Hey, dude!

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“Hey, dude! You’re in front of my house with music blaring. It’s 7 am. What are you thinking?”

The loud, obnoxious noise that disrupted my serene morning was emanating from a car parked in front of my house. Without a second thought I stormed out my front door and flapped my arms about like a demented octopus.

Now don’t get me wrong. I realize that I live in a city full of people, and people are very noisy beings. I don’t expect quiet all the time. But if one of those people pulls over to rearrange his trunk at 7 in the morning, the least he could do is turn down his music. Or go somewhere else.

“Sorry, sorry,” the man cringed as he rushed to the front of his car to switch off the music. He looked sincerely contrite, which appeased the part of me that made me flap my arms around. I waved my hand like a human and returned inside to make a cup of coffee.

“Did you just call that guy dude?” For some reason my husband had a big smile on his face.

“Yeah.”

“Dude?”

“That’s right. What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, except I thought you’d say, ‘Excuse me, sir, would you mind turning down your music.’ Not ‘Hey, dude.'”

That does it. My experiment of the last few years, the one where I tested how society treats the super-nice, is over. Done. Caput.

I’ve bent over backwards so many times, going above and beyond normal niceness in an effort to make the world a better place. My reward? Usually a resounding punch in the stomach.

POW! 

This didn’t happen just once, it happened multiple times. There are people in this world, quite a few of them in fact, who interpret nice as compliant and meek.

So I’ll use my best manners in most instances.

But for those out there who are rude, inconsiderate, and think they can bulldoze right over everyone to get their way, the kid gloves are coming off.

I’ve got a different kind of nice for them.

A nice, new pair of boxing gloves.

It’s time the bulldozers learned that nice does not equal weak.

Head and heart

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Adrenaline is running, unfettered and unrestrained, through my veins today. I think it’s because of a screenwriter’s workshop I want to attend in September.

I sat down and meditated for a few minutes, and this is a snippet of the conversation I overheard between my heart and my head.

Head: Slow down Heart. Stop jumping around so much. And for the sake of our nerves, lay off that adrenaline! We did our part. We submitted the screenplay on time–

Heart: What if it’s not good enough? What if the reader reads it and tosses it into the trash like last week’s garbage? What if–

Head: If that happens, it happens. We’ll move on the the next project. No need to get all in a flutter.

Heart: But this is important! If we go to this workshop we’ll get to rub elbows with people we want to call our peers. We’ll belong.

Head: It’s out of our hands. Calm down before you make our toes bleed. You’re pumping blood around faster–

Heart: Calm down! How can you ask me to calm down? If we get in, we’ll have to go rub elbows with some very intimidating writers! Just the thought of it makes the marrow in our bones quiver.

Head: Hold on a minute! I thought you wanted to go.

Heart: I do! And I don’t.

Head: Nonsense. If we’re going to survive this you’re going to have to make up your mind.

Heart: Can’t. That’s your job.

Head: As if you would listen to me!

 

Entitled author-wannabes

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I was chatting with a publisher friend of mine the other day. She told me a story that made me shake my head in disbelief. Or maybe it was disgust.

This publisher runs a small, boutique publishing house that caters to the family friendly crowd. In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve always found her to be polite, kind, and ready to lend a helping hand.

She’s been in the business for about ten years and knows that it isn’t always easy for writers to submit their work to publishers. So when she received a voicemail from a man who said he had a book ready to publish and wanted to speak to her about publishing it, she decided to set aside some time for a little chat.

Even though it was breaking her own rules. The guidelines posted on the publisher’s website specifically states NOT to call. All queries about submissions were to be made via email.

Three business days went by before she could find time to make the call. It was a particularly busy time, and she was totally swamped with work.

But when she picked up the phone to call back, she was surprised to see that she had a new voicemail from the man.

She told me it was the most disgusting, unprofessional phone call she had ever gotten. He ranted on and on about how she had disrespected him by not returning his phone call for three days.

She said that after hearing this man’s vulgar words and an angry tone, she wanted nothing more to do with him. And she was more than ever determined to stick to the no phone call rule.

Just like every other publisher, she has no time to waste on entitled author-wannabes who think their time is more valuable than everyone else’s.

Can’t say I blame her!

Science fiction or fantasy?

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It’s time to put on my librarian hat for a few minutes and clear the air about science fiction and fantasy.

Because the sad truth is, many people don’t seem to know the difference between the two. They use the terms interchangeably, as if they are the same.

But they’re not. They’re about as alike as strawberries and pineapples.

Fantasies are flights of the imagination, often full of dragons and magic. The worlds in which fantasies exist are always just beyond our view. We feel that if we could move a little faster, dig a little deeper, or find the right door to open, we could enter that world and have access to all of its wonders.

Many fantasies are based on legends or fairy tales, or even scary stories told around the campfire.

The television show Grimm is fantasy. The Harry Potter books are fantasy. Lord of the Rings series is fantasy. Vampire and werewolf shows are fantasy.

Science fiction, on the other hand, lives not around the corner, but in the future. It takes current scientific thought and projects potential outcomes.

In other words, if we can invent our way there, it’s science fiction.

Post-apocolyptic stories are science fiction. As are space travel stories and stories set in the future.

Star Trek is science fiction. Planet of the Apes is science fiction. The Matrix is science fiction. Any story that deals with robots, computers, or viruses taking over the world are science fiction.

Just to make sure we’re on the same page, the Behold the Eye (Braumaru, Cerulea, and Viridia) books are fantasy, while the Department of Temporal Adjustment is science fiction.

Great! Now that that’s all cleared up I’ll take my librarian hat off again.

See you around.

 

Poor little fellas!

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I really detest bullies, no matter what cause they try to hide behind.

One particular group of bullies have come to my attention lately. I know they’re bullies because bullies are all about squashing others so they can feel bigger.

These men want to squash women.

Oh, they say they are for men’s rights, but we all know that’s just a cover.

What they’re really about is keeping their misogynistic little world from being torn apart by women who have the nerve to claim they should be paid the same money for doing the same work. Who believe women and men are equally valuable to society.

These bullies…I mean men’s rights activists…have come to my attention lately because they’re disturbed, nay, downright angry, about the remade Mad Max movie.

http://www.cnn.com/2015/05/15/entertainment/mad-max-fury-road-boycott-mens-rights-thr-feat/

They cannot believe the movie industry has been so shortsighted as to allow women, mere women, to play some of the major roles in the movie. Action roles, which should only be played by men.

It’s feminist propaganda, they claim. A plot, intended to degrade men.

It’s too bad their misogynistic little minds have shrunk to the point where they can’t grasp the fact that feminism has been misrepresented for years. It’s not about world domination, it’s about equality.

Poor little fellas!

 

Mind math

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I don’t understand how it works, but on days I’m having trouble writing if I give myself a goal of a measly 100 words I somehow end up with at least 500.

But if I go for 500, I’ll often give up at 50.

The brain is a strange thing. It’s sometimes lazy and needs to be tricked into doing work.

Mine likes to be tricked by math, especially the kind that’s so convoluted that it doesn’t exist in the normal world.

Ever heard of equations that prove 100=500 while 500=50?
Yeah. Me neither.

Twists and turns, meant to confuse.

Mind math.

Works for me!

 

Excerpt – continued

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A scene from Time Without.

There was a slight change in air pressure, followed a gentle click as the door latched.
“Funny guys, real funny,” a woman’s voice said. “Who’s the
jokester who locked the door?”
At the sound of the voice my tense body twitched. That voice.
Why did that voice sound so familiar to me?
The mass of arms and legs below me began to squirm and shift. A small arm shot out of the pile. I shoved it back in.
“Ouch, Zoe! Watch your elbow,” I heard Becca say. “That was
my face!”
“Be quiet,” I whispered as quietly as I could.
“It wasn’t me,” Zoe whispered back to Becca. Either she hadn’t heard my plea for silence or she was ignoring it. “I’m by Maddie. That was Audrey’s elbow.”
“Shhhhh,” I hissed, this time a bit louder.
“Be quiet!” Maddie whispered in a super-loud hiss. “Mommy
said to be quiet.”
“Why?” Audrey asked from just below my ear.  
“Girls,” I tried again, “hush.”
In the silence that followed I strained my ears to hear. If I
could figure out—
“The monster’s coming,” Zoe whispered.
Any more and I’d be telling. This is all you get. Until the book comes out, that is.

Writing vs House Inspecting

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I think I’ve chosen the wrong profession.

As writer I spend hours, days, sometimes even years working on projects that might not make a single penny. All the work is done upfront, but payment is never a sure thing.

There are no guarantees. I get paid only when someone buys a book. Period.

Compare that to house inspectors. Yesterday I hired one to inspect a house my husband and I wanted to make an offer on. He showed up and began the inspection, but almost immediately realized that the house was a money pit. Everything was falling apart, and the cost of the repairs would break our budget.

I was given the choice to stop the inspection and told that since he had other billable work he could move on to, he wouldn’t charge me for the time he hadn’t spent of the job.

Sounded good to me. He wouldn’t lose out since he could pick up a job he had thought he didn’t have time for, and I could refrain from paying for work I now didn’t need.

Later that evening I got the bill. $391.40. I asked if it was a mistake, but was assured that the figure was correct. The bill was almost $400, for less than 30 minutes of work.

Which is why I just might consider changing careers.
I could handle crawling around in creepy crawlspaces, couldn’t I?

An excerpt

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Believe it or not, the book is NOT about a monster. Not that you could tell by what I wrote today. Here’s a small excerpt.

 I gulped as I
remembered the rusted hinges and the hidden lock on the door. Someone had wanted
that door to remain closed, probably to keep out the monster standing in the
doorway.
I had unlocked that door. Whatever happened next, it was my
fault.
A quick scan of the room showed me that there was not a calm
face in sight. Everyone in the room shared Dr. Wilson’s dread of the unknown
creature.
The monster took a step forward, which unnerved me, but not
as much as the whoosh of air that suddenly blew past my arm.
Even before I turned and saw the flash of white disappear
around the corner, I knew what had happened.
We had been abandoned, ditched, left to fend for ourselves.
Every man in the room, including Dr. Wilson, had turned tail and run.
My daughters and I were alone in the room. Alone, that was, except
for the monster.   
I watched in horror as the creature took another step into
the room and reached out a claw to grab the doorknob.       

At this point, I panicked. The only way out would take us
directly in front of that door. So I did the only thing I could think of. I
shoved my children down to the floor and tossed myself on top of them. If we
were lucky, the monster wouldn’t notice us. But if it did, at least it would
have to go through me before it got to my kids.

A little rough, I know. But that’s how first drafts should be. I’ll clean it up and make it all pretty in the rewrites.