My First Signing!

This has been weird. I have been to signings before, sat next to my friends while they signed their books for people. I've even signed my name to an anthology or two that I've had short stories published in. Today was different. Today I got to sit at the table at the Barnes and Noble put Black Light into other people's hands, all day. It was great. But weird. But great!

With me are Kacey Vanderkarr, Brian Thomas, and AJ Tupps. What great company to be in.  I saw a couple of old friends, which was amazing, and make a whole bunch of new ones, and even recruit a few for Flint Area Writers! And!! You guys! I even got to sell the book to people who were complete strangers! How much fun is that!

So, in celebration of my first signing, I'm doing a Goodreads Giveaway, starting at midnight tonight. ( July 9th). You can enter to win one of three paperback copies of Black Light from now until July 31.

Y'know what? This is another first for me!!. Wow......

Anyway, just click on the link over to the right of this blog, okay? And go enter!

Building My Own House

It took me years to sort out my own sexuality.  I could tell you that was because I didn’t have Google when I was a kid, but I feel like that’s too flip an explanation. I’m glad that there is so much to see and hear these days. There are so many more safe places to go in the real world and online now. Don't get me wrong, I know it's not a perfect world. Way too many of us still can't marry who we love, and  I used to think that the closet had just gotten bigger.  Now I think that’s not the case. I work with twenty and thirty-somethings now, and I am amazed at the combinations and relationships that I see.  A woman my age at work, even told me that her child had told her “in an email” that they were pan sexual. That “no Mom, that doesn’t mean I’m attracted to pots and pans….” This woman didn’t tell me this because she was angry or ashamed. She was proud of her child, and working actively to get the pronoun of choice down.

Wow.                                                                                                                             

But, what was I talking about? Yes. This. I spent my twenties and thirties, desperately trying to fit somewhere. I wasn’t comfortable with most men, and I did love women, but I felt out of place as a lesbian, like it wasn’t quite the right skin.  I didn’t want to be alone, needed intimacy, and sex was something that seemed necessary to get that.  But I wasn’t ever really much for it, you know? In my head I’ve always heard a well-meaning ex of mine saying to me, in what I’m sure she didn’t intend to be a condescending tone, “It’s okay if you’re asexual.” When it was very clear it was not okay.

I couldn’t have been asexual, I thought because clearly it’s not okay.

That was thirty years ago, and I’ve made a lot of mistakes over that time. It’s taken decades to come to the place I am now. It took a long time for me to be comfortable straddling the line, instead of trying to fit myself into one box. 
I completely understand that there are always reasons you make the choices you make. That sexual preference is just that, and it's fluid.  Now? Now I know that I'm bi-asexual. Did I just make that up? Maybe. and I'm okay with that.

I have a book coming out!!! It's called Black Light)

I don't know if you have noticed or not, but..... I have a book coming out!! Black Light is coming out in May, which is terrifyingly close. To say I'm excited is just a huge understatement. I'm in shock, that the day is almost here.  I have lived with these characters for so long in my head that they've seeped into my bones. Once the book was finished, I missed not spending every waking second with them, but now they're front in center again. And the best part is that I can share them with you. I can't wait for you to meet Trace and Asia, and the rest of the members of the band.

Here the link to add it to your Goodreads list!

The things I (would have) left behind

My best friend and I have always written. We've known each other and have shared our stories for over thirty years. We have lived on opposite sides of the country for almost two thirds of that time, and of course become different people than we were as kids. We've had different lives, but writing has always been the constant.

She asked me, a while ago if she could use a character of mine in a new story she was writing. She would change his name, and the setting, of course, but she wanted to know if it was alright with me if he made an appearance.

I didn't know what to say. I was more than happy to let her have him. I wasn't doing anything with him, that was for sure.  When she began to talk about what role he would play in this new story of hers, I was hit with a wave of uncertainty, as though I was falling back into who I was all those years ago. I was jealous of her new idea, of the writer she was. I felt awful. She had improved her writing so much since then, why was I still struggling with every word?

I wanted to protect what was mine, but I also wanted to let him go. I wanted to see what she did with him. Of the two of us, I had more faith in her than I did in me, to complete the story.

So I gave up my seventeen year old self who felt inferior, and angry about being inferior. That was the first thing, and it wasn't easy. Then I decided to try to be as much help as I could. Not only because she is my best friend, but because I knew I would learn things along the way.

She did finish the book, and my character, who is a relatively minor one, is also one of the heroes. He comes across as a guy who is just doing the best he can while trying to stay as deceit as he can. He's perfect, but he's also not mine anymore. He's one facet of my character, as seen through her eyes, so reading him was so much more fun than I ever expected.

There was another unexpected bonus. She got me thinking about those stories we wrote back then. I decided it might be time for me to start telling my version. I could write that character from the present, with all the things I've learned since we were kids added in. I haven't stayed in the same place, I've moved forward, I've just moved differently. I wanted a story that reflected that, even if only to myself.

The result is the novel I'm working on now, called “The Night Was Not.” It's a neo-Victorian story. This incarnation of the character is called Kerry Hazard. He flies an airship, and is called back to the city of his childhood by an ominous message from a friend. It's a very different story from my friend's novel, which is a space opera (yay!), but the character came from the same place. He was born in the back of a notebook, scribbled in while lying on either of our bedroom floors in the middle of the night. It's where he would have stayed if she hadn't picked him up again. 

The New Year (viewed with dread and glitter)

I'm a little late with the "Last Year In Writing" post, aren't I? Well, actually, this might be my first one.
Last year was..... Complicated. It wasn't all bad. I got to go to Gilchrist twice. That was great. My nephew graduated from High School without giving his mother or me a fatal heart attack.  That was fantastic. My Dad is still hanging on with us, and I'm grateful for that.
Also, we published Out Of the Green (available on bn.com and Amazon.com), and I'm fond of the stories in it. I had a great time writing mine. I wrote two other short stories that have yet to find a home. One's a post-apocalyptic lesbian djin story. Yeah, okay, that one might be hard to find a market for.... And the other... Well the other is an Asia story. I haven't decided what to do with that one yet.
I know I promised to have a book out by late fall last year, didn't I? Well, it's a little late too, (cover issues plus just plain too much life-intrusion) but don't forget about it! It's still coming.
The first two weeks of the new year, though, are for the novel I'm working on right now.  I'm working that subplot.
So, while life isn't perfect (I work in a hell hole, still, and home is really prickly at the moment), I'm working on it. I wish I could be the kind of writer that had big lovely announcements at year's end, but for me, this works for right now.

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Writing like a grown up

I spent this afternoon shut up in a little room that has no windows, and very little light. It's quiet, except my music, and nobody knows I'm here.
So, just me and my computer for five hours, at an actual desk. 
Where am I? I'm in my office. I suppose it's an office, right? It has a desk and a chair, and a board to write stuff on. This afternoon my sister brought me a lamp so the over-head lighting wouldn't make my brain explode. Oh, and a picture of my Mom for my desk. That was nice of her. Mom and my stuffed zombie doll are both smiling at me over my computer screen right now.
It's awesome. I love my little room, despite the fact it's windowless. I've done work on my manuscript all day with no interruptions. I have word count goals up on my white board, and while I'm probably not going to give up writing in public, I feel like renting even this little space gives me an excuse.
I'm paying for this space, so I'd better use it to write.  It needs work still, sure.  I probably need to scrounge a comfy chair up from somewhere for writing in my notebook and stuff like that, but I have to tell you so far, this is working out well.  I've never had a dedicated place to write, not ever, and never really seen the need, but now I might never go  back.

And in other news, as you all know, the NAME CONTEST ends March 12th. Yep, that's next Tues.  One of you will get the fabulous gift certificate. I'm not telling who, but, you know... One of you will win...... 

So I'm going back to the thing. You guys think about it......
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First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys.

The seller of lightning rods arrived just ahead of the storm. He came along the street of Green Town, Illinois, in the late cloudy October day, sneaking glances over his shoulder. Somewhere not so far back, vast lightnings stomped the earth. Somewhere, a storm like a great beast with terrible teeth could not be denied.

I just realized that this will be the first Halloween without Ray Bradbury, who died earlier this year. I have been thinking about him, because this autumn has been very much like the autumns we used to have. The leave began to flame as soon as October came. I wasn't prepared. Global warming, or climate shift, or both has me almost used to ninety degree temperatures in September, and made snow in winter a rarity.

This fall is different. It's been cold enough, of and on so that I've considered turning the heat on. Yes, you heard me. Heat. We've days and days of leaden skies and cold rains. The wind has knocked the color off the trees and made the front hall of my house moan at night.

At least I hope it's the wind.

We've had a Something Wicked This Way Comes autumn. In the book, Bradbury describes what a mid-western autumn looks like, smells like and feels like perfectly. Fall in this part of the country has a particular kind of light, low and slanted somehow, that makes everything look out of kilter, slightly dangerous. The small town that I grew up in always decorates its block-long Main Street for holidays. This year they tied corn stalks to the street lamps. And to the corn stalks, they tied scarecrows. I parked in front of the coffee shop, and looked up into the eyes of a scarecrow with a potato sack mask painted with a leering jack-o-lantern face, his arms spread wide. I found myself stepping as far out of his reach as I could. It just seemed like good sense.

In that low light, under the overcast sky, I had, just for a second,the feeling that the town was holding its breath, waiting for the storm. Waiting for Mister Dark to come strolling around the corner, carnival in tow.

It was like meeting up with an old friend, anticipation tinged with unease. So, of course, I thought of Ray Bradbury. I always picture him from the beginning of the old Ray Bradbury Theater TV show, in an office full of oddities; Martians and mummies lurking, sitting behind his desk, typing on an actual typewriter. And that's when I remembered, wait, oh no....

So I can't help thinking that this perfect, surreal, creepy fall is entirely for him, just to remind us, to say goodbye.



 

Fiction Workshop Writer's reading

I didn't get as much done as I would have hoped on the Workshop story as I would have liked this last week, but I did have the privilege of having everyone in the Workshop edit the new stuff for me. That was very nice. We are going to give a reading of our works in progress next Tuesday. This should be interesting. When I was thinking about what I wanted to do for this thing, I tried to hit all the high points of short story writing. Well, all the ones I know about. I think we talked about most of them. We talked all the reasons to write short fiction, we talked about some of the approaches we can use to tell a story, point of view, character--even a little bit about plot. Then we talked about editing, and even a bit about publishing.

The very bottom of my list of things to talk about was readings. Everybody knows that in order to sell your words, occasionally, you have to read them in public. I think most writers have a love-hate relationship with preforming. On paper, sitting in the booth at your diner with your headphones in? Yeah, sure, that's the best. For me, that's when the writing sounds exactly how I want it to. In my head, each character has her own voice, and even the right soundtrack behind them.

Now, standing in front of group of people, with my story in my hand? That's completely different. I can't shake the feeling that I'm going to fail the story because I know I can't make it sound like it does in my head-like it does when people read in for themselves. I know it's just going to be me, standing in front of a bunch of people, and who wants to see that?

So why did I insist on the reading at the end of the Workshop? Because I know that it's important. As important as posting a blog each week, or advertising your latest publications on Facebook. Maybe even more. It's important to read your words to people, to build you audience. And, like everything, it's important to start where you're starting. So, if you're so inclined, come and give us a listen, okay?

Wednesday's regrets

The workshop went really well, last night, and we had more writers, which was exciting. I love the different things each writer brings to the table. I am excited to see their stories take shape as we talk and write.  The only thing I wish I could have done better was to explain the difference between description that only describes and description that evokes. I thought I had all the words down in my mind, but I'm pretty sure I didn't do a good enough job of it. I'm hoping we can talk about it again in the next session. Using words to describe things that have no words? Arrg.  You see what I mean. It's not really an exact science. I'll obviously have to think about this more.

Anyway, as promised, here's my ten minute timed writing from last night.  This one's a little more guided than the last one, and you may recognize the characters. Yes, I've decided to take the plunge. The story I'll be working on is a Ziggy story.

The sweat collected under the guitar strap across Asia's back as they waited. Even poor Gilli's Flock of Seagulls hair had melted into a sodden pile on his head. What was it, a hundred and five out here?

Weird and Ziggy were unaffected. Weird was propped against a wall, eyes closed, hands on his guitar, light, waiting, like he was in cryo-freeze. Not far from t he truth, Asia thought. And Ziggy stood behind the thin curtain. Bone white against his black jeans and the dark curtain. He looked like ice, his face as perfect as a Nagel girl, like a music video that hadn't been made yet.

Yep, sorry. We picked a painting from the gallery and wrote down three words we got from looking at it.  Mine were Patrick Nagel, girlfriend and heat.  yeah, I'm still working on the girlfriend part.
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Writing Workshop!

Yes, it's really going to happen.  I'm going to teach a workshop on writing fiction this fall.  I will be concentrating on short stories, but I welcome people who have only worked with long fiction as well. Using short stories as a learning experience is certainly a way to increase the writing skills you have in your tool box. Charles DeLint talks about the short story as the perfect place for experimentation, or as Brian Eno once said of music "It's the only place you can crash your plane with out getting hurt." Or something like that.

Over the course of six Tuesdays beginning the second Tuesday of September, we will cover:
     The anatomy of a short story, how long, how short, etc.
     How to grow your idea into a story with a beginning, middle and an end,
     Plot, character, setting.
     Point of view
     Writing exercises to get your pen moving.
     A reading at the end for friends and family to hear your very best parts.  I'll even bring the  humus      and tea!

So there you have it. I will be holding all this at the Elms Gallery in Flushing (see the flier above, and be impressed that I actually got it onto the blog).  There are ten spots available as of now.

Ashes

All summer one thing has been waking me up in the middle of the night: what am I going to put my Mother's ashes in for the memorial? When I picked them up from the funeral home, she'd been dead about four days, I think. I thought I should feel some connection to them. I've read stories about people who have used the ashes of a loved one in tattoo ink, or even, in one instance, of a husband sprinkling a bit on his morning cereal. And everyone has stories of someone they know spreading ashes. I don't know what I expected. What I got was a discreet tote bag and a perfectly serviceable box. The funeral home lady made me open it and look inside-as though I could tell her, yes, I can see that it really is my Mother. So I thanked her and carried them out to the car. I rode around for a couple of hours, trying to figure out what to do next. I'd been to the attorney, I'd made all the calls I could think of.

But now I had my Mom in a box, in a tote bag, and all I could think of was, I'll be able to sleep again. And that I couldn't remember a single hymn that she'd told me she'd wanted sung at her funeral. Not one.

That was the end of April, and that thought hasn't gone away. I couldn't bring myself to buy one of the urns on display at the funeral home. They all looked so impersonal. Just like the ashes. So I put it off. I looked around online, sort of. Nothing seemed right.

The memorial is next week, and I can't imagine how displeased her friends would be with the box. Or nothing. Though, that's what I would prefer.

All summer I've been avoiding the art shop in the Farmer's Market. Mom loved to shop there. She bought prints that artists had made of down town Flint, and she bought lots of the pottery they sell there. I was there with my Dad and nephew two days ago, and the bowls on display made me miss her. Out of habit I began to price them for Christmas, birthday, anniversary, but stopped myself before I said anything out loud. Then I happened to look down on the floor, in the corner, and saw it. This potter that my Mother loved had made me an urn for her. It was perfect, a deep iridescent blue.

I'd like to think it's a little bit of an apology for not remembering the hymns, and for many other things too numerous to talk about. I'd like to think that it's a sign, that things will start to come back, that I can stop sleepwalking. It's not that I want to forget my Mom, it's the opposite. I want to remember something other than ashes.

Pride

I've been turning this over in my brain for a while, so I'm not sure how coherent it will sound outside the skull. But here it is.

Last week one of my younger co-workers posted that as he was leaving the bookstore, he saw two boys--even younger than he--holding hands, happy to be together, you know, just like teenagers in love. He also noticed the people around them frowning, and generally looking uncomfortable with them. He said that he gave them a big smile because he was so proud of them for being braver than he was when he was their age. I thought, as I read his story, "That's just how I felt when I met him. Proud that he was so much braver than I was when I was young."

I was never brave when I was his age. I never said it out loud. Not to anyone. Not in my life, anyway.

The first place I learned to be honest was on the page, and then it took a long time. I was in my early twenties I started writing a book about a rock band. Back then, the main character, Asia couldn't admit, even to himself how much he loved the lead singer in the band. I couldn't admit it either. Not even to myself.

For me and Asia it was twenty-seven years before we were that easy with ourselves. That's longer than any of the boys in this story have been alive. I suppose that's progress.Things have changed, and my young co-worker has shown me that. He is exactly what he is with every single person he comes in contact with every day. And it makes me so proud of him, everyday, and envious of his courage.