicated smut), or syrupy romance, and The Red lives up to my expectations. I love Reisz's work for the depth of character and fascinating navigation through complicated and taboo sexual situations. The underpinnings of the story is an exploration of Mona's value, of her own sense of self-worth that becomes stronger and more pronounced as her boundaries are pushed, and her discovery of what she really wants. It's downright voyeuristically compelling, watching Mona's thoughts and actions evolve with each new level of debauchery.

Oh my God, the debauchery. Make no mistake: this is definitely a Tiffany Reisz erotic novel.
WOW. ZA.

Seriously well written, unapologetic lust exists between those covers. I tossed sleep aside to finish it in a night, and this book is worth it, although I may never look at a bottle of water the same way again. From an erotica perspective, The Red has at least one kink that will appeal to you and at least one that will make you terribly uncomfortable. I know what you're thinking, and I definitely don't mean the "blushing and you hope no one notices because WHY are you reading this in public" sort of uncomfortable.

I mean the uncomfortable where you're certain this particular kink shouldn't be so arousing because it's so dirty, but you're turned on anyway. You'll think about it for days afterward and read it again, and you'll want to recommend it to friends but worry they'll figure out that scene worked for you. THAT sort of uncomfortable.

Of course, part of the fun of reading The Red is discovering which encounters fall under which category for you.

The Red is a standalone novel, available on July 11th, 2017 in paperback and e-formats (Kindle is available for pre-order). If you enjoyed her Original Sinners series I don't have to recommend this one, because you already know exactly why you'll love this book. If you're new to Ms. Reisz's work, I highly recommend picking up The Red as soon as you can: it's an excellent mix of erotica and dominant/submissive dynamics, with a hint of the supernatural for flavor.

The Red is definitely exactly the right sort of dangerous art.

I need a weekend from my weekend.

I'm supposed to be working on a couple of book reviews today, and I'm fairly distracted. The writing conference yesterday was both awesomely educational and horribly disheartening, and while I have some helpful suggestions from an agent, working on non-fic is easier today. Therefore, tying up some loose ends and finding some ideas to pitch to magazines is on the docket, which means looking through the notes on my phone. I swear that's not a non-sequitur: smartphones are both awesome and dangerous for someone who has random ideas and conversations, because sometimes I go back and wonder what the hell I wanted to remember. 

So, because a glance of notes in my phone made me chuckle (titles only): 

"Hey! Don't knock Boones Farm. When you're poor in high school that's all you can afford." Said at a family gathering recently by one of my relatives who would never have admitted to drinking in high school when I was a teenager. Of course, that not only means she's always been fun and trouble, but also that I'm old.  

Quilters Dark Web: assassination orders, prohibited patterns, quilting a hellmouth portal... Oh yeah, there's a story in this. It's in my "pending attention" list. 

Lickubus - like succubus/incubus who snacks I have no appropriate explanation for this. Some of my conversations are astounding. 

Crotchless snowpants Came from the same convo as Lickubus. I wish I could remember if the two were related or some sort of weird progression...because I feel like a "bus" of any sort would be ALL ABOUT crotchless snowpants. 

"The Freckly Princess" by Godfried Bomans I'm bummed to discover I can't find this in English. I keep random books/authors in a list on my notes, so I don't lose them when I'm hanging out at Barnes & Noble. 

Dad's sloppy joes recipe Oh yeah!! YUM! DAd's secret to delicious Sloppy Joes is a can of Campbells Chicken Gumbo soup instead of anything ishy like Manwich. Ketchupy Joes and meat loaf make me gag: this is so much better. 

"Ta to cuid anois" = you're hers now Yeah. Not sure if that was kept as a threat or promise. Thanks, iphone. 

EvilRocks! Truth. Not sure why that's in my notes, but it's completely true. She DOES rock. And lately, she'd respond with "Yupper!"

Mt. Hekla in Iceland: gateway to hell Well, either that's part of the to-see list or a story location. Let's go with both. 

I have no decent explanation for any of this, except that my brain is a weird one; luckily so are the brains of my closest friends and family. 

This post is nothing but random crap and makes no sense.

I think I need a do-over for the past couple of months.
A mulligan.
A reboot.

I haven't written anything real since August. I haven't even really done any decent blog posts; my current journal has gathered more dust than ink lately; the book isn't done.

The book isn't done.

The motherfucking book isn't done. Sigh.

I had every intention of finishing by the end of NaNoWriMo, since I didn't hit my deadline of Halloween. Yeah. I don't see hitting 60k+ words by next week. And instead, my internal helpful Smeagol, happy to encourage and help as long as I feed him regularly, has become all Gollum-y.

Intentions are meaningless. Nasty writerses.

I'm listening to various Disturbed  and Five Finger Death Punch  youtube videos as I write this...seems fitting. For me, and I suppose and the general air of anger permeating pretty much everything right now...which I'm not touching in this post but am thinking about.  

I'd love to blame this on politics, or my recent potential medical scare (all is well, it was just an unpleasant week, and to those who gave me social distractions or direct knowing support, thanks. You helped, even if you didn't know it.), or watching the decline of my elderly dogs. But the truth is less clear, and no-one's feet deserve the credit or blame except mine. I'm muddy inside, all churning and dammed up (that's not quite the same as DAMNED up, although I suppose some doubts and fears can be described as demons...which really just reminds me that The Bloggess recently posted something about demons and tiny merkins. Feel free to look up both the post AND the meaning of "merkin". Have fun.)

I have roughly 17,000 ideas floating around in my brain at this moment. Sitting down and actually getting one out seems to be just infuriatingly complicated when ALL THE CHARACTERS are pounding at my skull at the same time, and I can't focus on a single story long enough to finish.

INFURIATING.

On a side note, You Tube just switched to Fever Ray's "If I had a heart", the theme song for Vikings. And so I stopped to watch the video.

And my favorite scenes from the entire series are in the 2nd verse, where Ragnar catches a glimpse of Odin wandering the battlefield among all the ravens as he chooses the slain, and Valkyries soar in the stormclouds above.

I'm not giving up. I'm not even complaining...I'm pissed off and frustrated, not sad.  I just need more discipline, or a break in the deluge lately, or the ability to switch off everything else. Or maybe I'm heading for the Hatter's tea party. I don't know. But I'm not done.

Except with this post, because holy shit you bothered to get all the way HERE when I'm angry AND flailing with words? Go you! And I'm sorry.

Be Careful What You Ask For?

Every once in a while, people who aren't COMPLETELY horrified at the stuff I think up wonder where the hell I get some of my story ideas. I had a nifty example today...


While sitting in the girl-doctor's office waiting room, no less (before being mildly annoyed that my appointment was being cancelled via phone while I was in line to check in at the reception desk...sigh), the following thoughts strung themselves together in my brainpan and swirled around awhile.


1) Salt was a much sought-after item in ancient times, and could be quite expensive (it was a serious moneymaker for empires to own salt mines).


2) MANY ancient religious practices and beliefs included acceptance and regular interaction with the supernatural. Ghosts, demons, djinn, fairies, sirens/mermaids, etc.


2) Salt, in ritual, is used for protection against malevolent supernatural/spiritual activity. This is not limited to neo-pagan practices: superstitious people still fling salt over their left shoulder if it's been spilled, to ward off bad luck.


SO...

• If salt was relatively scarce outside of coastal areas or next to salt deposits AND used specifically for warding off demonic possessions, evil ghostly attacks, etc., did stuff like the Exorcist happen more often because every household didn't have salt available for protections?
• Does that mean wealthy societies now who have salt on the table every day are protected from said attacks?
• If they ARE...would an apocalypse (zombie or otherwise) result in an increase in possessions/activity as well?

And so, my brain decided that post-apocalyptic survivors would have to deal with demons and the like even within their protections unless they happen to have someone in their new society who can banish and protect them all. And what would THAT look like?


Yeah. That's the shit my head comes up with when I'm bored. Be glad you don't live in here people: it's a weird crowded space...


I write to make room.

Book Review: The Babylon Rite (Tom Knox)

One of the dangers of spending so much time writing in the B&N coffee shop is the lurid attraction of all those unread pages.

Lo they do call to me... *ahem*

And so in the middle of writing the Prometheus book I was sidetracked by The Babylon Rite, a fascinating mash-up of Templar mystery and disturbing ancient Peruvian archaeology. Yes, I was also intrigued at the idea, and therefore got sucked into Knox's fast paced story of an unemployed journalist, a young archaeological grad student, and a couple of dead professors.

Adam Blackwood is writing a puff piece on a famous historian and his connection to Rosslyn Chapel. THE Rosslyn Chapel of The Davinci Code fame: a subject of both scorn and deprecation by the main character, as he makes a snarky comment or two regarding the influx of tourism in the area since Dan Brown's story became popular.

The professor in question, famous for debunking Templar myths, whispers only that it's all real and it's all here before running off and, surprisingly, driving his car into a stone wall in a mad suicide. And thus Blackwood is sucked into an odd mystery by the professor's daughter, a woman convinced her father had been involved in something bigger and scarier and was most decidedly NOT suicidal. Worse, his "suicide" seems to be similar to a string of truly horrific deaths popping up around London.

Did I mention seriously disturbing archaeology? That too. While all the drama is occurring in the UK, Jessica Silverton is in Peru with her (rather stereotypical) lover and boss, the head of an archaeological excavation of the Moche. Her story, seemingly separate from Blackwood's, follows what happens to a person who discovers the "mythological significance" of ancient paintings depicting people severing their own limbs or having sex with sacrifices (that would be during said sacrifice and immediately after) and/or animals was not mythologically significant at all. They weren't allegorical images: they were accurate recordings of real events.

The way their plots eventually intertwine with each other is really well done: the idea that Moche civilization is in any way connected to the secret Templar initiation rite is pretty inventive and not at all implausible when the mystery is revealed. However, I personally found the big twist that actually tied them together fairly disappointing. To be completely fair, that's likely because I rather enjoy the whole ancient conspiracy theme, and so I had an expectation I perhaps should not have entertained.

Also, while Knox has an excellent knack for writing really creepy violence, he doesn't do a lot to develop the characters themselves. I think the torturous villains would've been more effective if I gave a hoot about any of the main characters, but really none of them were much more than cardboard cutouts. I actually got the impression that there was development behind them, but that it had been edited out of the story to try to make it more fast-paced, because Knox's writing is truly evocative. I was disappointed to find myself ambivalent in places I wouldn't have been if I'd been vested in the character's worlds. Interestingly the back cover blurbs include something about this being a tale "peppered with sex" which is horrendously incorrect. There is a truly awful rape scene (yes, dear author, rape is still rape even if the victim's body responds...a comment which made me want to hit something), and there's a myriad of inventive violence. Decidedly not a story for weak stomachs.

All in all it wasn't a book that left me thinking hard about the world, the characters, or even the awful things that happened after I put it down. But I'd read another of his works for an afternoon escape anytime I'm feeling like an alternative to an action movie.

It's Getting Crowded in Here

So 2016 is my "finish a goddamned book" year. It's not a stupid resolution I won't follow after a month because cake inevitably kicks the gym's ass: it's a self-imposed deadline to get ON my proverbial writing buns, sit my ass in front of the keyboard, and finish something.

At some point, I might learn not to announce intentions in any format other than a Jameson-induced drunken whisper, because apparently the Universe subscribes to the following axiom: if you want something done, give it to a busy person.

Except, unlike type A personalities or Virgo-ish busy people, MY prioritization and organization skills are often sub-par. And so, I have the following deadlines in February/March because I'm a fool who doesn't spread out my work better.

• book review for Ancient History Encyclopedia
• 1500 word article on sex in ancient Rome for the same site (it's getting the subject down to 1500 words that'll be a challenge)
• 1400 word article for a magazine (a paying market! YAY!)
• book review for a guy who found me through this blog and sent me his serial killer novel, which I'm actually DYING to get to but must finish reviews in order. 
• book review for Ancient History Encyclopedia (yes, another one, but I haven't received it yet so it's lower on the list). 
• book review for one of my favorite authors...I'm waiting for confirmation on that one, but I'm hoping I qualify as a review blogger for her because I love her work. 
• article I started for a magazine query earlier this month but never heard back on my letter (deadline is 3/1) so I'm changing it to a non-fiction book synopsis for later. I don't want to lose the idea, but I can't put it first in priority right now. 
• I have three short stories currently waiting for rejection out to markets. I'm not thinking about them much, except that it's best to have another marked queued up so I can submit again right away. This means I have to spreadsheet-track every piece, where it is, how long it's been there, and where it's going next. 
• I have a writing group twice a month and I owe them a finished piece (a short story that's totally unrelated to either book series). 
• Two different fiction series - one has been in the works since 200fucking8. I want to finish the first book in each series this year. 

Seriously, if you don't hear from me in a month or so, send a damn flare or something. I might be buried under a mountain of books. 

I Might Be A Jerkface

This is a little ranty...I'm not sorry.

I'm sort of inundated with books to review right now (two for a magazine, two for a website, and another one on the way, plus I still want to review Furiously Happy in a more meaningful way)...which is why I've been all incognito-like on my own blog. It's a sad thing, but I haven't had much funny this month with all the extra work.

Today, I submitted the review for THE BOOK. The most horrible thing I've read in quite some time.

Sigh. I actually told the editor to feel free to ask me to revise the review if I was too harsh, and that's after I spent more time revising a 400 word piece than I really should considering the time/pay ratio.

I may be a totally judgmental asshole here. I'm not against self-publication. Hell, I'm considering it as a possible path toward my own authorship. But for all that is holy AND unholy, if you choose to go to the trouble of formatting your work correctly, finding cover art, digging up an ISBN, and self-publishing it...HIRE A GODDAMNED EDITOR. At the very least, have a couple beta readers who aren't related to you and have no sexual or parental relationship stumbling blocks preventing them from telling you the truth. Seriously, it doesn't require sacrificing a goat or your firstborn (um, if it does, you may want to review other editorial ads out there...MOST editors and proofreaders just want money, not souls)...just accepting that writing is a process and someone needs to give you the truth.

Also.

If you cannot write a sex scene, I totally get it. Too embarrassed, not sure how to write it without being either prudish or porny, firmly believe sex should be private, your church/parents/children/boss might read it, whatever. I don't care WHY you can't write it: all those reasons are totally valid. But if you can't, don't try to gloss over it by saying stupid shit like "and they did what came naturally."

Breaking the fourth wall and addressing the reader directly is really fucking hard to do successfully. I can't do it, and I don't know of many authors who can. Don't wink at your readers (no, really, DO NOT TYPE "WINK WINK" at your readers).

None of that made it into my review, because I totally get that this was a passion project for the author and I don't want to rip it all apart publicly. I actually think the bare bones of the story were pretty good: she just needed better tools to help revisions...because I felt like I was reading a first draft with notes to herself instead of an actual book.

And so I might be a total jerk who has to redo another version before the review gets into the magazine. In the meantime, I get to write about Vikings (the people, not the purple), and Carthage, and sex in the Roman world.

And that's just a fucking awesome lineup to wash the taste of bad writing out of my brain.

I Broke My Funny Bone

Actually, I think I severely sprained my writing-anything-amusing bone. That should not be confused with a writing boner, which is really a different genre entirely.

I started a new job last week, and while I really like the team and the culture (and hello, benefits) I do miss setting my own schedule. The rebel in me chafes a bit on principle.

The point is: the past week or so has been pretty close to the first week of school when I was a kid. It takes me an adjustment period, and during that time I sleep like absolute shit. And therefore start nodding off around 8pm...because I'm a super exciting party...(yawn).

Tonight I stupidly decided the long hike would be good, since it's been a while, I was home by 5, and I'm apparently a sucker when my idiot brain says "seriously, this'll be great for us!"

The long hike is 3.5 miles in a park with demonically steep hills about every 200 yards. The first few are actually sort of helpful: imagine a large, out of tune orchestra playing bits of SOMETHING all together so you can't focus on one thing. If I don't have a way to expunge the surface garbage of news headlines and how gross I think a vegan recipe for mac and cheese would taste, it's harder to get to the good stuff.

I have a couple choices for feng-shui-ing my brain. First: journaling. I learned the Natalie Goldberg "wild mind" method in high school creative writing class, and that shit still works to get the Lucky Charms demented Leprechaun weird images out. Meditation works too. Sometimes opening my yap and spilling rainbow flavored verbal diarrhea works, but that's just...well, it's rude.

I mean, no one wants to be pooped on. DO NOT BURST MY HAPPY BUBBLE: I'M STICKING WITH THAT ASSERTION.

Exercise works because I can pretty literally sweat out all the toxic brain bits. Hiking works better than anything else because running makes me want to puke and swimming, while I do love it, puts me in real danger of inhaling chlorine water mid-evil-thought and drowning. I suppose there are worse ways to go...and now I'm thinking about poop again. Sigh. I'm so damned ladylike.

Plus, hiking is more of an adventure. Tonight I heard two owls hooting at each other, scared the bejesus out of a deer (the bejesus was really scared out of both of us, and I'm pretty sure the bejesii went skipping off in another direction together), thought bears might be heading my way but it turned out to be lumbering mountain bikers, and had an entire flock of crows laugh at me for a good 1/4 mile.

They actually perched in the tree above me, looked down, and cackled. That is not the exhaustion talking. I was fairly amused.

It's clearly been a while since I hiked, because I didn't get to the relieved state of a cleared mind until the second mile. The hills usually help: a fat girl huffing and puffing up a godawfully endless steep hill gets to a don't look up, the top is too far away and you'll just quit. Just put one foot in front of the other and be fucking careful not to sprain your ankle again because NOBODY will come all the way out here and roll your ass back to the car stage. I appreciate every terrible hill in a twisted sort of self-help-inspiration way. They force me to focus on the moment. They force me to keep going because I'm too damn stubborn to go back down and it's just one more step, then one more, then one more. And suddenly it's the top and I can look back down while I catch my breath and be sort of surprised I got so far.

Tonight, the first three hills gave me Dory's irritating "just keep swimming" song instead of clarity. I know I'm evil for saying so, but I really didn't enjoy that movie. Therefore, I'm CERTAIN I've not brain-dumped the bullshit in a while.

See? There is no funny in here today, only crass bathroom humor and sleepiness.

SpiderFerns Are a Thing Now??

Once in a while people ask where I get ideas for stories, which I think is funny because I can't STOP coming up with stupid and horrifying combinations in my brain that could be a terrible story. I just don't usually share most of them...I'm weird enough already. 

But while downloading pics from my phone tonight (because I'm out of space...again) I found these:

Either the Fern eats tarantulas, or it's breeding a nest of tarantula legs. 

This is a plant that I discovered at Grandma's farm while I was enjoying a quiet and only slightly-mosquito-filled moment on the porch swing. You know, in twilight those stupid leg-root-things look EXACTLY like a nest of furry tarantula legs. A LARGE NEST of them. They were directly behind my head.

It's possible the sound that escaped my yap wasn't entirely human.

I don't have a story for that one...just the sheer horror of stealthy SpiderFerns lying in wait for unsuspecting prey. Ugh.

That is a set of baby teething keys. 

I broke the rules on a hike the other day in the monstrously large park near my house. I wandered amiably along one of the closed trails (meaning, a large wooden "TRAIL CLOSED" sign across the path) because I chose to assume "closed" meant closed only to horses, not to people. That's not actually as odd as it sounds...the trails in this park ARE open to horseback riding...otherwise my assumption would just be foolish.

Anyway, in the far backwoods trail I came across a completely random baby teething toy tied to a tree. It was the only one around, hanging just off the trail. I was (and still am) creeped out. Why? Because that's no helpful person leaving someone's lost toy where it'll easily be found...it was a CLOSED TRAIL. OBVIOUSLY this is the work of some sick serial killer, or worse some elemental creature intent on luring stupid women who go off-trail to their doom. There are several lakes in the park...I can't discount Lorelei. I watch horror movies, people...bad shit happens when people disturb hanging totems in the woods. I left it alone.

Also, I considered all the different disturbing scenarios surrounding those toy keys for the rest of my hike, and had a decent creepy story outlined in my head by the time I got back to the car.

Today someone posted something about Prometheus on my Facebook wall (yes, I should've been working). And yeah, he's on my list for a Myth post...which I'm terribly derelict in handling this summer. Anyway, the picture was a great eagle swooping down toward a nearly-naked Prometheus bound to a rock. Sad for Prometheus...I'm willing to presume it sucks a lot, having all your innards ripped out daily.

But I immediately wondered what happens when a normal creature eats God parts every day for a bazillion years? EVENTUALLY wouldn't some of the extraordinary features pass to the eagle...you are what you eat and all that? What if the Eagle became aware from ingesting too much God-liver and started to feel sorry for Prometheus, or became friendly with him, or fell in love? Hey, Zeus changed into all sorts of beasts to spawn demigods with human women..it's not out of the realm of possibility in Greek myth.

This post has absolutely no point at all...I have no finalized story for any of these, just random ideas that float around in the brainpan when I let things wander about. There is no "where do you find story ideas" factory...it's just a product of the messed up way I think.

Be glad 99% of it never crosses from random thought to something communicated outside my head...it's weird in there.

Also as a side note, I've noticed a plethora of people in the Eastern Bloc "finding" my blog lately. you know, Belarus, Ukraine, Czech Republic...yeah. Amazingly, the posts with certain labels or title key words are the ones viewed...and so I added some fun labels to this post just to prove that while I may occasionally use provocative words, it still isn't porn. Sorry to disappoint, Ukrainians. 

I Dub Thee "Herman the Moulien"* (pronunciation updated)

So I have a (perhaps foolish) goal to submit at least two pieces of writing every month for publication this year. Yeah, yeah, I know...but it's not a sparkler-and-champagne induced resolution thing like losing weight or some other random general "goal." 

I'd like to say I have a really specific goal, such as writing 1k words every day for a year. But reality is a salty bitch, and I flat out don't have that sort of drive for anything (it's a goal I've tried in the past). 

What I DO have is a 2014 Dragons calendar with fantastic and varied artwork, all of which inspires at least one short story. I have a list of essays/article possibilities. I have two regular outlets for contest submissions both quarterly and monthly. And I am armed with a very large spreadsheet to track all this shit so I can pretend i'm an organized soul. 

I am not organized...you should see my desk. 

Anyway, yesterday was 1/31, and therefore (of course) I was doing last-minute revisions and changes because I had a invite to submit an essay in my email last THURSDAY, and the Glimmer Train monthly contest due by last night with a story only 3/4 finished. 

Why do you care? You probably don't...I probably wouldn't were I you. However, I'm behind on the blog posts I want to write (oh YES there is a spreadsheet tab for those, too) and I'm just too damn worn out today to give you a real/entertaining/funny thing that's in any cohesive form. So, that's my explanation why the rest of this post is completely random shit that isn't big enough for a real post, so it's mishmashed into this one. (Screw you spellchecker: I vote that if "selfie" can live in the Oxford English Dictionary, so can "mishmashed" so there. And how. Neener.)

• My backyard looks like a Honduran jungle. This is not a euphemism for something dirty (I'm looking at YOU and your filthy mind, of which I wholly approve): I do not mean any part of my own person, but the actual fenced-in area behind my living space in which grass and some sort of weird weeds have attempted to swallow the dogs in the past week. Unfortunately, our lawn dude seems to have vanished. I'm afraid of toes and lawn mowers...also, I've never seen the Honduran jungle...so maybe I should correct that and say Mexican or Trini (I've seen those, and so am not a liar). 
• The visitor in our house who appears to have made its home UNDER the cabinet below the kitchen sink has not only eaten every fucking roach trap in the house and NOT died, as any polite rodent would do, but it also chewed into the bag of potatoes and ate some of one. Sigh. Bastard. 
• Herman (I don't know if it's a rat or a mouse or an alien...moulien? at this point, since the fucking thing eats roach poison and doesn't die but it avoids the mouse/rat bait like a damn champ) scared the shit out of my polar bear dog the other night. He tik-tik-tiked out to he kitchen at about 3am (DEMON hour, people) on the tile, there was some indiscriminate scrabbling (I couldn't tell which critter was trying to run, but I can imagine both the Moulien AND Chewy facing opposite directions in the kitchen, legs pumping like mad on the slippery tile and going absolutely nowhere), and eventually Chewy ran back into the bedroom. Of course he came to MY side of the bed, plopped his giant noggin on my pillow and breathed like a stalker all up in my face. I told him to go back to bed...he sighed heavily like I was a lazy bitch and don't I see he's TRYING to tattle here? and lay down on the floor next to my side of the bed. 
• Herman is still out there. I'm considering dipping the poison in peanut butter or nutella or something. Maybe potato slices, since he seems to enjoy russets. He's probably a Rodent of Unusual Size waiting to get my toes while I'm cooking one day. As if I don't have ENOUGH trouble with balance as I already am. 
• Yesterday, I spent most of my afternoon spelling the word "labyrinth" about seventeen thousand different ways seven different ways. Each was incorrect. The caption for the art I was using as inspiration was DIRECTLY in front of me on my desk while I wrote. The caption? "The Dragon's Labyrinth." Awesome. 
• Yesterday, I received one of the best compliments I've ever had about a paragraph I wrote. That's not a funny vignette: just a random moment in which I thought "huh, maybe I don't suck that bad at this" and it made my day. 

And on that note, I'm off to play Mario 3D while sports are happening on the TV. I'm only interested in the Superbowl outcome to find out whether Captain America or Star Lord lost the bet anyway.

*Husband says I should clarify. "Moulien" = mouw-lee-in (mouse/alien). Apparently the mental translation "moo-lee-in" also comes to mind, and makes even less sense than the gibberish I normally accomplish. 

I am not fired, and other Friday Shenangians.

I got sent home from work today at lunchtime.

No, I didn't get fired, no my mouth didn't get me in trouble, and no I didn't hit anyone OR start anything on fire.

Thanks a lot assholes, for knowing exactly what could get me sent home assuming the worst.

I got sent home because I've been hacking up my lungs all week, thanks to airplanes/toddlers/sick relatives/cold/typhoidsomethingorother. Let's be clear. I've been sick since New Year's Day. I've been on the mend, really, all this week,and have been at work all week.

I got sent home today because my cube-neighbor has the actual fever-ishy-flu, and since she's NOT in the office and I'm still coughing like the mucinex dudes are partying down in my lungs I was politely told to get out. I am typhoid Jess by default, and that's sort of amusing.

And so I did. Spent my afternoon napping (hey, they sent me home to "get well" right? Wellness = naps, people), until I got the MOST AWESOME EMAIL EVER from someone who randomly found my blog through Nora Roberts' blog. (No, I don't know Nora Roberts...believe me, if I did I'd drop it into almost every conversation because knowing her personally would almost be as cool as Dwayne Johnson or Gerard Butler showing up at my door.) Nora Roberts wrote a piece on her public blog about shitty trolling internet trolls who harass writers/artists, and I agreed with her "bite me" approach. Anyway, it's neither here nor there.

The neat bit for me, is that said random person found my blog via that comment, read some, and went to the effort of emailing me personally to say unbelievably kind things about my writing.

And that, people, made my whole goddamned week. 

Luckily, the Universe which provides me with random pick-me-ups also ensures appropriate humility:

Um, HELLO. Get your hand off that keyboard.

Have you ever tried to type around a Falcor head? It doesn't work well.

Can't you see I MUST SING?

I'll be sure to invite you to his opera debut. 

In the meantime, I'm recycling last year's Dragon calendar by using the art as writing prompts for 12 written scenes/short stories. Because why not add to the project list? 

People, I Need a Brownie!

I've been working a while now on a book (well, to be fair, on a couple of books). I cut a snippet into a 500 word scene and submitted it to a flash fiction contest in the summer. I didn't win, but I DID get some really excellent feedback, which I used to re-write (and expand a bit) the scene. Since it's part of a larger work, I'm sticking it here instead of putting it in another contest. I welcome comments/critiques/whatever.

Originally, the title submitted for the short short story was "That's Fairy, Not Dessert." Let's just say my house needs one desperately. Also, I greatly enjoy imagining the chaos with two dogs...

“I’m going mad,” he said to the empty office. The office chose not to respond.

Could you go mad if you could still consider going mad? Or was convincing yourself of sanity the first sign of madness? He wasn’t sure, but those…things he’d seen lurking in the shadowy corners of his apartment weren’t his imagination. Absolutely, certainly not.

And now all his clothes were unpacked and his dirty laundry piled up in a basket by the bed. The bathroom and kitchen sparkled in the bright morning sun, even if he’d left dishes in the sink after dinner.

He didn’t remember doing any of it. He’d carefully talked himself into believing he’d learned to sleepclean, some weird holdover from his parents’ housekeeper traumatizing his childhood with clean dishes. Or something.  

This morning the mousetraps he’d set all over the house were stacked carefully in the middle of his kitchen floor, neat and scrupulously free of any peanut butter bait. He heard papers shuffling in his office and ran into the room only to find them settling themselves on his desk, as though someone had just been flipping through them and left in a hurry.

Ben considered himself a rational, scientific man with a solid base in reality. Sure, he watched the Ghost Hunter shows and liked a good exorcist movie now and again, but that was just for show. He didn’t believe in hauntings or the paranormal, so he just needed to find a rational explanation for all of this, right? What could possibly be wrong with sleepcleaning?  

He sat at his desk, prepared for some serious Googling. He was tapping his finger on the desk along to AC/DC’s “Back in Black” and thinking thank God there was ONE rock station in this town, when someone in the room cleared her throat. 

No one was there. He flicked off the radio.

The “ahem” noise, definitely female, came again from the corner of the room by the window.

No one was there.

“Dammit,” he slammed his laptop closed. “Now I’m hearing things? What the hell is WRONG with me?” Disgusted, he stood and dug his cell from the front pocket of his jeans.

“Aw laddie, there’s nothing at all wrong with ye.” The thickly-lilted voice chuckled merrily. Her motion finally caught his eye, and a tiny female creature waved at him from the top of the stack of boxes marked BOOKS. She was only a foot tall and brown from crown to heel; walnut hair smoothed back from her face in a thick braid, sable eyes clearly laughed at him from a nest of wrinkles. Her clothes were shades of a forest floor, bark and loam. Her body seemed younger and stronger than her lined face, which grinned at him as she waved one tanned hand, the other holding a dust cloth. He didn’t smile back.

“Are ye dull then?” she asked with a long-suffering sigh, and shook her head with regret.

He snatched the bat he’d laid behind the desk for “just in case” problems, and held it out between himself and the creature.

“What the hell!” he shouted. “Stay away! What the hell are you?”

“Humph. Dull AND rude.” Her smile vanished, sparks of anger flashing in those clear dark eyes. She jumped off the box and stomped toward the door, muttering something about brownies under her breath. He cautiously moved closer, making a shooing motion.

“Don’t shoo a Brownie, sir, if you know what’s good for you,” she hollered, waving her finger at his knees. “I’m a damn fool, thinking you could see so you would see.” She shook her head, disgusted. “Well, that’s that then.”

“What?” Ben carefully lowered the bat. “What are you talking about? Who are you? What the hell do brownies have to do with anything?”

“I AM a Brownie, you grand jackass! Fairy, not dessert!” She threw her hands in the air, flinging her dust cloth across the room. “Bah. Maybe I shouldn’ta surprised you so, but damn if I’ll keep talking to an armed idiot.” And with that, she stalked through the doorway and disappeared in a little poof of dust.

The bat thunked on the hardwood floor and Ben ran after the tiny brown woman. She was gone. Toast crumbs still covered the kitchen counter; clothes still lay on his bedroom floor. He sat at the table, pushed a moving box out of the way, and cradled his head in his hands.

“Oh God, I really am going crazy,” he said to the table, and sighed. Deep in his gut, he felt an apology coming on.

 

 

Writing about Writing (WARNING! Han Pictures!)

Thank you, all of you who encouraged me to keep going. Honestly, my couple-week-hiatus wasn't a plea for attention or validation, nor was it to wonder whether the person in question was right: I KNOW he's wrong. That's not the point. HE'S not the point. Ultimately, that friendship was killed by an entirely different subject (after all, I may be pretty damn flexible and accepting, but there are a few topics on which I do not bend).

HE doesn't matter in terms of this blog, because ultimately it's my blog. If no one reads it at all, I'd still write it (which is the #1 reason the premise behind the comment was in error: I don't write to publish. I write for me. If I entertain or inspire argument/thought/reflection, well neat. But it's not my reason for writing).

I took a couple weeks to really think about where this blog started (with NO readers other than very occasionally my husband, who already knew all the stories) to where it is now, and what I want to do with it. I DO have a quick temper and at least enough bare minimum skills with words to cause harm if I'm not careful. I also have a responsibility to myself to balance editing (for the protection of subjects as well as for clear writing) and self-censorship.

Here's the deal, I originally intended this blog to be about my random silly life, and that's how it's going to remain.

That means some days, I'm feeling like this:

I am SO GODDAMN HAPPY!
 (That's right, my nephew Han is FUCKING ADORABLE. SUCK IT, Prince George!)

And some days, maybe not so much.


DUDE! I'm not sure WTF just happened, but I am SORELY unimpressed. STOP LAUGHING!
(In case you're wondering, his mom gave him the squeeze tube of baby food. OF COURSE he squeezed it...and was slightly horrified at the result. Or, at all of us laughing at him...)

I suppose the best way to put my final decisions on manipulation is: I see a clear difference between attempting to manipulate someone versus entertaining and/or openly influencing someone. I won't lie to get someone to do what I want them to do. I won't arrange situations and people to try to change the outcome.

But I WILL report when situations are funny as hell (or, as is often the case with me, utterly fucked up). And I won't hide when depression hits, or when I'm particularly emotional about something.

So yeah, I'm back.

Now, I'm off to put the Cone of Shame on Chewy. Sigh. One more week of this hell and my house goes back to normal. Just in time for Renaissance Festival to start.

I could do a whole series on THOSE dramas...after the Townhome Twits are finished. Next one tomorrow! 

An Ethical Hiatus.

Ultimately, 99.9% of my written words are to entertain me...and to get them out of the racetrack in my head, and I started this blog to share those stories with friends who regularly wanted to hear them anyway.

Know what's just AWESOME? When one of those people, someone I thought really got my need to write, accuses me of manipulation (subconsciously or overtly) by making writing available for "public consumption" I have to at least stop and consider the possibility.

The exact words, verbatim:

"If you write for consumption of others, you're MANIPULATING them."

Had it come from nearly anyone else on this planet (barring a very select few) I would've blown it off as ridiculous, malicious, and downright stupid. But this came from someone whose opinion I value. At least, I did. That, along with my motivations for this blog, are currently under review.

ma·nip·u·late
/məˈnɪpyəˌleɪt/ Show Spelled [muh-nip-yuh-leyt]  

verb (used with object), ma·nip·u·lat·ed, ma·nip·u·lat·ing.

1. to manage or influence skillfully, especially in an unfair manner: to manipulate people's feelings.

Even dictionary.com acknowledges the word has negative connotations, that manipulation (in an emotional sense...I didn't reference the physical manipulation of objects...like driving a car) is an attempt to influence the minds/emotions/actions of others.

I suppose technically that's true: if I share a ridiculous episode from my life on my blog hoping to make someone laugh because I thought it was funny, am I not attempting to influence my readers' mind/emotional state?

What if I share my opinions on gay marriage, abortion, parenting, current events, or Game of Thrones? Is making my view of the world available outside my own mind an attempt to change someone else's?

Every reason I posted on this blog, on Facebook, even personal view essays I've written for submission to magazines, short stories or even the goddamned novels...they're all under review in my head now. Maybe I shouldn't have written the post on the Texas abortion debate. Maybe I shouldn't have posted anything about depression. Is it ok to put things out there if I put out a disclaimer? Is expressing myself manipulation if I say up front these are just my own stupid thoughts, and I don't expect any sort of reaction or change? Hell, most of the time I'm shocked if someone reads it at all.

I have no interest in manipulating anyone for any reason. The word itself means, to me, attempting to deviously force someone to think, feel, or act the way the manipulator wants them to. (Yes, I know that's a grammatically incorrect sentence.) I'm interested in people: their motivations, their thoughts, their feelings...if I'm in any way underhandedly influencing my experience with another person (even through writing) is INAUTHENTIC. It's not my goddamned place to try to force anyone. Not to my point of view, not to learn what I may be able to teach, not to even understand where I'm coming from.

My writing is for ME: it's my therapy. It's my escape. It's my need. I thought by sharing it I may touch someone else once in a while: give them a moment of escape or commiseration or just a quick distraction from their day. Let them into my life and experience, if they wanted to hang out. At what point is expressing myself an attempt to influence someone else? At what point does it become propaganda, which IS a clear example of manipulation?

The bare possibility that I may be doing it means I need a break to figure out my shit.

Therefore, I'm taking a hiatus from my blog and social media. I don't know how long I'll be gone: I have to figure out what's ok to put out there in public and what I should keep to myself.

This is not a corpse speaking...no really, I'm somewhat alive.

I've been offline quite a bit lately working on FINALLY finishing my first book (rough draft only). I'm not done, but I'm not dead.

Yet.

I figure I need to finish, because my excellent friend Sarah did a Tarot reading for me recently that was essentially a GIANT COSMIC WARNING that I'm "excessively fertile."

I suppose it could've been a universal-warning about an impending apocalypse babies, but I choose to think of it as a not-so-gentle-reminder that I have NOTEBOOKS full of characters and plots just waiting to break out of my overstuffed brainpan and ravage the world.

Also, I've been wasting time looking for a house to rent in Florida, because FUCK THIS WEATHER. Oh Minnesota, I will joyfully leave behind your backstabby version of passive aggressive nice AND your never ending cold.

Oh, you think I'm kidding?

I am not Yoda, NaNoWriMo

I've spent the past two months in an all-encompassing fog of anxiety, depression, worry, and exhaustion. That's not any sort of plea for sympathy...it's my excuse for crappy and intermittent posting. I simply have very little to write about outside of dealing with the accident and aftermath, and instead of inflicting that upon ANYONE in cyberspace, I've avoided my blog (except in the case of obnoxious dog posts, which are occasionally necessary in my world).

Yup. I'm an avoider. Nope, I'm pretty sure "avoider" isn't a word.

Indeed, spellcheck agrees.

It took me six weeks to gather enough nerve to sit in front of my keyboard and just let my fingers go. I'm not sure if that makes sense...

I learned in my high school creative writing class to turn OFF my critical mind and let whatever lurks behind the wall to bypass my editor and just come out on paper. If you're a writer at heart and haven't read Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones or Wild Mind it's really time you do. (Thank you, Mr. Benson, for those lessons.) The key is to keep your hand moving and just write down whatever comes out. Keeping you hand moving (pen to paper or fingers to keyboard) without re-reading purges what hides in your soul.

Last week I finally sat down in front of a blank word document, closed my eyes, and typed. Thirty minutes and six pages later I discovered I was crying uncontrollably, but I didn't stop writing.

I'm still not ready to put anything down in an actual journal (after all, anything typed can be deleted, or even printed and burned if necessary), but at least I'm writing again. And I'm slowly opening that box-o-mess I've kept locked up tight in my chest since August. 

Which brings me to the impending November writing exercise: National Novel Writing Month. I've never successfully completed the challenge. I have two weeks to get my characters and plot ready: I don't know if I'll have time to finish 50,000 words in 30 days this year with Husband coming home from the rehab unit sometime soon, but I'm sure as hell going to try.

I know, I know. Do, or do not. There is no try.

I'm not Yoda, people. And while I haven't gotten nearly enough lately, I DO enjoy sleeping.

Also, it has come to my attention that my current contract position is ending in 2.5 months. Not that I expect to write and sell a book in that time and replace my job...but it IS fairly motivating. Plus...what the hell else am I going to do while Hubby games/naps all afternoon when he gets home? Work?

Bah.